Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘It’s a natural conclusion to be drawn from the evidence,’ says Cassidy.

‘Did the state find any blood?’ I say. ‘Or any other evidence?’

‘How could they? Your client washed it off.’

‘That’s speculation,’ I tell her.

Woodruff is becoming a potted plant. He finally notices.

‘Address your arguments to me,’ he says.

‘Your honor. The rug is stolen property,’ she says. Morgan Cassidy has a positive gift for torturing facts. In her hands evidence can take on more twists and embellishments than wrought iron.

‘According to whom?’ I ask.

‘According to the victim’s husband.’

‘Stop. Stop. One at a time,’ says Woodruff. ‘First you.’

He points to Cassidy. Morgan doing what she does best, seizing the initiative.

She argues that the rug is stolen property, that the state is entitled to a reasonable inference, that mere possession of this item by the defendant is evidence of her guilt.

I bellow like some wounded bull before she can finish.

‘There’s no evidence that the rug was stolen.’

Woodruff is scratching his head, a blizzard of dandruff on the bench blotter. They don’t pay enough for these decisions, he’s thinking.

I lead him to the affidavit signed by Laurel under penalty of perjury that the rug was hers, that it was never at the victim’s residence.

‘So what?’ says Cassidy. ‘We have a counteraffidavit signed by Mr. Vega to the contrary. It clearly puts the rug in the victim’s house at the time of the murder.’

‘Fine. There’s a dispute of fact,’ I say. ‘There is nothing approaching established evidence that the rug was stolen. That’s for the jury to decide.’

‘And if they decide that it is stolen, are we entitled to an instruction?’ says Cassidy. She’s talking about a jury instruction so that they can infer guilt from the mere possession of the rug.

‘That’s an argument for another day. We’re not here to talk jury instructions. Or am I wrong?’

‘Good point,’ says Woodruff. He’s finally on the same page with us.

Cassidy is making an effort to frame the issues to her own liking. Enough sand thrown up and maybe I’ll lose my place on the sheet, start singing out of tune. We’ve done a complete circle and we’re back to square one. Woodruff points to me.

‘Your turn.’

‘The problem is not what the jury might be allowed to deduce from fairly presented evidence,’ I tell him, ‘but what the prosecution might be permitted to infer when talking about that evidence — the rug and the solvents on her hands,’ I say.

Like a light has come on behind Woodruffs eyes. He finally gets it.

‘They wouldn’t do that,’ he says.

I read to him from the lab report, the supposition that Laurel intentionally frustrated the powder-residue tests by immersing her hands in the chemicals.

‘Oh,’ he says.

Cassidy, sensing the hammer about to fall, starts to argue.

‘Enough,’ says Woodruff. He looks at her. ‘Did you find any powder residue on her hands?’

‘How could we, your honor?’

‘Anything on the carpet?’

‘It was washed clean.’

‘And you want to infer that this involves intentional destruction of evidence?’

‘We should be given the latitude,’ says Cassidy. ‘What’s so speculative?’ she says. ‘The defendant fled the scene, took the carpet, washed it to clean away any evidence. What could be more clear?’

I don’t think Woodruff is going to buy this, but he is listening — a dangerous sign.

‘Is that a reasonable inference?’ I ask. ‘Think about it, your honor, if the state’s theory is correct. Let’s assume you commit a murder. So you grab a soiled rug from the scene, splotched with blood, and drive a hundred and thirty miles to another city to wash it. If it’s evidence of a crime, why not leave it at the scene? If it’s true what the state says, that the carpet was in the house, then its discovery there after the crime would in no way implicate or incriminate you, would it? Unless the killer had a fetish for cleanliness, why take it?’ I say.

‘Maybe she panicked,’ says Cassidy.

‘Fine. Then why not dispose of it somewhere on the road, after panic had subsided?’

For this Cassidy has no response.

‘If any inference is to be drawn from possession of the rug, from its washing in a public laundromat in full view of other patrons, that inference should not be one of guilt, but innocence,’ I say. ‘People with guilty knowledge don’t act in this way,’ I tell them.

Dead silence. Woodruff looking at me.

It is hard to argue with the stupidity of this act. If Laurel murdered Melanie, the antics with the scrap of carpet defy all logic.

‘Seems pretty clear,’ says Woodruff. He looks at Cassidy. ‘You can introduce the rug into evidence. But I don’t want to hear any inference about nonexistent bloodstains or powder residue on the defendant’s hands that couldn’t be found,’ he says.

‘Your honor-’

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Next.’ Woodruff looks at me.

‘What about the statement in the lab report?’ I ask him. Why settle for a half loaf if I can get it buttered? ‘We would move to have it stricken,’ I say.

An imperious look from the judge.

‘Maybe you can soften the language.’ He looks at Cassidy.

‘She put her hands in the solvent. How many ways are there to say it?’ she says.

‘Take out the word “intentionally” and we can live with it,’ I say.

‘There. How about that?’ says Woodruff.

Cassidy, shaking her head. ‘Fine,’ she says.

‘Why couldn’t you two have stipulated the point before coming here?’ The judge looks at me.

He has never tried the word ‘compromise’ on Cassidy.

‘Now… what’s next?’

Woodruff is poring over the papers.

‘Looks like a witness-identification problem,’ he says. ‘What do we have, a bad lineup?’ He looks down his nose at Cassidy. She’s not winning any points here: what happens when you circle the wagons and make an issue on every point.

‘The lineup was tainted,’ I say.

‘How?’

‘We’ve subpoenaed witnesses,’ I tell him.

‘Is that necessary?’ says Woodruff.

I think maybe he’s got an early starting time on the links.

‘I think we could handle it in oral argument,’ says Cassidy.

She would.

‘Is the prosecution willing to stipulate?’ I ask.

‘To what?’ says Cassidy.

‘To exclusion of the identification evidence.’ I’m talking about the witness who claims she saw Laurel at Vega’s house the night of the murder.

‘Not on your life,’ she says.

‘Then I’d like to call my witnesses.’

A lot of grousing from the judge. I do some groveling, assurances that I will move it along.

Looking at his watch, Woodruff gives me the nod.

‘You got twenty minutes,’ he says.

I call Jimmy Lama to the stand and have him sworn to testify.

Lama has prepped for this as well as he can under the circumstances. True to form, he has tried to sandbag us on a witness.

Margaret Miller is Jack Vega’s neighbor. Harry and I had talked to her in the weeks following the murder. She had given us dirt about Melanie’s male visitors and the fact that she had seen Laurel twice at the Vega home on the night of the murder, the first time when the two women argued on the front porch. The second visit was closer to the time of the murder, and Miller has told the police that she saw Laurel in a sweatshirt and hood out on the street in front of the house.

The problem here is one of procedure and fundamental fairness, something as alien as moon rocks to Lama.

I turn to Jimmy in the witness box.