Compelling Evidence

by Steve Martini

  He balances himself ceremoniously, his arms folded now, his buttocks against the overhanging lip of Ben’s immense desk. There’s a vacancy behind it. Ben’s leather high-back executive chair is gone. This may be an act of good taste on the part of the janitorial staff. Or I wonder if this chair now sits in the police property warehouse, along with several missing ceiling tiles overhead, pieces of physical evidence in the evolving murder case.

  Cheetam looks down at me from under the heavy, hooded eyebrows. I’m seated in one of the deep client chairs not more than two feet from him. This is a little posturing. Our respective attitudes are intended to demonstrate the working relationship, should I accept his offer to become Keenan counsel, Cheetam’s number two in Talia’s defense.

  It’s absurd, he says, their case against Talia. He assures me that this is a prosecution constructed of smoke and mirrors. He gives a flourish to the air with both hands above the shoulders, a swami showing the magic that the state has employed in fashioning its case. This is, I suspect, for Talia’s benefit. She sits stoically on a couch off to the side, one leg crossed over the other, her arms folded, a defensive pose to match the words of her lawyer.

  Skarpellos is seated at the opposite end of the couch, chewing on one of his Italian shit sticks. At least he has the decency not to light it. Perhaps a little deference to Talia.

  In this state, defendants in capital cases are entitled to two lawyers, one to defend the case in chief, the other—the so-called Keenan counsel, named for the case that laid down the rule—to handle the penalty phase of the trial should a conviction be entered. It would be my job as Keenan counsel to spare Talia from the death chamber if she’s convicted, to show mitigation, or to attack the special circumstances alleged by the state mat would carry the death penalty.

  In this case, the state is charging two special circumstances: murder for financial gain and lying in wait.

  But Cheetam assures me that my role in the case will be purely perfunctory, a necessary formality. He will, he says, demolish the state’s case in the preliminary hearing. Talia will never stand trial.

  She smiles noticeably at this thought.

  The papers are filled with copy of yesterday’s news conference: Duane Nelson telling how he solved Ben’s murder, omitting the details, but stating without much reservation that this was a calculated killing for profit. Only the Times picked up the final aside, a comment made in response to a question hurled at Nelson as he made his way to the door. The investigation continues for an unidentified accomplice.

  Cheetam sits looking at me expectantly. “So,” he says, “will you join us in this little soiree?” He makes it sound like tea and crumpets.

  “I take it you aren’t impressed with the state’s case?”

  He makes a face. “I haven’t seen all of the evidence. But what I’ve seen”—he wrinkles an eyebrow; it moves like a mouse glued to his forehead—“all circumstantial.” He says this shaking his head. “So much smoke.”

  This means that no one claims to have seen Talia pull the trigger with the muzzle in Ben’s mouth.

  I remind him that juries in criminal cases regularly convict on the basis of inferences from circumstantial evidence.

  “Surely you don’t believe she’s guilty.” Cheetam’s testing my loyalty to the client.

  “What I believe is irrelevant.”

  “Not to me.” Talia’s no longer passively sitting back on the couch. She moves her body forward to the edge. “You don’t believe it?” she says. “That I could do something like that?”

  Our eyes make contact, but I ignore her and continue with my thought. “What counts is what a jury concludes from the evidence and how it’s presented. Maybe you’d like to make book?” I ask him.

  “On what?”

  “On the number of people who are in the penitentiaries of this state because a jury was seduced by a single piece of circumstantial evidence.”

  Talia’s suddenly silent. This comment has given her new food for thought.

  “I don’t think you need to lecture Mr. Cheetam on the fine points of the jury system.” Skarpellos has waded in. He’s holding the cigar between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. One end is well chewed and saturated. A small glob of saliva drips, unnoticed by Tony, onto the arm of the couch. I’m beginning to understand how Talia’s come to know Gilbert Cheetam. I wonder if the Greek is taking another referral fee for brokering this case. To Tony the law is not a profession but a vast commodities market where warm clients are traded like wheat futures and pork bellies. He acts as if he’s never heard of the rule against lawyers’ “fee-splitting.”

