Steve Martini - The Judge

He walks them through the chronology of events in the earlier case, from the failed wire on Brittany Hall the night of the prostitution sting, to the collection of her statement by prosecutors, the contents of which he carefully skirts to avoid the hearsay objection. Still the point is well-made: that Acosta had a clear and indisputable motive for murder.

Through all of this, the eighteen souls-twelve jurors and six alternates-sit behind the railing, riveted by the unfolding tale.

Kline deftly deals with the picky little points, the circumstances that incriminate, stacking one upon the other as he continues to gather steam, until at a point he breaches the surface, belching fire and brimstone, unable to avoid the moral judgment. He is a verbal Vesuvius.

“We will show,” says Kline, “that this defendant had a reputation for illicit liaisons with other women that ultimately led to prostitution and murder.”

Radovich’s eyes go wide. A look at the seamier side, judicial life in the big city.

I can hear the frantic scratching of soft lead on paper. Reporters behind us in the front row getting cramps taking notes, trying to catch all the sewage being dumped on Acosta’s head at this moment.

The man is tugging at my sleeve.

“You should object,” he says.

I am already halfway to my feet as he says this.

“Your Honor, this is improper.”

“Mr. Kline,” says Radovich, “you are aware of the limitations regarding character,” he says.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Then the jury will disregard this last statement,” says the judge.

The issue here is whether the state will be allowed to delve into Acosta’s character, past acts that are not related to the crimes in question. This is taboo unless we open the issue ourselves by placing evidence of our client’s good character before the jury. With the Coconut, this would be something on the order of foraging for grass in the Sahara.

“Carry on,” says Radovich.

Kline gives him a slight bow of the head, an appropriate show of respect that for anyone else might come off as subjugation, but not with Kline. He picks up without losing a beat.

“The state will prove,” he says, “beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant, Armando Acosta, brutally and in cold blood murdered Brittany Hall, a judicial witness, in order to silence her and save his faltering judicial career.”

It is only a taste of what awaits us in the trial.

Then, for nearly two hours of uninterrupted monologue, Kline postures for effect, pacing in front of the jury box, as he makes point after point, turning on the key issues of his case, the hair and fibers, which he says expert witnesses will link to the defendant; the note in the victim’s own hand showing an appointment with the defendant for the day of the murder; the absence of any alibi for the defendant; the broken pair of reading glasses found at the murder scene, which Kline says he will link unequivocally to our client.

With this I glance over at Acosta, who gives me a daunting look. If they have evidence of this they have failed to disclose it.

Harry nearly rises from his chair, but I motion him to let it go. There is time for this out of the presence of the jury. Why make an issue here and mark it indelibly in their minds?

I see Harry make a note.

Kline has difficulty on one point that he cannot seem to explain, and yet cannot pass over without comment. Why, in his theory of Acosta as killer, would the judge move the body after the murder, to deposit it in a trash bin a mile from the woman’s apartment?

Kline admits that this involved risk, which no rational person would take on lightly. But then he adds that the defendant at that moment would not be acting rationally. His quick explanation is that having committed murder, the man panicked.

“Your Honor, I object. This is surmise and argument,” I tell Radovich. “Do the people intend to produce evidence on the point?”

Kline gives me a look like this is unlikely. How would he climb into my defendant’s mind?

“Then you shouldn’t be mentioning it here,” says Radovich. “The jury will disregard the last comment, the speculations of the district attorney,” says the judge.

Acosta raps me on the arm lightly with a clenched fist, a blow for our side.

It is a nagging loose thread, one that Kline cannot tuck neatly into his case. The fact remains that he has no ready explanation why the killer would take the time and assume the risk of moving the body. It is one of those gnawing points that lends itself to other theories, suggesting another sort of killer, one with reason to move Hall’s body. The first that comes to mind is a live-in lover. And yet no evidence of cohabitation was discovered in the apartment, no male clothing in the closet or drawers, no witnesses who saw men coming and going. And no effort was made to conceal the fact that death occurred in the woman’s apartment. For the moment, the mysterious movement of Hall’s body is a little more useful to our side, since we have no burden of proof.

Kline has saved the most poignant and powerful for last.

“There is,” he says, “a motherless little child left by this brutal crime.” Kimberly Hall, a hapless five-year-old.

“Little Kimmy,” as he calls her, is waiting in the wings to tell us what happened.

Up to this point he had not indicated whether he would call her as a witness. Though she remains on his list, I had assumed this was for psychic value, and to keep us off balance.

Following the little girl’s traumatized performance outside of court, her stone silence and confusion in front of the camera, we had concluded that she would not appear. She had offered nothing concrete by way of evidence, at least not verbally. Now Kline seems to be saying otherwise.

“This little girl was present during the argument and violent confrontation that took her mother’s life,” he tells the jury. “We are not certain at this point whether she can identify the killer, but she can attest to the valiant struggle that her mother made to save her own life, and the violence that took that life.”

It is clear what he is doing. If the child cannot identify the killer, she can at least, by her very presence in the courtroom, attest to the tragic loss suffered in this case.

I am torn as to whether to rise and object.

Radovich looks at me. He has seen the video and knows that it is void of any such evidentiary content. On a proper motion he might bar the witness from testifying, strike Kline’s bold statements, spare Kimberly the need to appear.

The problem here is that to object before the jury on such a sensitive point would be to do more damage than good. Regardless of her tender years, Kimberly is the only possible witness who was present on the night of the murder. Any objection may send the signal that we have something to hide. With Acosta whispering animated protests in my ear, I sit silent and suffer the point at Kline’s hands.

He balances precariously, just on the edge of argument, as he talks about the child. For an instant, Kline is overcome himself by the emotion of the moment, his voice cracking, then breaking. He talks about the living victim of this crime, Kimberly Hall. That these thoughts seem to drain him emotionally is not lost on the jury. Several of the women on the panel offer pained expressions, as if they would like to ease this load from Kline’s shoulders.

I am on the edge of my seat, half a beat from objection.

Then, as though in a daze, Kline draws himself up, as if this comes from an inner strength he did not know he possessed.

“You will hear from little Kimberly Hall in this courtroom,” says Kline. He doesn’t say what they will hear. Promising more in an opening statement than you can deliver at trial is like stepping on a legal land mine. Your opponent is certain to saw off your leg somewhere above the knee in closing argument.