“Oh, this is Charlie Malone, you know, the patient from the hospital,” he explained. “If this is not a good time, I can call later or whenever you say.”
“No problem,” she offered with assurance in her voice. “Really, I was hoping you would call, because my sister-in-law is not doing very well, and the sooner you talk to her the better.”
“Sure, I’m happy to contact her if you think that’s what she wants. I’m going to be laid up a couple days, so I hope she can wait a bit,” Charlie fudged.
“I’m certain she can wait a few days. She’s not going anywhere for a while. She’s in jail. Any chance I could take some information to her on your behalf? We’re very tight, just like real sisters—you know, good friends,” Bernie said.
“Certainly, but I’m not into discussing cases on the telephone; it’s an old phobia of mine,” he explained.
“Oh my goodness, I just realized you probably haven’t eaten anything for over twenty-four hours, right?” she asked, now showing concern for Charlie’s plight.
“Yeah, normally I’d be into a pizza and a six-pack by now. Funny, since the surgery I haven’t found my appetite,” he said, sounding a little puzzled.
“Tell you what,” Bernie continued, thinking out loud. “I’ll put together a little care package and drop it by your house if you’re okay with that. You can fill me in on the major points I need to pass along to Marti before you meet with her, and while we’re talking, I’ll put some food on the table for you.”
“That’s a very generous offer, but I couldn’t ask you to do that for me,” he protested officially. “Besides, you’re still working night shifts, right?”
“True, but I’m not reporting till eleven tonight, so it works for me—but I don’t want to interfere with your schedule,” Bernie replied.
Charlie laughed huskily but stopped short. Laughing was definitely out of the picture for the time being. Then, without warning, he coughed and could not speak for several seconds.
“Are you okay, Mr. Malone?” Bernie demanded, with a touch of sadness in her voice. “I shouldn’t have aggravated you with my questions,” she said, apologizing.
“I’ve been better, but I’d only be feeling sorry for myself if you didn’t come by the house. It’s a good idea, and I certainly have no schedule problems,” Charlie replied, trying to project his sincerity. After all, he could be interested in this potential new case. He provided directions to his home, and the doorbell sounded thirty minutes later.
Once inside, Bernie could not help herself, and she performed a detailed inspection of Charlie’s dressings. Everything appeared to be in good shape. She asked the routine questions and satisfied herself that her patient was doing as well as could be expected, thank God. She appreciated Charlie’s jaunty style. Some patients could be completely unbearable under such circumstances. She had a good feeling about him. He had cooperated in his treatment and seemed focused on a speedy recovery. And who knew about lawyers, anyway? Something goes wrong and everybody gets sued. But she didn’t feel Charlie was like that at all.
Charlie led the way to the kitchen, and Bernie unloaded her insulated picnic basket on the counter.
“I hope you like hamburgers,” Bernie said.
“We’re off to a fast start!” he confirmed enthusiastically. “It’s my favorite meal really. I bought an indoor grille a couple of weeks ago but haven’t found the opportunity to use it yet. I’ll get it from the cupboard,” he added, reflexively making a quick movement that all too painfully reminded him of his new disability.
“Or better yet, maybe you could find it for me. It’s in that drawer under the broiler,” he said, pointing with his right arm in the general direction. “I’ll have to learn that I can’t do everything like I used to—at least until I know I’m ready.”
In no time, four ample beef patties were cooking on the grille, and Bernie was attending to the slicing of onions, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes. The aroma was already working its magic on Charlie, whose appetite surged after so many hours of being ignored. Bernie put fresh bakery buns in the oven to warm and placed condiments on the table within easy reach.
“Man! Should we call the Salvation Army to see if they have a group in need of supper? We have enough to feed a Cub Scout pack!” Charlie exclaimed.
“Don’t worry. What you don’t eat will warm up nicely the next time you’d like another burger,” Bernie observed. “Besides, I thought I’d join you if I’m invited,” she suggested with a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry for thinking only of myself.”
