Undue Influence

by Steve Martini

  Harry and I, Cassidy and Lama, jockey for location at each end of the jury box to see the screen. Laurel has moved from the counsel table and is shadowed in the courtroom by a matron who hovers a few feet behind her with each step that she takes. The judge is off the bench, white hair, bushy eyebrows, and flowing robes, a phantom in one dark corner of the room.

  On the screen are the florid images of Laurel captured on color videotape, charging across a crowded corridor in this same building, seven months ago, two floors below where we now stand, to lash out with her purse like a leaded sap. It crashes on Jack’s shoulder, skimming an inch past Melanie’s face, sending the purses of both women crashing to the floor, their contents scattered.

  Cassidy asks that the tape be shown again. This time it is rewound further back. In her headlong charge, Laurel knocks down an old man who had the misfortune to wander into the path of fury. Laurel does not even break stride. The unmistakable explosion of her rage, tracking on Melanie like a heat-seeking missile. For lawyers attempting to make out a motive for murder, it is the pictorial equivalent of a million words.

  Caught dead center on the screen, Laurel’s face is flushed, filled with fury, and while the video images afford no sound, angry words can be read on her lips, threats being spit like venom from a cobra.

  It takes three people to ultimately block her way. I am one of these. The broken strap of Laurel’s handbag is outstretched in her hands at Melanie Vega’s throat as I haul Laurel away. Melanie’s purse is on the floor, and as I struggle with Laurel, the camera catches me roller-skating on a cylinder of lipstick. So much for grace.

  Cassidy has these images played back a third time for the jury just in case they missed some part of it, this last rendition in slow motion so that they can fully appreciate the choreography of this rage.

  Then the monitor on its cart is rolled to one side.

  Lama is puffed up with himself. It was Jimmy who found the tape and brought it to Cassidy, ferreted it out, information from the courthouse groupies who told him about the brawl.

  As the lights come back up, Morgan has a witness on the stand. He is midway through his testimony, having been interrupted only long enough to show the video. George Ranklin, the bailiff who was outside of Department Fourteen the day of the altercation, has laid the foundation for introduction of the tape. Lama spent ten minutes outside the courtroom prepping him.

  Morgan quickly gets Ranklin to testify that he was close enough during the courthouse incident to hear angry words spoken by Laurel.

  ‘Officer, can you tell us, as you sit here today do you recall what it was exactly that Laurel Vega said during the attack on the victim?’

  ‘I heard her say, “I’ll kill the bitch.” ’

  It is one of those seminal moments in a trial, an alleged perpetrator spouting prophesies, the kind of statement which after an act of murder makes little hairs stand out on the neck of those who hear them. Several of the jurors now take a moment to study Laurel.

  At this moment, when she is the object of their interest, Laurel is in my ear, an ardent plea that this is not true.

  ‘You were there,’ she says. ‘You heard it. You know I didn’t say that.’

  The ‘b’ word is evident on the tape; the rest of it I think is some artful suggestion by Lama. I have no such recollection of any death threat, though in private moments, in the confidence of the jailhouse cubicle, Laurel has said as much to me, that if someone else had not acted first, she could indeed have killed Melanie.

  ‘Were those the defendant’s exact words?’ says Cassidy.

  Ranklin makes a face. ‘ “Let me kill the bitch,” or “I’ll kill the bitch,” something like that,’ he says. ‘It was a long time ago in a crowded room with a lot of noise.’

  Morgan strides toward the jury. ‘ “Let me kill the bitch,” ’ and she looks at Ranklin purposefully – ‘or “I’ll kill the bitch.” ’ She repeats the witness’s words while Lama emits glazed expressions of malicious pleasure from the counsel table.

  ‘That’s what I remember,’ says Ranklin.

  ‘And when did she say this?’

  ‘While she was being restrained,’ he says. ‘Immediately after she attempted to strike the victim.’

  ‘Who was doing the restraining?’

