One Man's Paradise

by Douglas Corleone

  Nikki has been as constant a warmth in my life as the bright Hawaiian sun. She has shown me every pleasurable spot on Oahu from Hanauma Bay to Sharks Cove. Together, we’ve developed a threesome with the sea. As a New Yorker, my only experience with the water had been a ferry ride on New York Waterway, a six-minute excursion across the icy Hudson River. Now, I snorkel, scuba, sailboard, kayak, and surf. Well, I try to surf. But the last time I tried, the board knocked me unconscious and I had to be saved by a lifeguard, who more resembled David Hasselhoff than Pamela Anderson. Suffice it to say, I consider myself a surfer no more.

  Unlike in New York, I now take regular days off. Sometimes even three or four at a time. Last month, Nikki and I flew to Maui, where we spent four days drinking mai tais and making love. I have since promised Nikki a trip to Kauai to visit her quaint, beloved hometown. I told her we’d go as soon as the trial ends, and I confess, I look forward to it, for more reasons than one.

  Aside from the occasional streak of jealousy, Nikki is all a man could ever want. But for a brown-eyed brunette, she can sure turn green. Most recently, she admonished my next-door neighbor, a cute, redheaded University of Hawaii student, who thought she was doing me a favor by handing me some mail that had been left in her mailbox by mistake.

  But I have attributed these streaks to the recent problems she’s faced. Alika, all that’s left of her ohana, hardly ever returns home. He remains strung out on ice, selling the drug and risking his life for the sole purpose of staying high. My custom is to pick her up after work and drive her to my place in Waialua, if only to take her away from it all.

  But tonight, I will not see her at all. Tonight, Kevin Corvelli is all business. And his business is the trial of State versus Joseph Gianforte Jr.

  Prosecuting attorney Dapper Don Watanabe made what he called a generous offer. Twenty-five years. As I am required by law to do, I relayed the offer to Joey, who cried at the sound of it. There will be no negotiation. There will be no plea bargain. There will be a trial. And there will be a verdict.

  Whether Joey killed Shannon or not, I don’t truly know. And I would not hazard a guess. Yet twelve jurors are about to be asked to do just that. Regardless of whether Joey is responsible for Shannon’s death, my job is to zealously represent him and to create reasonable doubt. Regardless of what Joey did or did not do, my mission is unequivocal: to strive for a verdict of not guilty.

  We are barefoot, all three of us, our feet warmed by the sand, sunglasses shading our eyes from the dropping sun.

  “I want to thank both of you,” I say, “for all the help you’ve given me on this case. And for your friendship these past six months. I’d be lost without either one of you.”

  Jake smirks. “All I get is money and thanks.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, I’m the only one didn’t get laid through all of this.”

  “I think something can be arranged,” says Flan. “Those goodfellas Lazy Eye Sal and Tony Bitch-Tits are probably getting lonely and bored of each other by now.”

  Although we haven’t heard from Lopardi and Antonazzo, we have been keeping tabs on them. They returned to Honolulu several times over the last six months, most recently this past week. No doubt they are keeping tabs on us as we keep tabs on them.

  “Flan,” I say, “you’re not going to be permitted to watch the trial, since I may have to call you as a witness during our case-in-chief.”

  “That’s okay,” Flan says. “I’d prefer to keep my distance from Carlie Douglas as it is.”

  “Jake,” I say, “I’ll call you with updates during the breaks.”

  “There will be no need for that, son. I’ll be sitting right there beside you.”

  “Mahalo, Jake. I truly appreciate that.”

  We have stood here before, many times, the three of us, scouring the beach, searching for clues, looking for answers. It is a narrow strip of beach. At high tide, the surf sometimes covers it all. It is the only portion of Waikiki Beach unlit by tiki torches at night. It is where Shannon was bludgeoned to death, and it is, practically speaking, the only spot on Waikiki Beach where the murder could have occurred and gone undiscovered until morning.

  The lifeguard station stands empty. It has been photographed more times these past few months than most supermodels.

