“OK. What do you intend to do?”
I flash him a big smile. I can’t tell whether he is joking, or just shameless.
“Do yourself a favor,” he says. “Plead her out.”
“Fat chance,” I tell him. “I didn’t sweat blood over the jury to cut and run now. Nelson’s in disarray. If you were there, you would know. It has all the signs of a rout,” I tell him.
He’s pulling the newspaper from his pocket, the tabloid shopper, flattening it out on my kitchen table to read.
“How about some breakfast?” I ask.
“No, thanks. I think you may want to look at this first; you may lose your appetite,” says Coop. He’s got the paper, holding it flat with the loaf of bread on top.
The only thing I can see is the masthead and a byline. The Camp Town News is a local throwaway used by supermarkets to advertise sales on tuna and mayonnaise. The byline belongs to Eli Walker. This is one of the local rags that still buys Walker’s “syndicated” column, running it on the front page, like hard news. The reputable general-circulation press have all dropped him. Seems Eli kept getting lost in a bottle on his way to deadline.
Coop takes a slice of bread and puts the loaf near the sink. My gaze is hit by the four-column banner like Moses getting the fiery finger of God on Sinai:
LAWYERIMPLICATEDINPOTTERKILLING
The story is copyrighted. Coop looks at me, stone-faced, like “Read on.” I catch the lead, the first graph:
CAPITOL
CITY-In an exclusive to this reporter, sources close to the investigation in the Talia Potter murder trial have identified Paul Madriani, Potter’s defense attorney, as one of the men with whom Mrs. Potter carried on a lengthy and involved extramarital affair in the period preceding her husband’s death.
The police have for months been looking for an elusive accomplice who they believe acted with Talia Potter to kill Benjamin G. Potter, the noted lawyer. Sources in Washington have indicated that before his death Potter was an odds- on favorite for appointment to the United States Supreme Court.
There is a rush of adrenaline, a silly smile on my face, the kind you see in movies an instant after the thwop of an arrow cuts through the character’s chest. “Jesus,” I say. It is all I can think of.
“Then it’s true?” he says. I have not said this, but Coop has drawn his own conclusions. There’s no surprise here. For George Cooper, Eli Walker’s column holds no revelations. Unless I am wrong, he has harbored suspicions for some time that my relationship with Talia, while now purely business, may have been something more in the recent past.
“This came out last night?” I ask him.
He nods.
“What kind of play is it getting?”
I can hope that, since it comes from Walker, the serious press is treating this like food delivered by some pariah.
“The Journal and the Trib ran it this morning-both on the front page. It should hit the tube tonight, the six-o’clock news,” he says.
Eli Walker must be off on the biggest drunk of his life, dreaming of attribution on the networks, his name in lights.
I pull back to the table and read more. It is blistering, a dizzying series of shots, all taken by people hunkering down under the moniker of “highly placed sources.” The only thing more stinging is the fact that Walker, by design or destiny, has come remarkably close to the truth.
Only Duane Nelson is quoted by name, a single and terse “No comment.” Nelson, it seems, takes the court’s gag order seriously, though some on his staff do not. Even without names I can place some of these.
According to the article, an unnamed witness has identified me as one of a number of men seen over a period of months checking into a local hotel with Talia. The hotel goes unnamed. But Walker says the witness will appear at trial.
Lama’s motel clerk. Jimmy Lama has made good on his threat. He has staked me to an anthill. I finger the edges of the paper. If this becomes evidence in Talia’s case, the jury will be giving me all the credence they would give a snake-oil salesman.
Another unidentified source has told Walker that I was fired from the firm when Ben Potter discovered I was having an affair with his wife. It seems the Greek has finally put all of the pieces together, enough to guess at my reasons for departure from the firm, to make this charge, without proof, from his bunker of anonymity.
I look at Coop, my expression one of a child in search of a father confessor. Suddenly, I have a burning desire to talk, an overwhelming compulsion to unburden myself on a sympathetic shoulder into a friendly ear.