  ‘I recall that it took a couple of gentlemen,’ he says. ‘Her lawyer, over there.’ He points to me. ‘And one or two others.’

  ‘But you have no doubt that those were her words: “Let me kill the bitch,” or “I’ll kill the bitch”?’ Given the chance, Cassidy would carve these words over the judge’s chair, just under the state seal and its motto of ‘Eureka.’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Officer, do you recall reading about the murder of Melanie Vega in the press?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘It was big news. Of particular attention to those of us who worked in the courthouse, because we were seeing the Vegas every day in court during the custody case,’ he says.

  ‘And you remember that this altercation – the attack by the defendant on Melanie Vega – as having occurred on the afternoon of the same day that Melanie Vega was murdered, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. There was a lot of talk about it in the courthouse the next day.’

  ‘Talk by who?’

  ‘The people who worked there, who’d heard about the ruckus between the two women.’

  ‘So would you say there was a general perception on the part of people who had followed the custody case that there was bad blood between the two women?’

  ‘Objection. Calls for speculation.’

  ‘Withdrawn,’ says Cassidy.

  ‘Did you have occasion to watch any portions of the Vega custody case while you were on duty?’

  ‘I saw some of it,’ says Ranklin. ‘A few hours.’

  ‘And from your own personal observations, was it your impression that there was a general sense of animosity harbored by the defendant, Laurel Vega, toward Melanie Vega?’

  Ranklin laughs. ‘It comes with the turf. A bitter divorce. Disagreement over custody. Sure. There was bad blood,’ he says. ‘It was obvious to anybody who watched.’

  ‘Thank you, officer. The witness is yours,’ says Cassidy. She takes her seat next to Lama, who as he looks at me is the picture of satisfaction.

  Ranklin is in his mid-twenties, a fixture in the courthouse for the last five years. He has bounced between assignments in a couple of departments. I have seen him a hundred times in the elevators, nodded to him, and said hello. He is a friendly soul, a strapping kid, well over six feet, an advantage for security in a courthouse setting, the ability to intimidate without resort to a weapon.

  Ranklin is a bit of cipher to me, so I probe carefully around the edges, not anxious to cause any irritation. I paint him quickly into the posture of the neutral law-enforcement officer that he is, just doing his job. It is how the jury will no doubt see him. I want them to know that I am looking through the same-colored prism that they are using. Perspective is everything.

  ‘In your position with the court you must observe a lot of trials? You spend more time in this place than I do.’

  He agrees, and laughs a little. This sands some of the edge off any anxiety. Many young defense lawyers have learned through sorry experience that you can do your case no end of damage by leveling a broadside at a detached and neutral cop.

  ‘I suppose you would develop a keen sense for reading witnesses on the stand? A well-tuned ear for hostility?’

  He concedes that this is something one picks up.

  ‘Did you actually have occasion to hear or see any of the testimony of the defendant, Laurel Vega, when she appeared in the custody case?’

  He says that he did not, that he was in another department at the time.

  ‘So other than the brief encounter out in the hallway you never had an opportunity to personally observe any statements by the defendant as they might have reflected on her feelings toward the victim?’

&n
bsp; ‘That’s true,’ he says.

  If he saw parts of the custody case, and formed opinions of bad blood between the two women, there is only one other possibility. Ranklin must have listened to Melanie Vega harangue Laurel from the stand. While this might reflect more on Melanie’s hostility toward Laurel, it is still Melanie who is dead. That I might be able to show that she inspired her own demise still serves to flesh out a neat motive. So I leave it alone.

  ‘Officer Ranklin, let me ask you, are you absolutely certain that outside of the courtroom that day you heard Laurel Vega say she wanted to kill Melanie Vega, that she actually used the word “kill”?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Are you certain that she might not have used the word “bitch,” and said something else?’

  ‘No. She called her a bitch and said she wanted to kill her.’

  Lama has done his homework on this one – Mr. Persuasion. Ask me what I heard in a conversation, even an angry one, seven months ago and I would be lucky if I could remember the participants, much less the words that were used.

