Steve Martini - The Judge

“Arguillo is not paying anything. Acosta is,” says Harry, ever the pragmatist. “Facts of life. I’ll draw up a consent for substitution of counsel. I know some schmuck who will take his case.” What Harry means is some other schmuck.

“As long as we’re cleaning skirts,” I say, “what about yours?” I’m looking at Lenore.

“What?” she says. “I didn’t represent Tony.”

“No, but you talked to Hall.”

“You mean the interview in the office?”

“Right.”

“She wasn’t a client.”

“True,” I say. “But you were privy to information held by the state in its case against Acosta.”

“That was prostitution. This is murder. Different case,” she says.

“You don’t think Kline will tie the two together? It’s all motive,” I say. “The prostitution sting led to the murder. That’s the state’s motive.”

“All the same, we’ll acquire everything they have in discovery. Where’s the harm?”

“Except for attorney work product,” I tell her, “your own notes.”

“There was nothing there of any substance. I was never privy to the state’s strategy in the case. You think Kline would have taken me into his confidence?”

“You can be sure he’ll raise it.”

“Yeah, along with the Magna Carta and the Declaration of Independence. That doesn’t mean it’s relevant.”

“Just a warning,” I tell her.

“Worry about it when we get there,” she says. Lenore is not the kind to get ulcers borrowing future problems. Not like me.

“So what have we got?” I ask Harry.

He’s rummaging through papers, mostly his notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Two crime scenes,” he says. “The alley where they found the body, and her apartment. That’s where they think the murder occurred. They dusted her place for prints. No report yet. Let’s hope the Coconut had the good taste to wear gloves,” says Harry.

Lenore gives him a look, exasperated. The thought is well taken. If we’re going to take the man’s money, we should at least make a show of innocence.

“Bad form,” says Harry.

We move on.

“Hair and fibers,” he says. “Hair is coarse and reddish brown. Not human, according to their report. It was found in the girl’s apartment, and on the blanket in which the victim was wrapped. Armando was probably shedding. Full moon,” says Harry.

“Shit,” says Lenore.

“There are children present,” he says.

“I know. I’m looking at one of them.” Lenore fixes Harry with a steely gaze and moves the bottle of Kahlúa away from him. As she does this she has to lean over the table, and I catch Harry taking a peek.

The association of Madriani, Hinds, and Goya may have some rough sailing ahead.

“Maybe Hall owned a cat or a dog?” says Lenore.

“Not according to the neighbors,” says Harry. “They’ve never seen an animal in the place.”

“She was wrapped in a blanket?” I ask. Back to basics.

“We’ll get to that,” he says. “Also some blue carpet fibers found on the blanket. Unknown origin.”

“What color was the carpet in her apartment?” I am hoping that Lenore has the presence of mind not to answer this. Harry doesn’t know about our little jaunt to Hall’s apartment that night. We have treated this on a need-to-know basis. Harry doesn’t need to know.

“Bzzzzz,” Harry. Sound effects like a quiz show, the problem with meetings outside the office over drinks and dinner.

“The answer is mauve,” he says. “There’s no lab report yet, but my guess is the fibers are some cheap nylon. I think they’re assuming some trunk fur here,” says Harry. “From the perp’s vehicle.”

“Do we know the color of the carpet in Acosta’s car?” asks Lenore. “The one they impounded.”

Harry shakes his head.

“Make a note to ask Acosta,” she says.

“What am I, the fucking secretary?”

Lenore reaches over and grabs the other bottle. Harry cops another peek, a man with a death wish. He must like what he sees. He makes the note and goes to the next item.

“They also found a broken pair of reading glasses, bent frames. At the girl’s apartment,” he says. “Wire rims. Half frames. One lens was cracked, like maybe somebody stepped on it.”

“Did Hall wear glasses?” I ask.

The thought is piercing, that the killer dropped a pair of glasses.

“Not when she read her statement in my office that afternoon,” says Lenore. “I suppose she could have been wearing contacts. Kept the glasses in her purse.”

“Does the police report say whether they were men’s or women’s?” I ask.

“Lemme see.” Harry roots through one of the piles of paper, like a guinea pig eating yesterday’s Tribune on the bottom of his cage.

“Not it. No.” Another page goes flying. “Here it is.”

He reads silently for a moment.

“No. Just says, ‘Identified for photographs and directed Forensics to gather one pair of broken spectacles found on the living room floor of the victim’s apartment. Appear to be reading glasses. Spectacles evidenced bent metal frame and one broken lens. Possibly damaged during struggle with assailant.’” Harry shrugs. “That’s it.”

This becomes a showstopper as we consider the possibilities, and avoid conjecture on the one that could be most damaging.

“Could be nothing,” says Lenore.

Harry and I are both looking at her, but it is Harry who says it.

“Acosta wears cheaters.”

There is a moment of sober silence as we consider the ramifications.

“We can’t assume that our client is telling us the truth,” he says. “One thing is certain. The cops will be checking Acosta’s prescription to see if it’s a match.”

The glasses are one of those pieces of evidence that as a prosecutor you love. If they’re a match to Acosta the cops will play it to the hilt. If they are not they will try to bury them, some incidental left in her apartment by anyone, swept onto the floor in the melee with the killer, while we argue to a deaf jury that they are exculpatory evidence, left there by the real killer.

“Just to be safe,” I say, “let’s get Acosta’s prescription.”

“Maybe his wife has it,” says Harry, “or can steer us to his optometrist.”

“We can ask him if he is missing any glasses tomorrow,” says Lenore. “We’ll see him at the jail.”

“Like I say. His wife should know who his optometrist is.” On such matters Harry does not trust clients. It is the nature of his practice, and perhaps in this case Harry’s take on the character of our client.

For the moment we pass this.

“Anything else from the girl’s apartment?” I ask.

“Forensics found some trace evidence, microscopic shavings of heavy metals. . ” Harry’s thumbing through the notes trying to find it.

“Here it is. Little bit of gold on the edge of the metal coffee table,” he says. “Trace amounts.”

“Where do they think it came from?” says Lenore.

“According to the report, speculation is that it might have scraped off of some jewelry worn by the perp. A watch, a bracelet, something like that,” says Harry. He gives us a big shrug with his shoulders.

As he does this, Lenore is looking at me, both of us with the same thought. There is no mention of the little gold item we glimpsed that night, the shiny object buried in the potting soil on the floor of Hall’s apartment. What it was and how it got there we are now left to wonder, along with an even bigger question: What happened to it?

“Not much beyond that,” says Harry. “Preliminary notes. Blood found, no typing as yet. Murder weapon is believed to be a blunt object, based on the massive head wound. Not found at the scene.”