  “Besides,” he says, “we can make this whole thing a little package deal. We throw your girl Hawley into the pot; you play a big part in Talia’s defense. Hell, before we know it you’ll be back with the firm.” He laughs a little at this bold suggestion.

  I cringe with the thought.

  “Just thinking out loud, Tony, a little observation,” I say.

  “And a sound one,” says Cheetam. “I like that. You’re right, of course. We agree completely—circumstantial evidence can kill us.”

  I doubt if Talia takes much solace in Cheetam’s use of the plural pronoun.

  “Your first assignment will be to gather all the evidence,” he says. “We hit them with discovery motions built like the Old Testament, chapter and verse. We get every scrap of paper the DA’s got in the case. We’ll blitz them. We make a paper blizzard, a tickertape parade. We keep ’em lookin’, producing paper so they can’t prepare their case. Then you and I go over everything with a fine-tooth comb.”

  This rah-rah session assumes that I’m on board.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But first I’d like to talk to Talia—Mrs. Potter—alone.”

  “What the hell …” Skarpellos is noticeably pissed.

  “No, no, that’s all right.” Cheetam has both hands up, open palms out, extended toward the Greek. “If he wants to talk, let him talk. It’s important that both Mrs. Potter and Paul are comfortable with the arrangement.”

  Cheetam may be a dandy among the civil trial set, but he’s a fool to allow a lawyer who has no privileged relationship with his client to talk with her alone, without his presence. I consider for a moment that perhaps this is an indication of the representation she can expect.

  *

  We sit like two lonely beggars in the huge empty office, its windows darkened by the heavy curtains, which I have drawn. Talia will not look at me. Her gaze is cast down at the carpet.

  “How did this happen?” I finally ask.

  She shrugs her shoulders, like some whipped teenager home late from a date.

  “I mean your lawyer. He’s a disaster.”

  Finally she looks up and smiles, a little rueful. “I didn’t pick him,” she says. “Cheetam and Tony go way back.”

  Seems the Greek and Cheetam went to school together. According to Talia, Tony’s been sending cases to him for years. From the bits of information I garner from Talia and my own suppositions, it appears that Skarpellos has been brokering cases and splitting fees with Cheetam. I can guess that he has probably been skimming some of the better cases from the firm and pocketing a percentage of the fee. I wonder if Ben knew about this.

  “The question is how to get rid of him,” I tell her.

  For this she has no answer.

  “That bad?” she says.

  I tell her my suspicion, that Cheetam’s interested in riding the wave of publicity her case will generate. I draw a verbal picture, a knobby-kneed surfer in baggy shorts, with all ten toes hanging over the edge of his briefcase. At this she laughs a little.

  “Tony thinks he’s the best.”

  “Tony would,” I say.

  She smiles a little concession. Talia’s no stranger to the jokes at Tony’s expense that have, over the years, made the rounds at the firm.

  “But I have no money,” she says.

  “What?”

  Well, you know I’ve sunk ev
erything I have into those partnerships in commercial real estate you helped me with. And now with Ben’s death everything else I own is tied up.”

  “What about the interest in the firm?”

  “Tony’s willing to buy,” she says, “but I can’t make a sale “til probate’s finished.”

  “What about the house?”

  “Community property,” she says. “I can maybe borrow against my half, that’s all. That’s why I had to go to Tony. He was the only one who could help. Ever since Ben died, I’ve barely been making it on the money from my commissions. Now this. I have no money for legal fees.”

  With the widow in a fix, Skarpellos has been busy setting up his table and playing money-changer.

  “Tony’s paying for Cheetam?”

  She nods. “It’s a loan. He says I can pay him back from Ben’s interest in the firm when this is over and …” Her voice trails off as if she’s suddenly considered some other scenario, one without a happy ending.

