Steve Martini: The Judge

Clerical eyes are on me. One of the secretaries senses that I have my antennae up, feeding on what should be classified communications. She starts up the copier and I lose Kline’s voice. The woman is probably wasting a little county money, shooting some blank pages in the cause of confidence.

A few seconds later the door that was the object of my interest opens, and out strolls Coleman Kline, trim in a thousand-dollar suit, linen cuffs, and gold links, his face a bit weathered. I am told that he sails on weekends on the bay. Even with a receding hairline he is a handsome man, a picture off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly .

He’s holding a note in one hand, something scrawled on a yellow Post-it.

The secretary is out of her chair and around the public counter, a mendicant’s pose, waiting for her master’s bidding. He hands her the note.

“Get me the file on this.”

She’s off at the speed of light.

He catches a glimpse of me from the corner of one eye, utters hushed whispers over the counter to the receptionist seated at the phone bank, and inquires as to whether I am waiting for him. She assures him that I am not. Then he looks toward Lenore’s closed door.

“Is Ms. Goya in with anyone?”

“Ms. Hall.”

There’s an imperious look. “I thought I left precise instructions that Ms. Hall was to be shown into my office as soon as she arrived.”

“You were on the phone, and Ms. Goya said. .”

“I don’t care what Ms. Goya said. When I give an instruction, I expect it to be followed.”

Demure looks from the receptionist, something on the order of a whipped dog.

She sits there, eyes cast down, the picture of apology, but takes no initiative to cure this wrong.

“Well, buzz her,” he says.

“Ms. Goya?”

“Yes, Ms. Goya. And tell her to send Ms. Hall into my office. Right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Having been failed once, he now stands over her to ensure that his every word is now law. In the meantime the secretary is back.

“The file you wanted.”

“Yes. Where is it?”

“It’s checked out to Ms. Goya.”

Kline’s is a face filled with exasperation, all of it seemingly aimed at Lenore.

I can hear the com-line ring in her office, her voice answers.

“Mr. Kline wants to see Ms. Hall in his office.”

Muted tones through Lenore’s door. She has no idea of the drama being played out here. She bids for a little time. She is nearly finished gathering the information she needs for the complaint.

“He wants her right now.” Even with Kline standing over her, there is no regal ring to the receptionist’s words.

“Give me that.” He snatches the phone from her hand.

“I left instructions that when Ms. Hall arrived she was to be shown into my office. No one else was to talk to her.”

Some hesitation, as if Lenore is trying to get a word in.

“I don’t give a damn. Do you understand?”

There is stone silence from Lenore’s office. Suddenly it dawns on him, there is no need for long distance. He pitches the phone at the secretary and heads for Goya’s office. Opening it, the only civil word is to Brittany Hall, whom he asks to wait in his office. She scurries between Kline and the frame of the door like a cat ahead of the snarling jaws of a dog. Kline then closes the door behind him.

I can hear angry words, mostly deep and male. Then Lenore starts giving as good as she gets.

“You have no right to use that tone of voice. I didn’t know you left instructions, or that they were carved in stone.” I have a mental image, Lenore standing behind her desk, hands on her hips.

This sets off another salvo from Kline, assertions that she’s questioning his authority, undermining him with the staff.

“The press is all over me demanding answers,” he says. “This is a very sensitive matter. Nothing for you to handle. A public official accused of a crime. I need to know what’s going on.”

Lenore is arguing, telling him that public statements should be kept to a minimum, that there are nuances here, not the least of which may serve to alienate other judges who know Acosta. None of these could hear the case if Acosta goes to trial. Still it could raise havoc in a hundred other matters if the local bench sees the prosecutor’s office as sandbagging one of their own in the media. This is going in one ear and out the other with Kline.

“You don’t think I know how to deal with the press?”

“I didn’t say that. If you wanted a briefing I would have been happy-”

“What I want is to talk to the witness myself. I’ll be handling this case,” he says.

“Fine. Take the file,” she says.

The door opens and Kline is standing there, a disheveled pile of papers peeking from the covers of a manila folder in his arms. His face is flushed as he sees me, now realizing that some stranger has heard all of this.

Some afterthought, something to cover a loss of face. He spins in Lenore’s door.

“I almost forgot,” he says. “The Bagdonovich thing. Straight probation. We can skip the time,” he says.

“What?”

“You heard me. Straight-out probation.”

“We talked. We discussed it yesterday and you agreed,” says Lenore.

“I’ve just talked with his lawyer.”

“What does that have to do with it? Was there something you didn’t know? Some fact I hadn’t explained?”

“You don’t seem to understand who is in charge here. I don’t care to debate the issue. Just do it.”

With this, he swings the door closed in her face, and looks toward Brittany Hall, who has planted herself near the reception station.

“Ms. Hall.” He composes himself, pumping a little satisfaction into his face now that he’s stuck a final spike in Lenore. He straightens his tie and motions Hall toward his office.

“May I call you Brittany?” he says.

She gives him a bright-eyed expression. I think she senses the presence of an Aladdin who, if she rubs his lamp the right way, may produce the genie with the cameras and lights. She is all curtsies and smiles as she heads for Kline’s office, like some starlet who’s just leapfrogged onto a higher couch.

“What a prick.” Lenore is not known for mild manners when provoked.

“Take it easy. It’s time this county had a D.A. for the criminal class. Like Washington’s mayor. It ought to be part of affirmative action.”

She doesn’t laugh. We are doing coffee at the little espresso shop a half block from her office. My treat as I ply her.

“I’ve seen ten-dollar hookers strike harder bargains,” she tells me. “He thinks this is the legislature. He likes to be lobbied. A good day at the office is people taking numbers outside his door. I tell the guy’s lawyer to screw off on the phone. You heard it. And he cuts the ground out from under me.”

“That was Bagdonovich?”

She nods.

“And now he wants to do Acosta.”

“His call,” I tell her.

“Yeah. Right. It’s a headline case, and Kline wants to motor ahead of the media curve,” she says. “To hell with law and order. This is politics.”

I come to the point. “Tell me the score on Acosta.”

“You know what we know.” She gestures toward the paper.

“Yeah. Right.”

“I guess Tony gets a reprieve.” She laughs. The bright side.

“For now anyway. His Highness is not holding court today. I called his clerk, and all appointments are canceled,” I tell her.

Harry’s theory is that after getting all worked up only to be disappointed last night, Acosta is probably home polishing the family knob.

“I’m sure he will bellow about entrapment,” I say.

“The battle cry of every John,” she tells me. “But his lawyers will have a problem. Our lady was wired. The impetus for the crime sprang forth in all of its resplendent glory from the defendant’s own fly.”