Steve Martini - The Judge

“We’ll talk about it later,” I tell him.

From his expression, I can tell he is not satisfied with this, but accepts it for the moment. With the Coconut, appearance is everything. He may wear jail togs outside of this courtroom, but in his mind he is still “His Honor” in robes.

I make my way back to the jury railing, where I make apologies for Kline’s interruption.

This draws another objection. Radovich tells him to sit down, and me to move on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce my client, Armando Acosta.”

He rises only slightly from his chair as the guards eye him nervously. Acosta gives the panel something that the affected might construe as a courtly gesture. There is a move he does with one arm across his waist as he bends, that looks like his hand should be holding a velvet cap with a plume of feathers. This Acosta has practiced for days in his cell. It is more than I had wanted, and comes off as just a little eccentric. It would be fine if insanity were our defense.

Before he can curtsy or perform the minuet, I cough to get the jury’s attention off of him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “the prosecutor in this case has skillfully told you what evidence he has. But there is something missing, seriously missing in his presentation. What he has not told you, is what he does not have.”

I quickly cover the areas of weakness in our case, the fact that Acosta has no alibi for the night of the murder, and that some of the physical evidence found on the victim, carpet fibers and hair, may, on first blush, appear to be similar to hair and fibers found at Acosta’s residence. But I tell them to keep their minds open. They will hear evidence that similar does not mean identical.

It would be foolish to pass over these points without acknowledging their existence, as if we are hiding from the truth.

I do not touch on Oscar Nichols and the damning threats against Hall Acosta made to him that day over lunch. So far Nichols has not turned up on the prosecution’s list of witnesses, so I gamble that they will not find him.

“The prosecutor has told you what he has,” I say. “But he has not been completely forthcoming.”

With this there are stern expressions from beyond the railing.

“He has not told you about the evidence that is missing from his case.”

One old lady looks at me, pencil poised over paper, as if I am about to indict Kline for tampering with the proof.

“There is so much that he has not told you,” I say, “that it is difficult to know where to begin.”

Radovich, elbow on the bench, one hand propping up his chin, gives me a look like I’d better figure it out soon.

“The prosecutor, Mr. Kline,” I tell them, “does not have an eyewitness to the crime. In fact he has not a single eyewitness who can put my client anywhere near Brittany Hall’s apartment that night. He does not have a witness, but he has not told you this,” I say.

I turn from the jury box, take a step, and turn back.

“The prosecutor does not have a murder weapon. To this day,” I tell them, “he has only a theory of how the victim came to suffer the so-called blunt-force trauma that killed her. He has no weapon, no instrument of death that would implicate my client. But he has not told you this.”

My rhythm takes on the cadence of a child’s rhyme.

“The prosecutor has no fingerprints linking my client to the scene of the murder, or to the location where they found the victim’s body in the alley that night. But he has not told you this. Nor does he have any blood belonging to my client at the scene of the murder, or in the alley where they found the victim. But he has not told you this.

“He has no documents, no receipts for any purchases by my client on the night of the murder that would place him anywhere near the location of this crime. But he has not told you this.

“He has no confession, no statement incriminating my client. But he has not told you this.

“He found no bruises on my client’s body, no scratches on his face that would indicate a physical altercation or violent struggle in the period immediately preceding the victim’s death. But he has not told you this.”

Heads are beginning to bob and sway with the refrain. Follow the bouncing ball. At one point I actually use my pencil as if I were directing a choir, and two of the women smile. They would finish the line aloud for me if I stopped:

But he has not told you this.

I would light a bonfire and have them all singing along, if Radovich would allow it.

My litany goes on at length as I highlight all the classic points of incrimination, all of which are absent in this case. Kline has given me an opening, an early slip that we cannot expect again. He sits fixed, bolt-upright in his chair, playing with a pencil, pretending that this is all nothing, while I rape him atop the jury railing to a chorus of “But he has not told you this.”

Welcome to the practice of felony trials.

Acosta is nearly giddy in his chair as he watches my performance, itching to join in. Finally I bring it to an end, breaking the rhythm.

“There is a great deal that the prosecutor has not told you about that night,” I say. “About this case. Much of this will not come before you in this trial until the defense has a chance to present its own case. You must agree to keep an open mind. Can I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, for your solemn promise? Will you wait to form a judgment until we have a chance to present our case?”

It is a rhetorical question, but nearly every juror is now nodding in the box. One woman actually speaks up and says, “Yes.”

There is an atmosphere in the courtroom like a tent revival at this moment. Jurors that have seen the light. It is time for conversion, immersion in the truths of our case.

“My client, Mr. Acosta, was, before his arrest, an aggressive judge on the superior court of this county. A respected member of the bench.”

So I dissemble a little on character. This is not evidence, and I cannot be impeached.

“He has pursued the business of judging in an aggressive manner, too aggressive for some who have come under the scrutiny of the county’s grand jury.

“This case,” I say, “is about law enforcement. It is about police. And as in every occupation there are good police officers, and a few, hopefully a very few, bad ones.”

I lead them on a tour of the grand jury probe, information that Acosta has given me about the investigation, despite the fact that he is sworn to secrecy in such matters. In motions before the trial we thrashed out the limits of how far I can go on this, and I take it to the limit.

“There was, ongoing at the time that Brittany Hall was murdered, an intense grand jury investigation, an investigation into police corruption in this city, by a panel of jurors, not unlike yourselves. A part of that investigation is still in progress, and while I cannot divulge specifics about that matter, suffice it to say that it involves charges of serious criminal misconduct by a number of police officers under investigation.”

There are hot pencils scratching on paper in the press rows. There has been wind of this investigation for months, rumors in the press, but this is the first official confirmation. It is what happens in the winds of conflict when the right to a fair trial clashes with government secrecy.

I am not allowed to talk about the murder of Officer Wiley, or the suspicion that he may have been killed by fellow officers to silence him because he knew too much.

Still there are bulging eyes in the jury box, a few plunging Adam’s apples as they listen.

“My client in this case, Armando Acosta, served as the judge in charge of that grand jury. He was vigorously pursuing that investigation at the time that he was arrested for soliciting prostitution.”