Steve Martini - The Judge

“For your information,” she says, “they didn’t kill the entire grand jury probe.”

“What do you mean?”

She is still a voice behind my door. “The investigation of the drug raid, the questions regarding the shooting of that cop a couple of years ago. That,” she says, “is still viable.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

We have talked about this, Lenore and I, a sensitive point because of Tony’s involvement. She does not believe that he could have played any part in the killing of another officer. She thinks the investigation will come up empty, though she has no theory as to how the gun that killed the cop found its way from the evidence locker downtown to the scene. When it comes to Tony, she has the blind confidence of a child.

“How did you find out the investigation’s still active?” I say.

“It pays to go to some dinners,” she tells me. “You’d be surprised, the things that pass over crackers and cheese. Especially when they’re washed down by wine.”

“Was it Conners? Is he the one who told you?”

“Do I look like I submitted to that?” she says. Lenore’s not telling me her source.

I’d hoped for a broader-ranging investigation. But at least it is something. If we work at it we may be able to weave it into our case.

“This source, will he talk to you again?”

When she emerges from behind the door she is bare legged, tossing her panty hose in my wastebasket.

“He wasn’t talking to me this time,” she says. “I was an ear hiding behind my date.”

“So Herb was at least good for something,” I say.

“Tall. Big broad shoulders.” She smiles. “A good listening post.”

She’s picking lint from her dress off of one thigh, tanned and smooth, with skin like vellum. She sits down in the chair across from me and with the delicacy of a wood nymph, teasing, but never revealing, folds one leg over the other. Executing contortions only women are capable of, she applies the Band-Aid to her heel, oblivious to my stare.

By now I am breaking into an open sweat. I’m talking business, but I’m thinking frolic. A weak moment.

“Any ideas as to an investigator we might hire?”

By now she is sitting still, having attended to all the needs of first aid, her elbows on the corner of my desk next to her shoes, chin propped up by the palms of both hands, her countenance like Hepburn in her prime. She is, I think, engaged in business of her own. She ignores my question as her scent drifts across my desk.

“Where’s Sarah tonight?” she asks.

“At a friend’s house. Sleeping over.”

“My girls are at Grandma’s,” she says. “For the night”

A smile spreads on her generous, glossed lips.

There’s an awkward moment of silence; telepathy, as we consider the possibilities. By mutual consent we have studiously ignored the undercurrent of lust in our relationship. The complications of working together on a difficult case, the downsides of office romances, children-there are a hundred reasons we should not do this. At the moment I can’t remember a single one of them.

“So what are you going to do,” she says, “work all night?”

She is looking at me with bewitching eyes as the glint of gold plays from one earring: the delicate chiseled features of her face, her tawny complexion almost ethereal, a frame of film shot through gauze. Like a junkie craving a hit, I suck in this image.

“I should say good night and go home,” I tell her.

Her gaze back is trancelike. Suddenly I find myself standing at the door, coat over my shoulder, not knowing how I got there, Lenore’s hand holding mine.

“Yes,” she says, “we should go home and say good night.”

We can thank god for little favors. We have checked Acosta’s optometry records and we believe we have identified all the lenses that have been prescribed for him. Lili Acosta has located each one of these, except for the pair the cops took from her husband that day in the jail. These, the ones the police have, were carefully marked for identification so that there is no chance of error, some mix-up. Since we can produce each of the glasses prescribed for our client showing dates of prescription and purchase, the cops cannot prove that the glasses found at the scene of Hall’s murder belong to the judge.

This morning we are in the superior court, trying to dodge another bullet, the second day of argument on a motion for a stay, trying to stave off Kline, the man Lenore called an idiot. So far he has demonstrated more agility than a cheetah in heat.

Acosta is seated next to me at the counsel table, a wary sheriff’s guard positioned behind him, with two more standing like linebackers deeper in the courtroom in case the Coconut tries to go off tackle.

Lili sits one row behind him, the rail of the bar between them, not allowed to touch by the attending guard.

There is only a smattering of the press in attendance.

Two weeks ago, out of the blue, with no warning, Kline set a trial date on the charge that everyone had forgotten about, the original prostitution count.

A verdict is not his purpose. Kline wants to try Acosta not in a court of law but in the forum of public opinion, poisoning a vast audience with charges of vice. Potential jurors who hear this might find themselves halfway to a verdict in the capital case before we can empanel them in the later murder trial. If along the way he can force us to defend in the prostitution case, he gets a peek at some of our cards.

Even Lenore must concede that the effort shows a certain ingenuity, more than she is willing to credit Kline with.

I think it is a mistake to underrate him. What he lacks in style he makes up for in dogged persistence. He is aggressive, competitive, and articulate. There is not a tentative bone in the man’s body. As for temperament, the only time I have seen him lose it was that day in Lenore’s office, in their spat over Acosta’s case and who would interview the witness. I think perhaps there is a volatile chemistry here between Kline and Lenore. It is something that gives me pause in the ensuing trial.

At this moment he is at his own counsel table with one of his subalterns, when he breaks from their hushed discourse and crosses the void. From the corner of one eye, I can see that he is starched from cuffs to the elbows, replete with gold links that blind me.

“Mr. Madriani.”

I turn to him.

“We’ve not had time to talk,” he says, “since that day in my office. I would wish you good luck, but under the circumstances. .” He gives me a look that finishes this thought. “But I do hope we can begin and end as amiable adversaries,” he says. “Professionals to the end.”

He has a broad smile, one that leaves me wondering at the depth of his sincerity. It is the thing about Kline. You never know.

I shake his hand.

“Counsel.” He eases past me, open hand still extended.

Lenore looks at him but says nothing. Nor does she take his hand.

“Well,” says Kline, “I tried.”

He smiles one more time and retreats to his own side.

Acosta is looking at her. Any illusion that Lenore as a former prosecutor might possess influence with the state goes the way of the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny.

“Good move!” I whisper to her from the side of my mouth. “Stick your spur in a little deeper. Let’s see if we can really motivate him.”

Before she can humor this with a reply there is movement in the corridor behind the bench. Judge Radovich emerges, announced by the bailiff.

Harland Radovich is from one of the mountainous counties to the north, a place presided over by a dormant volcano and a three-judge court, where cattle ranching and open range are still a way of life. Radovich drew the short straw from the Judicial Council as the out-of-county candidate and has landed Acosta’s case along with all of its pretrial trappings.