Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“And of course you know Mr. Chambers, and Roland from your own staff.” I’m still looking at these two. He does not linger long on this. I think Ingel senses molten lava close under the surface with me.

“Sitdown,” he says. He makes this a single word, no longer an invitation, but a command.

I settle into the chair, turn it a little sideways to keep my back away from the couch, as a feeling of foreboding washes over me.

Ingel engages in a little small talk, something to take the edge off, how law in a small town is more intimate, less formal than across the river. Soon he will be telling me that this excuses breaches of professional ethics. He knows he is walking on the thin edge here, that I could complain that his closed door discussions out of my presence are ex parte, a violation of the Code of Judicial Conduct. Called to answer, he would no doubt insist that Roland represented my office in this meeting, notwithstanding Overroy’s lack of authority to do so. And he would win. My problems with Roland are an internal affair, an open office pissing contest which the courts would no doubt tell me I am solely responsible to manage.

Ingel asks me if I would like some coffee. I decline.

“I hope I won’t be here that long,” I say.

He gives me a sharp look.

“I’ve a lot of work to do,” I explain.

“Well, then we should get to it. We’ve been talking for a few minutes,” says Ingel, like this is news.

“Covering some ground,” he says. He’s arranging a number of things on his desk, a paperweight, some files, finally stops to toy with his coffee cup. He will not look me in the eye, but continues to talk.

“Roland,” he says, “ran into Mr. Chambers at a county bar function a few weeks back, introduced by a mutual acquaintance,” he explains.

My mind conjures images of Eve’s encounter with the serpent, though clearly Roland is not so innocent.

He tells me that they had occasion to discuss what he refers to as just “some things.” The judge presents all this to me as rather fortuitous. The good luck of a chance meeting.

“Birds of a feather,” I say.

Adrian stiffens. Ingel gives me a look.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I tell him.

Ingel issues a pained expression and goes on.

“One thing led to another,” he says, “and resulted in our discussion here today.”

“And what’s that?” I say.

“Emm?”

“Your discussion here today?”

Ingel knows that I can sense the subject matter. But I will force him to say it out loud.

“Well. .” He looks at the couch and wonders, I think, if he shouldn’t have one of these two carry this load from here. But there are no volunteers.

“Well, they started exploring some common ground,” he says. He gives me a quick sideways glance, then looks away before he finishes his thought. “The Putah Creek cases,” he says. There, it is out.

With this I come up out of my chair.

“No. No. Now sit down,” he says. “I want you to hear this out. I know this is sensitive. I also know that you weren’t told. Roland has informed me of this.”

“Then he’s told you more than he has me. Maybe he can explain to me what he’s doing discussing a case for which he has absolutely no responsibility, or authority,” I say.

Overroy starts to open his mouth, but Ingel cuts him off.

“I don’t think that would be productive,” he says. “Not now. For the time being,” he says, “I think we can just say that he was operating under my auspices. To see if maybe we could bring this thing to a conclusion short of a long and costly trial,” says Ingel. “Something that I think you would agree is in everyone’s best interest.”

I am stunned by the duplicity and boldness of this, the brazen manner in which it is announced.

“I assured him that you would take no reprisals for his actions in this regard.” Ingel’s talking about Overroy, who now sits on the couch next to Chambers, his head seeming to float like shit in high cotton, an insolent grin planted on his face. Roland now sees himself beyond my reach, a diplomat on my turf, but with immunity. With this, there will be no end to his mischief.

“Roland,” says Ingel, “and Mr. Chambers have had several meetings, and with time running out on us, nearing trial,” he says, “they have narrowed the issues. We thought maybe it was time to talk settlement, a possible plea.”

“If Mr. Chambers wanted to talk plea bargains he should have approached me, not one of my deputies assigned to other cases.”

“Agreed,” says Ingel. “It was not done entirely according to Hoyle, but then no one planned it,” he says.

He expects me to accept this. Assurances from on high.

“Since he’s taken it upon himself to negotiate for my office without authority, all I can say is that I hope that Roland’s been hard-nosed on behalf of the people,” I tell him.

“He’s done a good job,” says Ingel.

Roland beams.

“Then can I assume that the defendant’s ready to stipulate to the death penalty?”

“I told you.” Chambers is moving to get up. “I warned you that this would be a waste of time. There’s no talking to the man,” he says. “Let’s forget it.”

He’s up off the couch, briefcase in hand, all the maneuvers of a well-drilled routine. If I were alone, this is where I would wait to see if he would actually leave, cross the threshold and slam the door, or whether he would continue to carp over my desk a litany about justice and the clogged courts.

As it is, we’ll never know. Ingel pleads with him to sit down.

“We’ve come a long way,” he says. “Let’s not lose it now.”

He makes this sound as if there’s already some done deal.

Grudging, looking at me cross-eyed, Chambers slowly settles back into the couch.

To all of this Esterhauss is a silent audience. Lawyer talk and a lot of bile. I think he is intimidated, and more than a little embarrassed at what is shaping up to be the ugly marketplace of justice.

“Mr. Madriani,” says Ingel. “There’s a great deal at stake here. I wouldn’t want your ego to get in the way. You should consider very seriously the terms and conditions that have been discussed. I will expect you to.”

Chambers gives just the slightest perception of a smile.

The message is clear, the trial judge is demanding that at a minimum I entertain this offer, however absurd.

I have from the inception not seen this as a case susceptible to settlement by plea bargain. There are no minor players here, co-conspirators for whose testimony we might offer some deal. From what we know, Iganovich acted alone to commit multiple murders, calculated in separate acts, not something that lends itself to theories of mitigating circumstances. The hideous repetition leaves little middle ground. These crimes are not some blind act of passion, at least not in the way a normal mind could comprehend, that might justify anything less than the maximum penalty.

“It appears I’m a captive audience,” I tell Ingel.

He gives me a look that could scorch paper.

“Mr. Overroy, maybe you or Mr. Chambers.” He motions them to fill me in on the details.

Overroy makes the move, his eyes not on me, but Esterhauss. He sees this no doubt as the close in his pitch to replace Mario on a permanent basis. A prosecutor with his eye fixed firmly on the fiscal bottom line, someone the county fathers could embrace, pragmatic and politically malleable as plastic.

“It’s straightforward,” he says, “no mysteries. We’ve worked out a plea of guilty,” he says, “to multiple counts of first-degree murder. Mr. Chambers has already discussed this with his client, explained to him the risks of going to trial.”