“Judge,” Dapper Don says, “the prosecution has no intention of trying this case in the press.”
I haven’t heard a crock of shit like that since I last spoke.
“We are only vaguely aware of the defendant’s criminal associations,” Dapper Don continues, “and we do not intend to inform anyone about these associations, particularly members of the press. We, therefore, see no legal justification for the issuance of a gag order in this case.”
“Thank you, Mr. Watanabe,” says Narita. “As you know, I do not favor having cameras in the courtroom. If I wanted to be on television, I would have become an actor.”
“And you would have been a fine one at that, Your Honor,” I say.
The judge continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “As you also know, I am very opposed to having lawyers try their cases in the press, particularly when there is so much at stake. Although I have Mr. Watanabe’s assurances that the prosecution does not intend to do just that, I am still inclined to grant Mr. Corvelli’s request for a gag order. The details will be set out in my order. Any violation will result in a charge of contempt of this Court.”
I consider this a major victory on two levels. One, it will spare my client’s chance at getting a fair trial. Two, it will spare me the need to go on the record to defend the relentless allegations about my client’s family, and about his past. Not to mention, allegations about my own history. Of course, Milt would never have filed this motion. Neither would have the Kevin Corvelli of old.
“Now,” says Narita, “I understand there are some evidentiary issues that need to be addressed.”
“Yes, Judge,” says Dapper Don. “There is some newly discovered evidence, which we are prepared to hand over to the defense. This evidence would have been turned over in due course without the need for the Court’s intervention, but Mr. Corvelli seems to be a less-than-patient man.”
“Just proceed, Mr. Watanabe,” says the judge.
“There were two discoveries, Your Honor,” says Dapper Don. “The first is a latent print found in the abandoned lifeguard station at the scene of the crime.”
What the hell is this? I bite my nail and my knees begin to knock.
“How can that be?” I ask. “We were told there were no fingerprints found anywhere at the scene.”
“That is correct, Counselor,” Dapper Don says directly to me. “There were no fingerprints found anywhere at the scene.”
“Then, just what the hell are you talking about?”
“A lip print. Your client’s lip print was discovered at the scene.”
CHAPTER 29
I know all about lip prints. I wrote my final paper on lip prints for my forensic science class at the University of Rhode Island. I received a B on the paper, but it deserved an A. The professor deducted points because I hardly ever showed up for class, and I slept through most of the ones I did show up for. And I don’t think he much cared for the title: “Be Careful Who You Blow: How a Misplaced Lip Print Can Land You in the Slammer.” Fortunately, I’ve never had to deal with this pseudoscience in real life. Lip-print identification is rarely used by law enforcement, and lip-print comparisons are hardly ever admissible in court.
“Your Honor,” says Dapper Don Watanabe, “the prosecution intends to introduce evidence at trial of the defendant’s presence at the crime scene in the form of impression evidence, specifically through a latent lip print found on the inside portion of the Plexiglas at the lifeguard station a few yards away from where the victim’s body was discovered.”
“Judge,” I scoff, “this is ridiculous.”
“Allow Mr. Watanabe to finish, Counselor,” Narita admonishes me.
Dapper Don clears his throat and continues, “A police-lab forensic scientist specializing in latent-print examination will testify that lip prints, like fingerprints and other impression evidence, are unique and can be used to positively identify an individual.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, and Judge Narita catches the gesture. He warns me not to continue with the theatrics.
Dapper Don seems downright insulted. He clears his throat again and continues, “The forensic scientist will further testify that she performed a side-by-side comparison of the lip print taken from the lifeguard station and a sample taken from the defendant. She will testify that upon thorough examination, she concluded that the lip print found in the lifeguard station was, indeed, left by the defendant.”
“Thank you, Mr. Watanabe,” says the judge. “Now, Mr. Corvelli, what say you on the matter?”
