“You gonna tie yourself to his leg?” he says.
“You could take his passport,” I tell him.
“He doesn’t need a passport to cross into Mexico,” says Ryan. “Not at the border.”
“I am aware, Mr. Ryan. Let’s get back to issues more germane,” he says. “I appreciate your good-faith effort to assure your client’s appearance, Mr. Madriani. And I’m sure you would try. But there are compelling forces,” he says, “stronger than you and me. And I’m not sure in the end that they would not overtake us in this case, notwithstanding your intentions. My ruling on bail stands.
“What else is here?” he says.
“Witness list, Your Honor. We’ll need some accommodation in getting our evidence together,” I tell him.
“I hope you’re not asking latitude to argue facts not in evidence. Cuz that’s not gonna be happening.”
“No, Your Honor.”
Ryan is wheeling back in his chair, enjoying it as I twist on the spit, savoring the aroma as the judge roasts me and the state gets ready to barbecue my client.
“Then what are you asking?” says Peltro.
“Some relaxation of the time for the defense to file its witness list.”
“What he’s asking for is trial by ambush.” Ryan kicking back in his chair, casual, feeling he has a colleague on the bench gonna do his fighting for him.
“No, we’re not, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Ryan, you’ll be given your opportunity.” He nods toward me to go ahead.
“The defense is at a severe disadvantage,” I tell him. “My client has a right to a speedy trial, but no opportunity to develop a defense. There is evidence that we have good reason to believe exists, but that we cannot get before the trial starts.”
“That’s their problem, Your Honor. Then they should waive time.”
“Mr. Ryan!”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
The judge starts pawing through the pages of our motion, points and authorities by the pound. Harry has done his usual stellar job.
“You want to be able to argue this man, Ontaveroz?” he says.
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Where’s the nexus? What’s the connection with your case?” says Peltro.
“My declaration. Another affidavit from my investigator,” I tell him. “Attached there to the motion.”
Peltro starts to read.
“Your Honor, even if this is true, this is the defendant’s own lawyer, his own investigator, telling us secondhand what they were told by a witness whose credibility we have no way of testing.”
The judge’s hand is in the air, telling Ryan to shut up.
Ryan’s rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, like maybe we’re gonna argue the man on the grassy knoll next.
“Tell me again how you found these people. These two agents,” says Peltro.
“Through my investigator.”
“Has he dealt with them before?”
“He has. And he’s found their information to be reliable.”
“Can he testify from firsthand knowledge that they are agents of the federal government?”
“Your Honor.”
“Mr. Ryan.” He looks down at the prosecutor, an expression that says he is no longer joshing.
“How do you define firsthand?” I ask the court.
“Has your investigator seen some credentials with their pictures and names?”
“I don’t know. But he’s dealt with them before, and they’ve given him information that I believe could only come from federal law enforcement sources.”
“Or somebody with a fertile imagination,” says Ryan. He’s now testing the outer limits.
“They showed me a picture of the man they called Ontaveroz.”
“How do you know that’s who it was, aside from what they told you?” says Ryan.
I don’t answer.
“Do you have this picture?” he says.
Peltro looks up but doesn’t stop Ryan from doing his work.
“No, Your Honor.” I ignore Ryan. “They showed it to me. They didn’t allow me to keep it.”
“That’s very convenient, Your Honor, but it ignores the real issue.” Ryan squares himself to the bench and closes the center button on his coat, girding himself for forensic combat, or jail if he’s not careful.
“Your Honor, being charitable”—he says it as if the word might curdle in his mouth—“even assuming that these two mythic figures exist, these federal agents, and assuming that what’s contained in counsel declarations is accurate, that this man Ontaveroz exists, and that he knew Jessica Hale . . .”
“It’s more than the fact that he knew her.” I’m not going to allow him to understate what little evidence we have. “She carried drugs. That was the basis for her arrest and incarceration. Possession of drugs. Transportation. That is verifiable,” I tell the court.
“Fine,” says Ryan. “She carried drugs. Let’s assume it was for him. There’s still no evidence he was ever involved with Suade. Or that he even knew about her.”
Ryan has just made a critical mistake. I can read it in Peltro’s face. If Ontaveroz exists. If he and Jessica dealt drugs, it’s a short skip to the news articles about the Mexican’s violent past. If he was looking for Jessica, he might find Suade.
“Are you saying, Mr. Ryan, that there’s no evidence Suade helped Jessica Hale disappear?” says the judge.
“We don’t know that, Your Honor.” Ryan now sees the problem he’s created for himself, a little too late.
He starts to backpedal. If Suade didn’t help Jessica disappear, where’s Jonah’s motive for murder?
“Then what are all these accusations regarding Mr. Hale doing in Suade’s press release?” says the judge. “Are you saying Suade didn’t have a dog in this fight?”
