Steve Martini - The Judge

Acosta actually grabs my arm and chuckles when he hears DeShield’s reply. This sticks like a burning hot poker from Kline’s ass, the thought that police not only buried their findings on the jewelry from Acosta’s house, but may have destroyed evidence when they discovered that it did not belong to their principal suspect.

Kline looks at Stobel, who actually shrugs his shoulders, a whaddya-gonna-do kind of expression.

“Isn’t it possible that the defendant removed it before he left,” says Kline, “and discarded it?”

“Objection, calls for speculation.” I’m up out of my chair.

“Sustained,” says Radovich.

“No more speculative than that we should have found it at the scene,” says Kline.

“You asked the question,” says the judge.

Kline fumbles at the podium with a yellow pad. His pen lands on the floor and he has to stoop for it. When he comes up, he is clearly puzzled, and pissed.

This is clearly not his finest hour. There is some shuffling in the jury box, and after several seconds Kline finally regroups and finds his place in his notes.

“Now. Now. You say,” he says, “that positive identification is possible. Exactly how specific could one of these tests be to determine what you called positive identification, the metal scrapings with the jewelry?”

“Which test are you talking about?” says DeShield.

“Well, any of them?” says Kline, like take your pick. He is obviously angry with the witness.

“As I said, given the gold content of the trace metals taken from the table, chemical analysis would not be useful to determine a positive identification with a specific piece of jewelry. But tool marks are another matter.”

“Yes,” says Kline. “The tool marks. How specific could you be in that regard?”

“I couldn’t say for certain until I examined it, but. .”

“Then you haven’t seen this jewelry?”

“Objection. Counsel should allow the witness to answer the question before interrupting,” I say.

“Sorry,” says Kline.

“As I was saying,” says DeShield, “an examination of the jewelry I believe would be dispositive. I believe that the marks would permit a definitive identification.”

“Then you haven’t seen the jewelry?” Kline is obsessed with this. By now he is thinking we must have it, holding it for a dramatic moment, but how?

“I haven’t seen it. Not yet,” says DeShield.

This sets Kline off.

“Then you know where it is?” he says.

“No.”

“You just said you haven’t seen it yet.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Does Mr. Madriani have it?”

“I don’t know.”

Kline looks at me and for a moment I actually wonder if he’s going to demand that I take the stand.

“Your Honor, we have a right to know if the defense is withholding evidence,” says Kline.

“Your Honor.” I jump in before Radovich can say anything. “We’re aware of the rules of reciprocal discovery. I will assure the court here and now that we have not violated them. We’ve produced everything to date that the law requires us to produce. Beyond that we cannot be compelled.”

This is a legalism that does not satisfy Kline.

“Your Honor, a straight answer,” he says.

“In chambers,” says Radovich. He gavels down. “Five-minute recess.”

Inside it are Harry and I, Kline and Stobel. Kline is animated, clearly angered by my antics of hide-the-ball. He is telling the judge that he has figured it out.

“The item of jewelry is being held by Lenore Goya,” he says. “Her fingerprint on the victim’s door. Now it all makes sense,” says Kline.

“Is this true?” says Radovich.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” I say.

“You have the missing jewelry,” he says. “It no doubt belongs to his client,” Kline tells Radovich. “All the pieces fit. It’s how she muscled her way into the case.”

“Who?” says Radovich.

“Goya,” says Kline.

He calls it extortion, and Radovich cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear any more of that,” he says.

Kline comes off like a man on the edge.

“A straight answer.” Radovich looks at me. “Do you have the missing item or not?”

“I don’t have it,” I say. All the inflection is on the personal pronoun, which sets Kline off again.

“If anybody else has it, I don’t know about it,” I say.

“No games,” says Radovich. “I won’t have games here.”

“Well, he’s playing games,” says Kline.

“No games,” I say. “We may, I admit, have theories. But theories are not discoverable,” I tell the judge.

“You know where it is?” he says.

“I don’t know anything,” I tell him.

Radovich lays both hands palms down on the desk and shrugs.

“He says he doesn’t know,” he tells Kline.

“He’s lying,” says Kline.

“You’ve asked me and I’ve told you, Your Honor. I don’t have it, and I don’t know where it is.”

“Sure,” says Kline, “but Goya does.”

“You know that? Prove it,” I tell him.

“Your Honor, we move to reopen the state’s case, to call Lenore Goya to the stand,” says Kline.

“And we object,” I tell Radovich. “The state had every opportunity to call Ms. Goya during its case. It was aware of her fingerprint on the victim’s door and it failed to call her. Now they think they made a tactical mistake and they want to revisit it.”

Radovich is a million faces, expressions like melting butter behind the desk.

“I’m inclined to agree,” he says. “You had your chance,” he tells Kline. “It’s not that I’m unsympathetic.” He gives me a look as if he’s not sure he believes me.

Kline makes a last hit, and the judge cuts him off.

“Unless you can make an offer of proof,” says Radovich, “some hard evidence that Ms. Goya or Mr. Madriani has the item of jewelry in question, I’m not gonna allow you to reopen. We have to move on.”

Harry and I turn to leave.

“And you, Mr. Madriani,” says the judge. “You better not be comin’ into my court with any last-minute evidence of jewelry discovered the night before you close. Do we understand each other?”

“We understand each other,” I tell him.

He gives me the evil eye. “Good,” he says.

As I brush by Kline on the way out I can feel a shudder run through his body with this contact. He comes up close in my ear so that no one, not even Harry, can hear this.

“You tell that bitch,” he says, “you tell her that I want it.” He is actually holding my arm as he says this, a grip like iron so that I have to pull my shoulder to one side to get away.

When I look in his eyes, it is there: all of the hostility, months of shallow, concealed enmity toward Lenore suddenly bubbling to the surface, finding expression in this-a piece of missing evidence.

There comes a time when you are forced to take your chances. If you are lucky and blessed by wits, these moments occur only infrequently, snippets of panic in the middle of a trial. You try to minimize them, hedge your bets, cover your ass, but in the end you close your eyes and cross your fingers. One of these is about to happen in our case.

Jerry Franks dabbles on the edge of expertise in a dozen fields of forensics. He is master of none. His résumé has the substance of the Sunday comics. That his testimony is based on any organized body of knowledge is an item that must be taken on faith, like the beatification of the saints. He is, in short, the man you call when you wish to purchase an opinion. His credentials are not simply subject to question, they are for sale.

For all of these reasons Kline veritably gloats when I call Franks to the stand. In the war of “my expert is better than your expert,” anyone using Jerry Franks could be construed as mentally challenged.