Steve Martini - The Judge

“Hearsay,” says Kline.

Radovich wavers only an instant before he pronounces overruled. Kline now knows that this, a bad ruling on evidence, is the balance of his sanction.

“Please answer the question,” I tell Nichols.

He seems delighted to comply. “He told me that she lied about the nature of their conversation the evening he was arrested. That he had never tried to solicit an act of prostitution, but instead had been called by Ms. Hall on the telephone, who asked him to meet with her.”

“Did he tell you why she wanted to meet with him?”

“According to Judge Acosta, she had information for him in connection with a grand jury investigation.”

“Did he say which one?”

“Yes. It involved an investigation into police corruption. Specifically, the Police Association.”

“So according to Judge Acosta. .” Kline doesn’t even bother to object when I use the title. At the moment he is more concerned about the content of the testimony. “He was lured to this meeting with information relating to official duties.”

“Objection. Mischaracterizes the evidence,” says Kline.

“Overruled.”

The fact that Radovich doesn’t think so gives credence to the assumption.

“That’s what he told me,” says Nichols.

“And this is why he was angry?”

“That, and because he said she fabricated evidence,” says Nichols. “False testimony concerning his alleged solicitation.”

“And it was in this context that he made the rash statements that you testified to earlier?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Nichols is anxious to take the edge off of this if possible. To do his duty without damaging a friend. His kind of justice.

“Did Judge Acosta say anything during this conversation about Ms. Hall being involved with the Police Association, the people under investigation?” I ask.

Nichols thinks hard for a moment. He clearly wants to help, but cannot. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

I of course know the answer to this already. Nichols would have volunteered had he known. Anything to resurrect his friendship. The purpose in asking is to plant the seed with the jury.

“Did he ever tell you that she was closely associated with members of that association, in particular, the officers assigned to Vice who were with her the night Judge Acosta was arrested?” I water and nurture it.

“No. I’m afraid not,” he says.

I turn back toward my table, as if I am finished, then stop at some fleeting afterthought.

“One more question, Judge. I’m curious,” I tell him. “Did you ever tell the police when they questioned you, or the district attorney, about Judge Acosta’s insistence that he was set up, framed on the prostitution matter?”

“Yes. I told them what I told you.”

I look over at Kline. The effect of this is to make clear that he was withholding this from the jury.

“And did they pursue it with you? Did they ask a lot of follow-up questions about the details of what Ms. Hall might have told Judge Acosta to lure him there that evening?”

Nichols’s eyes brighten. He may be a soft touch, but he is not stupid. He sees where I am going, a lifeline to rehabilitate his relationship.

“As a matter of fact, no, they didn’t.” Then before I can turn, he goes the extra yard. “They didn’t seem interested.”

Kline gasps, then holds the objection. He knows the damage is done.

The last witness the State brings on is there for a single purpose, to end their case on a note of melancholy.

It is played for high drama with much fanfare. Coleman Kline excuses himself moments before she arrives in the courtroom. He tells Radovich that the next witness will require special attention. Since he has other business outside of the courtroom Kline has assigned one of his deputies, a woman who he says is specially skilled, to handle the next witness.

He gathers his papers and departs by way of the door through the judge’s chambers, a back route that allows him to avoid the cameras and the throng of press outside. There are several moments of breathless anticipation during which the clerk does not announce the witness by name, this by special arrangement, though those of us involved know who it will be.

All eyes are riveted on the door at the rear of the courtroom. It swings open partially for an instant, then closes again. When it is finally opened again a bailiff leads the way, followed by a small entourage. Hidden in this procession, close to the ground, all three and a half feet of her, is Kimberly Hall. Holding a small stuffed bear under one arm, she trudges down the center aisle. From the hush soon come whispers from the public rows-“Brittany’s little girl.” We have lost this fray, and Kline now makes the most of it. Harry and I had argued vigorously in the noticed hearing that Kimberly could offer nothing approaching probative evidence, but Kline prevailed.

The child was able to testify that she heard loud arguing, a lot of anger before her mother’s death. And while it was the product of Radovich’s leading question, she also identified a male voice as being the other person present with her mother that night. I have renewed my motion to strike this from the transcript of the hearing, a motion that Radovich denied. It could become a point on appeal if she restates this here on the stand.

Still, it is clear that Kline’s purpose in calling this witness is not substantive but tactical. Kimberly is here to remind the jury of the continuing loss inflicted by this crime, that the suffering did not end with her mother’s death. It is a bold play by Kline, and poses some danger for both sides.

Kimberly is guarded by a phalanx of supporters, her grandmother, the psychologist from Child Protective Services, and Julie Hovander, the A.D.A. who has established rapport through months of hand-holding.

They situate the child in the witness box. Her grandmother moves to her seat beyond the bar, out in the public section. The psychologist takes up a position next to Kimberly, just outside the railing to the witness stand, where she can run a hand up the child’s dress and move the kid’s mouth if need be-her version of Punch and Judy.

I object to this, and Radovich after some protestation by the psychologist orders her to take a seat.

“If we need your services,” he tells her, “I’ll be the first to call.”

He draws a glare from the woman, who finally sits down, but inside the bar. She plants herself at the counsel table next to the D.A.

When I object to this, Radovich makes an exception, and tells me to be quiet. We are walking on eggs. He does not want to unnerve the child. Holding her little bear, she sits poised in the box, like an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in a party dress.

Kline and his minions have had months now to hold her hand, to offer suggestions, some perhaps not so subtle. The fear here is that Kimberly will say things she did not during the earlier hearing-the product of coaching. This would place me in the impossible position of having to impeach her with her earlier statements, something that the jury would not appreciate. Acosta could find himself convicted of murder because his lawyer harassed a little girl on the stand.

“What do you think?” he asks me. “Will she stick with her earlier testimony?”

“Who can tell what’s in a child’s mind?” I tell him.

“My thoughts exactly,” he says.

There’s some whispering off the record between Radovich and the child. Broad smiles from the bench. He does not have her sworn but instead asks if she knows the difference between the truth and a lie.

She tells him the truth is what really happened and a lie is something you make up.

“Do you know which one is good?” he says.