Compelling Evidence

by Steve Martini

  “That the victim was moved with the use of a small dolly, perhaps a light furniture dolly. The kind that uses straps with a ratcheted winch to tighten them.”

  “A dolly?” Nelson’s nodding. There is an amused assent in his expression, the sort that parents normally reserve for a child’s tale of fantasy. He flashes this at the jury. An invitation for them to join him on this flight of fancy.

  “Yes, a dolly such as this, laid on the ground or the floor, with the body rolled onto it, would provide leverage. It would allow a person to lift many times their own weight,” says Coop.

  It’s a delicate matter for the state not to destroy their own witness. In pursuing too vigorously an accomplice the police have yet to identify, Nelson runs the risk of so discrediting Cooper that he loses this defendant, the proverbial bird in the hand.

  “I see, and you think that the defendant might have moved the body on such a dolly?”

  “It’s possible,” he says. “With a carpet or something tied around the frame of the dolly, to mask the body from view.”

  “A carpet.” Nelson is nodding again. His disbelief grows with each embellishment of this fiction.

  “You wouldn’t want to go out on the street with a body strapped to a dolly and nothing covering it,” says Coop, “now would you?”

  “Not me,” says Nelson. There’s laughter from the audience, a few smiles in the jury box.

  Nelson’s shaking his head, retreating to his counsel table. He’s laughing mildly, putting the face of good nature on this disaster. Taking the jury into his confidence. Treating this last bit by Cooper like an inside joke, a bit of comic relief, in a day filled with grisly details of murder. It is the only avenue of escape he has, and Nelson plays it like a master.

  “Nothing more of this witness,” he says.

  “Mr. Madriani?”

  I consider the pros and cons, the benefits and detriments of taking on Coop when he is in one of these moods. It’s hard to say what the jury is thinking at this point, how badly Coop’s credibility may have been harmed. In trying to put a torpedo in the theory of conspiracy, he has, I believe, helped Talia’s case considerably, though this, I’m sure, was never his intent. I will be glad for little favors, glad to leave well enough alone.

  “No questions, Your Honor.”

  Cooper smiles at me from the stand as he gets down. He will not be smiling after the hiding he’s sure to get from Nelson. As he leaves the courtroom, Meeks follows him down the aisle at a safe distance, like he’s headed for a drink or the men’s room. I know there will be a lot of angry words in the corridor, verbal pushing and shoving between Meeks and Cooper. This was a noble act by a friend, but nonetheless reckless. His career, I think, may be harmed beyond measure.

  They call Matt Hazeltine next.

  This does not go well for us. It takes Nelson exactly five questions, and the prenuptial agreement signed by Ben and Talia is in evidence. It is clear that Nelson and Meeks have spent some time with this witness since the preliminary hearing.

  The equivocation that marked Hazeltine’s earlier testimony is gone. They have wrung every ounce of gentlemanly conduct from his demeanor. I suspect that the Greek has had something to do with this.

  Hazeltine is now certain of the reason for Ben’s insistence on this contract. He doesn’t flinch with the mention of the “gold-digger’s covenant,” but embraces it, looking at Talia as if this term fits her exactly. There are a few flourishes here, remembered conversations between the witness and Ben, that place this contract in a new light, testimony not offered during the prelim. There is nothing solid here, nothing that might be attacked directly on cross, just implications and innuendos that Ben did not entirely trust his wife.

  Nelson lays heavily on the lawyer’s interpretation of this agreement.

  “The fact,” says Hazeltine, “is that Talia stood to be stripped of everything from the marriage, disinherited, unless she was lawfully married to Ben Potter at the time of his death.”

  It is one of those sobering moments in a trial, an evidentiary watershed recognized by the jury. The brighter lights among them, including Robert Rath, realize that they have just been handed a major piece of the puzzle, part of the motive for murder.

  With this Nelson completes his questioning of the witness, and I am invited to partake.

