I looked up and there stood Pontrelli, who had perched himself at the doorpost. Today’s outfit consisted of a double-breasted suit, blue shirt, white collar and cuffs, and a red tie that would light up a room, and even flashier cufflinks than what he wore yesterday.
“Did we have an appointment? I didn’t see anything on my calendar,” I said matter-of-factly.
I was also embarrassed by the look of my office as it was a study in clutter. The first thing you noticed when you entered was the many stacks of files scattered on the floor. My desk was littered with post-it notes and phone messages. There were also two dented metal file cabinets with draws that would not close next to the window separated by a rubber plant that I have nursed back to life so many times. My desk was walled in by more piles of files and behind my chair was a large cork board covered with all colors of more post-it notes which I used as my calendar to keep track of my courtroom assignments. In front of the desk were two unmatched chairs which were barely recognizable as they too were covered in files that almost completely obscured the seats. There was also my Nike gym bag. And a sweater that sat all alone on the hook behind the door which I would wear because they could never regulate the air conditioning.
“No, but your secretary said you might have a few minutes,” Pon-trelli said.
“Well, have a seat,” I said, clearing a chair so that he would not have to stand.
“Thank you,” he answered as he slowly lowered himself to the chair.
“I did find the substitution of attorney in the file.”
“By the way, some of my colleagues who have sparred with you in court said that you are very impressive.”
I was warned that he would try to patronize me and I ignored the comment.
“So how can I help you?” I asked.
“Well, it is really how we can help each other,” he began.
“Interesting. So how is that?”
“Ms. Landau, I am not one to skirt the issues so let me get right to the point.”
“You have my full attention.”
“My client is very sorry for what happened that night.”
I was surprised by his choice of words as I remembered Jacob’s version of his sorry speech.
“I am not the one he needs to deliver that message to. There is a victim. I am only the prosecutor.”
“Please let me finish.”
“Go ahead.”
“And he has sought counseling.”
“I am aware.”
“And as you know, the parties have filed for divorce.”
“Yes, I know that too.”
“But he does not want this to haunt him the rest of his life.”
Haunt him. Another interesting choice of words. I became outraged but contained my emotion.
“Considering all the facts, and the people’s questionable evidence, my client would be willing to plead to a trespass,” Pontrelli offered.
“Trespass?” I repeated the word in disgust, no longer able to contain my outrage. His now demanding tone of voice reminded me of how Jacob spoke to me.
“Yes,” Pontrelli explained, “that way, your client would be spared the stress of testifying and they can both go on with their lives. Plus the county will save a lot of taxpayer money which I am sure your boss will be happy about since this is an election year.”
Having made his pitch, Pontrelli moved back in his chair and crossed his arms behind the chair back.
“So what are your thoughts, counselor?”
I had always hated when anyone referred to me as counselor as it came off as so condescending.
“Mr. Pontrelli.”
“Michael. My friends call me Michael.”
“Mr. Pontrelli, we are not friends and I would prefer to retain a professional relationship. I know you have your job to do. But let me first say that if the district attorney did not think that we had a strong case, we would not being going forward. And we have made a reasonable offer to your client to plead to charges and we would seek only probation. That being said, what your client did was a crime.”
“But they were married.”
“Let me finish. Yes they were married but that marriage license does not give your client the right to sexually assault his spouse. “
Pontrelli leaned forward in his chair. “Ms. Landau, are you going to tell me that you are going to try and convince a jury that she had nothing to do with this?”
“What are you implying?”
“Come on.” Pontrelli’s tone of voice had now taken on a threatening sound. “It takes two to tango. It will all come out. Your client has a history of exaggeration. I will eat her up alive on the witness stand. And then, at the end of the day, you will have a weeping client who will be stuck in therapy for years trying to put her life back together. So let me ask you: is that what you want on your conscience? Or should the DA’s office be spending the taxpayers’ money going after criminals, instead of a husband and wife who decided to rub one out for old time’s sake?”
“Mr. Pontrelli, please don’t lecture me and tell me how to do my job.”
“I am just saying…”
“Mr. Pontrelli, your attitude is disgusting. And the only offer on the table is for your client to plead to PC262. Take it or I will see you in trial.”
Seeing that he was getting nowhere, Pontrelli tried using a legal argument to persuade me.
“Counselor, there is a presumption in the law. That is, since the parties were separated at the time, the court will consider Mrs. Robbins’ state of mind. And since she later filed for divorce, she had the state of mind that she was no longer married. Therefore I will argue that it is not marital rape. Also, because she did not file for divorce immediately after the alleged attack, perhaps she thought the marriage could be saved. The jury will need to ponder her state of mind.”
“Mr. Pontrelli. June’s father died the next week of a massive heart attack. So I think she had other things on her mind besides running to the court to file for divorce.”
