Steve Martini - The Judge

“Until two days ago, when we subpoenaed the witness, his vehicle was unavailable to us. In service,” I tell him. “We collected the first hair and fibers yesterday morning. They were examined late yesterday and last night.”

“So you believe they had a date that night?” says Radovich.

“I’m convinced of it,” I tell him.

“There’s still a dispute over the indented writing,” says Kline. “My experts tell me there is nothing there.”

“Ms. Snyder. This stuff, the hair and fibers,” says Radovich. “Does it look like a good search?”

“From what I could see,” she says.

“And the forensics experts who analyzed it, reputable?” he asks.

“A legitimate lab,” she says.

Kline senses shifting sand under his feet.

“Have you checked motor pool records? Are you certain that the vehicle was checked out to the witness on the date of the murder?” says the judge.

“We have checked. It was signed out to Arguillo,” I tell him.

At this moment Radovich is mired in thought. “I’m concerned about the surprise element,” he finally says. “If I allow this I’m going to have to give the state time to prepare for the cross examination of this witness.”

Like cowboys drawing their guns, we are all suddenly reaching for our pocket calendars.

“How much time do you think you need?” Radovich asks Kline.

After some quibbling they settle on four days.

Then Radovich wants to know how long it will take me to put on our hair and fibers evidence and finish with Tony.

I tell him it will be done by Thursday afternoon.

“It looks like a long weekend,” says the judge. “We go dark Friday. Reconvene Wednesday morning. Two days for cross examination.”

We all agree that this will work, though Kline doesn’t like the idea. He will be placed in the awkward position of having to rehabilitate a witness he has not called to the stand. He tells the judge this.

Radovich catches only part of this as he is already setting the schedule in motion, giving the new plans to his clerk. He wants all the exhibits locked up, secured while we are shut down. She will find a place by Friday morning, an empty locker someplace in the courthouse.

Kline is still grousing, but the decision is made. In any trial, the major battles are always procedural.

“Can we ask for immediate disclosure of all of their lab reports?” he says.

“A fair request,” says Radovich.

“And our experts would like to stand in on any further tests that are performed on this evidence.”

“Any objection?” The judge looks at me.

“No, Your Honor, but they are working through the night. As long as there’s no interference.”

“Could we have a split of the evidence? For our own test?”

“We’ll try,” I tell him. “No promises. The lab techs will have to tell me how much they have.”

Kline wants to know where Tony’s unmarked car is now located.

I tell him that it is being held in the police evidence shed, and he instructs Stobel to have their own evidence technicians gather carpet fibers.

In twelve hours he will know everything we know.

This does not solve Kline’s problem. He wants a ruling on whether I will be allowed to impeach my own witness. He argues, at least for the record, that there is no basis.

“There is some,” says Radovich. “Unless somebody borrowed his car, the witness seems to have a considerable indifference toward the truth.

“Let’s see if he has any good explanations,” he says. “Then I will let you know about impeachment.”

In the afternoon Kline passes on cross examination of Tony. As a tactic, he chooses to wait until the final act, since Radovich has told the witness that he is subject to being recalled. Arguillo is not happy about this. He senses something is up, but cannot be sure what. In a break I see him closeted with Lano on a bench, the two men throwing daggers with their eyes at me as I pass.

The rest of the day is consumed with evidence of hair and fibers, our witnesses who pored over Tony’s car. There are magnified photographs on poster board, a score of squiggly lines the size of snakes, talk of cortex and medulla making the proceedings sound like a course in Greek mythology. In the end there is a firm trail of evidence raising questions about Tony’s activities on the night of the murder, or at least the involvement of his vehicle. I bring on a motor pool employee to show that records reveal that Tony had possession of the car that night.

It is not until the following afternoon that Tony is back on the stand.

He looks as if he has slept in his clothes. He has aged a year since yesterday. The swagger and smirk have now departed, and when they peel him away from his pal Lano in the outer corridor to retake the stand, Harry tells me that Tony has the look of a man jettisoned from a lifeboat.

If I had to guess, I suspect that pieces of information have filtered to him, so that by now it is not what he knows, but what he does not know that is the basis of his anxiety.

He is reminded that he is still under oath, and Radovich tells me to proceed.

“Sergeant Arguillo. How are you?”

“Good,” he says, “fine.” His appearance belies this, to say nothing of the attitude he projects from the stand, one of unfiltered belligerence. Tony, with the help of the union, has employed his own lawyer, who raised objections out of the presence of the jury. He told Radovich that my examination of Arguillo violates the attorney-client privilege based on my prior representation of Tony. Radovich ruled that thus far he sees no conflict.

“Sergeant, we’ve talked a little about your activities on July fifteenth, the night that Brittany Hall was killed.”

He confirms that this is so.

“Were you officially on duty that night?”

“Hmm, no,” he says. “It was supposed to be my night off.”

“How was it that you became involved in this case, then?”

“I was downtown and picked up the radio message that a body had been found in the alley. I responded,” he says.

“Do you often do this? Respond to crime scenes on your day off?”

“Depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“What I’m doing. How far away it is.”

“I see. Very civic of you.”

Tony gives me a look of contempt.

“You have told us that you were present in the alley with other officers after the body was discovered. True?”

“That’s right.”

“And that at some point during that evening or the early-morning hours of the following day you were told to report to the victim’s apartment. Correct?”

“Right.”

“You told us that you knew the victim, but that you did not identify her body in the alley that night for the reason that you never got close enough to her for a good look, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“That another officer ultimately identified her?”

“Right.”

“Then I take it you never touched the body, or the blanket she was wrapped in that night?”

“Correct.”

“And when you went to her apartment, what were your specific duties? Did you go inside?”

“I did.”

“Did you report to anyone?”

“There was a lieutenant there, Michaelson,” he says.

“You reported to Lieutenant Michaelson?”

“Yeah.”

“And what did he tell you to do?”

“He told me to look around outside. Check windows, look for evidence of a break-in.”

“And did you do this?”

“I did.”

“Now, when you arrived at the apartment, were forensic technicians already there?”

He thinks for a moment. Gives me a shrug. “The log would tell you.”

“I’m asking you if you remember.”