“Oh, there are things in this case with which we do not disagree, Mr. Nelson and myself,” I say. “We agree with the state that Ben Potter was murdered.”
Still not sure that this is an opening statement, Acosta appears satisfied that he has at least squeezed a concession from me.
“On that we agree,” I say. “This was no suicide. We agree, whoever perpetrated this dark crime did so with cold and calculated premeditation.
“But you have seen the inconsistencies in the state’s case, the holes in their evidence, the unexplained facts. What does this evidence portend, ladies and gentlemen? What does it tell you?”
“Mr. Madriani.” The Coconut is on me from the bench, warning me again.
I ignore him and answer my own question.
“It reveals, as we will demonstrate by our evidence”—I turn to Acosta, my language now back on track in the formula of an opening statement, what we will show—“that someone has gone to great lengths to make it appear as if Talia Potter has committed this crime. Someone with a great deal to gain, someone with a compelling reason to murder Ben Potter.
“What you have heard thus far is highly circumstantial, bits and pieces of information, from which the state expects you to make quantum leaps in logic, to draw inferences that defy reason, to find Talia Potter guilty of a murder she did not commit.”
Acosta is fuming from the bench.
“But I would ask you to wait, ladies and gentlemen, to wait until you have heard and seen all of the evidence including that which we will now present.
“At the conclusion of this case, I will ask you to contrast the circumstances as portrayed by the state with what you will see and hear in the next several days. From this point on, ladies and gentlemen, you will receive hard, compelling evidence, evidence demonstrating beyond all reasonable doubt who killed Ben Potter, and why.”
With this there are a dozen sets of round eyes staring at me from beyond the railing. In making this promise I am venturing no calculated risk. From the beginning, we have been committed to this theory of the case. Now we must either prove it, or suffer the consequences.
I am being given a second bite at the apple. Acosta’s ruling that the terms of Ben’s will are irrelevant, and his refusal to allow me to question Matt Hazeltine on the subject, have been major impediments to our case. Unless I can show that Skarpellos stands to inherit vast sums from Potter’s estate if Talia is convicted, I cannot lead the jury to the obvious conclusion that the Greek has framed her.
“She knows about it,” says Harry, “every period and paragraph.”
We are in the hall outside the courtroom. The Coconut is off the bench, on a bladder call. Harry has been talking to Jo Ann Campanelli. It seems that Jo is privy to the terms of Ben’s will, one of two witnesses who signed it in the office the day it was drafted. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this, the subscribing witnesses. In this state two are required to validate any will, and Jo Ann’s name was on the bottom of this one. Harry has discovered this while I was busy shoveling myself out of the various pits dug for me by Acosta.
“Not only did she sign it,” he says, “but she typed it from notes supplied by Hazeltine after he met with Potter.” Harry is ecstatic. I tell him to bring his feet back down to earth. We still have to deal with Acosta, to whom any discussion of Ben’s will is utterly beside the point.
I have subpoenaed the will, but cannot get it into evidence without a foundational witness. Jo Ann is now clearly my best shot to accomplish this. But this latest revelation now affects the order of my witnesses. From the beginning I have been torn, whether to put the Greek up first, to nail him down on his alibi, expound upon his warm relations with Potter, and then impeach him with successive witnesses and evidence—Jo Ann, who heard Ben and Tony brawl in the office, and the trust account records showing that the Greek had stolen regularly from these funds—or to take Skarpellos up last, in a dramatic confrontation that would give him the advantage of seeing these earlier witnesses, reading accounts of their testimony in the local papers, and conforming his own responses accordingly.
From the beginning it had been my plan to take Tony up first. Now this changes. I need something to distract him, to make him believe that I am impeaching him, but with something less than I actually have.
Kim Palmer is one of those small-boned women, lean and tan, wiry, with a kind of athletic beauty born only in spas and weight rooms where the chic distaff set hangs out. Before Talia’s arrest, she and Kim were thick as thieves. Now the relationship is more restrained. Still, I’ve not had to twist arms to get Kim to come here and vouch for an old friend. She is one of several character witnesses we’ve put up. Two of Talia’s commercial associates have already laid in a measure of good repute, Talia as the serious, upstanding businesswoman. Both have stated that they would trust her with their lives and fortunes.
Kim Palmer is a special case. The only one of Talia’s social set I will use.
“So you’ve known Talia Potter for a number of years?” I say.
“Eight,” she says.
“And during that time you’ve been close?”
“Good friends,” says Kim.
“How frequently would you see Mrs. Potter, during this period?”
“At least twice a week. We worked out together at the gym and had lunch at least once a week.”
“Do you know her to be a truthful person?”
“I would trust her with my life,” she says.
“As friends did you confide in each other, things that you might not tell other, less intimate friends?”
“I think so.”
“Did Mrs. Potter ever talk about her marriage?”
“Oh yes.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“That she was very happy, that she loved her husband. She told me this many times. Her life revolved around her husband.”
“Did Mrs. Potter ever tell you that during the course of her marriage, while she was married to Ben Potter, she’d gone out with other men?”
“Absolutely not. As I say, she was happily married.”