  The last few tourists leave this strip of beach, and we are alone, but for the two white pigeons picking at the row of tall Polynesian shrubs blocking our view of the street, looking for any leftovers the tourists may have left behind.

  I have a migraine. It’s the same migraine that has visited me on the eve of every trial I’ve ever started. Tomorrow I choose those who will choose Joey’s fate. The spotlight will hit me, a circle of illumination that will remain on me no matter what move I make, like a prisoner caught trying to escape over the wall. Every word I utter will be put in print, analyzed under the media’s microscope, and preserved for the jury’s ultimate deliberations.

  I marvel at Jake for merely making it to his age doing the job that we do. Although Joey is not facing death, he tells me emphatically he might as well be. He will not survive prison, he assures me. And this, if nothing else, I wholeheartedly believe.

  As the red-purple sky of dusk replaces the day’s baby blue, I step off the sand and onto the concrete. Thoughts of Brandon Glenn fight their way back into my already overcrowded mind. One last look at Waikiki Beach.

  And then, like a thousand other commanders on a thousand other battlefields, I steel myself and wait for the dawn.

  CHAPTER 34

  I am trying not to yawn.

  A hell of a way to start a trial, yeah, I know. But that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying not to yawn. And trying not to yawn is making it worse. It’s a psychological thing, I think. I never did look it up on the Internet, but right now that’s not important. What is important is the opening statement I will make today. If I get to make it. If this son of a bitch ever stops talking.

  Dapper Don Watanabe, the prosecuting attorney, has been at it for over an hour already. Decked out as he is in a brand-new navy blue suit by Hugo Boss, he struts the length of the railing back and forth like a runway model. The jury is not yet snapping pictures, but I fear they might. Even his entrance into the courtroom looked more like a movie star’s stroll down the red carpet to the Kodak Theatre on Oscar night than a civil servant on his way to work to earn his hundred bucks a day. He’s been standing before the jury for seventy-one full minutes. He spent the first six minutes clearing his throat before uttering a single syllable.

  What really bothers me is that the jury seems to be hanging on his every word. Even though every word has been uttered at least a dozen times. It’s as if he’s laying out the evidence once for every juror. Let’s just hope he doesn’t do it again for each of the four alternates. In New York, any jury would become incensed with a long-winded prosecutor. But this jury seems to enjoy Dapper Don’s repetitiveness, noshing on his words like a light afternoon snack.

  I don’t like our jury. But then again, I never do. Juries simply have too much power and absolutely no experience at wielding it. I wouldn’t want twelve men and women with no medical training whatsoever to perform my triple-bypass surgery. And likewise, I wouldn’t want twelve men and women with no legal training whatsoever to decide my legal culpability for a serious crime and determine whether I’ll spend the rest of my life in an eight-by-ten cage. Of course, that’s if I was innocent. If I was guilty, I’d put my fate in the hands of the twelve stupidest people I could find.

  Our jury is an adequate cross-section of the Honolulu community. There are four Hawaiians, three Caucasians, three Japanese, and two Filipinos. They sit, as juries do, behind the rail closest to the prosecution table. The historical reason given for the parties’ positioning is that the prosecution, not the defense, has the burden of proof. I tend to believe, however, that the real reason is that the jury would most fear the defendant, not the prosecuting attorney, jumping over the jury rail
and strangling one of the jurors to death.

  Joey doesn’t appear capable of that. He’s thin and withdrawn. His skin is pale, especially when contrasted with that of all of these Hawaiian residents. His suit is far too large for him now, and I asked his mother to buy him another, which she promised to have ready for him by tomorrow morning. He sits next to me, fidgeting as if covered in bugs, and I tell him to be careful with his body language.

  “I’m nervous,” he whispers.

  “Me, too,” I whisper back. “I think I left my iron on.”

  I look past Joey at Jake, who is visibly hungover and looks as though he never used an iron in his entire life.

