Steve Martini - The Judge

“Is it fair to assume that they would not be happy with you if you were to vote for acquittal in this case?”

“They are fair men,” she says.

“But they would rather you voted for conviction?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t discussed it with them.”

“You understand that either way, if there is a verdict, they will know how you voted, because in order to arrive at a verdict the vote must be unanimous?”

If she didn’t have a problem before, she does now. The powers of suggestion, and the burdens of higher office.

“Very nice, Mr. Madriani. You don’t need to go any further,” says Radovich.

“Mrs. Ramirez?”

She looks up at him.

“I want to thank you for coming here today and for giving us so much of your time.”

She doesn’t get it.

“You’re excused,” says the judge.

“I could be fair,” she says.

“I understand,” he says. “You’re still excused.”

Radovich leans over the bench a little, a broad smile on his country face, and whispers to me, out of earshot of the jurors, those in the panel, and those beyond the railing, “Remind me never to let you near my well with any of that poison.” It is a good-natured but wary smile that he unleashes as I take my seat.

Looks to kill from Ramirez as she vacates the seat on the panel.

It is nearing noon and Radovich calls it quits for the morning. He takes an assessment from the lawyers, the consensus being that we should finish jury selection by tomorrow.

“I will see the attorneys in my chambers now,” he says. “Mr. Kline, you have something you want to discuss?”

As we enter the judge’s chambers, Kline is bumping me in the ass with a handful of papers.

“Very good,” he says. “We had rated Mrs. Ramirez as high on our list.”

“I’ll bet you had,” I say. “Let me guess. She was your ace against acquittal?”

He won’t say, but it is my guess that they were banking on Ramirez to hang the jury if suddenly the fates favored us in deliberations.

“You did your job well,” he says. Kline is the picture of your average good sport. He would have me believe that holding a grudge is against his religion, a creed to which Lenore does not adhere.

“We would like to have kept her on the jury, or at least forced you to waste a preemptory challenge,” he says.

“The fortunes of war,” I tell him.

“Oh, not war,” he says. He searches for a moment for the right term. “Maybe friendly forensic combat,” he says. Then a glint in his eye as another thought enters his mind. “Though I suspect your colleague will be taking no prisoners.” He is talking about Lenore.

I could tell him that mutilation on the field of combat is more likely, but I think Kline has already figured this out.

“The indomitable Ms. Goya,” he says. “Well, we shall see what the future holds,” he tells me. He gives me a look that would indicate there is something prophetic in this, then turns and takes a seat directly across from Radovich.

The judge has his robe off and boots up on the desk. There are a few cardboard boxes with books still in them on the floor, near his chair, Radovich’s traveling library. For all the use these are to the man, we could set them on fire.

I can see that the single volume of the Penal Code Radovich carries is two years out of date. The judge no doubt operates on the theory that like fine wine, new pronouncements of the legislature should mellow awhile before their fruits are tasted.

Lenore, Harry, and I sit like set pieces on the sofa. Kline and one of his deputies occupy the two client chairs.

“I hope this is something we can deal with quickly,” says Radovich. “I have a luncheon with the presiding judge.”

Kline tells him he will move with dispatch, but that it is a serious matter he is bringing before the court.

“It troubles me to have to raise the issue,” he says. An ominous tone.

“What is it?” says the judge.

“Conflict of interest,” says Kline. “Involving Ms. Goya.”

“Aw, shit. I don’t believe this.” Lenore is up from the sofa, and for a moment I think perhaps she is going to sink her fingernails into the back of Kline’s head.

Radovich looks at her like he’s never heard a woman say the S-word before.

“What are you talking about?” says Lenore.

“I’m talking about your representation of our office in the initial prostitution matter. Your interview of Ms. Hall in the office. Your access to confidential working papers and files in the solicitation charges against the defendant in this case. I’m talking about serious conflict,” he says.

“Give me a break,” she says. Lenore rolling her eyes, treating this with all the deference one might give to a squalling schoolchild.

She calls it a trumped-up issue, and complains about Kline’s delay in bringing the matter before the court, waiting until the eve of trial.

“There’s nothing trumped up about it,” says Kline.

“I think both of you should calm down,” says Radovich. “First things first,” he says. “I think we should have the court reporter in here before we go any further.” He issues a directive to the bailiff.

“I would suggest that the defendant should hear this as well,” says Kline. “It affects his representation.”

Radovich concurs and calls for Acosta to be brought in.

Through all of this Harry and I are sitting, nearly stage struck by what we are hearing. It is not that we did not see the problem. We had all discussed the potential of conflict in our earlier meeting at the office. But we thought that when Kline didn’t raise it in preliminary motions, the matter was deemed waived.

The court reporter is ushered in. She sets up her stenograph machine, and they roll in a secretarial chair.

Acosta is brought in by two of the jail guards. He is half-undressed, a T-shirt above suit pants, suspenders dangling behind him. He is clearly ill at ease to be seen in public this way, and Radovich apologizes and instructs one of the guards to get him a coat. The other guard brings in a chair for their prisoner, and then the two stand sentry inside the door.

While he’s putting on the coat he shoots a glance our way. “What is going on?” he whispers.

Lenore is too agitated to answer, and is at this moment edging toward Radovich’s desk for position.

“The prosecutor has raised an issue of conflict regarding Ms. Goya,” I tell him.

“Oh.” It is all he says, but the sober look on Acosta’s face tells me that he is weighing the consequences of this as it might affect his own fate.

The court reporter feeds a little piece of fan-folded paper into her machine, and we are ready.

“Now,” says Radovich. The signal for Kline to start.

“The people make formal motion,” says Kline, “that Lenore Goya be disqualified from participating in the defense of this matter based upon a conflict of interest. It is very simple,” he says. “It is our position that she has represented adverse interests in this case, and as such has compromised herself. The law,” he says, “is clear.”

He hands the judge documents, points, and authorities, citing the facts of alleged conflict and cases in point, the stuff he poked me in the ass with three minutes earlier.

Lenore can no longer restrain herself. “What is this? We are given no notice or opportunity to be heard?” she says.

I’m on my feet and join her at the edge of Radovich’s desk. A show of unity.

“If we could, Your Honor. We have not seen these documents.”

“Right,” says Radovich. “You got copies for opposing counsel?” Radovich clearly does not like the tactic; trial by ambush, and Kline is filled with remorse for the oversight. He chastises his subordinate for the error, and blames the man for the infraction of legal etiquette.