  “Mr. Hazeltine, in addition to the prenuptial agreement, did you prepare a will for Ben Potter?”

  “I did,” he says.

  “And under the terms of that will, in the event that Mrs. Potter were to be somehow disqualified from inheriting, was their another heir named?”

  “I don’t think I understand your question.” Hazeltine is evading the issue, protecting Skarpellos.

  “I’m going to object to this line of questioning. Your Honor, on grounds of relevance.” Nelson is up at his table.

  “Your Honor, we’ve heard extensive testimony regarding the victim’s testamentary intentions,” I tell the court. “The state has produced evidence to the effect that if my client was not married to the victim at the time of his death, she stood to be disinherited, to lose everything from the marriage. The inference is clear. The state is trying to make a case that she killed her husband to secure her rights of inheritance. Under the circumstances, we have every right to explore the victim’s intentions in these regards, to determine if there were others who stood to gain from his death, who might profit if my client is convicted.”

  “Sustained,” says Acosta.

  I look at him, stunned. It is not a good move by a trial lawyer, before a jury. But I cannot control myself.

  “Your Honor. This is evidence that was readily admitted in the preliminary hearing, over just this very objection. I have a transcript, here, Your Honor.”

  “I can’t account for the errors of the municipal court,” he says. “That was there; this is here. The objection is sustained. Now move on to other matters, or sit down.”

  Unless I can establish the link showing that the Greek stood to benefit from the death of his partner and the conviction of Talia, a vital element will be missing from my case. Acosta will have broken my back.

  “Your Honor, this is critical evidence.”

  All the more pleasure. He looks at me and smiles, a mean Mediterranean sneer.

  “Move on, Mr. Madriani.”

  “I want this part of the record certified for appeal,” I tell the court reporter.

  “Mr. Madriani, move on or I will hold you in contempt.”

  Nelson has a look of distaste about him, the appearance of a man who likes to win, but not like this. He’s not making eye contact, with the court or with me. Instead he’s casting about, playing with scraps of paper on the counsel table. But a good lawyer, he quietly takes what is given to him.

  And I take my seat, nothing more to be gained from this witness.

  Talia is clearly agitated, writing a note to me when I get back to the table.

  “Why is the judge doing this?” it says.

  I lean over in her ear. “You and me,” I say. “The news story. It offended his sense of dignity.”

  She reads the sarcasm in my voice and knows she is now in deep trouble.

  CHAPTER

  34

  SINCE the day Coop arrived at the house with Walker’s article, that morning when Nikki called and roused me from sleep, she has taken a totally different view of Talia’s trial. She’s been ensconced here in the courtroom for three days running, two rows back, watching me, burning what little she has of vacation from her job, and wondering if her husband, the father of her child, will soon be indicted for murder.

  I’ve tried to assure her that they have nothing, that Walker and his sources are playing a game of reckless innuendo. I’ve reminded her of Lama and his threat, consoling her that he has only made good on some bad publicity.

  But Nikki is a worrier born and bred. She has watched Talia’s case as it slides from optimism to the lip of oblivion and has now borrowed enough thoughts of woe to
keep us both in misery for the next decade. In her mind I am already in shackles and striped pajamas, Sarah seeing me on weekends from behind a little screen of wire mesh. The only consolation she seems able to take from this experience is that I am master of my own fate, that in defending Talia I am in a very real sense now defending myself. Nikki has a renewed sense of confidence in my abilities as a trial lawyer—more confidence, I fear, than I have in myself.

  This morning I sit with her briefly and talk, holding her hand and giving her more empty assurances that this is all just journalistic bluster, and wonder myself where it will end.

  Talia is at the counsel table with Harry. I catch her eye occasionally looking at us. I sense a little embarrassment here for the pain she has caused, not just to me, but to Nikki. The two of them are cautiously polite to one another, Talia uncertain of Nikki’s feelings. But my wife has been surprisingly cordial, even supportive, in the few comments she has made.

  It is eight A.M., and the bailiff waves us on. I hook up with Harry, who is assembling our little library on the counsel table.

