Steve Martini - The Judge

Leo has set me up. Standing with him near the reception desk are two other men in suits, hair slicked and neatly cut, well scrubbed, the kind of men who are promoted to be Homicide dicks. I recognize one of them.

“Paul.” Leo reaches out to shake my hand, and suddenly I feel like the Judas goat.

One of the other cops steps in front of him.

“Is Armando Acosta in your office? I am informed that he is here in this building,” he says. No introduction.

“Who’s asking?”

“I have a warrant for the arrest of Armando Acosta.” He slaps the paper in my hand, and pushes past me down the corridor. When he gets to my office door he doesn’t stop or knock, but throws the door wide and walks in.

“Armando Acosta, you’re under arrest for the murder of Brittany Hall. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you. You have the right to counsel. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. . ” By the time he finishes this practiced litany, the cop is dragging Acosta through the door sideways, his hands already cuffed behind his back, pulling him by one arm at the elbow. The other cop now joins him. Together they wrestle him down the hall, the two cops like opposing forces out of sync.

Lili is crying in the doorway to my office, being held back with one arm by Lenore.

Acosta has an expression-staring straight at me, wide-eyed, pleading, not with words, but with looks-that appears as one of a drowning man. They move toward me in the hallway, bouncing off the walls.

“Say nothing,” I tell him. “We will talk at the jail.”

One of the cops pushes me out of the way, nearly sending me through the wall. The look in his eye as he does this makes me think that muscling a lawyer is not work but an act of pleasure. Hammering me while I’m giving advice is a labor of love. They brush papers and a photo off the reception desk, their own tornado heading for the door. Acosta is not struggling so much as trying to keep his feet in the opposing maelstrom set up between the two cops.

Leo stands looking at me, a hapless smile and a shrug. Why he is here I am not sure. Then it hits me. Leo would service the grand jury, run errands for his boss, Kline, in the presentation of evidence. My guess is Acosta’s warrant is hot off the press. The signature on the indictment is not yet dry.

The most noticeable aspect of Coleman Kline are his piercing blue eyes. This morning they drill holes in me, like the twin beams of an industrial laser. I’m sitting in one of the client chairs on the other side of his desk.

There is some taking of stock here, as we size each other up across a million miles of marble. The rose-hued surface of his desk is as barren and cold as the moons of Jupiter. There is not an item on it but for Kline’s folded hands, an ominous image.

His office has a sterile quality about it: two corner walls of windows without any coverings, their interior counterparts stark white and decorated by a single small mural, an abstract akin to a Rorschach blotch in color.

“You are a friend of Lenore Goya,” he says. There is no accusation in his words, merely a statement of fact.

“Lenore and I have known each other for a while,” I tell him.

“You should take care not to get drawn into a case out of spite,” he says. “Particularly someone else’s.”

I question him with my eyes.

“It’s no secret that Lenore harbors ill will toward me. Perhaps this is her motivation for representing Acosta?” There is a little uptilt to the end of this sentence, so that it is an open question.

“I hadn’t heard.” Dissembling is a lie only if the other party is deceived. Kline and I both know the truth. He smiles, tight-lipped and straight, a pained expression as if he’d hoped this opening might be more fortuitous, something built on candor.

“Malice can lead one astray,” he says. “To take a case for the wrong reasons would be a mistake.”

“Sort of like mixing business and pleasure?” I say.

The thought is not lost on him, though he does not smile. The original tight-ass.

“Are you of record in the case?” he asks me.

Lenore made the appearance for arraignment with Acosta, and a quick pitch for bail, which was summarily denied. I tell him this.

“Then you might wish to reconsider your role in this matter.”

“Whether it’s me or someone else, the judge is likely to obtain vigorous representation,” I tell him. “It’s that kind of case.”

“What kind?”

“High profile,” I say. The media circus is already convening. There has been talk of television coverage. A judge charged with first-degree murder does not occur every day.

He mulls over the term “high profile.” A judicious look. “I suppose. Though it’s a shame.”

“What’s that?”

“The sort of stuff that seems to rivet public attention these days.”

“What? Sexual scandal and a fallen judge?” I say.

“Precisely.” Life among the tabloids. He is offended.

“Age-old story,” I tell him.

He gives me a look.

“David and Bathsheba,” I say.

“Armando Acosta is not exactly a man of biblical proportions,” he tells me.

Finally, a point on which we agree.

“This is all very good,” he says. “But you asked for this meeting. I assume you have some purpose?”

“Bail,” I tell him. “I thought perhaps we could work out an accommodation. Avoid a contentious argument in court.”

I can tell by his look he is not surprised. Still he gives me all the arguments.

“It’s a capital offense, Counselor. Special circumstances. The murder of a witness in another criminal case,” he says.

“The court has discretion,” I tell him.

“And has chosen not to exercise it.”

“You mean the arraignment?”

He nods.

“A summary argument,” I tell him. “There was no real evidence presented.”

He spins in his chair, and takes a book off the credenza from a stack neatly lined between two bookends behind him. A quick glance in the index, and he pages with one thumb.

“I quote,” he says. “Penal Code, Section twelve seventy point five: A defendant charged with a capital offense punishable by death cannot be admitted to bail when the proof of his guilt is evident or the presumption of guilt is great.” He slaps the book closed.

“It’s not,” I tell him.

“How do you know until you’ve seen the evidence?” he says.

He has me on that. The fruits of our first motions for discovery have been received only this morning and are sitting on my desk awaiting review.

“Irrespective of your feelings toward Mr. Acosta, he is a man with considerable contacts in the community, no evidence of flight, even with the swirling rumors in the press. He has a family, a reputation. .”

“Yes. I give you his reputation,” says Kline. Touché.

“You don’t really think he’s going to run?” I say.

“It’s been known to happen. But let’s set all of that aside for the moment, my feelings about your client, whether the court would even accept an argument for bail even if we did acquiesce. Let’s set all of that aside. Just for the moment,” he says.

There is something coming. The odor of sinister thoughts. He studies me like an insect under glass.

“You talked a moment ago,” he says, “about an accommodation.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You said perhaps we could come to some accommodations.” His eyes get round and inquisitive.

“A manner of speech,” I tell him.

“Ah. Then you’re not offering anything in return?”

We are down to it. Ali Baba’s nickel and dime, Coleman Kline’s Casbah of justice.

“Just checking. Wanted to make sure I understood,” he says.