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 witnesses. 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?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. Things were going pretty fast.”
“Well, which is it, did you think she committed the crime or not?”
“Objection, calls for speculation on the part of the witness,” says Nelson.
He’s a little slow getting to this.
“No, it doesn’t,” I say. “I’m trying to find out the state of mind of this witness at the time he made these loans. What motivated him to give money to a woman who was charged with killing his partner.”
Acosta makes a gesture from the bench with one hand, like the pope giving a lazy blessing; then he lets me go on probing this area. It seems some of his rancor is beginning to diminish.
“At the time I made the loan, I didn’t know whether she committed the crime or not,” says Skarpellos.
“I must admit, I’m confused,” I say. “You are here testifying in this case, telling this jury that Ben Potter was going to divorce his wife, supplying what would appear to be a neat motive for murder, except for the fact that Mrs. Potter apparently didn’t know about this divorce, and all the while you don’t know whether you think she murdered Ben Potter or not. One day you’re financing Talia Potter’s defense and the next you’re here testifying against her.”
“Objection,” says Nelson. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”
“I was subpoenaed,” says Skarpellos.
“The witness seems to think so,” I tell Nelson.
He sits down.
“But you were not under any court order, you were not compelled to call the police, to volunteer this story that you claim you forgot about, this tale of marital woe that you say was related to you by Mr. Potter, were you?”
“No. I called because I thought it was important.”
“We’ve been over all this,” says Nelson.
“So we have,” says Acosta. “Mr. Madriani, move on.”
“Certainly, Your Honor. Let’s talk about Mr. Potter’s estate,” I say. “Did you know that your partner Mr. Hazeltine had prepared Ben Potter’s will?”
“Objection,” says Nelson. “I thought we agreed this was irrelevant.”
“Maybe you agreed it was. I did not,” I tell him. “I’m prepared to make an offer of proof, Your Honor, out of the presence of this witness, demonstrating that this is not only relevant but vital to Talia Potter’s defense.”
Acosta waves us up, a little sidebar at the far end of the bench, away from Skarpellos.
I tell him that other witnesses we will present will tie this together, will show its relevance. In hushed tones I tell them that the Greek had a great deal to gain from the death of Ben Potter. I show them the operative paragraph of Ben’s will, the part that makes Skarpellos his principal beneficiary, but only if Talia Potter cannot be. Nelson argues, under his breath, until I silence him.
“This witness has lied to your own investigators,” I tell him. “Have you checked his alibi for the night of the murder?”
“We have,” he says. “It’s ironclad.”
“It’s a lie,” I say. “He has tampered with another witness, and I will prove it.”
These are serious charges, and Acosta is taking full note.
We back away from the bench.
“I will allow it,” says the judge. A major victory from the briefest moment of whispered argument. I can tell this has an effect on the jury. They are wondering what I have told the Coconut that would make such a difference.
“Mr. Skarpellos,” I say, “did you know that your partner Matt Hazeltine prepared a will for Ben Potter?”
“I don’t know, I may have.”
“Did you ever talk to Mr. Hazeltine about that will?”
He pauses, looking at me. The lie in his eyes, but not yet on his lips. He’s wondering if I have talked to Hazeltine, if I will recall him to the stand. Mostly he is wondering if Hazeltine will commit perjury to conceal what happens in every law office with every confidence that is chewed over by lawyers who believe they are exempt from the canon that a client’s secret is sacred.
“We might have,” he says.
“You might have talked about Ben Potter’s will with Mr. Hazeltine. Surely you’d remember something like that?” I say.
“We talk about a lot of things in the office. I can’t remember them all.”
“I see. You discuss confidential attorney-client information openly among yourselves in the office. This is sort of like gossip?” I say.
“No.” He says this with a good deal of contempt. “Sometimes it’s necessary to talk among colleagues, to discuss things, advice,” he says. “You know.”
“Are you telling us that Mr. Hazeltine came to you and asked for your advice on how to draft Mr. Potter’s will?”
Suddenly his shoulders have a life of their own, shrugging like he’s trying to get this monkey off his back. “He might have,” he says.