He senses this. His hands are on my shoulders, his face in mine. “I can’t hear this,” he says. “Not now.”
He’s not angry. He’s protecting me. Whatever he knows, whatever I tell him, Nelson can force Coop to repeat in court. He knows this. In this time of panic, my lawyer’s wits abandon me. Coop is thinking more like the lawyer than I.
“Why don’t you pack it in,” he says. “If the jury gets wind of this, if Nelson gets this into evidence, she’s dead.” These words ring with finality. “You may go down with her. Cut a deal now.”
“What kind of deal can I get with this?” I sweep the tabloid off the table onto the floor with my hand.
“Only one thing worse than a tainted defendant,” he tells me, “is a tainted defendant represented by a fallen lawyer.”
Nikki’s phone call. She has seen this. I have to talk to Nikki.
“What can I say?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
I just want him to leave, so I can call Nikki. For her to know about my affair is one thing. To have her nose rubbed in it, to be humiliated in public print, is another. The irony of this is that Nikki is the one person I can bare my soul to with impunity, husband to wife. But I fear she will not want to hear it.
Coop’s heading for the door now, repeating his advice that I cut a deal, and chiding me a bit. “Common sense,” he says, “should have told you not to take her case, for her own sake, if not for your own.”
He is of course right, but now I simply want him to leave.
“What will you do?” he says.
“I don’t know. I’ll talk to Harry, the court. Assess the damage,” I tell him. “I need to think.”
“If there’s anything I can do,” he says, “within the bounds.” He’s got his pipe out, getting ready to pollute my house.
I thank him and move him farther toward the door.
“Don’t forget to call off your woman, the paralegal,” he says as I close the door. “Tell her to forget about the claim check and the hardware store.”
“Yeah, sure,” I tell him. This is the last thing on my mind. I sprint for the phone and dial Nikki. Her line is busy. Friends have begun to call, the women in her cabal, all picking from my bones.
CHAPTER 32
Eli Walker may have dreamed of fame, but never, in his driest moment, did he expect this. We are in chambers again, Nelson and Meeks, Harry and I, Acosta and the court reporter. Walker has the seat of honor, next to his attorney, directly in front of the judge’s desk.
Acosta is dressing him down, giving him a lesson in gag orders and how they operate. While the court’s order doesn’t directly bind Walker, he’s been subpoenaed by the court to answer certain questions, out of the reach of the jury. The Coconut wants to know the identity of certain of Walker’s sources, primarily those touted as being close to the investigation. The inference here is that these people were part of the prosecution team, and hence bound by the original gag order.
Eli is playing this notoriety for all it is worth. He showed up in court, walking the gauntlet of cameras in the hallway outside the courtroom, a slow procession, as if he were wearing ermine and carrying a scepter. Now he confers with his attorney, hand cupped to ear, like some syndicate boss in a senate hearing.
The Coconut is beginning to fume with these antics, psychic smoke rising from his ears.
Eli’s lawyer tells Acosta that Walker is asserting the state’s
Shield Act, that the information is privileged, that Walker cannot be compelled to disclose the identity of his sources.
This is like waving a red flag under the nose of a raging bull.
“Sir.” Acosta is now looking at Eli’s lawyer. “You are treading on thin ice. Continue with this and you may be sharing a cell with your client.” He’s talking about contempt, the ultimate hammer of any judge.
The Shield Act, or so-called newsman’s privilege, takes up a single section of the codes. It has been lobbied into law by newspaper publishers, enacted by the politicians and scoffed at by the judiciary, which has shredded it with exceptions in a dozen court decisions. This is what happens when the legislative branch attempts to limit the powers and prerogatives of those who wear black robes.
Acosta’s mastery of the legal issues here leads me to believe that he has actually spent time in the case reports over the weekend, since Walker’s column, sifting the law. He is laying the groundwork for the record, speaking in muted tones and crystalline terms that a two-year-old might comprehend, with an eye on appeal should Walker choose to go to jail rather than talk.
