Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘People forget things,’ he says. ‘How am I supposed to remember everything I owned all of my life?’

‘Do you often have trouble with your memory?’ I say. It is a stinging question, but not subject to objection.

He doesn’t answer, but gives me a look, something that might turn the more timid to stone.

‘Well, then, let me ask you this,’ I say. ‘Do you consider the listing of items in this document, the property-settlement agreement signed by yourself and the defendant, to be a more accurate reflection of physical possessions, yours and the defendant’s, than your memory?’ I say.

‘That’s why people usually write things down, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Because they tend to forget .’

He puts all the emphasis on the last word, like this should be obvious to any idiot.

‘Precisely,’ I say.

He tries to hand the document back to me.

‘Not quite yet,’ I say. ‘Would you turn to page four, item twenty-six?’

He flips pages.

‘Please read it aloud to the court?’

He scans it first, then looks at me, an expression like some doe about to be nailed by a train.

‘Read it,’ I say, my tone stiffening.

‘To Respondent-’ He stops reading and silently absorbs this.

‘Fine. With the court’s permission I’ll read it. “To the Respondent, one handcrafted white woven bath rug, with geometric floral design, label ‘by Gerri.’”

‘But she didn’t get it,’ he says. ‘I did.’ Jack’s coming out of the chair.

‘Did you sign this agreement?’

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘And who was the Respondent in your divorce?’ I ask him.

He’s seemingly baffled, wondering how this could have happened. The gun is one thing. He doesn’t answer the question.

‘You were the Petitioner. Isn’t it a fact that the bathroom rug with the label “by Gerri” belonged to your former wife, to Laurel Vega? Isn’t it a fact, sir, that it went to her as part of the property-settlement agreement following your divorce?’

A lot of shrugging shoulders. Jack looking at the print on the page like if he studies it long enough it might disappear.

I retreat to the evidence cart and grab the rug, approach the witness box, and flip the back of the carpet, sticking it six inches under Jack’s nose.

‘Tell the jury what that label says,’ I tell him. ‘Read it to the jury.’

When he looks up at me, the cheaters have slid halfway down his nose.

‘What does it say?’

‘ “By Gerri,” ’ he says.

‘Thank you.’

I leave the rug balanced in front of him on the railing, like an albatross around his neck, and turn. When I do, I see Cassidy looking at me, wondering how they could have missed this. I cannot blame them. I would never have found it myself, except for my recollections about Jack’s antics with the gun, and Laurel’s admonition the day I met with her in the jail, that Vega had raised such a stink about the pistol, demanding that his claim be embedded in the settlement agreement. When I got to reading, one item lead to another. What Jack must be thinking at this moment — the things we do that bite us in the butt.

There is now a major cloud hovering over the last piece of physical evidence linking Laurel to Melanie’s murder. And while Jack is still insisting that the rug was in his house the night she was killed, he has no clever explanation for its appearance under Laurel’s column in the property-settlement agreement.

This afternoon Harry drinks his lunch in celebration of this, two Manhattans and a Long Island Tea. His nose is redder than Rudolph’s by the time we return to court, where a courier is waiting for me with a large box. True to her word, Dana has delivered Jack into our arms, not with a kiss, but a kick.

We retire to one of the rooms back of the court, where Harry and I examine this stuff privately. It is gold; certified copies of the grand jury indictment and record of conviction, Jack’s plea to the federal district court on multiple counts of political corruption. Dana has even provided copies for Woodruff and opposing counsel, with a note that the press will be alerted to the conviction at two this afternoon. Jack can expect a crowd on his way out, boom mikes in the face and bright lights.

This afternoon Harry is ready to subpoena Vega’s bank records, personal and legislative, a legal copy service is waiting for him to telephone with the word. If Jack hired somebody to do the deed, as Dana suspects, there should be some large cash withdrawal in the period just before and possibly just after Melanie’s murder. When it comes to money, Vega is a prudent man. He would want to work on the installment plan.

This afternoon I go to work on a theme that will become central to our case, that Jack has every reason in the world for incriminating Laurel in this case. I ask him if he is sorry to see his former wife, the mother of his children here, at the defense table charged with murder.

In the tempered terms of a statesman he calls it ‘a tragedy.’

We review Lama’s earlier testimony that it was Jack who immediately fingered Laurel without a shred of hard evidence the night of the murder.

‘They asked me if I knew anyone who might want to kill my wife,’ he says. ‘She’d made death threats. What was I supposed to say?’ Jack has spent the noon hour having his ass kicked by Cassidy. He is now doing better, and he knows it.

‘When did you take legal custody of the children?’ I ask.

He gives me a date.

‘Then it was after the arrest of their mother for murder that you finally got what you wanted?’

‘She was no longer available to care for them. What else was there to do?’

‘She wasn’t available because she was in jail, based largely on your accusations.’

‘That she made death threats against Melanie,’ he says.

‘And the assertion that the bathroom carpet found in her possession was from your house.’ This is not a question, but he answers it.

‘It was not an assertion. It was the truth,’ he says.

‘Based solely on your word,’ I tell him. ‘And the fact remains, you got the children and she went to jail. I suppose that’s one way to end a bitter custody battle.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he says.

‘What do you think it means?’ Better from his mouth than mine.

‘If you’re trying to imply that I falsely accused her, you’re wrong. Worse,’ he says, ‘you’re a liar.’

‘So you wouldn’t do anything like that? You would never knowingly deceive the authorities in their investigation of the case?’

‘No,’ he says. Jack puts up a wholly indignant look, the pious and trusted public official.

‘You just forgot about the gun?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Let’s talk about how you found out your wife was pregnant. You told the court in earlier testimony that your wife told you about this. Is that correct?’

He looks at me. ‘To the best of my recollection.’ More faulty memory.

‘To the best of your recollection?’ I smile broadly and turn toward the jury. ‘This is your wife telling you that she was about to have your child. Surely you would remember something like that?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I remember it.’

‘And when was this, approximately?’

He thinks for a moment.

‘Late last summer sometime.’

‘Can’t you be more specific?’

‘I think it was August or September. I can’t be sure.’

‘And where did she tell you this? What were you doing?’

‘I can’t remember. I think it was in the living room. I was probably reading.’

‘You can’t remember what you were doing? This news must have made a real impression on you,’ I say.

He looks at me. If Jack had something in his hand at this moment he would throw it.