Steve Martini - The Judge

“Right, and when they put him on the stand, and they ask him about your meeting and what was said, the fact that you asked him not to testify or, worse, to lie, what do we do then?” Harry is right. It is a prescription for disaster.

“I would not tell him to lie,” says Acosta.

“Then what the hell good would a meeting do?” says Harry. What Harry is saying is that short of perjury, there is nothing Nichols can do to soften the damage that Acosta has already done to himself by these threats.

“Still I would not ask him to lie.” Acosta is adamant on this. A badge of honor.

“Well, excuse me,” says Harry, “but Mr. Kline might just put that twist on it, don’t you think?”

Sheepish eyes from the other side of the glass.

“Of course you are right,” he says. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Why, only fools represent themselves,” he says.

“In this case we’ll make allowances,” says Harry. “The term applies equally to counsel and client,” he says.

Acosta even laughs at this. Harry does not.

In the afternoon, Kline comes at us with a piece of evidence that he had promised the jury in his opening statement, an effort to link Acosta to the pair of broken eyeglasses found in Hall’s apartment the morning after the murder.

As Kline steps into the well of the courtroom he is, as usual, a fashion statement, his wife’s money worn well on his back. Today he sports a dark gray striped worsted suit, flapping a maroon silk lining as he strides the courtroom, a dress shirt of starched linen with French cuffs a yard long, and a tie that screams imperial power.

Inside the suit, despite the knocks he has taken, Kline’s confidence is budding. With each witness he seems to grow in stature. He is becoming a presence in the courtroom that in a few months could spell trouble for the defense bar. From the licks he has taken he has learned to reply in kind. Though he has taken a racking on some of the early witnesses, there is an evolving method to Kline’s strategy in this trial that is now becoming apparent. He has consciously and in planned fashion taken his knocks early, and has saved strength for the end.

Dr. Norman Hazlid is what some would call a “doc-in-the-box.” He is a licensed optometrist who works under contract with one of the chain eyeglass retailers at a mall out in the north area. Hazlid does quickie eye exams and refers his patients to Vision Ease, a discount retailer where for sixty-nine dollars you can get a selection of frames and lenses in an hour.

He is in his mid-forties, well-dressed, and articulate in the details of vision care.

A foundation for the broken glasses has been laid previously by the Homicide detectives, who have identified them as having been found at the scene in Hall’s apartment. They were marked by the clerk and given an evidence number, which Kline now refers to.

He has the witness remove the glasses from a paper evidence bag. Because there is blood on one portion of the broken lens, Hazlid wears surgical gloves to examine them.

“Doctor, have you had the opportunity to inspect these glasses previously?” he asks.

“I have.”

“Let’s begin with their condition,” says Kline. “What can you tell us about that?”

“The left lens is cracked. I would say as a result of some considerable force.”

“Perhaps by someone stepping on them?”

It is leading and suggestive, but with the broken glass taken from the victim’s foot as attested to by the medical examiner, there is little point in objecting.

“Perhaps. That would probably do it,” says Hazlid.

The witness picks the glasses up and looks at them more closely. “The metal frame is bent, probably the same force that cracked the lens. The left temple screw is missing.”

“That’s the part that holds the little stanchion that goes to the ear in place?” Kline calls it a hinge.

“Right.” Though Hazlid would clearly have another word for this.

“And can you tell us, is there anything unique about these glasses, either with respect to the lenses or the frame?”

“Both,” says the witness.

Acosta is in my ear as I try to listen. He is adamant that he has never seen the doctor before. This is not his regular optometrist, and Acosta is at a loss as to how the man could possibly connect him to the glasses. I tell him to sit and relax, but he is highly agitated.

“Let’s start with the frames,” says Kline. “In what regard are they unique?”

“It’s a type of frame that is manufactured specifically for Vision Ease,” he says. “A special licensing arrangement. We don’t sell many of them, because they’re quite expensive.”

“Does it have a name or a model number?”

“It’s called a Specter Four Thirty,” says Hazlid.

“And they’re not sold by any other retailer?”

“No.”

Bad news for us.

“Do you know how many were sold, say, in the last five years by Vision Ease?”

“I can look it up,” he says.

“Please.”

For this Hazlid has brought along a computer printout, a small ream of fan-folded pages that he ciphers through like an accountant until he finds what he’s looking for. He puts one finger under something at the left margin and moves it across the page, then looks up.

“Forty-one pair,” he says.

“That’s all? Nationwide?”

“Correct.” Hazlid explains that the manufacturer has been selling this particular frame for only two years, that they are very pricey and haven’t caught on. He attributes this to price resistance.

“How much?” says Kline, peering at the glasses as though he might purchase them if they didn’t have blood all over them and a cracked lens.

“Wholesale they run one hundred seventy-nine dollars. They retail for four hundred and eighteen,” he says.

Kline whistles low and long at the markup. Several of the jurors laugh. It is something about which I cannot object.

Hazlid tries to justify this. “Designer frames,” he says.

There is a clear innuendo as Kline looks over at Acosta, an indictment by inference. This has its effect on the jury, people sitting here for thirty dollars a day and mileage, looking at my client who now stands charged with purchasing a set of frames worth half a month’s salary.

“Do you know how many pairs of these particular frames were sold by your own store?”

For this Hazlid doesn’t consult his documents.

“Three,” he says.

“And yours is the only branch in Capital City?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the next nearest store that would sell this frame?”

“The Bay Area,” says Hazlid.

Kline closes that door quickly. He asks how many that store has sold, and gets four more. The only other stores are in the southern part of the state, where the witness accounts for five more sales.

“So in the entire state,” says Kline, he’s calculating in his head. “They sold a total of twelve of these particular frames?”

“That’s correct.”

“Does the retailer maintain records of these sales?”

“We do computerized inventory at the point of sale,” he says.

Harry drops his pencil on the table and glances at the lights on the ceiling, and then over at me, body language that is not good. I do not return this.

“When a customer comes in, we get their address and phone number, the stock number of the item purchased, in this case frames, and a file number from which we can retrieve their prescription if it’s on record.”

I am trying to look cool, undaunted. Acosta next to me is an automaton. He has said nothing since his initial disclaimer about the doctor.

“So you have records of sale for each of the three customers who purchased the Specter Four Thirty frames from your store?”