“I am sorry. Very sorry. I did not know.”
His show of emotion lasted only seconds as he went right back to arguing his case. But not wanting to hear any more I said, “You know, you are really good. For a moment, albeit a very brief moment, I thought you actually cared!” I got up from my seat and walked toward the door. And just when I thought our conversation was over, Pontrelli pulled out one more card.
“I know what the DA pays and you could be making bigger money working for a firm. Think about it. I can help you if you help me.”
“I think we are done here,” I said pointing to the door. “I will see you in trial.”
Chapter Thirty
Unlike an attorney in private practice where you are in trial with one client at a time, the district attorney’s office does not allow for such luxury. Instead, we are involved in many cases at different stages of the court process at the same time. Fortunately, with the start of the Robbins rape trial only two weeks away, Ryan was considerate of the time I needed to prepare as well as the importance of obtaining a conviction, and he eased up on my work load.
In organizing my case, I knew that my biggest challenge was overcoming the so-called “he said, she said” argument that Pontrelli would make by trying to show that June was not believable. To defeat that argument, I had to carefully craft questions to ask my client that would leave no room for doubt in the minds of the jurors as to what actually happened that evening.
Sitting at my office desk, I was starting to fall asleep when my Blackberry rang.
“Hi Cliff. I was thinking about you. Are you upset that we are not going away this weekend?”
As a surprise, Cliff had bought tickets for a wine festival in Santa Rosa. I had been looking forward to going away together for the first time but the trial had taken over my weekend plans.
“I was never upset,” he said. “And we’ll make other plans soon. I just want you to put that bastard away. So how is it going?”
“I am still here,” I said, s
taring at my desk which had now become a sea of paper, files, notes, paper clips, yellow highlight markers, and a service of six coffee mugs. “I am going to leave soon. I just wanted to get some more work done.”
“Sweetie. It is 7 o’clock. And I don’t like you sitting there alone.”
“I am not alone. The janitors just came in to say good night.”
“That’s great. I hope you are on a first-name basis.”
“I am only going to work another hour and grab something on the way home.”
“Ok. But I want you to look at something. Are you near your computer?”
“I am chained to it. Ok, hold on. I need to fine my mouse. It is buried here somewhere. Ok, I see your message.”
“Open the attachment. It is a picture.”
“All right. I just clicked on it. Damn.”
“What?” Cliff asked.
“It is that stupid hour glass,” I complained. “We have such a slow connection at work.”
“Be patient.”
“Ok, ok. All right. It is starting to load. What is it?”
“It is not what but who.”
“I see a nice looking older lady. But, ah, who is she? Wait. Oh my god, look at that hair. Oh my god. You found Irene!”
Chapter Thirty One
Two days before trial was to start, Pontrelli made another attempt to bully me into offering his client a reduced charge of trespass. When that was not successful, he charged forward calling the District Attorney for all of Los Angeles. Fortunately his calls were not returned which I interpreted as a sign of the confidence that my boss had in me. Of course, I now had the both the legal burden of proving that I was right as well as the professional burden of preserving my reputation.
Along with the relentless efforts from Pontrelli, the son of a movie studio head in Los Angeles about to go on trial for rape created a lot of interest in the media. As expected, our office received several inquiries from reporters seeking interviews. However, it was the DA’s policy to decline such requests. Not getting the cooperation that they wanted, the media ran free with their portrayals of my client as a vindictive, gold-digging, soon to be ex-wife seeking revenge and a big payoff in a civil trial that would most likely follow the criminal case regardless of the outcome.
Having the media cloud overhead caused me great concern as I feared it would be difficult to empanel a jury that would not already have been poisoned by what they had read in print or online. However, after five days of arduous jury selection, I felt confident that we had found 12 jurors and four alternates who were not biased and would objectively consider all of the evidence before making their decision. And so, after a full day of opening statements, I was ready to call my first witness.
I arrived very early that morning. Except for Jennie, the clerk who was just turning on her computer, there was no one else yet in the courtroom.
“Good Morning. How are you?” I asked her.
“I am fine, Ms. Landau.”
Jennie was normally very chatty but she seemed disengaged this morning as I went about organizing my files on the counsel table.
“There should be fresh water in the pitcher,” Jennie pointed out.
“Thanks.”
I told June she did not need to arrive until a few minutes before nine. And as I sat alone at the counsel table, I gazed at the courtroom. The walls were dark paneled, the seal of justice hung on the wall behind the judge, two rows on the right side of the courtroom made up the jury box, and in front of the judge was the seat for his clerk.
But from my experience in law school, I learned that a courtroom is more than just furniture and fixtures. I remembered how one of my professors so eloquently described where many of us would be spending the greater part of our professional lives.
