Steve Martini - Undue Influence

She apologizes, but says she simply cannot deal with the dead infant.

I tell her that I will stay clear of it. My hand in the air, two fingers like a scout. The point is now made, I tell her.

It is all I can do given her explosive attitude on the subject. One more outburst and there is no telling what could happen to our case.

‘Nothing further will be said by me about this child until my closing argument,’ I tell her. ‘Then I will have to talk about it. But I will do it briefly and discreetly.’

She nods as if she understands.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

I take her by the arm and we head back out. When we get to the courtroom, Cassidy turns a wicked gaze on Laurel. Lama actually grins. She has given them something they have not been able to make from their own case, the whiff of suspicion, the suggestion that Laurel is now gored by conscience, that she cannot deal with the unintended consequences of her own violent act.

I can tell by the look in Morgan’s eye that we have not heard the last of this dead child. I shudder to think what might happen if I am forced to put Laurel on the stand.

Woodruff comes out. The bailiff calls the court to order, and Jack heads back into the box. The judge tells me to proceed.

‘Mr. Vega, how long have you been a member of the Legislature?’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ he says.

‘Just answer the question.’

‘Twelve years,’ he says.

‘You’re not planning on running for reelection, are you?’

‘No. I’m retiring,’ he says.

I look to Harry and he lifts the top off the box.

‘Retirement?’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve heard some of them called “country clubs,” but I’ve never heard the people who are sent there called retirees,’ I say.

He’s looking at me, not saying a word. But from the expression I know that Jack is the only other person in the room at the moment who knows what I am talking about. For the first time today we are speaking the same language. His face like a stone idol, struck by a lightning bolt. He’s looking now at the box. I can only imagine what is running through his mind. For Jack, an out-of-body experience.

‘I’m going to object to this.’ Morgan is out of her chair, about to step on a land mine. ‘The question of Mr. Vega’s future plans is irrelevant. If counsel has a question, he should ask it, and stop badgering the witness with inane comments,’ she says.

‘Then I will,’ I say. ‘Mr. Vega, is it not a fact that you have entered a plea of guilty to multiple felony counts, violations of federal law relating to political corruption?’

There is a swell of movement, like an undulating wave through the press rows, an audible gasp from the audience, the kind of revelation that comes in a courtroom once in a blue moon. A reporter in the second row actually says ‘Holy shit,’ loud enough for Woodruff to hear it but ignore. One guy near the center aisle turns, pad in hand, and with a finger in the air circles his hand in a quick motion, like the signal to start engines. I can see cameras and lights outside through the glass slit in the courtroom door, revving up — part of the media ride that Jack will be taking.

He still hasn’t answered my question.

‘I…’ Cassidy breaks off before she starts her sentence. Heated whispers in Lama’s ear. Jimmy is all shrugs, like a cheap stuffed doll that’s been repeatedly kicked in the ass. He doesn’t have a clue.

‘Your honor, I’m going to object to this … to this line of questioning. We’ve… We’ve received no notice of any of this.’

‘Nonetheless, it is true, is it not?’ I’m bearing down on Vega.

Woodruff holds up a hand. ‘The witness will not answer. There’s an objection pending.’

‘Your honor, we have certified copies both of the indictment and the record of conviction. We are not responsible for the state’s lack of knowledge in this area. We are not required to share the fruits of our own investigation with them.

‘I would point out that Mr. Vega is the state’s witness. We did not call him. These convictions go to his qualifications to testify. If he chose not to disclose this disability to the state, that’s their problem. They should take it up with him.’

‘But, your honor,’ says Cassidy.

‘He’s got a point,’ says Woodruff. ‘You called the witness.’

‘But the conviction wasn’t public record.’

‘First maybe we should find out if there was a conviction.’ Woodruff motions for the papers, to examine them.

I hand a set of the documents up to the bench, and Woodruff scans them. Another goes to Cassidy, who quickly sits and pores over them with Lama, a lot of grim looks.

All the while Jack sits in the box, turning various shades of gray. A couple of times Woodruff consults with him quietly over the edge of the bench and receives sober nods from Jack.

‘It appears these are authentic,’ says Woodruff. ‘Certified copies,’ he says. ‘Subject to a later motion to strike, I will allow counsel to explore the question,’ he says.

Cassidy’s still protesting. ‘Unfair surprise,’ she says. ‘We’ve been sandbagged by federal authorities,’ she tells Woodruff. At one point she actually mentions Dana by name, in the same way one might spit out another four-letter word.

It is all to no avail. Woodruff says her objections are noted and tells her to sit down.

I hand a set of the documents to Jack, the only player who hasn’t seen them, and I ask him if in fact they do not accurately reflect the convictions entered in his name in the federal court.

He starts to whine about his deal. ‘They weren’t supposed to release any of this until the end of the trial,’ he says. ‘We had an arrangement,’ he tells Woodruff. He’s ignoring me like I’m not here, making his appeal to the black robes.

‘Take it up with the federal court,’ says Woodruff. Jack is pitched back into the dark pit with me.

‘Mr. Vega, I ask you one more time. Do these documents accurately reflect your convictions under various pleas of guilty to felony charges in the federal court?’

‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘I’m not a lawyer.’ Like the iron statues of Lenin, you can hear the thud, the sick leaden sound. Jack the upright legislator has just toppled.

With this there’s a swell of murmuring in the front rows. Pencils worked to a dull point. A couple of the electronic folks head out to strike postures and make news in front of their cameras.

The final blow. I reach into the packet of documents and pull out a sheaf of stapled pages, four in all. It is a sentencing brief prepared by Jack’s lawyers. I call the court’s attention to the document, and a minute later we are all singing from the same sheet. I ask Jack to read it. When he is finished I wade in.

‘Did your lawyers prepare this?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then you advanced this argument to the federal court. That because your wife was murdered you made a hardship appeal for straight probation on the federal charges. No prison time,’ I say. ‘Is that right?’

‘The kids needed a father,’ he says. ‘She was in jail.’ He’s pointing to Laurel.

‘Yes, based almost entirely on your allegations,’ I say. ‘There are some who might suggest that you should have been there instead.’ I’m talking about jail.

‘I didn’t commit murder,’ he says.

‘And neither did my client. And you know it,’ I tell him.

He doesn’t respond to this. The best answer I could have hoped for.

‘The fact remains,’ I say, ‘that while your wife was dead and your former wife was in jail awaiting trial on charges of murder, that the only one who actually seems to have benefited from this sorry state of affairs was you. Isn’t that so?’