  ‘Officer, did you have to make any efforts to restrain the defendant as a result of what we have just observed on the videotape?’

  ‘No. You were doing a pretty good job of that as I recall,’ he says.

  ‘So the defendant did not persist in her attempts to reach Melanie Vega?’

  ‘I don’t know that I would go that far.’

  Ranklin insists that he heard a death threat, so my job is to live with the words but to diminish their import. I try another tack.

  ‘Would you characterize the event as a quick flash of anger that seemed to pass in a couple of seconds?’

  He mulls this over, makes a face. ‘I guess you could call it that,’ he says. Finally a concession.

  ‘And you didn’t actually have to step in between the two women to break it up, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In your capacity performing court duties, have you ever had to physically restrain parties or members of the public during a trial or other proceedings?’

  ‘Several times,’ he says.

  ‘And have you ever heard threats being uttered by people during such heated moments?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon,’ he says.

  ‘Death threats,’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And isn’t it your experience that in most cases those threats are in fact idle? That they are not carried out? Isn’t that what occurs in most cases, people making foolish statements they don’t mean in the heat of an argument?’

  This is something readily in the experience of every juror. There is only one credible answer and Ranklin knows it.

  ‘That’s true,’ he says.

  ‘And at the time that you say you heard the defendant make such a threat against Melanie Vega, was there anything peculiar about it that would cause you to think the words were anything other than idle words of anger?’

  Ranklin is in a box on this. If he says there was, it begs the question, ‘Then why, officer, did you not take her into custody?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘So you believed it was an idle threat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And in fact, as you sit here today, knowing all the things that you know about this case, based solely on your personal knowledge of the facts as you know them, you cannot tell the jury that the words uttered that day by Laurel Vega were in fact anything but an idle threat, isn’t that true, officer?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he says. Ranklin is more grudging on this, not sure exactly what he is giving up.

  ‘You don’t have any personal knowledge that Laurel Vega actually killed Melanie Vega, do you?’ I clarify it for him.

  ‘Oh. No,’ he says, happier with the inference this conveys.

  ‘And you didn’t bring any charges against either woman as a result of the events you witnessed in the corridor, did you, officer?’

  ‘Well… no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was a judgment call,’ he says.

  ‘It was over as quickly as it started? Nobody was hurt?’ I say.

  ‘That’s right.’

  I leave it alone. Push some more and he may tell me that in fact it was a mistake in judgment, that on reflection he should have taken Laurel into custody. The subtle suggestion will not be lost on the jury – that if he had, a murder might have been prevented.

  ‘Fine. Let’s talk about what happened after this altercation was over. Do you remember what you said to me at the scene?’

  Ranklin makes a face. Looks at me. ‘Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Do you remember suggesting something to me?’

  He thinks for a moment. Draws a blank. ‘No.’

  On cross I can lead. I make the most of it and end up testifying.

  ‘Don’t you remember telling me that I might want to take my client to the lawyers’ conference area so that she could compose herself?’

  Cassidy’s about to rise and object.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I remember that.’

  ‘Before we left, before I took the defendant and left the corridor, do you recall what happened?’

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ he says.

  Not so long, however, that he doesn’t remember a death threat that never took place.

  ‘Do you remember picking up a woman’s purse from the floor? People helping to gather the items that had fallen and been kicked around on the floor?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ he says. ‘I remember a handkerchief. I tried to give it to one of them, but she said it didn’t belong to her.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Maybe we could take a second look at the tape, officer.’

  I ask Woodruff’s bailiff to roll out the monitor and hit the lights. Ranklin comes off the stand so he can see better. The judge comes down from the bench. The bailiff starts to rewind the tape, and I stop him.

  ‘Pick it up from right there,’ I tell him.

  ‘But the altercation’s back further,’ he says.

  ‘That’s all right. Run it from there.’