He said that, in many ways, the courtroom resembles a church or a synagogue, or at least a place where people assemble to pray. Its benches look like pews. The man who presides is robed in black. He renders judgment from a sort of sanctuary from a large table, usually elevated, set apart many times by what looks like an altar rail. The bailiff functions as his acolyte and the jury could be his choir. Proper reverence must be maintained in the courtroom; when the judge enters, the people stand. To speak with him, you must ask to approach the bench. People always dress respectfully for the courtroom and, if they must speak, they do so in hushed, whispered voices.
And the judge has the power to silence people in the courtroom and even to hold them “in contempt of court.” He knows that the tension in the courtroom is healthy because it focuses everyone on the serious business before them. It is where life and death issues are decided, where a man’s future hangs in the balance, where fortunes are won or lost, debts are settled, and guilt is proven or not. The judge knows that if he dilutes this tension, he lessens the importance of his role, his words, and his courtroom. The judge also understands a basic paradox: if the courtroom has the atmosphere of everyday life, then it no longer has any relevance for everyday life.
“Hi, Danielle,” June said as she sat down next to me.
To add dramatic flair, Pontrelli staged his arrival to enter with his client, which was most unsettling for June. Upon seeing his entrance, I instructed her not to look at the opposing counsel’s table. When all the parties and their respective attorneys were in place, the room took on its own unique sound of silence as the judge took the bench.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Judge Faust.
Judge Faust was a man in his early sixties with a sharp wit. I was very pleased when he was assigned the case as I had always found him to be fair and objective. He was also a master at controlling his courtroom.
“Good morning, your honor,” the room responded in unison.
“Are you ready to proceed, Ms. Landau?”
“I am, your honor. The people call June Robbins.”
Part of my extensive trial preparation included educating June about the ways in which our judicial system is riddled with double standards for women as opposed to men. This especially applies to cases involving rape. June would be judged not only by her testimony but by how she expressed herself. The jurors would also form opinions by how she looked and dressed. Anticipating that the actual trial would last at least four days, I told June that I had to approve each outfit she would wear.
For her first day on the stand, June was dressed in a dark blue suit and a white blouse with her hair softly swept back so as to not cover her eyes. As her name was announced, my client pushed her chair back from the counsel table and walked slowly to the witness box. I followed her but stood a few feet to her side so as to not block the jury’s view.
“Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?”
A juror’s first impression of a witness is critical and it was so important that June convey that she was friendly, kind, and most importantly, believable. To this end, I had instructed June to look into the faces of the jurors and modestly smile before she even spoke her first words.
“I do.”
June also spoke softly and I was concerned that the jury would not stay concentrated on her testimony if they had to strain to hear her.
“You will need to speak up,” the judge admonished her.
“I am sorry. I will,” she smiled.
“Go ahead, Ms. Landau,” said Judge Faust.
The first part of questioning a witness is known as laying a foundation. After establishing June’s education and employment, I began my questions about her relationship with her husband.
“Were you renting or buying where you were living with your husband?”
“It was a condominium so we were buying.”
“Please, if you will, identify the source of the down payment to purchase the condominium.”
“Well, soon after we were married, my husband’s parents helped us.”
“For the record, is that where you were living when the assault took place?”
&nbs
p; “Objection,” shouted Pontrelli, bolting from his seat. “Counsel has chosen the word ‘assault’ which implies a crime has been committed. Your honor, my client has been charged but has not been convicted. I ask that the record be stricken and that the jury be instructed to disregard counsel’s question.”
Pontrelli was dead on right in his objection. And if the jury was instructed as Pontrelli requested, I would appear as a novice and out of my league for making an error that even the most inexperienced attorney would not have made.
“Your honor, I will rephrase the question,” I said.
“Thank you Ms. Landau.”
“Ms. Robbins,” I continued, “for the record, is that where you were living where the alleged incident occurred?”
“Yes,” June replied.
“And how long after you were married did you separate?”
“Not quite two years.”
“And if you could tell the court, why did you separate?”
“Well, Steven had a gambling problem. He is a writer and did a lot of freelance work. He was also working on his own screenplay. But when he was not working he gambled.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Yes. He would bet online on the horses, on football, anything that he could place a bet on.”
“With what money?”
“Well, that was the problem,” June explained. “He didn’t earn much and was using our credit cards to make bets. We talked and talked about it and he always said he was going to quit and get help. But it never happened. Meanwhile, the credit card bills would come in every month and we did the best to pay them. But we could never pay in full and we got behind and it was ruining our credit.”
“So what did you do?”
“A few times, his parents helped us out but I was embarrassed to keep going to them. And after Steven had told me that he had quit, I believed him. But then one day, I came home early and opened the mail. Usually he beat me to it. But on that day, I found bills from credit card companies I didn’t even know about. He had apparently opened these accounts without my knowledge. Anyway, we had a big fight and I told him I could not continue living with him.”
Against My Will Page 18