“Okay—this time anyway,” she said, settling in, and the two apparently kindred souls set about sharing the repast.
Charlie realized how hungry he was as he found himself devouring the meal. The burger was fabulous. The grille performed beautifully, and the meat had a flavor that transcended the cooking method.
“Agreed,” Bernie answered to Charlie’s comment on this score. She customarily used fresh herbs from her garden, she explained. She thought she had tossed in a little parsley, thyme, and maybe a bit of rosemary.
Wow, thought Charlie, if you just read the entire newspaper you might find some good news! He realized he was rushing the meal, so broke stride to gather his wits. “Oh my God,” he offered. “I’m a terrible host. Would you like a beverage: wine, beer, soda, or something else?”
“First of all, this may be your house, but I’m to blame for the beverage problem. I completely forgot to put anything in to drink! Imagine!” she exclaimed. “But a small glass of red wine would be just the ticket, now that you mention it. Tell me where to find it, and I’ll be the server.”
“If you’ll indulge me on this one,” he offered, “I’ll do the honors. Besides, it’s time I stopped babying myself.” He made his way to the wine cabinet and promptly produced a drinkable zinfandel, but had to admit his handicap on corkage. No problem; Bernie came to the rescue, and soon the two toasted “health, wealth, and whatever” as they settled back down to the table to consider the homicide case.
Bernie picked up where she had left off at the hospital. “I’m just so upset, I hope I can make some sense of all this for you. Marti is at her wit’s end. I know she didn’t murder Mr. Martorano. She took very good care of him in spite of his orneriness. She doesn’t deserve to be charged with murder, and she isn’t guilty no matter what any jury might say to the contrary.”
“I seem to remember hearing something about this case,” Charlie confirmed, attacking his second massive burger. Bernie was gratified to see her efforts rewarded so handsomely as Charlie gobbled away relentlessly.
“In my line of work, I’m generally aware of the capital cases that are tried in this county,” he observed.
“Well,” Bernie added, “Marti’s case is just getting started. Some kind of a hearing is coming up, I’m not certain what they call it.”
“Possibly a prelim or an indictment” Charlie speculated. “One or the other is required before a defendant is arraigned in superior court.”
“Prelim?” Bernie questioned.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. It’s a hearing. At that time, the prosecution presents enough evidence to convince a judge that Marti must stand trial for murder. It’s mostly a formality, but in rare cases, the prosecution can’t make a case. When that happens they just start over and try to get it right the next time. The DA decides if the people will seek the death penalty. If you’ve heard the term ‘capital’ it’s a death penalty case.”
Bernie and Charlie finished dinner, continuing their conversation on the trial throughout. When Charlie offered his guest another glass of wine, Bernie declined, using her next shift as an excuse, but privately she wished she could stay and help finish the rest of the bottle.
Bernie tidied up the kitchen. Once the grille was back into its drawer, she cast a practiced eye over her surroundings. Strong evidence of bachelor abuse, but it was not a complete shambles. Yet there were unmistakable signs of a missing feminine t
ouch, she noted in silence.
Charlie was back in his recliner, eyelids twitching. Bernie offered profuse thanks for the information, and Charlie promised to contact Marti in the next day or two. In the meantime, Bernie would let Marti know of their conversation. Charlie fell fast asleep as Bernie wrote Marti’s telephone number at the jail on a scratch pad.
Bernie gathered up her things; she could not resist the impulse and leaned down to peck Charlie lightly on his cheek. She thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile cross his face. She let herself out of the house, secured the door, and made her way to the hospital for another night at the emergency department.