“Your Honor, lip-print identification is novel scientific evidence at best. It is seldom used by law enforcement agencies because it is completely unreliable. Very little research has been conducted in the field. Clearly, this kind of pseudoscience has no place in the courtroom, and any evidence of so-called lip-print identification must be excluded.”
After some further back-and-forth, Narita raises his hand and speaks loudly and clearly for the record. “The prosecution will be permitted to introduce evidence of lip-print identification through their expert witness upon establishing the expertise of that witness during voir dire outside the presence of the jury.”
“Your Honor,” I say, my voice raised in anger, “at the very least, the defense is entitled to a full hearing specifically on the issue of whether lip-print identification is scientific evidence at all.”
“Mr. Corvelli,” says Narita, “I have made my decision. You will be permitted to cross-examine the prosecution’s witness in order to attempt to discredit her as an expert outside the presence of the jury. If she qualifies as an expert witness and takes the stand at trial, you will be permitted to cross-examine her in an attempt to discredit her findings. And you, of course, will be permitted to have your own expert testify during your case-in-chief.”
“But, Your Honor—,” I try.
“Enough, Counselor!” Narita yells, banging his gavel. “Oral argument has concluded and I’ve given my decision.”
Bang your gavel at me, will you? “I want it noted for the record—”
“You have made your record, Mr. Corvelli!”
“This is preposterous!” I yell. “Lip prints aren’t admissible scientific evidence! With all due respect, Judge, where are we? On an episode of CSI: Hawaii?”
“One more word from you on this subject, Mr. Corvelli, and you will spend the night in the county jail on an order of contempt of this Court!”
I silence myself. Thou shalt not be held in contempt of court.
Narita angrily shuffles his papers. I’d like to pluck his giant glasses from his little face and punch him square in the nose. Instead I bite my nail and wait a full five minutes for him to speak again.
“The next issue raised in Mr. Corvelli’s papers,” says Narita, “is the defendant’s misdemeanor conviction in New York for assault and battery. Mr. Watanabe, what say you on this matter?”
“Your Honor,” says Dapper Don, “this conviction is crucial evidence of motive. The defendant pled guilty to a violent crime against the victim, which ultimately shattered his hopes of becoming an attorney. It caused him to drop out of law school, and then, the victim ended their relationship. This perceived betrayal by the victim clearly goes to the defendant’s motive for killing her, Judge.”
“Your Honor,” I say calmly, “introducing evidence of a prior assault by the defendant against the victim would, of course, be highly prejudicial. And that prejudice, of course, would far, far outweigh the limited probative value that the prosecution is contending this conviction has. This conviction must be excluded.”
Dapper Don has the look of a cat ready to pounce on a tiny mouse. “Judge, a witness will testify that the defendant took the plea only to keep the victim from being charged with making a false statement.”
“Firstly, Judge,” I say, “the testimony of this witness, whoever it is, would amount to nothing more than hearsay. Secondly, Mr. Watanabe’s argument is counterintuitive. He wants to introduce evidence of an assaul
t and then say it wasn’t an assault. He can’t have his sushi and eat it, too.”
Dapper Don pulls a single paper from his file. “Judge, as to the hearsay argument, the prosecution will produce an e-mail communication from the defendant to the witness, one Cynthia DuFrain, which will describe in great detail his motivations for taking the plea. We will concede that in the defendant’s mind, he may have felt that no assault took place. But in reality, Your Honor, the hospital records from Lennox Hill clearly show otherwise.”
“Judge,” I say, “there is absolutely no basis—”
“Enough, Counselor,” says Narita, cutting me off again. “I am inclined to allow evidence of the conviction to show motive. Clearly, it is a paradox, Mr. Corvelli. A paradox you will have to address on cross-examination and in your case-in-chief.”
I stare at Narita, a pulsating look of anger mixed with incredulousness. I grab my briefcase from the floor and drop it with an echoing thud onto the defense table. I open it and begin to pack away my papers.
“Your Honor,” says Dapper Don from across the aisle, “there is one more discovery issue we have yet to address.”
