Last Lawyer Standing

by Douglas Corleone

  “By the same token,” I said, “if I can prove Slauson has information relevant to Turi’s trial, I can subpoena him.”

  “Sounds like a Mexican standoff,” Jake said. “Only there’s no way you can prove Slauson has information without having someone on the inside. And I highly doubt Flan can pull off impersonating a federal agent.”

  “I don’t necessarily need an agent. Just a member of the Justice Department.”

  “A lawyer?”

  “A lawyer,” I said.

  “She’ll never go for it.”

  Jake was right, but then again, you never know until you try.

  * * *

  “Not a chance,” she said before I could even finish the question.

  We were seated in the back of Big City Diner at Ward Center, out of earshot of any other patrons. We had just seen the latest Seth Rogen movie, and until this point in the evening she’d been in a great mood.

  “Just hear me out,” I said. “All I need to know is whether there is an official investigation into corruption at the Honolulu Police Department, and if so, what evidence the feds have.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Walk into FBI headquarters, flash my badge, and demand to see the file? It doesn’t work that way, Kevin, and you know it.”

  “I know exactly how it works, Audra, and all I’m asking you to do is have a frank discussion with Special Agent Slauson. Before Turi was arrested for shooting Bristol, you told me the feds knew everything—about the protection, missing evidence, police couriers, solicitation of sex. You even implied they knew about cops performing Masonet’s wet work.”

  “It was all rumor and conjecture, Kevin. I haven’t seen a shred of physical evidence.”

  “That doesn’t mean there isn’t any. If Tatupu squawked and the feds did nothing, they’d be derelict in their duty, and Slauson doesn’t seem like the type of guy who sits on his ass and waits for something worse to happen.”

  “But if Slauson didn’t engage the US Attorney’s Office, that means the investigation is ongoing, and there is no way he or any other agent is going to speak to me about an investigation that’s still pending.”

  “He will if you have something to offer him.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then said, “How dare you, Kevin.”

  I held up my hand. “Easy. Not sex. I’m talking about the location of Lok Sun.”

  Her eyes fell on the half-eaten portobello-mushroom sandwich in front of her.

  I knew right away. “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, looking down at my own empty plate. “You’ve already told him, haven’t you?”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “I trusted you.”

  “I’m a prosecutor.”

  “So what are they doing?”

  “They’re watching him, just like you. You know how the feds work. They don’t move in until they have enough evidence for a conviction. Right now, all they have is the Pharmacist’s MO and Zhi Zhu’s testimony.”

  “They arrested Zhi Zhu?”

  “It was all very quiet. Zhu’s back on the street as though nothing’s ever happened. And if Lok Sun contacts him again for more strychnine, he’s agreed to wear a wire.”

  “When are the feds moving in?”

  “They’re in no hurry,” she said. “As long as they know where Lok Sun is, he can’t harm anybody.”

  “And what about whoever hired him to murder Oksana Sutin?”

  “Slauson is certain it’s the governor, and he knows, win or lose the election, Omphrey isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Slauson is waiting, hoping Omphrey wins reelection before the FBI takes him down. Not only will it be a bigger story, but the lieutenant governor will take Omphrey’s seat and keep the party of law enforcement in office.”

  “This isn’t political, Kevin.”

  I smirked. “Don’t be naïve. Everything is political.”

  CHAPTER 49

  “Call your first witness, Mr. Corvelli.”

  “The defense calls Mindy Iokepa.”

  Turi Ahina suddenly grabbed my left arm and pulled me back into my seat. “What the fuck you doin’, Mistah C?”

  I pried his thick fingers from my suit jacket. “Saving your ass.”

  Jake distracted Turi as I rose and stepped over to the podium. Meanwhile, Flan escorted Mindy Iokepa through the double doors in the rear of the courtroom, up the aisle, and helped her onto the witness stand.

  “Good morning, Miss Iokepa,” I said. “Thank you for being here today.”

  She smiled at me and nodded, then glanced over at Turi and mouthed, It’s okay.

  “May I call you Mindy?” I said.

  “Of course you may.”

  “Mindy, would you please tell us your relation to Turi Ahina?”

  After the slightest hesitation she said, “Turi is my daughter’s father.”

  I glanced back at Turi, whose cheeks were rosy, his good eye welling up with tears. This was precisely what I wanted from him today, raw emotion. Of course, that wasn’t why I’d never told him I planned on putting Mindy Iokepa on the stand. He would never have allowed me to if I had. He might well have chosen to fire me or, worse, pled guilty. That was how far Turi would have gone to protect the mother of his child, the daughter of a state senator running for reelection.

  “And your own father is?” I asked.

  “Dave Iokepa. He is the state senator for District Sixteen.”

  “And your father is up for reelection this November?”

  “Objection,” Dapper Don said calmly. “Leading.”

  Narita chuckled. “That is no secret, Mr. Watanabe. I am sure all of us have seen a few yard signs in recent weeks.” He turned to the witness. “You may answer the question.”