There are a few smiles in the jury box. Robert Rath, my alpha factor, has his hand to his mouth, unable to keep the mirth from his face. This testimony may not be worth much, except as a diversion with the Greek, to make him think that my sole point of attack will be to his credibility on the issue of Ben’s planned divorce.
“Mrs. Palmer, did Talia Potter ever tell you that her husband was considering a divorce?”
“Never,” she says.
“Given the nature of your relationship, is this something that she would have shared with you, the fact that her husband might be considering a divorce?”
“Absolutely. We were like sisters,” she says.
There are jurors looking at the ceiling, counting the tiles.
“But she never told you at any time that Ben Potter was considering a divorce?”
“No. Never. Absolutely not.”
“Did you know Ben Potter?”
“I’d met him on several occasions. My husband and I had gone to parties at the Potter residence. They’d been dinner guests at our home on at least three or four occasions.”
“Did Mr. and Mrs. Potter appear to you to be in love?”
“Objection.” Nelson is up. “Calls for speculation.”
“Very much,” she says. “He doted on her, and she loved it.”
“Sustained,” says Acosta. He smiles at Kim Palmer. “When the other attorney objects …” She nods pertly like a precocious child, attentive to his every instruction. “You’re supposed to stop talking until I rule on it.”
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s all right.” He smiles, a big wolfish grin. Then in his most manly tone he instructs the court reporter to strike the witness’s response. I think he is taken with her. I have visions of Don Juan in black spandex, haunting Kim Palmer on the health club scene. It is not a pretty sight.
I pause to consider the ne
xt question, a tactic to get me around Nelson’s objection.
“What would you say if someone other than Mr. or Mrs. Potter had told you that Ben Potter was considering a divorce?”
“I would say that they were either terribly misinformed, or else they were lying.”
She smiles up at Acosta.
He nods, like “This is fine.” She is doing it just the right way.
Then I turn her over to Nelson.
“Mrs. Palmer, isn’t it true that the defendant had numerous affairs with other men?”
“No,” she says.
“Isn’t it true that you yourself had affairs with other men and that the two of you, Talia Potter and yourself, actually doubledated with these men on several occasions?”
“Absolutely not, I resent the implication,” she says. She is looking up at the judge for protection. There is wonderful indignation here. Acosta is reserving his most disapproving expression for Nelson, the look of a man being summoned to fight the town bully for the honor of a woman scorned.
“Mrs. Palmer.” Nelson says this as if to emphasize the fact of her marriage, that this too is a fallen woman. “Do you know a man named Raul Sanchez?” he asks.
With this there are large round eyes on Kim Palmer. “I don’t recall …” She’s speaking slowly, thinking, or pretending to. “That name does ring a bell,” she says.
“It should,” says Nelson. “The tennis pro at the club you and Mrs. Potter attended.”
“Oh yes. Now I remember him.”
“Good,” says Nelson. “To your knowledge, did Mrs. Potter ever date Raul Sanchez?” He rolls the name “Raul” off his tongue like this is some exotic elixir, some Latin aphrodisiac.
She laughs at this, a high giddy cackle that leaves half the jury smiling.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “Not likely.” She seems amused by this thought.
“Would it surprise you if I told you that the defendant was seen checking into a motel on more than one occasion with Raul Sanchez?”
“Oh, that,” she says. She laughs again. “Is that what this is all about? No, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
Nelson is taken aback by this sudden burst of candor. He is looking at Meeks, wondering if he has somehow stepped in it.
“And why would this not surprise you?”
“Raul, Mr. Sanchez,” she says, “went with many of his clients to that motel.” She thinks for a moment, then comes up with the name of the place, without any help from Nelson.
“And why was that?” says Nelson.
“There were available courts there,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“He was a tennis pro,” she says. “When the club was full, when its courts were all in use, this motel had the closest available private courts. The club had an arrangement with the place. There was no locker room, no public showers, so we rented rooms.”
Nelson turns and gives Meeks a deadly look. It seems one more piece of sloppy police work, something their motel clerk did not tell them, or a question which Lama, in his rush to judgment, failed to ask.
Talia is taking some pleasure in this testimony. Apparently these surprises to Nelson’s case are just the pick-me-up she needed. There is a lot of eye contact between Kim Palmer and Talia with each surprise revealed by the witness, like each is a little slap applied to Nelson’s face.
“Still,” says Nelson, “you must admit it is strange, rather unseemly, for a man and a married woman to check into a motel room together.” Nelson’s trying to salvage something, a concession at least of improper appearances.
“Raul’s name never went on the registration,” she says. “Somebody has a dirty mind.”
There’s a little laughter from the audience, smiles in the jury box.
Talia is looking at me, a broad grin, as if to say that Duane Nelson has more than he can handle in Kim Palmer.
“Besides,” says Kim, “Raul was perfectly safe.”
“Excuse me?” says Nelson.
“I don’t know how to say this,” she says. Nelson is looking at her, like a deer on the tracks, blinded and too late.
“He was partial to other men,” she says. “Like a gate with rusty hinges—he swung only one way.”
There’s open laughter from the jury box now. Acosta too is enjoying this. Nelson is not.