Dread slinks down my spine from the sheer tone of his voice. I turn and see Flan exiting the courtroom.
Dapper Don clears his throat and continues, “Police discovered, near the scene of the crime, a pair of sneakers we believe belong to the defendant in this case.”
I turn my head to look at Dapper Don. He’s wearing a smile, the first I’ve seen on his face.
“They are a pair of Nike cross-training shoes,” he says. “And they are spattered with the victim’s blood.”
CHAPTER 30
After being tossed around court like a rag doll this morning, I could use a drink or twelve. Fortunately, Nikki worked the early lunch shift today, and she has agreed to meet me at Aqua Bar in Waikiki for some drinks after she’s relieved at the Bleu Sharq. My meeting with Nikki will not be all pleasure today. It will include some business, though I’m hoping a fair share of pleasure will find its way into the meeting, too. With the lip print, misdemeanor conviction, and blood-splattered sneakers all waiting for us at trial, it has become all the more important that I find Shannon’s real killer, since it is all the less likely I’ll be able to create, in the minds of the jurors, a reasonable doubt. Thus, tonight, I’ll ask Nikki the question every girl dreams of being asked: can you identify the man who asked you to help feed the sea lions at the aquarium?
I arrive at Aqua Bar twenty minutes earlier than our scheduled rendezvous time. As one would guess, the bar boasts an overly aquatic theme. The walls are more fish tank than plaster, and the dance floor is some clear gelatinous substance that houses more fish than most lakes. Boat bottoms are above our heads, and man-made coral lines the floor. The only redeeming feature of the motif is the staff’s sexy costumes. Every woman working at the bar is dressed like a mermaid, complete with sexy swimsuit tops and fins.
I find an empty clam-shaped stool at the end of the bar. It, like all of my seats of late, faces the entrance. I am far more vigilant since my recent run-ins with Palani and the Feds and my oversize paisan.
A green-eyed mermaid swims over to me and asks me what I’ll have. “I totally recommend our Shipwreck on Ice,” she says. “It’s strong, and oh, so good.”
I’m in no mood to experiment. I want something I know will get the job done. So I order up my faithful Scotch. “Thank you, but I’ll have a double Glenlivet on the rocks.”
She gives me a wink and shimmies on over to the top shelf. I grab the knot in my tie and loosen it, so that I can breathe.
The bartender returns with my drink. “Why are you all dressed up?”
That’s something you’d never hear in Manhattan. “I’m a lawyer. I had court today.”
She leans into the bar, her cleavage inching closer to my drink. “Ahhh, what kind of lawyer are you?”
“A criminal defense attorney,” I say, checking my drink for fish.
She takes my silk tie in her hand, pulling me closer to her. Her fragrance is dizzying, and I wonder how long she’ll spend working the tip. “Do you like being a lawyer?”
“Not today,” I manage to say, my eyes moving from her mermaid lips, down her mermaid shoulders, to her mermaid ti—
Just then I spot Nikki, standing at the entrance, still as a statue, gazing angrily at my Scotch. Or, maybe even at me.
I take back my tie, drop a twenty on the bar, and head over to Nikki. I lead her by the arm to a booth in the corner. She’s scoffing at me before I have the chance to slide in across from her.
“Who the hell is she?” Nikki asks without looking at me.
“The bartender?” I ask, donning my mask of incredulousness.
She nods like one extremely pissed-off bobblehead doll.
“She’s the bartender,” I say lamely.
“Why was she touching you?”
“She wasn’t touching me. She was touching my tie.”
Nikki tilts her head to one side and glares at me. “Why was she touching your tie?”
“Because she likes it.”
A grim smirk plays on her lips. “If she tells you she likes your cock, are you going to let her touch that, too?”
Is this what a relationship is like? No wonder I avoided one for so long. No wonder Milt has gone through so many wives.
“Nikki, what’s wrong?” I ask with a sigh.
“What’s wrong is that I walked in here and found you flirting with some haole slut.”
