Steve Martini - The Judge

“Objection. Asked and answered,” says Kline.

“Absolutely.” Tony answers before the judge can rule, and Radovich lets it stand.

“And to your knowledge, your name did not appear on a small Post-it note on her calendar for the date in question?”

The inference here is slick, the jury left to wonder if Tony did not remove the note himself, once he reported to the scene.

Kline shoots to his feet, an objection at the top of his lungs.

“Your Honor, I’m asking him if he knows.”

“Sustained,” says Radovich. “I’ve warned you,” he says. He’s halfway out of his chair up on the bench, the gavel pointed at me like a Roman candle about to shoot flaming colored balls.

“No. There was no note,” says Tony.

“Shut up,” says Radovich.

Tony hunches his head down into his collar, like a turtle shrinking into its shell.

“You don’t answer a question when I’ve sustained an objection.” He would add, “you stupid shit” but the collection of bulging eyes in the jury box has curbed his temper.

“The jury will disregard the question, and the answer,” he says. “Both are stricken.”

The only one foolish enough to speak at this moment is yours truly.

“There is a good-faith reason for the question,” I tell him.

Radovich looks at me as if there is nothing this side of the moon that could possibly justify what I have done after his earlier admonition.

“There is evidence, a basis upon which I have pursued this question.”

He sends the jury out. Radovich looks at me, fire in his eyes. “In chambers,” he says. “And it better be good.”

It starts as a trip to the judicial woodshed.

“I hope to hell you brought your toothbrush.” It is Radovich’s opener to me from behind the mahogany desk once we arrive in chambers. He is not smiling. He doesn’t sit or remove his robes, the sign that he expects this to be short-a summary execution.

Kline and Stobel take up positions like bookends, with Harry and me in the middle. We huddle, standing around the desk, jockeying for position to advance our arguments. The court reporter has his little machine between his knees, though he has not started scribing. My guess is that the judge would not want these overt threats on the record, one of the perks that come with power.

“You keep stirring the embers on this note from the calendar,” says Radovich. “Something you can’t prove up.”

“There is a reason,” I say.

“It better damn well be a good one, or you’re gonna do the night in jail,” he tells me.

There are sniggers and smiles from Kline and Stobel, like two kids who just farted in choir.

Kline weighs in, making his pitch that we are trying to impeach our own witness, a taboo of procedure, unless Tony is declared to be a hostile witness. He claims there is no basis for this.

“There’s no evidence that he’s lying, or that he’s surprised you.”

The legal test in pursuing the alleged note on the calendar is a good-faith belief. If there is some basis in fact for me to believe the note existed and that Tony’s name was on it, I have a right to ask. If not, I will be undergoing cavity searches by sunset.

I ask to make an offer of proof, a showing that I have such a good-faith belief. I ask Radovich if I can bring in one more person.

The judge nods. “Make it quick.”

When Harry opens the door it is to admit Laurie Snyder, the special master appointed by Radovich to oversee the collection of our physical evidence.

Snyder is in her late thirties, a big woman, taller than I-dark hair and all business. She is now in private practice, but spent eight years working as a prosecutor in this town. Her appearance in chambers takes some of the edge off of Radovich’s attitude, so that when he sees her he is compelled to at least smile and offer a greeting.

After this he slumps into his chair, a concession that this is likely to take longer than he’d hoped.

“Two days ago, early in the afternoon,” I say, “evidence was discovered, the significance of which was only made apparent to us this morning,” I tell Radovich.

“I should have known,” says Kline. “Last-minute surprises. Your Honor, if this is evidence we have not seen I’m going to object.”

“Please sit down. Be quiet,” he says.

Kline does it, but he’s not happy.

“It was developed, as a direct result of evidence presented by the state in its case in chief,” I say, “and it’s in the nature of impeachment.”

“What is this evidence?” says Radovich.

“Carpet fibers from another vehicle which correspond in kind and character to those found on the blanket used to wrap the body of the victim.”

“That’s it?” says Kline. “That’s what you have? Your Honor. .”

“Mr. Kline, if you don’t shut up, the two of you can share a cell tonight. Then you can piss all over each other to your heart’s content, and we won’t have to listen to it.”

At this moment the court reporter is the only one smiling.

“That’s not all,” I say. “These carpet fibers were discovered in another county-owned vehicle, part of the fleet. It was the police car assigned to the witness, Tony Arguillo.”

“Fibers are not fingerprints,” says Kline.

Radovich shoots him a look, death in a glance.

“I hope for your sake it gets better,” says the judge.

This seems to pacify the prosecutor, at least for the moment.

“There was more,” I say. “They also found hair in this vehicle.”

Radovich gives Snyder a look, and the sobering nod he gets in return tells him there is something significant here.

“What kind of hair?” says the judge.

“Horse hair,” I tell him, “and human hair.”

He motions for me to tell him more.

“The forensics experts have already confirmed that the animal hair is consistent in all respects with the horse hair previously identified. They’re prepared to testify that it’s consistent in color and character with the hair found on the blanket used to wrap the body of the victim as well as those found in her apartment.”

Radovich is rocking in his chair, hands coupled behind the back of his neck as he listens to this. His expression, pursed lips and pensive, tells me that he is doing the job of judging-in this case weighing the evidence.

“We all know, hair is not dispositive,” says Kline. “You made the argument yourself,” he tells me.

Radovich nods like maybe he agrees with him, that this merely establishes a swearing contest among the experts.

“They have also identified human hair on the floor of the front seat in Tony Arguillo’s unmarked police car. A lot of incriminating evidence.” I remind him that the police have failed to turn up any hair matching that of the victim in my client’s own vehicle. “On balance, at this moment, there is more evidence pointing to Sergeant Arguillo than Judge Acosta,” I add.

Kline huffs and puffs, makes a mockery of this. “Did they find Sergeant Arguillo’s glasses at the scene of the murder?”

When I don’t respond he answers for me. “No,” he says.

“The issue is not whether I can prove the guilt of the officer beyond a reasonable doubt,” I tell Radovich, “but whether I should be permitted to inquire into the officer’s whereabouts on the night of the murder, and the possibility that he had a date with the victim.”

“Your Honor, we’ve had no chance to examine any of this,” says Kline. “It is very convenient in the eleventh hour.” He calls it “trial by ambush.”

When he finally stops arguing, all we are hearing is the ticking of an antique regulator clock on the wall, while Radovich thinks.

“And when did you say you found all of this?” he asks.