2
Finni’s Ristorante
November 1983
Years before, from the outside, the bistro appeared plain and anything but alluring. Moving inside did not change this first impression. Yet there was a kind of enchantment conveyed by the congested seating areas with tables and chairs suitable for persons around five and a half feet tall. The décor was nondescript when not screened by the smoke from the fireplace that burned oak wood constantly during the chilly winters in the Valley. The musky air never freshened, always smelling of smoke and carrying a pungent accent of garlic, wine, herbs, and wood-grill aromas throughout the interior of the restaurant.
Somehow, Finni’s Ristorante on Mooney Boulevard had the magic. There was no mystery really; the food said it all. John Finni could cook, and over the years he developed loyal patrons from every corner of the central San Joaquin Valley of California. The social amenities were magic too. The lunch hour proved the most fertile time for the formation of alliances in business, investments, and friendship—even love or its confusing look-alikes. Two- or three-martini lunches were the norm. Petty gamblers kept themselves amused at the bar, husky voices hooting in happy hopes of winning a cocktail or, if necessary, grunting over their bad luck that required they pay for their buddies’ drinks. So far, the nation had survived any detriment from this drinking binge. Someone was taking care of business, it seemed. Men could still be men, by self-assessment at least, and ladies could still be almost anything they desired, limited only by their imaginations or self-consciousness.
Lawrence Martorano enjoyed every visit he ever paid to Finni’s, though he lunched there only a couple of times each year. His good friend John catered many of his “affairs of state” in the Valley. Today Martorano found himself in Visalia at lunchtime, so he headed directly to Finni’s. Through his first martini by half past noon, he was not certain he had previously met his attentive waitress, Maria Figueroa. He appreciated her special and personalized service, realizing he was also intrigued by her exquisite beauty and uncommon hospitality. He wanted to know more about this simpatica woman. He was seated at his regular table in a remote corner of the dining room, with a view of the door and his back to the wall, a habit he initiated on inspiration from a gunslinger he saw in an old Western movie. Time passed, and Martorano came to understand the wisdom of the arrangement: no one could surprise him.
Without warning, John Finni appeared in the dining area, making his way past each table as he announced the daily special: mountain oysters, hot off the stove. He presented them in a sizzling skillet that emitted aromatic steam and snapping hot grease with a scent that was out of this world.
“Want some bull nuts?” John barked gruffly to no one in particular, lumbering his hulking body through the dining room, delivering the bountiful calves’ castration harvest that provided the tasty luncheon hors d’oeuvres. The fresh-baked Italian bread he also served was a culinary compliment to the meat cooked in wine, butter, and garlic, providing a handy sponge to wipe the plate clean of all tasty morsels and sauce. John had rolled sprigs of herbs between his fingers, odoriferously punctuating the atmosphere wherever he passed. His culinary genius—the bounty of God’s gift to him and immune from imitation—permitted him to produce irresistible cuisine.
Martorano helped himself to a generous portion of the appetizer (no charge, of course), and the two exchanged warm but silent greetings. John moved along to tempt other customers, but his twitching eyebrows told Larry that he could be reached later if need be.
The waitress asked Larry if he had decided on an entrée, which was really a thinly veiled query for: “Would you like another martini before lunch?”
Since he had to meet his banker at two o’clock, it wasn’t an option today. “I think I’d better get something to eat. I’ve got an appointment after lunch. What’s lookin’ good today?” Larry broke verbal stride midsentence, now more interested in his waitress than the menu, a considerable tribute to Ms. Figueroa.
“I’m partial to the lamb shanks; they are looking very good today, and the customers are raving about John’s special, as usual. But honestly, I love anything he prepares,” Maria purred contentedly.
John’s menus were creations of the moment. His standard reply to a patron’s request for cooking instructions was cryptic: “Recipe, my ass!”
“Really, what’s so special?” Larry inquired of her.
“I’m guessing, but I think it’s a combination of rosemary and cumin this time. Cumin is hard to work with, but John’s a wizard,” as Maria continued to promote her choice entree.
“You sold me,” Larry agreed enthusiastically. “Say, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Possibly you haven’t. I’m going to Fresno State College and don’t put in regular hours here at the restaurant. John is a very good boss and lets me work around my classes.”
