Steve Martini - The Judge

“We will expect him to share his results,” I say.

“You’re not concerned about this?”

“Why should I be? I know what was on that calendar.” At least part of this is the truth.

“Whose name was on the note?” By now there are more cameras, enough lights to film a movie, a growing throng so that they block our way.

“Follow the trial,” I tell them, “and you’ll find out. All will be revealed,” I say, giving them a deliberate sound bite so that several of them turn in front of their own cameras, to put a twist on it for a closer: “There you have it. .”

Out of the crowd comes a hand on my arm from behind. When I turn it is Gus Lano.

“Cute. Very cute,” he says.

The last thing I want is an argument here in front of the cameras with Lano.

“Now if you could tell me when you’re gonna call me?” He is almost polite in his inquiry.

“When I get around to it,” I tell him.

Lano has been cooling his heels in the outer corridor for two days now, under subpoena. I have told him he could be called at any moment. Tony is standing behind him over his shoulder, two bumps on the same log.

Lano waves a small paper envelope in front of my eyes, florid drawings in bright colors, a commercial jet superimposed over an exotic beach somewhere, a female bottom in a bikini poking over the wing tip, all the fantasies conjured by commercial art.

“Tickets to fly,” says Lano, “bags packed and downstairs. I’m outta here tomorrow night. Five o’clock flight.”

“We all have our problems.” I push by him and he grabs my arm one more time.

“Five o’clock,” he says. “You can call me next and get it over with.” He is serious. Lano thinks I will actually structure the order of my evidence to accommodate his vacation plans.

“If you like I can get an order from the court to have the marshal hold you.” I remind him that as a peace officer he is an attaché of the court and cannot leave until they are finished with him.

“My ass,” he says.

“It will be if you try to leave.”

Several of the cameras are now back on, capturing these last words for posterity.

“Excuse me.” I push through, Harry behind me.

“Are you a witness?” One of them asks Lano.

“Only because of the harassment and abuse of the defense. Figments of their imaginations. They are calling witnesses that have nothing to do with the case as a smoke screen.”

The reporters are eating this up.

He has an outstretched arm pointed in my direction as I walk away. “The defense in this case is grounded on the defamation of upstanding law enforcement officers,” he tells them. “People who risk their lives for public safety every day,” he says. “They are willing to do anything to win.” Lights are suddenly on my back, accusations I can do nothing about and would rather not hear. Lano’s impromptu news conference. I hear my name taken in vain one more time as Harry lets the courtroom door close behind us. The war of media spin is beginning to leave tractor marks on my face.

Inside, the audience is milling, standing room only. I look at my watch and we are late. Kline is not at his table, nor is Stobel. Acosta is at ours, backed by a guard. I send Harry forward to chaperon. Something is up-it is in the air. One of the bailiffs approaches.

“They want you back in chambers,” he says.

I make my way down the corridor past the bench, wondering what intrigue of procedure Kline is up to now. My best guess, he is renewing his motion to reopen his case to call Lenore, some new evidence he claims to have discovered.

“They have been waiting for you inside.” It is a stern look I get from Radovich’s clerk when I show my face that is the first indication I may be wrong.

The minute I am through the judge’s door, I can feel that the air is heavy with a charge of electricity.

Radovich is behind his desk, brows knit and heavy, like images of God from the vaulted ceiling of some Renaissance chapel. Kline barely looks at me, and Stobel turns away.

“Mr. Madriani. I’m glad you could make it,” says the judge. This is clearly his party, and it has me worried.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” I offer some feeble excuse about cameras in the corridor.

“Never mind that,” says Radovich. “There have been some serious charges made. During the break Mr. Kline had one of his experts examine that calendar.”

All of a sudden there is a knot in my stomach the dimensions of a good-sized boulder.

“We are concerned,” says Radovich, “that they could not find any evidence of indented writing.”

I actually stammer in trying to speak, something Kline seems to enjoy, if a smile is an indication.

“How thorough could they have been in the time that they had?” I finally say.

“That could be it,” says the judge. “But I thought it was only fair to tell you that the people are making an inquiry in this matter.”

“Something for their case in rebuttal?” I say.

“That’s not what we have in mind,” says Kline. “I’m not worried about your witness. I suspect the jury can see through that for themselves. But suborning perjury is a more serious matter. Especially for an officer of the court.” Kline’s anger has laid quick roots.

“You’d better hope you can back that up,” I tell him. I take a step forward, in his face, as I say this. The best defense. .

“For your sake I hope that he cannot,” says Radovich.

There are a million reasons, I tell the judge, why impressions of writing may be transitory. If heavy items were laid on top of the calendar in the evidence lockup, or if it was folded or rolled, what was there when we examined it months ago might now be obliterated.

“I am told that a scanning electron microscope can detect impressions if they were there,” says Kline. “We will find out.”

“Enough said,” says Radovich. “We have a trial to finish,” he says.

Up from behind his desk, he does not give me a warm look as we exit his chambers, though he is careful not to linger behind to show favoritism with Kline or Stobel. If nothing else, my antics with Franks as a witness, I suspect, have now lost me the trust of this judge.

The first thing I notice about Tony Arguillo as he takes the stand is that the swagger is still in his walk. He knows that the note taken by Lenore that night has long since been destroyed. No doubt by now Kline has found some way to inform him that the impression evidence, if it exists, has its limitations. The contents that could point to Tony are hearsay and inadmissible. He has the appearance of the bullet-proof man as he sits in the chair and looks at me.

“Can you tell us what you do for a living?” I say.

“Police officer. Sergeant,” he says.

“You were one of the officers present in the alley the night the body of the victim was discovered?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know her, the victim?”

Tony looks at me. He would no doubt deny this if he thought he could. Still, we have already established by other witnesses that Hall was a police groupie, with a long association with Vice and its members.

“We were acquainted,” he finally says.

“Professionally or socially?”

“Professionally.” He is not willing to cross this line.

“Did you ever go to the victim’s residence?”

“Objection. Vague as to time,” says Kline.

“Sustained.”

“Let’s just talk about the time prior to her death. At any time before she was murdered had you ever had occasion to be inside the victim’s residence?”

Again Tony wants to consider this before he answers. It is the problem when you have no clue as to what the other side knows.

“It’s possible I was there,” he says. “I coulda been. As a cop you visit a lot of places. But I don’t have a specific recollection.”