  The moment of truth has arrived. On the second day after my bashing by Acosta, the judge has us back in chambers to announce his ruling on James Preston, the motel clerk, and whether he may testify.

  As I arrive, Nelson is down at the mouth, like maybe he and Acosta have just had words. The Coconut is all preened for his day on the bench. A shirt so heavily starched that he could sleep standing up in it, gold cuff links, and broad red suspenders. He hasn’t yet donned his black robe.

  His facial good nature changes as I enter chambers behind Harry. Acosta’s mouth and eyes take on a grim set.

  “A seat, gentlemen.” He’s leafing through papers on his desk, as if he can’t find the script on this one.

  “This is a real problem,” he says. “Mr. Preston.” He’s still looking for his notes.

  He stares at me briefly from under hooded brows.

  “Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem if Mr. Madriani had learned to keep his pecker in his pants,” he says. There is no court reporter here today, so Acosta is free to indulge himself, a few cheap shots. He will enter his ruling by way of a minute order, a single-page form, typed by his clerk.

  Meeks and Nelson are carrying on a whispering campaign in the far corner, like they already know what the court is going to do on this.

  “I’ve given this great thought,” says Acosta. He’s playing at being Solomon, stroking his chin with the fingers of one hand, affecting the look of the wise.

  “The various arguments, and the prejudice to the defendant should I allow unlimited testimony by Mr. Preston. After considering all of these arguments carefully, it is my view that James Preston should testify …”

  There’s a palpable sigh from Harry. During the last two days, with its dark omen, he has been boning up hard for the penalty phase. Death looms larger on the horizon now than at any time since the start of the trial.

  “I think,” says Acosta, “that it is both relevant and material, these affairs that the defendant appears to have had during her marriage. The jury should be allowed to draw its own conclusions in these regards.” He looks at Nelson deferentially, as if the DA has scored major points on this argument.

  The full hammer of vengeance, I think.

  “But,” says Acosta, “there is one troubling aspect. Mr. Madriani’s part in all of this.”

  I sense more sackcloth and a dusting of new ash.

  “Mr. Hinds makes a persuasive argument, that to allow the witness to identify Mr. Madriani is to so thoroughly discredit Mrs. Potter’s attorney as to deny her a fair trial. I think there is merit to this,” he says.

  There are furrows over heavy brows here, as if to emphasize this thoughtful, weighty moment in the logical progression of things. As if this notion of fairness is the product of great inspiration, some original thought with the Coconut.

  “So,” he says, “the testimony of the witness will be limited. He will not be allowed to identify Mr. Madriani. The others are all fair game,” says Acosta. He is beaming a broad smile at the desk. His arms are open in an expansive gesture to Nelson as if to say “Go get ’em.” This explains Nelson’s gloomy look as we arrived. He’d been given a preview of this by the court.

  “One proviso,” says Acosta. “If there’s any independent evidence linking Mr. Madriani to this crime, all bets are off. I may alter my ruling.”

  “What does that mean?” I say.

  “That means you’d better be clean,” he says. “If I find out that you and your client hatched a scheme to deceive this court, I will allow Mr. Preston to be recalled and to finger you in front of the jury. Do I make myself clear?” he says.

  We are to try the case under the cloud of the Coconut’s subjective suspicions.

  “Perfectly,” I say.

  “Fine.”

  The cops have been beating the brush trying to poke holes in my alibi for the night Ben was killed. In assisting me through this travail, Dee has been worse than worthless. The only entry on her calendar for the night in question is a hairdressing appointment, something so cavalier and routine that it jogs nothing of her own recollections.

  Instead of the obvious truth, that she has left the office at five and that I was there working when she pulled out, Dee has told the police that she has no idea where I was on the night in question. This has spawned more intrigue than answers, and the police are now redoubling their efforts to link me with Talia.