“No. Obviously she had some connection,” says Ryan.
“They can’t have it both ways, Your Honor,” I cut in on him. “If Jessica had a history of drugs, and she did, we must be allowed to explore that history.”
The judge is now nodding in agreement.
“They’re looking to take a field trip into the irrelevant,” says Ryan. “Where’s the evidence?”
“So what do you want?” Peltro’s looking at me. Ignoring Ryan.
“An opportunity to identify the witnesses we need as the trial progresses,” I tell him.
“Your Honor!” Ryan’s voice rises a complete octave. “What they want is to see our case, then dream up a defense that fits.”
Sounds fair to me, but I don’t say this to Peltro.
“All we’re asking is a little latitude, Your Honor.”
Peltro looks at me, then at Ryan. He thinks for a moment. “How do you intend to deal with this in your opening?” he asks me.
“You mean Ontaveroz?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to mention him.” I’d like to do more than that, put some clothes on him, show his picture, trot him out in front of the jury. Who do you want to convict: behind door number one, my client, grandpa in suspenders and a cardigan, or door number two, king of a major drug cartel?
“You’d like to mention him by name?”
“I would, Your Honor.”
“How can he do that . . .?” Ryan sputters.
“I don’t think so,” says the judge. “What do we do if you can’t produce evidence during the trial? How do we erase the thought from the jury’s mind?” he says.
In actuality, this would do more damage to us than the prosecution. It’s a risk mentioning Ontaveroz in my opening statement unless I can close with him in my argument. Jurors have a tendency to remember such failures, and to punish for them.
“I don’t think I can allow you to
mention the man unless there’s some evidentiary nexus,” says Peltro. “Something linking him in some way to the victim.”
“You expect me to put him at the scene?”
“That would be fair,” says Ryan. Now he’s smiling.
“Do I have to put the gun in his hand, too?” I’m looking over at the prosecutor, who makes a gesture with his hands, like suit yourself.
“I don’t know that I’d require that much,” says Peltro, “but some reasonable basis to believe this man Ontaveroz was pursuing Jessica Hale. Perhaps some evidence that he knew or at least could be aware that Suade might have information. Obviously, the better your evidence, the more persuasive it’ll be to the jury,” he says. “But I won’t be letting you argue Ontaveroz at close unless you have some basis in the evidence. Do we understand each other?”
“What about the witness list?” I ask him.
“I’ll give you some latitude. Your final witness list will be due when you open your case in chief for the defense, but only in this one area,” he says.
“Your Honor!” Ryan is now sensing his punishment for not having listened to the judge earlier.
“Your other witnesses. You gotta disclose those under the rules,” he says. “Do you understand?”
“I do, Your Honor.” It’s the best I’m likely to get.
“You can prepare the order. My clerk will provide the minutes by way of transcript. Any questions?”
Ryan doesn’t like it. “Your Honor, he should at least be required to give us some clue as to his witnesses. Is he gonna produce Ontaveroz?”
“Not unless I got my gun under my robes,” says Peltro. “We’re off the record.”
I’m packing up my briefcase, leaning toward Harry, trying to make sense of what we won and lost.
“Mr. Madriani.”
I turn to look up at the judge as he says my name.
“You owe me some doughnuts.”
SEVENTEEN
* * *
“I haven’t asked you a lot of questions about what’s going on,” says Susan. “I know you’re busy. But I also know there’s something happening you’re not telling me about.”
We’re having coffee this morning, bagels and some fruit.
I have papers from work spread out in front of me on Susan’s kitchen table, trying to avoid the questions I knew were coming.
“Earth to Paul,” she says.
I’m forced to look up. “Hmm?”
“I know you’re busy.”
“Sorry.” I stack the papers, turn them over on the table facedown.
“You’re always busy,” she says.
“I know. When this is over, we’ll have more time. I promise.”
“Tell it to your daughter,” says Susan.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Nothing, except for the fact that she’s been living here now for almost a month and she doesn’t know why. Neither do I.”
“I’m sorry to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition,” she says. “But there is something wrong, isn’t there?”
“Has Sarah asked?”
“Not in so many words. You come over. You sleep at the house a few nights a week. The rest of the time you disappear. We don’t see you. The child is beginning to wonder where home is.”
“I know. You’ve been great,” I tell her.
“And I don’t mind,” she says. “I’d just like to know what’s going on.”
For a moment, I think she suspects I’m seeing someone else.
“It’s just that I’m buried. Burning the candle at both ends.”
“You’ve tried cases before. You’ve never been like this.”
I take a deep breath, sip some coffee, pick up a bagel and start to break it. Her hand comes across the table to stop me: no more distractions, eyes staring through me like two lasers.
I put the bagel back in the basket.
“The day I called you. Asked you to take Sarah.”
“Yes.”