When Kim told me of Raul and his proclivities, we were prepping for her testimony. I didn’t know whether to believe her. She has a fanciful imagination, one of those inventive spirits to whom license is everything. Talia professed not to know. But I figured Raul was far enough away to make it unlikely that the police or the court would send someone to Rio to check this out.
In all, Talia’s sexual exploits are beginning to take on the fanciful tint of pixie dust. There is nothing so deadly to the stone-serious theories of prosecution as humor. Nelson has had enough. His is a losing cause with Kim Palmer. He gives her up and I pass on any redirect. It is unlikely that I will do any more damage than has already been done.
The court adjourns for the day. Kim is down off the stand, making no secret of her affection for Talia. The two women embrace openly ten feet from the jury box and the exiting jurors. To my amazement, I look up and see a third female enter this scene. She is shaking hands vigorously with Kim Palmer, then an embrace, introducing herself. It is Nikki, up from behind the railing. There is a camaraderie here, I think, a feeling among the distaff set that says that Kim Palmer has struck a blow for all women. While her testimony may not be fatal to Nelson’s case, it is sharp little jabs like these that combined with others can win a trial.
“You were wonderful,” says Nikki. She’s looking at Kim. I catch an admiring eye and a wink from my wife. I think she is beginning to feel renewed optimism, that maybe there is life after this case.
CHAPTER
37
SKARPELLOS has barely had time to change his suit and he is back on the stand. This time I’m in his face from the start. Harry’s at the table taking notes. I make no bones about it; this witness is unfriendly. With Acosta’s indulgence, grudging as it is, Tony is labeled a hostile witness—giving me license to lead with my questions.
“This story,” I say. “This thing about Ben Potter telling you about some divorce plans, it didn’t actually happen, not the way you say, did it?”
“Absolutely, every word.” He is adamant.
“Did he ever tell you that he’d informed his wife about this? Did he ever come out and say point-blank that he had told Talia that he wanted a divorce?”
I’m treading on safe ground here. If he says anything but a simple “no,” I will confront him with a copy of the transcript from the deposition taken in my office.
He admits that Ben never told him that Talia knew of his plans for divorce. But then he tries to embellish, a little embroidery of speculation.
“Divorce is not something that a husband keeps from his wife. Not when he’s already shopping for a lawyer.” He volunteers this to the jury without any question being posed.
“Move to strike,” I say. “The witness is engaging in pure conjecture.”
“Sustained. The court reporter will strike the response of the witness. Mr. Skarpellos, just answer the questions that are asked.”
The Greek wipes his nose with a thumb and nods, all belligerence, like a street kid who’s just gotten a little snot knocked out of him.
“As far as you know, Mr. Skarpellos, based on your own personal knowledge, what you saw and heard, Ben Potter never told Talia Potter about any plans for a divorce, isn’t that true?”
“Yeah,” he says. He’s getting surly now.
“In the early going in this case, you loaned money to Mrs. Potter for her defense, didn’t you?”
“Damn right,” he says. “And she hasn’t paid me back yet.”
“Your Honor.” I’m looking to Acosta to jerk his chain one more time.
“Mr. Skarpellos. We have a small cell downstairs that we reserve for uncooperative w
itnesses. I do not want to have to tell you again.”
The Greek is drawing a deadly bead on him.
“How much did you lend Talia Potter in this case?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, seventy-five, eighty thousand.”
“Eighty thousand dollars?” I say.
He nods.
“No trifling amount,” I say. “You did this out of the generosity of your heart, and for no other reason?”
He looks at me bristling. He knows I have copies of the loan agreements he forced Talia to sign, the ones that post Ben’s share in the firm as collateral for these loans.
“I extended some money to her because her husband’s estate was all tied up. She needed the money to pay you,” he says.
He turns it around, makes it look as if I am some bloodsucker.
I smile at him and move away.
“You have a reputation in this town,” I say, “for being a shrewd businessman. These were not what you would call signature loans, were they? They were collateralized, secured by property held by the defendant, weren’t they?”
“You don’t give eighty thousand dollars away on good looks,” he says. He’s giving a single, beefy laugh for the benefit of the jury.
“And what collateral did you hold as security for these loans?”
“A note for Potter’s interest in the firm,” he says.
“A firm worth many millions of dollars,” I say, “and you extended a loan of eighty thousand. Some would call that more than shrewd, Mr. Skarpellos. Some might even call it predatory.”
“Call it what you want. She needed the money, and I gave it to her when no one else was there.”
I nod, making a face toward the jury, like “Maybe this is something only a loanshark can fully understand.”
“I suppose you lent her money because you thought she was innocent of these charges?”
“No,” he says. “I lent her money because she needed it.”
I’m pacing toward the jury as he says this, and I stop dead in my tracks, big eyes looking at them. A little mock surprise.
“So you believed that Talia Potter murdered your partner, that she killed one of your best friends, and you thought you would lend her a little money for her defense, just for kicks? Or was this a business proposition you simply couldn’t pass up, a once-in-a-lifetime deal that you had to get in on?”
Compelling Evidence Page 41