Steve Martini - The Judge

“Of course it’s always possible that Gus already knew things about you that I do not.” This puts it squarely, and Tony finally swings around and sits up, feet planted firmly on the floor, eyes as mean as Tony knows how to make them.

“Say it?” he says.

“Zack Wiley. Strike a chord?” I ask.

I can tell by the look that it does.

“Officer Wiley, you remember, was killed in a raid on a crack house last year. I’m told you were there. That you came up with the gun that was later determined to have killed the officer. I’m also told there was a problem with that particular weapon, some question about whether it was property in the possession of the department from another, earlier crime scene.”

I get a hollow gaze from Arguillo, the kind that flashes like red neon: Trouble here.

He would say “Oh shit,” but he doesn’t have to. I can read it in his eyes.

“Is there something you didn’t tell me about this morning’s examination?”

“It was nothing. Irrelevant,” he says.

There’s a considerable pause, the psychic smell of rubber burning, as if he is replaying some of the questions and his testimony of this morning in his head. Coleman Kline is more devious than Tony could imagine.

“He asked some questions about a robbery over on the East Side three years ago, and whether I responded to the scene. It was a fishing expedition,” he says.

“You wish.”

“He’s got nothing,” he says.

“Did you respond? To the robbery scene?” I ask.

“Not that I remember,” he says. “It’s hard to recall that far back. You make a dozen calls in a day. Six or eight robberies in a month. If nobody gets shot they all come together in your mind after a while.”

“Is that where the gun came from?” I ask.

He gives me an expression, something halfway between an admission and he’s not sure.

“How did you know about the gun?” he says.

“Half the city knows about that gun,” I tell him.

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that the jury probe may be moving beyond its initial scope, onto more dangerous ground,” I tell him.

As these words clear my lips, Tony’s cool indifference begins to melt like ice on a hot day.

I would guess that she is in her early fifties. She has dark hair and is not unattractive, though her makeup is smeared in a few places, maybe evidence of a rush to get here this morning.

She is well-dressed, in heels, a dark skirt, and white blouse under a silk blazer, with a matching blue scarf about her neck. Her face is creased by a few lines at the forehead and cheeks, which if I had to guess are the product of some recent stress. By her presence here in my office I can assume this is legal in nature.

Her name is Lili. A first name, which is all I am given by way of introduction from Lenore. And while I am not told why they are here, I detect the aroma of commerce, a client with money, and a hungry lawyer named Goya.

“I assumed you wouldn’t mind the use of your office,” says Lenore.

“Mi casa, su casa,” I tell her. I offer to leave so they can talk privately. We have discussed an association, some sharing of office space since Harry and I have an empty but unfurnished suite down the hall. It is something Lenore wants to think about.

“I can use the library for a few minutes,” I tell her.

“Not necessary,” says Lenore. She’s sipping coffee from a foam cup as she talks, leaving ruby red lip prints around the edge. “I could use some advice,” she tells me.

I am figuring practical stuff that public prosecutors do not deal with, like fees, and costs. Still I am flattered, and I make a grand gesture, as if to say, “ Moi? ”

“Whatever I can do,” I tell her.

“Your husband, is he here?” Lenore turns to the woman, all business.

“He will be here momentarily,” she says. “He had to park the car and did not want to be late.”

“I’m sure this has been a difficult time for both of you,” says Lenore.

“You cannot imagine,” says the woman. “My husband is worried about what all of this will do to our family, especially our two daughters, if he is arrested.”

“Minor children?” asks Lenore.

“No. No. They are married. They have children of their own,” she says. She reaches into her purse and takes out her wallet. A second later she produces two pictures, dusky, dark-eyed beauties maybe six or seven years of age in party dresses, with curls like little funnel clouds, bearing toothless smiles of innocence.

“The little one, Gabriella.” The woman called Lili points with a well-manicured finger. “She is the apple of her papa’s eye. My husband,” she says. “It would kill him if this thing were to harm her in some way. These ugly accusations and innuendos,” she says.

She speaks in a clipped staccato, syllables rolling from the tongue in the trill of a Romance language, making me think that English is not native to her.

“Has your husband made any statement to the police?” asks Lenore.

“No.” She shakes her head. “He has said nothing to anyone. He does not even want to discuss it with me. He’s been very depressed,” she says. “I am worried about him.”

“You think he might harm himself?” says Lenore.

Lili gives an expression of concession, as though this may be possible.

“You would not tell him I said this?” she says.

Lenore shakes her head, like never.

“Maybe we should start at the beginning.” I sit here, the proverbial man from Mars, wondering whether we are talking ax murder, or someone accused of fondling little girls. The lofty calling of the criminal law.

“It might be best if we wait until he gets here,” says Lenore. “So we don’t have to go over it twice.”

I shrug my shoulders. It’s her party.

“Has your husband talked to another lawyer?” she asks.

“I don’t think he has considered it,” says Lili. “When he found out that you were available, and that you were about to join Mr. Madriani, he wanted you immediately.”

“How nice of him,” says Lenore.

Now I am intrigued.

Lili tells her that the police have said nothing, though they have come twice to the house to look for evidence.

“Did they have search warrants?”

“Yes.” Lili nods. There is no fudging on this. The woman seems to know search warrants from shopping lists.

“The first time they took away his car. They had it towed somewhere,” she says. “We have not seen it since.”

I hear movement in the outer office, the door, and voices: the receptionist’s, and another, a familiar deep baritone.

“I think they’re expecting me,” I hear the man say.

It is a voice that imparts dark premonitions, like an advancing tidal wave in the blackness of night. An instant before the door to my office opens I get a glimpse of Lenore. She is studying me for effect, one eye covered by tousled hair, the other filled with sheepish apprehension, an expression like the Mona Lisa’s.

Mahogany swings wide, and there in the open frame of my door stands Armando Acosta.

It is an image like something on celluloid, strange encounters, the form of a man I would not envision in my most demented dreams darkening my portal. Our eyes lock only for a brief instant, until he breaks this gaze.

Lili does the honors with Lenore, making introductions as the two shake hands.

“My husband, Judge Acosta. Ms. Goya,” she says. She ignores the fact that he is no longer on the bench, having been suspended pending disposition on the prostitution charge, which is now compounded by the death of the state’s only witness.

“You may call me Armando,” he tells her.