Steve Martini - Double Tap

“Your Honor, there is no evidence that Mr. Ruiz has been anything but cooperative during his entire period in jail.”

“That’s not the point,” Templeton whispers. “What if he decides to become uncooperative? If they take the manacles off, are you prepared to restrain him? If so, I’d like to see your black belt.” Templeton looks up at me, all smiles.

“Give it a rest,” I tell him. “This is a game, Your Honor. They’re trying to paint Mr. Ruiz as a natural-born killer. If they’re allowed to continue with these antics in front of the jury, the defendant is not going to be able to get a fair trial.” I turn it on Templeton: “What are you going to do come trial? Dress him in a suit and bring him in manacled with his ankles chained?”

Templeton gins up a smile and tugs on his bow tie. This is exactly what he has in mind. Even if he loses a pitched argument in front of the court, any hint he can make-even the faintest whiff of ether in the air that the jury might pick up on-that Ruiz is dangerous would put us on a steep downhill slope.

“Mr. Madriani’s got a point,” says Gilcrest. “I don’t want to tell the sheriff how to run his jail, but is there any evidence that the defendant has been a disciplinary problem in the lockup?” Gilcrest has to pull himself toward the front of the bench just to see down far enough to engage Templeton in eye-to-eye contact.

Templeton turns to look at the defendant, an appraising eye followed by an exasperated expression. “Not in so many words.”

“There either is or there isn’t,” says the judge.

“No direct evidence, Your Honor.”

“Then I think in my courtroom we’ll have the restraints removed during proceedings. After all, you’ve got six guards and the doors are locked.”

“They won’t be during the trial, Your Honor.” Templeton always tries for the last word.

“Well, if he can scramble over all those reporters, get through the throng out in the hallway, and hurdle the mass of humanity waiting to get in at the front door, and the guards can’t tackle him or shoot him,” says Gilcrest, “maybe we should just find him not guilty by ordeal the way the Indians used to.” The judge looks up. “Mr. Ruiz,” he intones in full voice now “you’re not going to cause us any problems here in the courtroom, are you?

Ruiz gives him a mystified look, “Sir? I don’t know what you mean by problems .”

“I mean a physical confrontation. You’re not gonna try and escape or anything like that?”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Deputy, I think you can take the restraints off of Mr. Ruiz while he’s in the courtroom. I’m going to take you at your word, son.”

We head back toward the counsel tables. I have known for weeks that Templeton would try to quash most if not all of the subpoenas for documents that I had served on Isotenics. There is no telling what we might find if Harry and I are allowed to root around in the private papers of Madelyn Chapman compiled in the weeks and months before her death. If Kaprosky is right and war was raging between Chapman and the Pentagon over the use of her software-what Harold Klepp referred to as spyware before Karen Rogan shut him down that night in the bar-then anything is possible. What I had not expected was the oblique direction that Templeton’s attack would take, the use of Sims and his client corporation as part of a well-orchestrated ambush.

It takes the guards a couple of minutes to find the keys and work the locks as Ruiz stands by the defense table, taking it all in. He has a kind of bemused expression. The judge up on the bench is paternal in his black robes as Templeton climbs back up on top of his box on the chair to look at papers and confer with Sims and the other lawyers. I can tell by the look on Emiliano’s face that he is wondering who let the prosecutor in without a jester’s cap, bells hanging from the points.

As he takes a seat between Harry and me, he leans my way with a broad grin while looking at Templeton. “That’s the DA?”

Fortunately, at the moment Templeton has his back to him.

I poke him with an elbow and give him a stern look. “Leave it alone,” I tell him. It wouldn’t be wise to give Larry anything more in the form of personal motivation. He has been busy proving himself to the world for forty-three years, and so far he hasn’t come up wanting.

Templeton’s motion to quash is based on arguments that I am off on a fantasy looking for pixie dust, anything I can find to flip in the air in an effort to distract the jury. Templeton would like to cut my legs out from under me and leave us with nothing for a defense but Ruiz up on the stand making bald denials. He would carve Emiliano into tiny pieces.

By now I had hoped for something solid by way of a footing to start building my SODDI-Some Other Dude Did It-defense. As it is, all I have is hearsay regarding heated arguments between Chapman and the Pentagon, and industry rumors that Satz and Company are running Primis and feeding it information in violation of federal law, neither of which is admissible as evidence.

Harry and I huddle over a stack of papers that were dumped on us by Sims as we entered the courtroom.

Templeton claims he had nothing to do with any of this. Still, he makes the introductions while we’re still reading.

“Your Honor, if the court please, there is a motion, not being offered by the state but by private parties seeking to quash the subpoenas duces tecum served by Mr. Madriani regarding his request for documents from Isotenics, Incorporated. As I understand it, the motion is grounded on the fact that most of the documents being sought either constitute or include information that falls in the realm of commercial trade secrets.”

“If you’re not making the motion, maybe we should hear from the people who are?” says the judge.

“That would be me, Your Honor. Wayne Sims of the firm of Hays, Kinsky, Norton and Cline. We represent the petitioner, Isotenics, Incorporated.”

Gilcrest nods. “How is Charlie Norton? I used to try cases against Charlie when he was with the DA and I was with the public defender’s office.”

“He’s fine, Your Honor.”

“Give him my regards.”

“I will do that. I apologize for the tardiness in our application, Your Honor.” Sims is skilled. He anticipates the problem in an effort to deflate it. “You will find our motion along with points and authorities. . ”

Gilcrest looks around but doesn’t see anything on the blotter in front of him. The bailiff hands up a folder bound with half an inch of paper between the covers.

“Mr. Sims, I take it you are aware that local rules require ten days’ notice?” says the judge.

“That’s correct, and we object, Your Honor.” Harry puts our two cents into the pot.

“I’m aware of that, Your Honor, but under the circumstances, we found it necessary to obtain an order shortening time. Isotenics, my client, is not a party to these proceedings. We did not receive notice as to the closing date for discovery.”

“It was on the subpoenas,” I tell the judge.

“One lawyer at a time,” says Gilcrest. “Who’s going to argue this, you or Mr. Hinds?”

Harry looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. We are on an equal footing, both of us equally ignorant and blinded by the lack of notice or an opportunity to read Sims’s papers.

“I will, Your Honor. Mr. Sims was notified as to the date to produce the items requested. It was set forth on the subpoenas.”

“What about that?” says Gilcrest.

“We were told that the parties extended the deadline,” says Sims. “We were told of the extension but we were given no extended date for production.” Sims looks over at me and smiles.