Steve Martini - The Arraignment

“What cops?” Melcher can’t resist.

“The ones who will testify as to the intended victim and the accidental nature of Mr. Rush’s death.”

These are witnesses to die for in a civil case, and both of them know it: cops testifying that a defense lawyer was shot by accident. What possible reason could they have to lie? And how can they change their testimony given the contents of the police report?

“Now I’m sure you’ll be able to get them to tell the jury all about Mr. Metz and whatever sordid dealings he was involved in.”

“And if we don’t, you will,” says Melcher.

I concede the point with a smile. “The only thing they’re not going to be able to talk about is the fact that Mr. Metz was Mr. Rush’s client or that Mr. Rush was a lawyer.”

“Any whiff of that,” says Harry, tapping the points and authorities, “and you’ll have a mistrial.”

“So what you have here,” I tell them, “is a man walking down the street, minding his own business, who happens to be caught up in a drive-by aimed at somebody else.”

There is a moment of reckoning as the reality of the argument settles in. This lasts for several seconds, until the silence is broken by Adam Tolt leaning back in his chair, its springs squeaking. He’s trying to maintain a sober expression, but it’s a losing battle. He finally breaks out in a full-bodied laugh.

“Come on, Luther, you have to admit I never put you in a pickle like this before.” Still laughing, he says: “I have to say, it sounds like an accident to me.”

“You’re not exactly an objective audience, Adam.” Conover’s humor is being stretched to the limit.

“Come on,” says Tolt. “You can take me to Temecula and get it back in the sand traps.” Tolt can’t help himself laughing, trying not to ridicule his friend Luther. “Listen, I’ll put in a word. They’ll understand.” He’s talking about the home office.

“It’s still an open investigation,” says Melcher. “Who knows what the cops will come up with?”

“If you think you can get them to change direction once they’ve got their noses to the ground, you’re a better man than I,” I say.

“We’ve tried,” says Harry. “We know. Of course in the past they were usually after our client.” Harry can’t help but smile a little at this. The irony is lost on Conover and Melcher. They are starting to see a four followed by a lot of zeros on a company check.

There are reasons why the cops would not want to open too many lines of inquiry going in multiple directions, at least on paper. They would have to disclose each of these to defense attorneys once they settled on a suspect and made an arrest. Every lead pointing in another direction carves a notch of reasonable doubt into the legs of their case. If they withhold this information from defense attorneys, it is grounds on appeal to reverse a conviction. Cops are not likely to point like weather vanes with each changing current of information. At least not as long as the courts continue to tell them that a straight line is the shortest distance to a conviction.

“Of course you’re free to pee on a few bushes if you think you can get them to chase some other scent,” says Harry. “In the meantime, we’ll expect you to tender the full amount of the policy. Not two million,” he says, “but four, under the double-indemnity clause. And so that we don’t forget…” Harry hands out the last document from his folder, a formal letter of demand to the carrier. Conover knows the significance of this as soon as he sees it.

Though he didn’t want to come, Harry is enjoying the moment. Seldom do you get an insurance company in this position: bent over, holding its ankles.

“Since you’ve already acknowledged that you have an obligation to pay,” says Harry, “if you fail to meet the demand…”

“You’ll claim bad faith.” Conover comes to the point quickly. He has seen the form letter Harry has just handed him before. It is the boilerplate setup for bad faith.

In this case the upper limit of any judgment could take a healthy slice out of the national debt. We would be able to examine their books to determine what amount is necessary to adequately punish the company for withholding prompt payment from two women, one of whom is bereft having her husband murdered and the other left adrift by an ugly divorce. These are not happy circumstances for an insurance company to circle its wagons and start shooting Indians.

Conover looks at Margaret, whose expression is leaden, even now on the verge of victory.

Still holding Harry’s letter, he studies Dana, who offers nothing but a wan smile. If he glanced a little farther to his left, he would see Susan hiding behind his own lawyer. She is gazing down at the table like the mouse who just got the last crumb. It was Glendenin who managed to get Vesuvius to the meeting and keep her from erupting, so that we can now discuss in private a division of spoils between the two Mrs. Rushes.

Conover lifts his eyes toward me. From the look, it is clear. He is trying to figure how he will pull the split rail from this particular fence out of his ass before he has to call the home office and explain what has happened. I doubt if he’ll be asking me to play golf anytime soon.

Miguelito Espinoza, father of an infant and husband of the child-woman, is thirty-five, hard as a diamond, a tattoo chain of black ink around his neck, and on both arms Spanish gang graffiti in blazoned letters.

He has a slicked-back do with a net over it, pulled tight around the edges covering the tops of his ears. The man is dead in the eyes, and dark in more ways than his complexion as he sits there slumped down, one leg crossed over the other, cool, his chair pushed back from the table as if he is low riding on his way to hell.

He faces multiple counts of armed robbery, the theft of federal property, as well as possession. He faces twenty-five years on each count if they can prove that he was involved in the actual visa hijacking. He faces ten years on each count of possession for the three visas found in his closet.

We are seated on opposite sides at a steel table in one of the small lawyer-client cubicles in the Metro Detention Center, the white high-rise tomb downtown. There is a guard watching from outside the glass, his eyes constantly on the table between us so that nothing passes without his notice.

The place was a skyscraping joke when it was first put up a few years ago. The contractor stiffed the federal government on the concrete used to build it, so inmates pounding on the walls hard enough could punch holes and shimmy down their bed sheets to the ground outside. Guards were reduced to listening to the hammering from upstairs to pick up the direction in hopes that they could scurry out to the street before the tenants could rappel down their bed covers and hightail it. Since then, the government has hardened the cells, so now inmates would at least need a spoon to chisel their way out.

Espinoza is not impressed that I have come here. He is filled with questions. Streetwise, he is looking at this gift horse as if perhaps there is something in the package that may bite him.

“Why don’ you tell me who hired you, man?”

“I told you. Your wife, Robin.”

“Listen, man. Save the bullshit for your friends. Robin don’ know shit. You think I’m a fool? Robin’s a fuckin’ idiot. Where’s she gonna find a lawyer? She can’t find the fuckin’ phone book. And if she could, she couldn’t read it. Besides, she ain’t got the money to pay you. Look at your fine clothes, your little leather briefcase.” He says this in mocking tones, with the fingers of one hand idly pointed toward my case on the floor next to the table.