  Woodruff’s bailiff makes a face, like it’s your show. When the picture comes up, we are all gathered in a tight cluster in the center of the courthouse corridor, Laurel and Melanie, Jack between them, and myself tugging on Laurel’s arm. Ranklin is holding the hanky that Melanie has just rejected. Somebody hands him the purse with the broken strap, and he puts the handkerchief in it.

  ‘There’s the handkerchief,’ he says.

  ‘I see it.’

  People are passing items to Ranklin. He’s not looking, but taking them in his hands, talking to me, eyeing Laurel and dropping the items into the purse. A couple of seconds later he hands this to Laurel and we turn and walk away.

  ‘Could you rewind it and then play it back in slow motion?’

  ‘Whatever.’ The bailiff punches buttons on the remote. He starts to play forward. Melanie brushing the handkerchief off Jack’s pants. Ranklin picking it up. Somebody handing him the purse.

  ‘Go slow.’

  ‘There – I think she just called her a bitch.’ Ranklin’s trying to read lips. ‘Can’t make out the rest,’ he says.

  ‘Stop. Right there. Back it up a few frames,’ I tell the bailiff.

  He plays it back and puts it in freeze-frame.

  ‘Officer Ranklin – what is that in your right hand?’

  He strains to look. ‘Something somebody handed me off the floor,’ he says. ‘From one of the purses.’

  ‘Can you tell me what it is?’ I ask.

  Only Ranklin would not comprehend the significance of this, because he’s been sequestered outside of the courtroom, as a witness, told not to read any accounts of the trial.

  ‘It looks like a woman’s gold compact,’ he says.

  The expression on Jimmy Lama’s face is worth a year’s income. It is the sick image of defeat pumped from the stomach of victory. Lama’s eyes are wide with denial, his palms upturned, offering gestures of be
wilderment to Cassidy.

  On the screen is an image worth a thousand explanations and lame accountings – the bailiff handing Laurel her purse, and in it, Melanie Vega’s gold compact.

  Chapter 26

  This afternoon it is nearly five when I get back to the office. There are messages, a pile of pink slips littering my desk.

  I do telephone triage, and a phone message from Clem Olsen comes up on top. I dial and I get the Wolfman. He has some information, the print from Kathy Merlow’s tube of paint which I gave him at the reunion. But as usual Clem doesn’t want to talk on the phone.

  The Brass Ring is one of those haunts of cops and lawyers, a block from the courthouse. It is to the legal profession what Geneva is to the U.N. – a place where warring sides can sit and talk. When I arrive there are maybe a dozen people inside, a few cops, a small cluster of deputy D.A.s at the bar, with a couple of public defenders exchanging stories of courthouse comedy and lore, slamming a dice cup for drinks.

  Little snippets of the points I scored this afternoon in Laurel’s case have filtered here among those who follow such things. One of the P.D.s reaches out and slaps my back as I walk by, offers a good word, and encouragement to stick my pike further into the belly of the beast tomorrow.

  In the chess match that is a trial, Morgan Cassidy has traded a knight for one of our pawns. In return for some veiled and foggy threats of death, she has now lost one of two pieces of hard physical evidence purporting to link Laurel to the scene of the crime: Melanie’s gold compact. The other, the bathroom rug, relies solely on Jack’s testimony for its proof – his word against Laurel’s that the rug was in Melanie’s bathroom the night of the murder.

  Cassidy’s case begins to look more problematic with each passing day, and a few things become clear. Jimmy Lama’s early investigation is what is steering their theory, and I am beginning to get the feeling that Lama is taking Morgan for a ride. I think Jimmy’s chronic myopia has settled like the black Plague over them. It is a matter of Lama immersed in a vendetta.

  It takes all my faculty for fantasy to imagine Lama’s passion to nail Laurel once he found out that I was related. For Jimmy this could only have fallen under the category of a magnificent obsession. As a cop assessing evidence, it has glazed his powers of perception. Once Lama knew of the relation between Laurel and me, there was only one suspect, one theory. Cassidy is now faced with hard facts which do not square with their early assumptions. All the ways a theory can go sour on you.