  We’re wandering in the dark office now, pacing like shadow-boxers in opposite corners.

  “You don’t really believe it?”

  I look at her, my head cocked, like a dog that’s heard a strange sound.

  “That I did it?” she says. “That I could be capable of such a thing?” This is important to her, my belief in her innocence.

  I shake my head, quickly, without hesitation. It’s the truth, I don’t believe it. But even if I did, I wouldn’t say so, not to Talia, not to anyone. To do so would be to suborn perjury in the event it becomes necessary to put Talia on the stand in her own defense. I’ve learned the credo of the good defense lawyer: It’s better not to know.

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  I nod.

  She smiles broadly and suddenly she closes the distance. Her arms are around my neck, her warm cheek pressed to mine.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I didn’t know who else to trust.”

  There’s a warm wetness on my face, like blood—Talia’s tears. A feminine hand caresses the nape of my neck, long slender fingers. As she leans against me I can feel the point of her knee flexing, probing at my thighs, her body molded to my own.

  My arms are at my sides, loose, limp. She senses an uneasiness. It’s conveyed in my lack of response.

  She moves away from me now, a show of reserve, a little quick composure. “I don’t know how to thank you.” She’s retreating as if in defeat. Her back is to me now. She’s rummaging through her purse. She turns, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. For our relationship, this is a first, Talia at a loss about how to show her gratitude.

  ‘Tell me,” she says. “What do you really think? What are my chances?”

  “Ask me in a week, after I’ve seen the evidence.”

  “I know you’ll tell me the truth.” She’s applying a little makeup from the compact taken from her purse.

  “You can bank on it,” I say.

  She looks at me as if this assurance is a little harsh.

  I tell her that she will not get sugar coating, not from me, that this is serious business.

  It’s a stiff upper lip from Talia. “Absolutely,” she says. “That’s the way I want it.”

  “It’s the only way it’ll work.”

  She nods, a stoic demonstration of her assent. But her eyes are two tiny slits of resentment. Talia’s never seen this from me before. I have, for the first time since we’ve known each other, challenged her feminine wiles, her ability to fire my libido, to paralyze my reason with passion.

  “You’ll tell Mr. Cheetam,” she says, “that you’ve agreed to help?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  She starts for the door.

  “One more question,” I say.

  Talia turns.

  “I don’t understand. Why don’t you have free access to Ben’s estate?”

  “There’s a prenuptial agreement,” she says. “The executor won’t allow me to touch any of Ben’s holdings until all of this is cleared up.”

  Before I can say more she’s gone, like a wisp in the wind. There’s only the shadow of the closing door, and the knowledge that at least in reviewing the evidence against her, I will not have to search far for a motive.

  CHAPTER

  13

  I’M rummaging through the house trying to pick up before Sarah’s birthday party. Nikki has graciously consented to have the festivities here at the house with all of my daughter’s little friends. I am dusting the sofa-back table and my gaze fixes on it, the picture of Nikki and me in happier days, before we were married.

  I think back to the first time I saw her, standing there next to the campus pool, a biology text under her arm, wearing a skimpy bikini that left little to the imagination. I knew I was in love. I listened to her animated conversation, watched the tilt of her head in the bright sun as she talked with friends, and felt a charge of hormones whenever she giggled.

  Then, her hair was light, streaked with gold from the sun, not the salt-and-pepper that came later, after years of marriage and a child. She wore it long and straight, flipped under at the ends, her fingers constantly sweeping it back behind one ear. She cut an image of unmistakable class. Nikki, tanned like a bronze goddess, just a few freckles on the cheeks like the dappled spots on a fawn.

  Word was out in the circle in which I ran that I was smitten. I would follow her to the library and jockey for a study carrel close so I could watch her. One evening I saw her return to the dorm after a date with another guy. He was tall and poised—and rich. I watched as he walked her from his gleaming Corvette to the door. Then I saw her peck him on the lips, a good-night kiss. I felt a great weight sagging in my chest, as if my heart were suddenly pumping lead.