  “I realize,” Dapper Don says, “I’ve taken much of your time this morning. But we must remember that we are all here today because a young woman is dead. And the evidence will conclusively show that the defendant, Mr. Joseph Gianforte Jr., is responsible for her death. It will show that he took that young woman’s life in a cold and calculating fashion just a few miles from here on our own pristine Waikiki shore.

  “The evidence will show that the defendant is the ex-boyfriend of the victim, Miss Shannon Douglas, and that she ended their relationship just days prior to her untimely death. That she left New York City for holiday here in Honolulu to meet her new lover the very day she was killed. That the defendant followed her from the East Coast of the mainland, thousands of miles to Oahu, to attempt to get her back. That he stalked her on the night of her death and found her, much to his dismay, on the white sand of Waikiki Beach, having taken another lover. That the defendant lay in wait, watching her and her paramour make love on the beach from his perch, concealed in a lifeguard station merely a few yards away. That when her lover left, the defendant descended from his perch and confronted the young woman, who wanted nothing more to do with him. That he with malice aforethought ultimately struck her with a rock-hard piece of reef, nearly the size of a softball, brutally ending her unfinished life.”

  Ordinarily, at this point, I would object on the grounds of torture by boredom and get a chuckle from the jury. But I know this jury will not appreciate my delightful sense of humor, and with Hideki Narita on the bench, I could very well spend the night in a cell next to Joey’s.

  “Let me remind you,” Dapper Don continues, “you will hear testimony from the detective who investigated this homicide. He will describe for you in great and gruesome detail where, when, how, by whom, and in what condition Shannon’s body was found. He will inform you as to what evidence was discovered, both physical and circumstantial, that links the defendant, indisputably, to this heinous crime.

  “You will hear testimony from a forensic scientist, who will explain for you in great detail the science of latent-print identification and trace evidence, so that you may study the evidence in this case and make your own conclusions as to the guilt of this defendant.

  “You will hear testimony from the medical examiner, who will tell you how Shannon was killed. He will tell you Shannon died from blunt-force trauma to her head and describe for you the likely height and strength of the person who did this to her.

  “You will also hear testimony from Shannon’s lover from that night, who heard a noise come from the very lifeguard station where the defendant lay in wait. And you will hear from Shannon’s friend back East, who unfortunately informed the defendant of Shannon’s tropical destination, unwittingly setting off the course of events which ultimately led to Shannon’s death.

  “Most importantly, you will see with your own eyes the bloodied sneakers left behind by the defendant near the scene of the crime. You will see photographs of the latent print he left behind at the lifeguard station where he hid and waited. And thanks to technology, you will see videos from hotel surveillance cameras showing not only when the defendant left and returned to his hotel, but that he left with the very pair of bright white sneakers found near the crime scene, and that he returned, of course, without them. And you will see the defendant, in the flesh, at a hotel near the scene of the murder less than an hour before Shannon and her lover walked to the spot of beach where she was killed. And, finally, you will learn that the defendant was convinced that Shannon Douglas had ruined his life, and so he took revenge by ending hers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am pleased to have had this opportunity to address each and every one of you in my capacity as a prosecutor and as an officer of this court. I only wish it were under much different circumstances. You have, each of you, an awesome responsibility, one which I know you will not take lightly. I am confident that after all the evidence is presented to you, you will return a verdict of guilty on the charge of first-degree murder against the defendant, Joseph Anthony Gianforte Jr. Thank you for your kind attention.”

  Dapper Don concludes with a slight bow, and at least half the jurors look as though they wish to applaud. He returns to his seat at the prosecution table, and all eyes turn to me.

  “Mr. Corvelli,” says Narita, “would you like to make your opening statement now, or reserve it for your case-in-chief?”

  “I’ll make my opening statement now, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Proceed, Mr. Corvelli.”

  I stand and pick up my coffee, which is ice-cold from sitting on the table all day. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t like the taste and I don’t need the caffeine. I’m jittery enough as it is.

  As I walk past the counsel table, I trip over my own feet. The lid on the coffee is long gone, and the liquid spills all over Dapper Don and his sparkling new, blue Hugo Boss jacket.

