Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“Judge.” It’s all that will come out of my mouth. I nod, forced deference.

The Coconut has a woman by the arm, dark complexion like his own, a fierce resemblance. I suspect this is his sister, the mother of the dead victim Sharon Collins. There are no introductions. It is not that friendly. Instead he whispers in the woman’s ear, and a second later she walks off by herself toward the seats in the auditorium.

“I want to talk to you,” he says. This is no request. He wags a finger in my face, backs out, through the stream of bodies jostling in the doorway. He finds a quiet area outside, in front of the building, on the steps. Once there he turns on me quickly, mincing no words.

“I don’t know how you got here,” he says. He means my appointment as prosecutor. “I had hoped for somebody,” he searches for the right word, “more competent,” he finally says. “Judge Ingel talked to you?”

I nod.

“Then you know why I’m here,” he says.

“I do. And you have my sympathies,” I say.

He looks at me, something halfway between meanness and a surly smirk.

“I don’t want your fucking sympathies,” he tells me. He suddenly loses the clipped tones of affected English. “You can shower all of that on the suckers inside,” he says. “What I want is a look at the file, everything the cops have, in the Collins case,” he says. He looks at me stone-faced. He knows I cannot give him this, confidential files on a pending murder investigation.

“Everything is being done that can be,” I tell him.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” I say.

“I can give you some help,” he tells me.

“In what way?”

“I have access to people in Capital County who have made offers of assistance.” He’s talking about special treatment for a member of the bench. He tells me some cops, old friends, are willing to dog leads for him in their spare time. They will no doubt be given special treatment the next time they come looking for a search warrant or take the stand in his court. Such is the common currency in the halls of justice.

He tells me Davenport is a cow county. “You know as well as I that they have limited resources. I have no intention of sitting back and watching as they close the books on my niece,” he says.

“No one’s closing the books.”

“Then you won’t mind if I look at the files.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?” He’s picking lint off the shoulder of my coat now, his message that I do nothing right, not to his level of expectations, even to the point of my dress.

“Your honor.” I back away a full step. The lint on my shoulder belongs to me.

“I’m not looking for an argument or a difficult time. You know as well as I that the files in a pending case are not public,” I say. “They are not available to anyone but the investigators working the case.”

Cold beady eyes, like some Aztec high priest about to do sacrifice on an altar of stone. In this moment he is, I am sure, measuring the myriad ways a judge can screw over a hapless lawyer. I suspect he has made promises to his sister that now, because of my intransigence, he cannot keep.

“What I would have expected,” he says, “from someone like you.” Then his forefinger is in my face, manicured and long, and shaking with anger. “Don’t fuck up,” he says. His expression cold and dead.

Then I hear the click of hard heels as he turns and leaves me standing alone on the steps.

Against my own better judgment I have drawn the private duty with family members, along with Claude in a smaller conference room off the main auditorium. I can hear table-pounding and loud voices outside, in the other room. Emil is having his own come-to-Jesus meeting with the press.

We are seated around a large table now, conference style, Julie Park’s parents, her father Kim Park, a physician from Southern California at one end of the table. The Sniders are next to him, then Mr. and Mrs. Collins and Acosta. Next to him is Rodney Slate’s mother. I am told that his father is hospitalized with a serious heart condition, no doubt worsened by the loss of his only son.

Acosta is silent in this meeting, his brooding eyes on me every second. He has always been one for the appearance of propriety. It is one thing to bend the rules, to slip a peek at official files, another to come here dripping saliva and demanding blood with the unwashed masses. That would be unseemly. He would rather backdoor me with Ingel. So here, he will sit, bide his time and listen to the others, ever the proper jurist, the soul of restraint.

There’s a young kid in his teens seated next to Mrs. Snider, a strong family resemblance. My guess is that this is a younger brother of the victim, Jonathan Snider. At the other end of the table is a man in a blue serge suit passing out business cards. He flips one down the table in my direction.

GEORGE CAYHILL

ASSISTANT DEAN FOR STUDENT AFFAIRS

He has insinuated himself into this meeting, representing the interests of the university.

A woman next to Cayhill, in the dark glasses, removes these to reveal high, prominent cheek bones, and wide-set hazel eyes, a bit reddened I think by recent tears. She is tall and slender, taller than I, with feminine and fetching moves. She has thick brunette hair, generous waves which cascade around her shoulders as she shakes it free. Her mouth matches the breadth of her other facial features, with generous pouting lips. It is the face, I think, of classic design, not the simpering beauty of a covergirl, but more unique. Her gaze is intense, like maybe there is something more than good looks behind these eyes. She wears little makeup. There is something wholesome in her looks, like the snapshot of a dressed-up farm girl in the 1940s. She reminds me of images I have seen recently on the silver screen, of Geena Davis in vintage flashbacks.

Without warning she fires a quick glance in my direction and catches me staring. She smiles, dimples forming in the recesses of her cheeks. She reaches across the table, long delicate fingers.

“I should introduce myself. Jeanette Scofield.” She says this matter of fact, like what you see is what you get, no pretensions here.

She is the widow of Abbott Scofield. He no doubt got the better bargain in this marriage. The woman sitting across the table from me could easily pass, in age, for his daughter.

She looks to the man beside her. “My brother, Jess,” she says. I get all five fingers and a squeeze like an iron vise from the fellow sitting next to her. “Jess Amara,” he tells me. I notice that Claude is eyeing the widow Scofield palpably. He exchanges nods with the man, like maybe the two already know each other.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.” Claude has no notes and is reaching a bit for a good opening in awkward circumstances. I can tell he is a little pissed at Emil for putting him in this position.

“At the present time there are more than a hundred law enforcement officers working around the clock to catch this killer. The full resources of the state, through the office of the attorney general, have been committed to this case and we are at present pursuing active leads.”

A dozen eyes are boring in on Dusalt, looking for something, more than a ration of statistics. Kim Park, Julie Park’s father, is getting antsy at the end of the table. But the interruption is a deep baritone from another quarter.

“Lieutenant.” It is the man just introduced to me as Jess Amara.

“I think maybe we can cut through some of this,” he says. “It’s been in all the papers. This man, your suspect. What is his name?” he says, searching for the proper pronunciation.