“I can see why he’d make allowances for you. You’re a very pleasant addition to the staff,” Larry volunteered casually. “What are you studying at State?”
“Well, I’m in a double major of history and economics.”
“Wow, that’s ambitious,” he acknowledged, aware that he was now fully intrigued by Maria and wanting to know more about her. An awkward pause in the conversation stimulated Larry to hastily ask Maria what else was served with the shanks. She blushed, feeling the electricity exchanging between the two of them. Before leaving the table to turn in the order, she mustered sufficient concentration to take Martorano’s full order including fettuccini, zucchini, and a glass of house Chianti.
Over her shoulder, she broadcast her nearly forgotten question: “Would you like a salad or anything else today?” catching herself stutter.
Larry bit his lip and thought better of being overly candid. Of course I would, he thought as he privately praised his imaginary bravado, chortling and bragging to himself that he always wanted something else. But he knew that Maria was different and now was not a good time to sound insincere.
“I think I’ll take a house salad with John’s dressing, and coffee, thanks,” he said, struggling to redirect his gaze to the ranching operations report he would be presenting to his banker after lunch. His overall financial picture was very sound from a net-worth perspective, but farming these days was a tightrope act, requiring near-aerial gymnastic talents to manage a critical balance of capital intensiveness and horrific cash-flow crises driven by weather, the activities of Cesar Chavez’s United Farm Workers Organizing Committee, and the constant threats of biological pestilence.
Who ever heard of collective bargaining in agriculture anyway? he fretted to himself as he recalled an incident at the Sierra Vista Ranch in southern Tulare County. An activist attorney from Yale Law School had tried to convince the local district attorney to file felony charges against a deputy sheriff who was trying to restore order on the picket lines and who lost a tooth for his trouble. Luckily, the rookie prosecutor would have nothing of this posturing and instead charged the combative striker with interfering with an officer. Come to find out, this was the guy’s third fall for trying to get a rumble started in the vineyards. The press, especially East Coast reporters, loved this kind of story. It played beautifully from Boston to DC, where they could paint a fantasy of abusive practices by law enforcement and growers “conspiring to oppress” those already stretched to the limit. They wo
uld have to wait for some other incident before they could sensationalize such a story. Funny how the coverage had faded after the defendant’s lengthy criminal record of resisting arrests in other jurisdictions became public knowledge. Later, even the union’s legal team left the hapless defendant to mount his own defense. While they had moved onto other more promising ventures, Larry had to give the devil his due. Reformers had won or at least claimed a number of significant victories, including Senator Bobby Kennedy’s verbal dismantling of the Kern County sheriff in a searing interrogation at a public meeting in Bakersfield in 1966.
Larry had barely finished his tasty crisp salad when Maria delivered the aromatic entrée to the table. He finished his meal in what seemed no time at all, settled his bill by signing it at the bottom and scribbling in a handsome gratuity for Maria. Heading for the door, suddenly he realized he had left his financial papers at the table and hurried back to retrieve them. He found Maria at the table picking up the dishes and received a grateful smile from her.
“You are very generous, Mr. Martorano, thank you!” she said, and flashed her warmest smile. “Now I can buy two new tires for my car. It’s more than one hundred miles roundtrip whenever I attend classes.”
“How often is that?” Larry wanted to know.
“Oh, three times a week, minimum. Sometimes I have to go every day when I’m spending time in the library doing research. But I love it completely—it’s not a hardship. You see, I’m the first one in my family, and we a have large one, to ever finish high school. So attending college is a major event for me and for my relatives as well. They are so supportive and they brag about me all the time, although they have no idea what’s going on really. I couldn’t be luckier.”
Larry was genuinely touched. Here was a talented young college student who was not complaining about something. She was making the most of her life, surely a refreshing example for others.
(2012) The Court's Expert Page 3