  “Yes, my father is up for reelection in November.”

  I moved to the defense table and picked up an envelope. From the envelope I removed an eight-by-eleven-inch, green page, with the heading “Certificate of Live Birth.”

  “I would like this document marked as Defendant’s Exhibit H,” I said.

  The clerk marked the page with a removable sticker then handed it back to me, while Jake provided original certified copies to the Court and Donovan Watanabe.

  “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  “You may.”

  “Mindy, I’m going to show you a document marked as Defendant’s Exhibit H, and I would like you to tell me if you recognize it.”

  “I do,” she said as soon as I handed it to her.

  “What is this document?”

  “It’s our baby’s birth certificate.”

  “What’s your child’s name, as it is listed on the birth certificate?”

  “Ema Leilani Iokepa.”

  “A beautiful name,” I said, smiling.

  Ema Iokepa’s birth certificate proved easier to get than Barack Obama’s. All I needed was the father’s signature on a letter authorizing the release of the certificate to me. I snuck the authorization letter into a bunch of forms I had Turi sign. He never read anything I gave him to sign, not even the Queen for a Day agreement, which could easily have affected the rest of his life. So what the hell was one more? I figured. I made a photocopy of his driver’s license. I included the photocopy, along with the signed authorization letter, my own letter of request, and a check for $10, made payable to the state Department of Health. I sent the letter off and waited. If I received a phone call from the Department of Health telling me I had the wrong dad, nothing lost, nothing gained. But I didn’t receive such a call. Instead, a few days after I mailed the request, I received a certified copy of Ema Iokepa’s birth certificate.

  “What name is listed as the mother’s name on the birth certificate?” I asked.

  “Mine. Mindy Iokepa.”

  “And what name is listed as the father’s name?”

  “Turi Ahina.”

  “Thank you.” I took the birth certificate back from the witness and entered it into ev
idence, then asked, “How old is Ema?”

  “She’ll be sixteen months on Election Day.”

  “Is there any court order granting Turi Ahina visitation rights?”

  “No, but Turi knows he’s welcome to visit with Ema anytime he likes. He’s a wonderful father.”

  Nice touch. “Is there any court order granting you child support from Turi Ahina?”

  “No, there is not. But Turi gives me money to help raise Ema every month. I never once had to ask him for a penny.”

  “How much money does Turi Ahina provide you every month to help raise Ema?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  I waited while the number echoed through the courtroom, then said, “How does he pay you this five thousand dollars? By check?”

  “Always in cash.”

  “On the evening of July twenty-third of this year, did you speak with Turi Ahina?”

  “I did.”

  “What was that conversation about?”

  “He simply told me he’d drop by my home with the envelope at around eleven o’clock.”

  “Where do you live?”

  Mindy supplied her address on Kolohe Street, and I asked her where that was in relation to the shooting.

  “The shooting happened just a few doors down from my house.”

  “Did Turi ever deliver the envelope that night?”

  “He did not.”

  I switched gears. I was about to elicit testimony that would corroborate the defense theory that Detective Kanoa Bristol fired at Turi first. Of course, now that I had established Mindy’s relationship with Turi, this particular testimony would be taken by the jury with a grain of salt. Clearly, as a witness, Mindy Iokepa was biased.

  “Did you hear the gunshots fired at approximately eleven o’clock on that evening Turi was supposed to visit you, the night of July twenty-third?”

  Mindy started tearing up on the stand. “I did.”

  “Did you answer when the police arrived and knocked on your door?”

  “They never knocked on my door.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Had the police shown up at your door and asked you whether you had heard gunshots, what would you have told them?”

  “I would have told them that I had.”

  “Think carefully, Mindy. How many gunshots did you hear that evening?”

  “I heard three gunshots, one right after the other after the other.”

  I paused to allow her words to sink in. Then I continued, “Do you know a man named Max Guffman?”

  “Barely. But he’s my neighbor.”

  I asked her to identify where he lived in relation to her house. Once she supplied the answer, I asked about the navy Honda Civic with the Jesus fish and the KEIKI ON BOARD sticker.

  “I’d seen the car plenty of times, yes. But never again after the shooting.”

  Although we learned that Max Guffman did indeed hail from Washington State, the Washington State Department of Licensing informed us that no vehicles were currently registered under his name. Without the number of the license plate the defense would have to rely on the testimony of Mindy Iokepa and Max Guffman himself, along with the single photograph downloaded from Brian Haak’s Facebook account.

  “Did one of my investigators, a Mr. Ryan Flanagan, ever come by your house and ask you about seeing this navy Honda Civic?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I’d never seen it before.”

  “You lied?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “Because I was scared. Scared for my baby.”

  “What about Turi?”

  “I knew he didn’t want me to say anything or else he would’ve told you and you would’ve come looking for me. He told me before the shooting that he trusts you with his life.”

  I tried not to get choked up at the podium. I cleared my throat and asked, “Is there any other reason you didn’t come forward?”

