Steve Martini - Undue Influence

I punch the bell and a woman comes to the door. A pleasant face, maybe sixty-five, white hair like the lady on candy boxes, but with more style.

‘Margaret Miller?’ I say. Harry’s gotten names where possible from voter records.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Paul Madriani, this is Mr. Harry Hinds. We’d like to talk to you for a moment concerning the death of Mrs. Vega.’

The smile fades on Mrs. Miller’s face.

‘Are you with the police?’

‘We are lawyers, Mrs. Miller, hired to represent Laurel Vega. We’d like to talk to you if you have a moment.’

‘Oh.’ An expression like leprosy is now stalking her just beyond the screen door. There’s a lot of pained indecision. She would rather not, but doesn’t want to be unfair. It is what the criminal defense lawyer sees with the good citizen, the detached witness. I can tell by the way she studies us that Mrs. Miller is uncertain whether by merely entertaining us on her front porch she is now violating some criminal law.

‘I don’t know. I guess it would be okay. If it’s all right with the police,’ she says.

‘Last time I looked, they hadn’t repealed the First Amendment,’ says Harry.

She’s giving him an imperious look as I knee him, a good one, in the thigh.

Mrs. Miller gives me a smile. She unlatches the door and swings it open.

Like a brush salesman I am busy giving her a full complement of teeth, artless smiles, and assurances that the law permits her to talk with us.

Harry, properly rebuked, gives her a business card and a ration of happy horseshit. ‘It’s all part of the process of getting to the truth,’ he says, something Harry’s shown no interest in except for those few times in open court when it has reared up and kicked him in the ass.

From the look on Mrs. Miller’s face, it is against her better judgment, but she invites us in.

The Miller home is no hovel. Her living room has more bird’s eye maple than some palaces, enough antiques for a museum. It is festooned with trinkets from around the world, figurines carved of ivory, masks on the wall with the look of Polynesia. The lady, in her time, has the appearance of a global traveler. There is a picture propped on a table, of a man, she looks younger, his arm around her. They are in some far-off place, a lot of stone steps and jungle vines. There is no Mr. Miller. Or if there is, he does not vote. Harry’s guess, given to me on the street, is that the man has gone on to the great cul-de-sac in the sky.

She offers us the couch, then fidgets, not sure whether we’re the kind of guests to whom she should offer coffee. She finally decides that the right to talk does not include beverages.

‘Mrs. Miller, we have a number of questions we’d like to ask you.’ I make it sound like I’m working from a questionnaire, some marketing survey, all very clean and clinical, ‘just the facts, ma’am.’

‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ I say. Prerogatives in her own house. She could throw us both down the front stairs and we would have no recourse. Except for unusual circumstances, the law does not permit a criminal defendant to depose or otherwise take a sworn statement from a witness unless they agree to cooperate.

She sits on the edge of a chair, the last two inches supporting only her spine. Her posture conveys the thought that she doesn’t intend to stay this way for long.

‘Have you talked to the police about the events of that night?’

She nods.

‘Can I ask you how many times?’

She has to consider this for a moment. Bad news.

‘Three times. Once here. Twice at their office,’ she says.

‘The police station?’ I say.

She nods.

Only serious customers go there.

‘Did you call them?’

‘Oh, heavens no! They came here. Knocked on the door. Like you,’ she says. ‘The morning after she was …’ She reaches for the ‘M’ word, but can’t say it. Like perhaps this might be offensive to us.

‘The morning after she passed on,’ she says. Sweet and a little singsong, she makes it sound like some shifty-eyed embolism sneaked up and took Melanie in her sleep. We should wish for her on the jury.

‘Can you tell us what you told the police?’

‘I’m not sure I’m supposed to.’

‘Did the police tell you not to talk to us?’

She shakes her head.

‘That’s because under the law, they can’t. The police are forbidden to tell a witness not to cooperate with the defense in a criminal case. That’s the law,’ I say. It is also a quantum leap from the inference I would have her draw — that she must talk to us.

‘It’s how we get to the truth,’ I say. ‘Everybody talking to everybody else.’ I make it sound like a social tea. ‘I’m sure you’d like to cooperate?’

‘Oh. I don’t want to be uncooperative.’

‘Of course not. And we appreciate it. Now can you tell me, as well as you can, what you told the police?’ The devil at work.

‘I guess you want to know about the woman,’ she says.

‘The woman?’

‘The one who came to the house.’

‘You saw someone come to the Vega house the night of the murder?’

‘Yes.’

Harry and I look at each other. Bingo. The cops have a live one. The first neighbor who has seen a thing.

‘Can you tell us what time you saw this person come to the house?’

‘Actually I saw her twice,’ she says. ‘The first time about eight o’clock or thereabouts. A lot of noise. Arguing on the front porch,’ she tells us. From the way she says this the cops may not need a lip-reader to peruse Jack’s security tapes.

‘Were you able to identify this woman?’

With this she looks at me. ‘I think it was your client,’ she says. ‘They showed me a picture. Actually several pictures. I was able to pick her out. It was hard to miss her. She made so much noise and all.’

‘And did you see this woman leave?’

‘I did. A few minutes later.’

‘About what time was that?’

‘I think I told the police about eight-twenty. She got in her car and drove off. I may be wrong, about the time I mean. The police thought it was closer to eight-thirty. They’re probably right,’ she says.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’m not very good on time,’ she says. And because they’re the police. She doesn’t say the latter, but I can tell from the look on her face, like every good citizen Mrs. Miller is anxious to defer to authority.

The next item I tread on carefully, not anxious to reinforce something that may not be helpful.

‘You say someone came to the house a second time that night. Was that later?’ I ask.

‘That’s correct.’

‘You saw this person?’

‘I did.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘About eleven o’clock. Maybe a few minutes after. I saw her out on the street.’

‘Did the person arrive in a car?’ I say.

‘You mean the second time?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I didn’t see a car.’

‘Did you see which direction she came from, the second time?’

‘No. She just seemed to be standing there, near the driveway at the front of the house. And she’d changed.’

‘Changed?’

‘Her clothes.’

‘What makes you think it was the same woman you saw earlier in the evening?’

‘The build. The way she walked. Her face,’ she finally says.

‘You saw her face?’

She nods, soberly, like she knows this is bad news for our side.

‘What was this woman wearing when you saw her the second time?’

‘Sort of a sweatshirt, with a hood. It looked like running clothes to me. Like perhaps she’d been out jogging or was getting ready to go.’

‘But you did see her face?’ says Harry.

‘Pretty well,’ she says.