  One evening, after weeks of watching in silent pain, I gathered my courage, marched to the library, to the inside bridge over the foyer, approached Nikki and asked, in a voice that cracked with indecision and the fear of failure, if anyone was occupying the lounge chair beside hers. She looked at me, confident, and said simply, “No.” Then, smiling, she patted the seat with her hand, offering me a place to sit as if somehow I was expected.

  That evening we walked back to the dorms together under a canopy of redwoods sprinkled with openings revealing stars and the night-sky haze of the Milky Way. We stopped at the coffee house by the bookstore. I gained more confidence as she laughed, seemingly amused by the innocuous little things I said. And as we left the place, odors of spice and espresso mingling with the fragrance of cedars and redwood, my hand found hers, waiting and warm.

  In the days that followed I sensed, in the titter of her female friends when we were together, that I’d been an item with this group of giddy girls before my campaign with Nikki in the library. In this thought there was pleasure, a satisfaction that my long-laboring fantasies of this golden girl had in fact been mutual.

  Not all of this mystery and desire is gone. Even now, Nikki is her most sensual when she’s angry, as she is this moment with me.

  “How can you do this? You’re a bastard, you know that?” Her hands are on her hips; her legs still slender and strong, she stands in front of me blocking the hall to the kitchen, her lower body molded in a pair of skin-tight jeans.

  I jockey to get around her. My hands are filled with paper plates of half-eaten birthday cake and dribbling ice cream.

  “She’s a client,” I tell her, my voice low so the others out in the living room won’t hear.

  “Spare me,” she says.

  My peace offering, it seems, has gone sour. My invitation to have Sarah’s birthday party here in the more spacious house which had been our home before Nikki left me is being wrecked by the news that I’m now representing Talia. It hit the papers that morning, and Nikki’s been on my case like a heat-seeking missile since she arrived.

  ‘Talia’s a client,” I say.

  “Is that what they call it these days? Coulda fooled me. I thought she was your concubine.” Nikki’s not so discreet, her voice at full volume. Her friends, mothe
rs of little children back in the other room, are getting an earful. She backs into the kitchen, hands still on her hips.

  “The woman is charged with murder. The firm asked me to take a hand in her defense. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You don’t even bother to deny it, that you had an affair with her.” She’s blocking the way to the trash can, and ice cream is beginning to drip from the plates in my hands onto the floor.

  It’s a tactical blunder. My failure to deny Nikki’s charge that I consorted with Talia carries with it the seeds of an open admission. Mentally I bite my tongue.

  “What do you want me to say?” I tell her.

  “That you’re not going to represent her.”

  “I can’t do that. I’ve already agreed to take the case.”

  “Tell ’em you’ve changed your mind.”

  “This isn’t some shopping spree to the mall.”

  Her eyes are burning now, two pieces of white-hot coal. “Fuck you!”

  Profanity is something that Nikki reserves for those ultimate moments of excess fury in life. Here it is said with volume and intensity. I have visions of three-year-olds down the hall roosting on their mother’s knees and asking with innocent, upturned eyes,

  “What does ‘fuck’ mean, Mommie?”

  “Listen, can we talk about this later?”

  “No. We’ll talk about it now. Later I’m leaving-with Sarah.

  I want the truth. Did you have an affair with her?”

  I hesitate for a moment. But there’s no use lying. In her own mind Nikki’s already condemned me.

  “Yes, we went out.”

  “You what? You went out” she says. She laughs. My wife has a special talent for mockery. “Call it what it is, you asshole.”

  There’s a good deal of fury tonight.

  “OK, we had an affair-but it was after you left me.” This somehow eases the blame for my infidelity, at least in my own mind.

  But not in Nikki’s. “So it doesn’t count, is that it?” she says.

  “Before we broke up, she was nothing. She’s nothing now. It’s over,” I tell her. “What’s between us now is business, the representation of a client charged with first-degree murder, nothing more.”