  To my surprise, after all of the pain he has caused, James Preston’s testimony turns out to be largely anticlimactic. Even my own suspicions that he would recognize Tod have turned out to be wrong. On the stand he identifies two men, the illustrious Raul, Talia’s tennis pro, residing in Rio when Ben was killed, and another man, Joseph Blackborn, Talia’s accountant. It would be a neat trick for the prosecution to link Blackborn and Talia romantically. He is fifty-eight going on ninety, slight of build, with thin pursed lips, a face like Don Knotts’s.

  Talia tells me that Blackborn was in fact business, that they used the motel to finish some final schedules for income tax returns a year ago, because his office was being painted, and it proved a more convenient location than her own. I believe her.

  It seems Raul and I were the only two getting in our licks back before Tod, and we were each ancient history long before Ben was murdered.

  The jury seems to treat Preston’s testimony as a serious yawn. All during his brief time on the stand he is giving me the evil eye from the witness box. It seems Mr. Preston doesn’t appreciate the fact that his moment of fame has been preempted by the judge. He glances up at Acosta, an expression of misgiving. I think he believes the Coconut and I are engaged in some iniquitous conspiracy to cheat justice, the lawyers’ guild protecting its own. And he resents this. Apparently no one has explained to him why he is not being allowed to finger me, or perhaps he doesn’t accept this rationale, a fair trial for Talia. Either way, Preston has the composure and equanimity of a stick of sweating dynamite on the stand.

  As Nelson finishes with him, I am leaning across Talia and whispering into Harry’s ear. We choose not to tempt fate and therefore waive any cross-examination. There is nothing to be gained, and if I should provoke Preston’s ire, a great deal to lose.

  Nelson calls Talia’s neighbor next.

  Mildred Foster is nearing eighty, with little else to do but watch the saga of life on parade from the windows of her house. She has lived on the two-acre estate next to Ben and Talia since they moved in five years ago, and to Talia she is a mystery.

  “What a strange woman,” she says. “Five years and I’ve never seen her, even outside in the yard.”

  “But she’s seen you,” I say, “and more importantly, Ben’s car on the evening he was killed.”

  Foster is the kind of person who lives with a spyglass at the window. I would bet that her drapes are frayed and tattered from her fingering them every time a car door is slammed on the street.

  Nelson ha
s her up for one reason only. She testifies that Ben’s car was at the Potter house early in the evening on the day he was murdered. She saw it in the driveway, but didn’t see Ben. It is unclear whether arthritis has slowed her sprint to the windows, or whether she was simply distracted.

  “Mrs. Foster, can you tell us what time it was that you looked out your window and saw Mr. Potter’s car?”

  “About eight,” she says.

  “Did you hear it pull up?”

  “No,” she says. “My hearing’s not so good anymore.”

  “I see, but you looked out your window and the car was parked there?”

  She nods.

  “Let the record reflect that the witness has answered affirmatively.” Acosta is doing the honors, helping the court reporter.

  “So you have no idea what time the car might have arrived there?”

  “It wasn’t there at five when I looked out.”

  “So sometime between five o’clock, when you looked out your window, and eight o’clock, when you looked again, Mr. Potter drove up and parked his car in the driveway?”

  “Objection. The question assumes facts not in evidence, that Mr. Potter was driving the car.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Correction, Mrs. Foster, is it true that sometime between five o’clock and eight o’clock, someone drove Mr. Potter’s car into the driveway and parked it?”

  “That’s true.”

  “And that person was not in the car when you looked out the window and saw it?”

  “That’s right.”

  This is all very neat. Nelson is working on broad inferences, that Talia and a lover were lying in wait at the house, that Ben came home, that they did him with the little handgun and took the body to the office. All circumstantial, but the sort of stuff a jury might use to reach mind-bending conclusions.

  “Your witness.”

  “Mrs. Foster, do you know for a fact that the vehicle you saw parked in the driveway of the Potter residence was Mr. Potter’s car?”

  “Oh yes, it was his car. I know that car very well. I’ve seen it many times.”