“The night before, I was followed by some people in a car. I can’t be sure who they were. But I have reason to believe that it would be better, at least for the time being, if Sarah stayed here.”
“These people are dangerous?”
“I don’t know, but I couldn’t afford to take the chance, leaving Sarah in the house when I’m gone so much of the time.”
“Are these the same people who trashed your office?”
“I don’t know for sure. But there’s a chance.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
I have mentioned Ontaveroz to her once or twice, but as a vague theory of defense only. Now I give her the rest of the story. She listens, looks at me across the table as I fill in the details.
“If they know where my law office is, they probably know where I live. It’s why I didn’t want Sarah at the house.”
She looks off into the distance, an anxious expression on her face. “I understand.” I can read her mind.
“I’ve been very careful about coming over here,” I tell her. “I take a cab from the office to the sheriff’s station downtown. I figure if they are tracking me, they’re not likely to follow me in there. There’s a detective. Not a friend exactly. But he came by the office that morning after the burglary. He lets me go out the back way. Harry picks me up at a spot a couple of blocks away. Brings me over here. Picks me up the next morning, takes me to the office.”
“You told me your car was in the shop.”
“White lie,” I tell her. “Lena’s in the driveway at the house. Hasn’t been started in a week. Probably has a dead battery by now. I’m gonna rent a car this afternoon—something they won’t recognize—and keep it away from the office and the house.”
“You think they’re still following you?”
“I don’t know. If so, they’ve gotten better, because I haven’t seen them.”
“You told your detective friend about this man, Ontaveroz?”
“The detective is no friend. He’s the man who arrested Jonah. But yes, I told him. Though I doubt it’ll show up in any of their reports. If it does, it’ll be carefully couched. The cops don’t want to be put on the stand having to admit they’re investigating the man because he was following me, or because he’s a suspect in the break-in at my office. That might lend credence to our theory on Suade. Unless I miss my bet, they think that’s why I told them. Lawyer tricks. Force it into their reports, then use it at trial.”
“And of course, you’re not that devious,” she says.
“Honest. You think I would go to all this trouble coming over here? Let Lena languish in the driveway and take a cab?”
“Looking at your car, it’s a possibility,” she says. “But I know you’re telling the truth, because you wouldn’t do this to Sarah.
“You think Ontaveroz could actually have killed Suade?”
“It’s certainly possible. More plausible than Jonah’s having done it. Ontaveroz has a violent past. He’s killed before. If you believe the news articles and the federal agents I talked to at the restaurant.”
“Any lead on them? The federal agents?”
I shake my head. “Vanished. I’ve called Murphy. Pounded on him to find them. He’s come up empty. Says they do that. Disappear for months. According to Murph, they’re probably undercover down in Mexico someplace.”
“While this man Ontaveroz is looking for Jonah’s daughter,” says Susan.
“And likely to find his granddaughter,” I add.
“You don’t think they’d hurt her, do you?”
“I don’t think they care who gets in their way. It’s why I’ve taken such precautions for Sarah,” I tell her. “I haven’t been sleeping all
that well at night.”
“And you haven’t told Jonah?” she says.
“How can I? The old man’s locked up, already going crazy. I can’t make it worse. What he doesn’t know . . .” I tell her.
“Sooner or later, he’s going to have to know your theory of defense. You don’t want him sitting at the table in the courtroom with his mouth hanging open when you casually mention the Mexican drug dealer who wants to kill his daughter.”
“The court may solve that one for me,” I tell her. “The judge may not let me get into it at all unless I can come up with witnesses or official records putting Jessica and Ontaveroz together.”
Susan stares down into her cup of coffee slowly cooling on the table. “One thing’s for sure. You’re not going back to your house,” she says. “Not until this is over.”
“I’m gonna run out of underwear pretty quick.”
“You can go around in the buff,” she says. “At least you’ll be alive. And besides, I like men who wear nothing underneath.”
“Yeah, but you’re kinky,” I tell her.
She laughs. “You ever get the urge to just run away?” she says. “Some desert island.”
“All the time.”
“Me, too. Lately it’s been getting stronger,” she says. “I’ve got a meeting Tuesday morning with the board of supervisors. Executive session.”
This means it’s behind closed doors, away from the press and public.
“The papers haven’t picked it up yet. The board’s calling it a personnel matter,” she tells me.
I sit silent, looking at her across the table. Short dark hair, fiery Latin eyes, a face like Isabella Rossellini’s. Apart from her two daughters, the only thing Susan cares about in life is her job, and now that is in jeopardy.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with the gun, Suade’s pistol?” I ask.
She shakes her head vigorously. “Not directly,” she says. “They’re claiming there was an internal report containing evidence that some of my investigators were using improper tactics when questioning children. That we deep-sixed the report to keep it away from defense attorneys in some cases.”
I look at her.
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