Steve Martini - Prime Witness

It is a warm day and a brown haze, halfway between fog and something more sinister, drifts above the shimmering waters of the Burrard Inlet.

“How long could this take?” he says. Claude and I are in a taxi from the airport, caught in the thickening traffic of downtown.

“Extradition is not something I’ve done before,” I tell him. “Maybe when reality sets in, Iganovich will waive extradition.”

Claude looks at me and smiles, the kind of grin adults reserve for a child’s fairy tale.

I have taken Claude into my confidence during our plane ride regarding the theory of a second killer, but have asked him not to discuss it with Emil, at least not yet. He has assured me that he will not. Given the sheriff’s misplaced adventures in victim land, I think Claude will honor this.

The cab comes to a stop, double-parked in front of an imposing building, a concrete obelisk that reaches forty stories into the sky.

Once in the building, we head for the twenty-fourth floor where there is a tiny woman seated behind the glass partition, her chin barely rising above the counter on her side.

“Mr. Madriani and Mr. Dusalt here to see Mr. Jacoby. He’s expecting us,” I say.

“One moment.” She reaches for the phone.

Herb Jacoby is Crown Counsel and director of the regional office of the Department of Justice in this province. Fortunately for them, our northern brothers do not get many multiple killers on the lam from the U.S. Because of the high profile of this case, Jacoby has related to me by phone that he has standing instructions from Ottawa to handle this extradition himself.

“Mr. Jacoby will be right with you,” she says. “You can wait in here.” We kill a couple of minutes taking in the surroundings, then a voice from behind me.

“Gentlemen.”

I turn to see a tall, slender man, a head of balding gray wheeling toward us at full pace from around a corner, his hand extended in greeting.

“Mr. Jacoby. Paul Madriani.” I shake his hand.

“Oh please, call me Herb,” he says. It is an accent one might mistake for British, the words correct and clipped off.

I introduce Claude. The three of us stand there exchanging a few pleasantries.

“You must be tired,” he says. “Let’s go to my office. We can talk and the two of you can sit down and relax.”

Jacoby leads us down a corridor flanked by little offices, the Canadian version of good enough for government service. The furniture is classic institutional, mostly imitation wood. I see the craft of inmates’ hands in this stuff.

But the views from these little cubicles are something Lenore Goya might kill for. A panorama of the busy harbor kaleidoscopes before me as I pass each open door.

A large corner office belongs to Jacoby, one of the perks of position.

“How’s our man doing?” says Claude. “Have you questioned him?”

“He’s doing just fine. We’ve restrained ourselves, with regard to questioning,” says Jacoby. “But your suspect is very nervous. He blurted a few statements immediately after the arrest, some gibberish,” he says. “Meant nothing to us. We made some notes.”

Jacoby has our undivided attention now.

“I’d have to look at the arrest report,” he says, “to get the specifics.”

Claude gives me a look, like maybe we’ve hit some paydirt.

“He meets with his attorneys daily, and seems to be manageable,” says Jacoby. He’s talking about Iganovich. “He’s said nothing to us since his lawyers got hold of him.” Canadian law parallels our own and the British model. Arrests are followed by admonitions to the suspects that any statement they make may be used against them in a court of law.

According to Jacoby, Iganovich blurted whatever was said immediately after his detention, to the security guards who held him, before local police could be summoned and before he could be warned about loose talk.

“He has appointed counsel?” I ask.

“Legal aid,” he says.

I make a face. This does not fit my image of the people who defend indigent renters in unlawful detainer actions back home.

Jacoby looks at me. “Ours is a little different than your system,” he tells me. “Though he does have an American lawyer as well.”

I look at him round-eyed, a question mark sitting across the table.

“Oh yes. The fellow flew in this morning. Says he was hired by the family.”

Claude and I look at each other, searching expressions.

“Who is he,” I say. “The American lawyer?”

Jacoby shakes his head. “I haven’t met him yet. We may have that pleasure this afternoon. As long as you’ve come all this way, I would like you to meet my counterpart, Iganovich’s Canadian barrister, Mr. Lloyd Benson-Harrington. We’ll go over to the jail later and you can talk to them there. They’re meeting with their client. Maybe we can sneak a peek at the defendant as well.”

Claude likes this. His first look at the man in the flesh.

Jacoby paws through a few more pages in his file.

“Here it is,” he says. “The police report.” He’s reading, following the pencil-written line, big hand-printed words for legibility, with one forefinger. “It’s not a confession,” he says. “Don’t know the facts of your case, but it could be an admission. Made no sense to us.”

“What did he say?” asks Claude.

“Immediately after being taken by store security, he resisted,” says Jacoby. “It took two of them to wrestle him to the ground.” He’s tracing with his fingers again. “They picked him up, cuffed him and. .” He’s looking for it. “Here it is. After they pick him up off the floor he says: ‘You got my van. I haven’t driven it in more than a week. I loaned it to somebody else. They used it, not me.’ That’s it,” says Jacoby. “As I told you it’s pretty much gibberish.”

Claude gives me a broad smile. “Not exactly,” he says.

Jacoby looks at us. We explain to him about Iganovich’s vehicle found back in Davenport, and more importantly, its contents.

“Oh,” he says. “Then it is significant.”

“I’d like to have Claude talk to the store security people, get their declarations under penalty of perjury,” I say. This will help tie down their perceptions of events, preserve the facts against fading memories. It will also put the lie to any defense allegations that the state was involved in extracting these statements or that they were the product of coercion.

I use Claude to gather these statements so I have a witness later if I need him. Otherwise I would have to recuse myself in the case, withdraw as the prosecutor, in order to testify as a witness. If there were no ethical constraints, it would be the perfect dodge out of my current dilemma. Nikki would love me for it.

“Of course,” says Jacoby. “We’ll make an appointment to get them in here.” He’s talking about the two guards.

“One of them is in pretty bad shape,” he tells us. “Your man did not want to go with them.”

“How serious?” I ask about the injuries suffered by the security guard.

“I don’t have the particulars. Leg injury or something. And some burns.”

“Burns?” I say.

“Uh-huh. Electrical. One of those stun guns, like a little cattle prod,” he says. “He managed to touch one of the guards with it while they were wrestling him to the ground.”

“Did you get it?” I say.

“Umm?” He looks at me.

“The stun gun. Did the guards retrieve it?”

“Oh yes. It’s with his personal effects.”

“We’d like to look at it,” says Claude. “Maybe take it with us?” His voice rises an octave, like maybe this is questionable.

“More evidence?” says Jacoby.

“Could be.”

“Certainly. Anything we can do.”