“But you can’t remember?”
“No, I can’t remember.”
“Then let’s make this clear,” I say. “For the record, Mr. Skarpellos, isn’t it true that you and Mr. Hazeltine discussed Mr. Potter’s will and that Mr. Hazeltine told you that you had been named as Mr. Potter’s principal beneficiary in the event that something might happen to Mrs. Potter? Isn’t that true?”
It’s a calculated risk. But then I know the dynamics of that place, the firm, and what Tony Skarpellos can exact from the other partners.
“We might have,” he says.
“You might have?” I thunder at him.
“OK, we talked about it. All right?”
“All right,” I say. I ease the pitch of my voice back down, smiling a little, as if to say “See how easy that was?”
I turn and head for the counsel table and a drink of water, like I am toasting a major point that has just been scored. As I pour from the pitcher Harry slides his note pad sideways. The next item on our agenda. I replace the copy of Ben’s will, which I’ve been carrying, and pull another document from files Harry’s organized on the table.
I’m back at Tony in the box.
“Mr. Skarpellos, you were interviewed by the police shortly after the death of Mr. Potter, is that correct?”
“Early the next morning,” he says. He tells us how the cops got him out of bed at three in the morning to inform him that Ben was dead.
“I assume you immediately went to the office?”
“Right away.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“The guy heading up the investigation. Captain Canard.”
“Good,” I say. I’m moving in front of the witness box, seemingly pleased that I have gotten him this far.
“Do you remember what you talked about with Captain Canard?”
“It was confusing,” he says. “A lot of chaos in the office. Cops all over the place.”
“But what did you talk about?”
“He asked me if I knew of any reason why Ben should take his own life.”
“And what did you say?”
“I never bought the suicide,” he says. “I told him no.”
I nod that we are in agreement, at least on this point, like maybe I’ve finally buried the hatchet, like maybe we’re making up. Skarpellos is breathing a little easier now.
“What else did you talk about?”
“He asked if I knew of anybody who might want to kill Ben, anybody with a grudge.” According to the Greek he thought this a little strange, but then considered the questions of possible foul play as part of the police ritual.
According to Tony, Ben was a prince, a man loved by all, and he told this to Canard.
“It was all pretty routine?” I say. “The questions you’d expect?”
“Sure.”
“I suppose they asked you where you were that night?” Thi
s is in the police report I have taken from Harry’s stack of documents on the table.
“Yeah. They asked.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I went to a basketball game in the city that night.”
“Oakland?” I say.
He nods.
I remind him about the record and the court reporter, and he puts it in words.
“Who played that night?” I say.
He looks at me, more than a little contempt in the eyes.
“The Lakers,” he says. “L.A.” He’s smiling, like “Try that on.”
“Who won?”
“You know, I can’t remember. It was just a preseason exhibition,” he says. “We left before the game ended and with all the confusion later that night-the next morning,” he corrects himself, “it didn’t really seem important.”
“Understandable,” I say. “You say ‘we’ left early. Did you go to the game with someone else?”
“Why don’t you read the police report, in your hand there,” he says. Skarpellos smiles at the jury, like “What am I, some fool?”
“It says here you went to the game with a woman, Susan Hawley. This Ms. Hawley is a friend?”
“Yeah, she’s a friend.”
“Have you known her long?”
“Your Honor, where is this going?” Nelson up out of his chair.
“Good question, counsel. Does this have a point, Mr. Madriani?”
“If you’ll bear with me, Your Honor.”
“My patience is getting short,” says Acosta.
“Have you known Ms. Hawley long?” I say.
“A couple of years.”
“Would you say she’s a social friend, or commercial. Was this business?”
“Social,” he says. Tony’s all puffed up, the Greek version of machismo, like this woman is somehow his badge of virility.
“So you didn’t hire her for the evening?”
His eyes are two flaming caldrons.
“Your Honor, I object. The witness shouldn’t be subjected to this kind of abuse,” says Nelson. He’s trying to put himself verbally between us. A reprise of his role in my office the day of the Greek’s deposition. Tony is starting to get up out of his chair.
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