Steve Martini - Undue Influence

He would convince the feds that the Capitol is a den of thieves, not that they would need much convincing. And if anyone whispered the word wire, there is not a doubt in my mind Jack would show up with cables coming out his ears and a car battery strapped to his ass.

I see a guard bringing Laurel in through the steel door that leads from the holding cells. My conversation with Dicks comes to an end. He drifts off to circle again with the pack. Having planted this seed in my curiosity patch, he will no doubt watch to see if it sprouts during trial.

Laurel is sans the shackles and chains, though she is still wearing the orange jail jumper, like some farmer’s daughter in papa’s overalls. With no jury in the box, for the moment, her looks are irrelevant to the interest of justice.

She sits down at the counsel table and I join her.

Not a word, she takes my hand on top of the table. Her look over at me is only fleeting, a smile, forced in bad times. In our few conversations she has seemed embarrassed that her grief has been laid on my plate. There have been repeated promises that she will pay every dime of her legal fees. At one point she even told me to bring on the public defender. She would qualify for services.

‘What’s going to happen?’ she says. ‘Here today.’

‘Just conforming charges to evidence,’ I tell her. It is hard to imagine that they could do more damage. I am thinking maybe some legally ham-handed effort to shore up their special circumstances, to bolster the theory that Laurel was skulking around Jack’s house that night, hiding in closets, waiting for Melanie to come around a corner.

Harry has his own theory. He is guessing that they will charge Laurel with robbery — the theft of the bathroom rug that she was washing in Reno, and which she has yet to explain. The crime of robbery in connection with a murder falls under the felony-murder doctrine, its own form of special circumstances that justifies a death sentence.

I have told Harry this is garbage. Robbery would require evidence that Laurel formed the intent to take the rug before she confronted Melanie. No one has ever accused Nelson and his staff of being mentally wounded. It would take such an assumption for the state to try this case on the theory that Laurel murdered Melanie over a scrap of carpet.

Commotion, bodies moving, shadows in the corridor beside the judge’s bench. First I see Jimmy Lama, then a feline form coming out ahead of the bailiff. Duane Nelson has made his assignment of counsel, the prosecutor who will do this case.

Morgan Cassidy is part of Nelson’s A-list, one of four or five top trial deputies out of nearly a hundred lawyers in the office. She does only heavy-duty stuff, a woman with a death wish for every defendant. Five-foot-six, trim in the way only frenetic people are, a Dutch-cut brunette, she is not a lawyer to inspire trust among the defense bar. She has been known to win a few cases at any cost, a woman who will tangle with a judge, and in the best two falls out of three will come up wearing his balls.

She is driven, obsessed with the chase, one of those people who flail themselves hourly for their few missteps in life, who are haunted in their quest for success, but once victorious find no enjoyment in it. A trial against her is like milking a cow in competition with a machine. She has a plug on every leak in your case, with the suction turned on supercharge.

What is as distressing as her presence here is the fact that she comes to the courtroom from the direction of the judge’s chambers. With anyone else I might not care. With Morgan I am wondering what plot she hatches.

Cassidy doesn’t look at me, but Lama gives me a smirk as he passes in front of our table. He does a little shifting of the eyes under this shit-eating grin, to Cassidy then back to me as if to say, ‘Looky what warped soul I brought you.’

They get to their table and arrange a few papers. Lama will sit with her during the trial, the people’s representative. They are entitled to one, and as the detective in charge, Jimmy would be most familiar with the evidence — real, and, at times in Lama’s career, manufactured.

I would get up and talk to Cassidy, ply her a little, but there is no time. On their shadow is Tim Bone, presiding judge of the municipal court. He is up on the bench swinging wood and coming to order.

‘The matter of the People versus Laurel Jane Vega.’

The clerk reads the file number. The stenographer hitting the keys, taking notes.

Bone is tight-lipped, a skinny little man, bald as a baby’s ass, and not to be screwed with. He has a face like yesterday’s wash left too long in the dryer, a lot of wrinkles, and cold.

‘I believe the defendant was informed of her rights at the initial arraignment,’ says Bone. ‘So we can dispense with that here.

‘Ms. Cassidy, have you delivered a copy of the indictment to counsel yet?’ The way he says this makes me think that it has been the subject of some conversation in chambers between the two of them. Like maybe Bone is not happy that we’ve received no notice. As a legal principle it doesn’t matter. The purpose of the arraignment is to identify the defendant and to advise us of the charges pending. But Bone is a stickler for courtesy.

‘Doing it now, your honor.’ Cassidy snaps her attaché case open, takes out a sheaf of papers, and waltzes over to hand it to me. It is stapled, numbered in the left margin, and looks about the same as what we received in the first arraignment.

‘Mr. Madriani, you should take a few moments.’ Bone is beckoning me to read. ‘I’ve told Ms. Cassidy that this is not to happen again. Not in my court. In the future you will deliver copies of charging documents to opposing counsel in advance of arraignment,’ he says.

‘Yes, your honor.’ About as chastened as a hooker caught with her john.

I am reading down the page, the single count of murder, followed by the allegations of special circumstances — lying in wait. So far so good. If Cassidy has goosed it for advantage, I don’t see this. I flip the page. Nothing new. Turn it over. On page three, centered in the middle, big bold print:

COUNT TWO

As and for a second and separate count, it is further alleged and the defendant is charged with violation of Section 187 of the Penal Code in that on October 19th of this year, she did unlawfully take the life of John Doe, an unborn male child…

For an instant I sit there glazed, my eyes no longer focusing on the page. I slide it at an angle so that Laurel can read over my shoulder, my finger moving under the operative words ‘unborn male child.’

By her expression she is wondering why it is necessary for her to be reviewing technical revisions of the indictment. Then the words settle in. Big eyes, she is reading, swallowing air.

‘Oh, my God,’ she says. Hand to her mouth, she is suddenly ill, like a sucker punch to the gut. She retches, a deep convulsion, but comes up dry. Hand to stomach, she is still reading, like maybe the words on the page will change. Vanishing ink.

I am thankful that at this moment there is no jury in the box to witness this. There is a lot of satisfaction spreading across Cassidy’s face, she and Lama busy studying the defendant for affect. In their eyes Laurel’s actions possess all the confirmation of guilty knowledge, the ultimate import of her dark deed. I am struck in this moment by the irrefutable fact that a trial with these two is not likely to be a religious experience.

I stumble to my feet to object, without much purpose, and before I fully comprehend. What can I say? They have surprised us. We respectfully request that the court dismiss the charge? Cassidy knows her tactics constitute a wrong without a remedy.

‘Your honor. This is the first we are hearing of this. The state has declined to produce its pathology report.’