“So that there is no misunderstanding, Mr. Walker, the Shield Act is a qualified privilege only,” says Acosta. “This means that where issues of fair trial are involved, as they are here, it must give way. In short, the Shield Act does not apply to protect these sources. Do you understand?”
More conferencing, Walker to his lawyer and back.
“Your Honor, my client would like to cooperate, but he can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t, counsel? Are you telling me that he doesn’t know the identity of his own sources?”
With Walker I can believe this might be the case.
“No, Your Honor. He is constrained by professional ethics.”
This I cannot believe.
“He cannot in good conscience reveal the identity of these sources.”
Nelson is fuming in the corner. From all indications he has turned his office on its ear looking for the culprit. He was caught flat-footed when the motel clerk fingered me late last week from a file shot on television. News, presumably, the witness wasn’t supposed to be watching. I am now left to wonder how many of the jurors have also seen Eli Walker’s column. Judicial orders that they shade their eyes are difficult to enforce. It’s like watching water turn to steam, you may never know the cause, you see only the result, in this case a quick conviction.
I could give Nelson a little help in his search for the office leak, point him in the right direction, but this morning the DA is looking at me as if I am some lowlife. Acosta too is miffed that I should be compromised like this, not concerned for my own reputation, but fearful that this latest fracas may result in a mistrial.
Through all of this, the court is looking at ten days of wasted time and money, and the bad press that accompanies it if the case must be dumped. This is to say nothing of the months of preparation. It is not something that Acosta wants on his judicial resume, not something likely to lead to further elevation. Some judges are defense oriented, others side with the prosecution. Armando Acosta has only one constituency that he strives to attend, himself. He is determined to discover the people responsible for this leak and to punish them accordingly.
“Is that your final answer, Mr. Walker?”
Eli nods.
“You must speak for the record.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I have a commitment to my profession,” he says. “I cannot tell you.”
He speaks in a noble tone, like George Washington to his daddy about the cherry tree.
I am wondering if his lawyer has told Eli that they do not serve booze in the county jail, even in the relatively tame little room they reserve for star boarders. In forty-eight hours, ethics will take a backseat to the DTs, and if I know Eli, and my senses are correct, he will feed Lama to the Coconut.
“Then you leave me no alternative, Mr. Walker. I hereby hold you in contempt and order you into the custody of the county sheriff for a period of three days, at the end of which time we shall meet and confer again. We can all hope that by that time you will have come to your senses.”
“Your Honor, I would request that my client be allowed to remain free, pending appeal of the court’s order.”
“Denied,” says Acosta.
It will take at least three days for his lawyer to get to the appellate courts on an extraordinary writ.
The lawyer seeks assurances that Walker will not be kept in the general lockup with other prisoners. Acosta assures him, in his own inimitable fashion, that Eli will not be raped, then nods to the bailiff, a sign that it is time for Eli to go.
The bailiff takes him by an arm out into the courtroom and around to the courthouse holding cells. Walker’s lawyer drifts away, back into the courtroom and the corridor beyond, to tell the assembled throngs, the media horde, what their hero has done.
“Now to more pressing matters,” says Acosta. “What are we going to do about your witness, Mr. Nelson?”
Before Nelson can open his mouth Harry is up from the couch on his feet, moving for a mistrial. We have agreed that Harry should take the lead in this matter, to defuse Acosta’s clear rage at me, and to take the self-serving edge off my current predicament.
“Thank you, Mr. Hinds. I’ll take your motion under submission. Right now I’d like to hear from the DA if you don’t mind.”
Harry takes his seat. We are like two bookends on the Coconut’s couch.
“James Preston has clearly identified Mr. Madriani as one of several men seen with the defendant checking into the Edgemont Motel,” says Nelson.
“So what?” says Harry.
Acosta shoots him a look that would stop a charging bull elephant, but not Harry Hinds. He is up again, like some spring-loaded puppet.