  “My father. I knew that if it came out that Turi was Ema’s father, he’d lose the election because of all the press attention Turi was getting.”

  “But when I came to you with Ema’s birth certificate, you changed your mind. Why?”

  She smiled at Turi while wiping a tear from her eye. “You told me I had no choice.”

  CHAPTER 50

  The next day, a Saturday, I called the Honolulu Police Department and reported my Jeep stolen from in front of my office building. Twenty minutes later Detective John Tatupu arrived on South King Street to take my statement. Scott Damiano greeted him downstairs and led him up to my office.

  “What the hell is this?” Tatupu said as soon as he stepped into reception.

  “Sorry, John,” I said. “But I didn’t feel like taking a swim to Chinaman’s Hat tonight.”

  Once Scott left, Tatupu and I stepped into the conference room. We sat next to each other, a copy of the Hawaii Penal Code resting on the table between us.

  “The answer is no,” he said before I asked. “I can’t testify. Maybe you can pack up and leave these islands after the trial, but I can’t. I have a family to think about.”

  “You stood up in the face of corruption during the last federal probe, when Kamakana sued the department. Why won’t you stand up now?”

  “Things were different then, Counselor. Then if a cop stood up, he risked getting shunned, maybe a broken leg. But now…” Tatupu shook his head. “They won’t just kill me. They’ll kill my family. They’ll kill my friends.”

  I sat back in my chair and regarded him with a look of disdain. I respected John Tatupu, respected him more than any other cop I’d ever met, here or back East. He was one of the few cops I feared facing on the witness stand. During the Gianforte murder trial, I’d treated him with kid gloves for fear that the jury would turn on me if I hammered away at his experience. During the Simms arson trial, I’d counted on his doing the right thing, telling the truth, even if it burned the prosecutor, Luke Maddox. And he had.

  “What good is being a good cop if you’re afraid to take on the dirty ones?”

  Tatupu leaned forward till he was inches from my face. “Don’t you try to guilt me, Corvelli. Remember, I know you. I know what you are. You think this is a fucking game.”

  A fierce anger immediately swelled within me. The anger had been building, an anger fueled by dirty cops, by political corruption, by self-righteous sons of bitches who looked down on me because of what I did for a living.

  “A game?” I said, rising from my seat. I ripped open my collared shirt, buttons arching across the room, a few skittering onto the table, making a sound like loose change. I pointed to the upper-right section of my abdomen. “Does this scar look like something I got playing a fucking game, Detective?”

  Tatupu stared up at me silently.

  My chest heaved. “Nikki Kapua’s locked away in a mainland prison. Erin Simms is dead. That’s my life. That’s what comes with the business I’ve chosen. I could have walked away from the law after Brandon Glenn. After Nikki. After Erin. But I didn’t. Because there’s too many fucking injustices in this world. Because people like you, John, make too many fucking mistakes.”

  I turned away from him. “Don’t make another one,” I practically begged. “Don’t let an innocent man spend the rest of his life in prison for killing a cop who should’ve never been on the streets to begin with.” I kept my back to him, unable to face him.

  “If I had the power to stop this, I would,” Tatupu said calmly. “But I don’t. The jury will never believe one man’s word against an entire department’s. I did my job, Corvelli. I went to the feds. I told them the NIU was accepting protection money from Masonet. I told them there were cops acting as couriers between here and Mexico. I told them everyone from the chief on down was getting his dick sucked in exchange for looking the other way when they could have made a bust. I told them that money and drugs and guns went missing
from the evidence locker every month. I told them the NIU acted more like a hit squad than a unit of the police department, taking out witnesses and competing gang members as if they were the goddamn Sicilian Mafia. I told them everything.”

  I finally turned to face him.

  Tatupu jumped out of his seat. “So I’m sorry, Corvelli, if what I’ve done isn’t enough for you or your client. Because it’s enough to clear my conscience.”

  “What about the dirty cop the feds told you might cooperate? Do you have any idea who he is?”

  Tatupu shook his head. “I told you, Counselor, I don’t even know if he really exists. The feds knew I couldn’t keep talking unless they found someone to back me up. For all I know, this dirty cop was no more than a figment of their imagination.”

  We stared at each other in silence. Here was an opportunity for a cop and a defense attorney to team up on the side of right, to seek the truth through a cloud of corruption. And John Tatupu was content to allow that opportunity to pass us by. But I wasn’t.

  I had made plenty of mistakes in my ten years as a criminal attorney. Back in New York, I’d put my career before my clients. I’d determined retainers based solely on how much my clients could pay. I’d needlessly adjourned cases in order to collect additional fees. I’d advised clients to plead guilty in cases I knew I could win. I’d taken shortcuts, manipulated witnesses, pointed my finger at innocent people solely to hear the words not guilty. There is a fine line between being a criminal lawyer and being a criminal. Sometimes it was easy to decide the next course of action, to determine what was wrong from what was right. Other times, such as now, it was nearly impossible.

  Detective John Tatupu finally turned from me and opened the conference room door.