Steve Martini - The Judge

As for Lili, her life seems shattered. She puts on a brave face, a solid rock at his side, at least psychically, from her side of the thick glass. But you know that in her private moments she lives the agony of uncertainty, trying to figure out what she will do with her life if she loses her husband. As difficult as it is for me to imagine, Armando Acosta is the sun around which she orbits.

After twenty years of professional enmity, I have in the last weeks come to see Acosta in a different light-the broken man, what humility does to ennoble the human spirit.

“I hope you don’t mind that I am here,” Lili says. “We don’t get much time to talk anymore.”

Radovich’s court is dark this morning. He has taken the day off, I think to give us a chance to regroup after the shattering blow to Lenore. The last item of business yesterday, after swearing the jury, was a contentious argument with the media.

Radovich will not allow television cameras to film the trial. He has seen what this does in terms of squandered time.

“Human egos,” he told them, “tend to inflate like balloons at high altitude whenever they find their way in front of a lens.”

To add insult to injury he has imposed a gag order on the lawyers and their agents, the investigators and police, as well as all witnesses on our lists. This has shut down a growth industry for the media.

When the broadcast lawyers stormed the bench armed with First Amendment rights, Radovich told them he didn’t see anything in there about film at five or, worse, live cameras. He told them to sharpen their pencils, and he’d find a place for them in the front row.

While I have no brief one way or the other for air time, there is a dynamic to television that tends to favor the defense, particularly with an elected prosecutor like Kline. In the glitz of television lights, our man is likely to throw out the manual of orderly prosecution. As a result, the state has a burgeoning record of botched high-profile cases, dead-bang winners that have been lost, or juries hung because a D.A. couldn’t keep his eye on the ball, or started chasing media curves pitched by the defense. There are witnesses who will make up any story and stand in line to perjure themselves for their fifteen minutes of fame. And there are judges who will permit this. It is the dawning of the age of stupidity.

“How is Ms. Goya taking it?” says Acosta. “Her removal?”

“She’s angry. Mostly at herself,” I say. “It was a foolish thing.”

“I did not catch the time frame,” he says, “but I assume that she was not with the D.A.’s office when she made this little sojourn?” He means the trip to Hall’s apartment the night of the murder.

“It was right after she departed the office,” I say.

“So there may be questions as to whether she abused authority,” he says. “Impersonation?”

“Let’s not give Kline any ideas,” I tell him.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “But tell me, why did she go there?”

He has a right to know this, but I tell him it is something we must discuss in private, once Lili has left. We talk about where we stand, the consequences of Lenore’s removal. Acosta does not seem shaken.

“It could have been worse,” he says. “It could have happened after the jury was sworn and she had bonded with them. It would have been a fatal loss at that point.”

He may have wielded a meat cleaver from the bench, but he has a deft perception of the trial process.

“As it is,” he says, “you will have the opportunity to step up and fill, before any real damage is done.”

“That raises the first question,” I say. “Where do we go from here?”

“We go on,” he says.

“Radovich would give you a continuance,” I say, “if you wish to find other counsel.”

“You’re leaving us?” says Lili.

“What is this?” says Acosta. “The rats all leaving the sinking ship? You’re not up to the defense?” he asks me.

“Lenore was lead counsel,” I tell him. “It was her case.”

“And you bought in,” he says. He reminds me of my pitch for hard cash, the stiff fees I quoted in our first meeting.

“We have taken a mortgage on the house,” says Lili.

“I will resist any attempt on your part to withdraw,” says Acosta.

“We have known each other a long time,” I tell him. “Not all of it pleasant. I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable with other counsel.”

“We’re not marrying each other,” he says. “We’re fighting off a murder charge. It is what you call a dogfight,” he says. “And it is true, that we have had our differences.”

He gives me an expression, something wrinkled and wise, with an air of the old world to it.

“I suppose I was not always easy to get on with,” he says. Acosta is a master of understatement.

“And if you want to know the truth,” he says. “I have for many years considered you a son of a bitch.”

“Armando!” Lili has one hand to her mouth, a horrified expression.

“In fact, I would rate you as the biggest son of a bitch in the courthouse,” he says. “But if you are smart, that is what you want when you’re engaged in a dogfight. And right now what is important,” he says, “is that you are my son of a bitch. I bought you, and if you don’t mind, I would like to keep you.”

It is a sobering moment. I know that he could make it difficult for me if I try to withdraw. Radovich would have sympathy for a defendant striving to retain counsel on the eve of trial. And yet this is not the reason that I remain. There are a universe of reasons why I could condemn this man: his short temper, his bias from the bench which is legend, his hypocrisy toward others who have found themselves where he is now-all are bases upon which I could easily and without question burn this devil-but not for a sin he did not commit.

“So where are you?” he says.

“If you want me, I will remain.”

“And Mr. Hinds?” he says. “I know you work well together.”

“I can’t speak for Harry. But I think he will do it.”

“Good,” he says.

With this resolved, Lili leaves us to talk business, and I explain Lenore’s purpose at Hall’s apartment that night. Acosta listens intently, picks up every point of nuance.

“How well does she know Tony Arguillo?” he asks. Acosta wants to know if I mean in the carnal way.

“They are friends. Nothing more. From childhood,” I add.

This brings a satisfied nod. I think he was concerned that Lenore might whisper in his ear at night.

“You think it was more than a one-night stand, as they say, with Hall?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could ask Ms. Goya.”

“She doesn’t believe that Tony had anything to do with the murder.”

“Well, she doesn’t think I did it. She doesn’t think he did it. Who does she think did do it?”

What Acosta is telling me is that it is late in the game, and Tony’s would be a convenient face to put on the killer. Especially if we don’t have to prove it.

“Some evidence, a mild suggestion to the jury,” he says, “would go a long way.”

“They wouldn’t believe it coming from Lenore,” I tell him. “She is too easy for the prosecutor to attack.”

“That is true.” He sees the problem.

I tell him that the note from the calendar is gone.

“That is too bad. We could have put Arguillo on the stand and questioned him with the note.”

“We’d have to lay a foundation,” I tell him. Minor matters. “Establish where the note was found.” We’re back to Lenore.

He shakes his head. No help there. Still he is troubled by the fact that Tony sent Lenore on this mission to retrieve the note.

“Are you sure she is telling you everything?”