Steve Martini - The Judge

“They are trying to sandbag us,” says Lenore.

“If there’s any sandbagging here,” says Kline, “it was done by you. We’re still investigating,” he says, “to determine if she took any files or records when she left the office, Your Honor.”

This is clearly intended as one more piece of bait for Lenore, and has the desired effect.

“Your Honor, I resent the implication,” she says. Lenore begins to stammer. “How? How is it possible? I mean how could I take files or documents when you”-she turns from Kline back to Radovich, realizing she’s addressing the wrong person-“when he and his crony pillaged my office in the night, and had a guard escort me off the premises? This is incredible,” she says. Lenore’s face is now in full blush, anger to the tips of her ears.

“We don’t need the personal invective,” says Radovich. “Both of you should calm down.” He is rubbing frantically with his finger, and has managed now to turn a three-inch area of the desk’s surface a shade two tones darker than the rest of the desk.

He looks up at us and notices that we are all watching. He puts the rag aside and slides the desk’s blotter six inches to the right to cover the mark. He will hunt for sandpaper after we leave.

“Your Honor, they handed me a box of personal belongings and threw me out of my office,” says Lenore. “There are items that belong to me that I never even got.” Taking up the gauntlet, Lenore’s tone makes it appear as if she is the one who is now on trial.

“I’m sure it was humiliating,” says Radovich. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

Acosta arches an eyebrow. His attempt to hire a former prosecutor for her possible influence with that office has backfired. Lenore is now tarred, and he must wonder about the effect this will have on his case.

Through all of this Kline is still seated coolly in his chair. Finally Lenore notices that she is the only agitated person in the room, regains composure, and rejoins the issue.

“You never answered adequately,” she says, “why you waited so long to raise this. .” She waves the air with the back of her hand, searching for a term sufficiently abusive, “this red herring.” She comes up short.

“I thought that would have been self-evident,” says Kline. “We only joined the prostitution case to the murder charge this week,” he says. “And I would remind you that we did so at your urging,” he says. “Before that moment, before joinder, there was no conflict,” he says.

Kline’s response is like an upper-cut to the solar plexus. I can almost hear Lenore sucking air. It is why you never want to ask a question unless you have already figured out the answer.

“Gotcha on that one,” says Radovich.

Lenore has no answer.

I step in, a little tag team.

“It’s still a major disruption to the defense,” I tell Radovich. “Serious question as to whether the defendant is being denied a fair trial.”

“That is the nub,” says Radovich. “I’m troubled,” he says, “by the consequences of your motion if I were to grant it, Mr. Kline. Particularly at this late date.”

I sense a toppling judge, one that is about to fall our way.

“Your Honor, the law is very clear. . ”

“True,” says Radovich, “but I must also balance the rights of the defendant to a fair trial. To adequate legal representation.”

You know you have won when the judge starts making your arguments for you.

“Your Honor, if you could withhold judgment for one moment while I confer.”

“Be quick,” says Radovich. He checks his watch while the two prosecutors step to the back of the room, hands cupped to ears and lips, the hissing of whispers, high intrigue. The subordinate takes out another piece of paper from his briefcase, and the two of them study this.

I look at Lenore. She gives me a shrug. Not a clue as to what they could be talking about.

Finally a consensus and they step forward.

“I had hoped not to have to do this,” says Kline, “but there is another dimension to this entire matter. This was delivered to our office late yesterday afternoon,” he says. He hands the single-page document to Radovich.

“It is a report,” says the prosecutor, “from the state crime lab, specifically Criminal Information and Identification. CI and I,” he says.

“What has this to do with the issue of conflict?” I say.

“It is a report on a latent fingerprint lifted from the front door of the victim’s apartment the day after her body was discovered,” says Kline.

My blood runs cold.

Kline suddenly turns his attention on Lenore, full focus like the glaring beam of a floodlight

“We would like to know, Ms. Goya, what you were doing at the victim’s apartment on the night she was murdered?”

Suddenly Lenore is in full stammer.

“Don’t answer that,” I say.

Lenore at least has the presence of mind not to admit it. Instead she calls it a shoddy trick. More mud thrown up by the prosecution.

“How do you know that the fingerprint was left there that night?”

Kline smiles. “Well, that’s the peculiar thing about this case, Counsel. We found virtually no prints on any of the exposed surfaces in or around that apartment. Wouldn’t you say that’s strange?” He gives me a quizzical smile.

I don’t answer this.

“Wouldn’t you say that it’s a little peculiar that even the victim’s own prints are not there? On that door? On the knob? Inside the bathroom? In the kitchen.” He gives us a moment for this to settle in. “It seems that somebody went to a lot of trouble to wipe the place clean.”

“Still, even if it is Ms. Goya’s print, and I’m not stipulating that it is. .”

“Oh, it’s her print, all right,” says Kline.

“Still you can’t prove it was left there that night.”

“That’s a question for the jury,” says Kline. He now turns his argument on Radovich. “Is it probable, is it likely, that someone would wipe that door clean and miss only one print: the thumbprint of Ms. Goya?” he says. “Is it probable?”

Kline is right. It is something he can feed to the jury, and their verdict on the question will not matter. Lenore is now compromised in a way we could never have imagined.

“You can be sure that we will be asking you that same question when we put you on the stand at trial,” Kline tells Lenore.

She stands there, speechless, her hand seemingly glued to the edge of Radovich’s desk, as though this is somehow now the boundary of her universe.

“Your Honor,” says Kline, “the question of adverse interest is perhaps now moot. But the law is ironclad as it affects witnesses. A witness may not legally, under any circumstances, represent one of the parties in a case in which they are to testify. It is the law,” he says, “without exception.”

He turns now to Lenore and faces her straight on.

“Ms. Goya, you are hereby on notice that the state intends to call you as a witness in its case against Armando Acosta.”

By the time we get back to the office, the press is all over the story, the fact that Lenore has been removed from the case. The lights on the phone are all lit up, every line, so that the receptionist has them all flashing on hold.

“The bastard couldn’t wait to deliver the news,” says Lenore. She’s talking about Kline, who no doubt held a conference in front of the cameras on the courthouse steps. “With him it is any way to cut my throat,” says Lenore.

She pushes through the door to my office, Harry and I trailing in her wake.

“It sounds like you did it to yourself,” says Harry.

“Screw you,” she says.

“You’re doing a pretty good job of that, too,” says Harry. “Me and Paul and your client.”