“There’s nothing, not a shred of evidence linking Mr. Madriani to the crime. This is gossip-mongering, pure and simple. The prosecution is in trouble so it’s trying to put the passions of the defendant on trial, to discredit her attorney,” he says.
“That cell,” says Acosta, “the one that Mr. Walker is now occupying. I should warn you, Mr. Hinds, it has plenty of room for two. Now sit down and shut up.”
This puts Harry back down on the couch again.
Acosta looks at the court reporter. “Strike that latter from the record. From the part about jail,” he says.
The court reporter stares at the Coconut, like “This isn’t done.” Acosta shoots her another withering look, and keys are being punched on the little stenograph, history being rewritten.
Nelson rips into Harry’s argument. “This is competent, relevant evidence,” he says. “It is something the jury should hear. Something on which the jury should be allowed to form its own conclusions.”
He tries to soft-peddle this to the Coconut, giving assurances that the state will not dwell unduly on my indiscretions.
He knows as well as I that a single reference to this matter will seal Talia’s fate in the eyes of the jury. It would be as if suddenly the devil had jumped up to argue her cause.
He concedes that I am only one of several men that the witness will identify as having been with the defendant at the motel. What they want to expose, he tells the court, is not my own failings, but Talia’s record of infidelity.
“The fact that the defendant was engaged in extracurricular activities goes to her state of mind,” says Nelson, “her motive for wanting to terminate what was clearly an unsatisfying marriage.”
Acosta mulls over this for a moment, weighing the ins and outs of this argument.
“Now,” he says, “it’s your turn.” Harry starts to get up.
“No, no, not you,” he says. “Him.” The Coconut injects all the contempt he can into this single personal pronoun, gesturing toward me with the back of his hand. He wants me in sackcloth and ashes.
I am on my feet, stumbling verbally. The hardest thing a lawyer will ever have to do, defend himself.
“I apologize to the cou
rt,” I say, “for this situation that I find myself in.” I try to explain that this relationship with my client is something of ancient history, like the Druids at Stonehenge. The Coconut isn’t buying this, or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t care.
“But you didn’t disclose it to the authorities, to the court, did you, Mr. Madriani?”
“No, Your Honor, I did not.”
“Why?” he says.
I begin to get into it, going backward, starting with my last conversation with Ben at Wong’s the night before he died.
Nelson cuts me off before I’ve finished a sentence.
“Your Honor, if we’re going to do this I want to Mirandize Mr. Madriani.”
“Of course,” says Acosta.
I am struck cold by this. Besides the notion that I may have to bare my soul, acknowledge my affair with Talia, is the obvious fact that Acosta has taken back this question because he thinks that in answering it I may incriminate myself. I stand here staring at him in stark silence, knowing that the judge who is trying Talia’s cause now believes it possible that I may have helped her in this crime.
“This is ridiculous,” says Harry.
“No, Your Honor, it’s not. We have reason to be concerned,” says Nelson. “Mr. Madriani misled the officers who questioned him after the murder. He was asked why he left the Potter, Skarpellos law firm, whether he’d had disagreements with the victim. He denied this. Now it begins to look as if he left the firm because he was discovered having an affair with the victim’s wife. This goes to motive,” he says.
“Whose motive? Are we talking about the defendant or me?”
Nelson looks me in the eye. “Any way you like it,” he says.
I cannot hold myself back. “Ben knew it,” I say, “he knew about Talia and me, but we talked it through. We stepped away friends, before he died. Why else do you think he recommended me to oversee the trust fund at the law school?”
“Mr. Madriani.” Acosta is trying to silence me. “You’re warned,” he says, “not to say another word. Do so at your own peril. Do you understand?” Acosta wants to keep me from fouling the record. He nods to Nelson to Mirandize me, but nobody seems to have the little card. A half-dozen lawyers in the room and no one can spout what every flatfoot on the beat knows by heart. Nelson wings it, about eighty percent correct, he hits the high points, the right to counsel, to remain silent.
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