  “I’m terribly sorry!” I shout with all the sincerity I can muster.

  Dapper Don rises from the table, dripping in cold coffee. If looks could kill, Joey would need to find himself a new attorney. Dapper Don removes his jacket and tosses it on a chair three seats away from where he sits. Some commotion disturbs the courtroom, mixed remarks of humor and insults about my clumsiness and carelessness. The judge raps his gavel, and I apologize to the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I begin, “my name is Kevin Corvelli, and I represent Mr. Joseph Gianforte. Let’s hope I am better at lawyering than I am at walking with my coffee.”

  There’s a chuckle from about half the jury. I get a smile from the rest.

  “Of course, I would never do that on purpose. After all, I need my coffee to stay awake after Mr. Watanabe’s lengthy and repetitive speech. I’m kidding, of course. I actually think Mr. Watanabe did a fine job, given what little he had to work with. He had to repeat everything a dozen times to make it seem like there is more there than there is.

  “It’s interesting though what Mr. Watanabe did with his suit jacket after it became drenched in coffee. He looked dapper in it just minutes ago. Now, he’s tossed it aside three chairs away from him. It’s as if he wants nothing more to do with it. Of course, I’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill, and hopefully the stains will come out and it will be as good as new. If not, he’ll most likely throw it away, and I’ll have to buy him a new Hugo Boss suit.”

  “Objection,” says Dapper Don, rising from his chair. “If counsel wishes to harp on the humiliation he caused me, he can do so outside the presence of the jury.”

  “I agree,” says Judge Narita. “What’s the relevance of this, Mr. Corvelli?”

  “The relevance,” I say to the jury, “is that sometimes people discard articles of clothing when the articles seem to be ruined. Even expensive articles like Nike footwear or Hugo Boss suit jackets. If Mr. Watanabe had a wealthy family and a few drinks in him, he may very well have tossed the jacket into the garbage as opposed to tossing it away from him onto that chair. Mr. Watanabe may very well have discarded the jacket like Joey Gianforte discarded the sneakers that became soaked with seawater and covered in sand.

  “Of course, it is Mr. Watanabe’s job to make sure all his pieces of evidence fit neatly into the puzzle he’s trying to build. So he’ll sculpt and twist those pieces every which way in order to fit his needs. But I ask that you, the
jury, keep an open mind as is your duty to do so by law. Because, I submit to you, not everything is as it seems.

  “Let’s take the coffee for instance. Suppose no one in this room witnessed the incident. Suppose someone spilt coffee on Mr. Watanabe’s suit jacket, but no one here knows who it was. The police would come in and examine the styrofoam cup, no doubt. Now, let’s assume you twelve men and women are the police.”

  With a napkin, I pick the cup back off the defense table and walk back to the jury.

  “I can assure you that there are no fingerprints on the cup because they’ve been wiped clean. I can assure you that my lip prints aren’t on the cup because I don’t drink coffee. There does, however, appear to be someone’s lip print on the cup. After all, there’s lipstick on it, as you can all see. It appears to be from the Sephora collection, Light Indian Pink. Not my shade. So the task of solving this crime goes to you twelve men and women. As crime solvers, what would you do? I’ll tell you what you would do. You would seek the woman who wears Light Indian Pink. You would seek the woman who placed this lip print on the cup.

  “Of course, as intelligent people you would know that lip-print identification is pseudoscientific nonsense. You might as well pick the names of ten suspects from a hat and have them draw straws. But you are desperate, and you have no other clues to go by. So you find the woman in Light Indian Pink.”

  I look around the courtroom as if seeking out the perpetrator. My eyes fall on Hoshi, seated behind Jake in the front row between members of the press. I point at her and she stands. Hoshi, the picture of innocence.

  “You, miss,” I say, “are you wearing Light Indian Pink?”

  Hoshi nods her head three times as rehearsed.

  “And did you take a sip of my coffee?”

  She nods again, nods like a bobblehead doll to help our cause.