“She’s the bartender.”
“So. Was. I.”
A valid point. I fear I’m losing my second argument of the day. Time for the champ to change the subject. “Would you like a drink?”
“Are you cheating on me?” she asks in a controlled, even tone.
“Of course not.”
“Are we even together?”
“Sure, we’re together,” I say. “We’re seated in the same booth.”
Nikki doesn’t like my joke. “Will you drive me home, please? I’m not in the mood for drinks anymore.”
A merman steps up to our table and kills what was left of my underwater fantasy. I tell him we changed our minds, and Nikki and I get up to leave.
We take my Jeep to the windward side of Oahu. Despite several of my attempts at conversation, Nikki refuses to speak more than a word or two. I pull into her driveway and wait, hoping she will still invite me in.
“You don’t want to come in, do you?” she finally says.
Close enough. “Yeah, sure, I’ll come in for a while.”
I step around the Jeep and remove my briefcase from the trunk. We step inside the empty cottage and go directly to her room. It’s far more orderly than it was the last time I was here. No clothes are strewn about the room. No ledgers or loose papers are scattered over her desk. The hair and beauty items are aligned neatly on her dresser. The mementos and photographs are nowhere to be seen.
She doesn’t say a word for she does not wish to speak. And she doesn’t tear her clothes off, asking me for sex. So with nothing else to do, I ask her if she’d mind looking at some photographs.
“What fo’?” she asks, a hint of pidgin in her angry tone.
“I’d like you to tell me if you recognize anyone, like the man who asked for help feeding the sea lions at the aquarium.”
“Why would you have a picture of him?”
“Don’t be alarmed, but he may be connected to my case.”
She shrugs and takes the photos from me. They are arranged in a makeshift album. She moves through the pages slowly, studying each and every face. Approximately halfway through, she points. “That’s him.”
The name underneath the photograph is Paolo “Small Paul” Nicoletti. He looks to be in his fifties. One eye is open more than the other, giving him that sinister Lucky Luciano look.
“Will you excuse me while I go outside to make a call?” I say.
“Whatevahs.”
Outside, it is evident how windward O
ahu got its name. I speed-dial Flan from my cell phone and he answers, but the wind is chopping at his voice.
“Flan,” I yell above the whipping wind, “I have the name of the third goombah. It’s Nicoletti. Paolo ‘Small Paul’ Nicoletti. Can you run it and see what you find? Specifically, I need to know if he was on Oahu when Shannon was murdered.”
“Sure, Kev. No problem.” There’s some discomfort in Flan’s voice. “Listen, we didn’t get to speak after the conference today. I wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to put you in that position. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, but once I did, I should’ve told you. I figured she’d tell the prosecutor who I was, but I never dreamed she’d tell him we slept together.”
“I have one question for you, Flan.”
Despite the wind, I can hear him swallow hard. “What’s that, Kev?”
“Was she any good?”
Some uncontrolled laughter comes from his end, and I can tell that he is pretty drunk. “She was a wildcat, Kevin.”
“You didn’t bill me for that night, I hope?”
“I’ll have to check my invoices. You should’ve seen the look on your face when the prosecutor said I slept with her, Kev.”
“Trust me, I have a good idea of what I looked like, Flan. Listen, just forget about the whole thing. It never happened.
We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. The judge is one mean son of a bitch, and he doesn’t like me one bit.”
“I know. I heard most of it, Kev. That’s why I left. I figured you’d be in a foul mood, and after what I had done, I decided to turn tail and run.”
“Check on Nicoletti. Let me know as soon as you have something.”
“You got it, Kev. Aloha.”
I snap the phone shut and head back inside. I open the door to Nikki’s room, where the lights are out, but candle flames are aglow. Nikki is lying on the bed naked, patting the space beside her with her hand, as though I were a puppy. I take the invitation and crawl under the covers beside her. Before I can remove my clothes, her lips are upon me.
One Man's Paradise Page 16