Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“Let’s not let him get too relaxed,” says Claude. We head back in.

Back inside we have a little more idle chitchat. I tell him about a woman in my office, a good looker, a lawyer named Lenore.

“Must be nice for you,” he says.

“Ms. Goya used to work for the United States Attorney’s Office in Southern California.”

He stops smiling, like maybe he’s not interested in meeting any of her old friends from the office. It is how progress is made, little threats, some more subtle than others.

He’s back in his chair now.

Claude takes the lead this time, a no-frills approach to questioning, like an inquisition on the cheap.

“You can stash the cowboy homilies act,” says Dusalt. “I lost interest when Will Rogers died.”

Their eyes lock on each other. Coltrane doesn’t appear particularly concerned.

“We got your spotting scope.” Claude is leaning across the table now into Cleo’s face. “The one you left behind up in the blind, remember? We’ve been running traces on it,” he says. “Not very many made like that. Pretty expensive,” he says, “for a cheap fuck like you.”

If this is getting to him, it doesn’t show.

Claude raises his voice a notch, a few more expletives. Then he comes back down to a more normal tone.

“Tight jeans you got there,” he says. “A good tush.”

Coltrane looks at him, not certain whether he should be offended.

“Ever see what people in prison for a few years can do to loosen up a pair of tight buns like that?” says Claude. “They’re real adept at it. And they seem to enjoy their work.”

Coltrane chews on the lump in his cheek, unmoved, like they’d have to catch him first.

“Six people are dead and you’re busy covering for their killer. You can jack these good people around,” says Claude, looking at me, “but I’ll see to it that your ass is put in the federal slammer so fast you won’t believe it,” he says. “Now I wanna know what you saw, and I wanna know it now.”

Coltrane looks down at the newspaper, something to divert his eyes from Claude, a silent variation on the word “no.”

Dusalt sweeps the paper off the table with the back of his hand, sending it sailing halfway across the room.

Coltrane stiffens, pushes back in his chair, away from Claude as far as he can get, rigid like a head case subjected to shock therapy. He can’t be sure how far Claude will go. His eyes come to me again, a sign that we have bonded. He would much rather talk to me than Claude. With me he gets coffee with sugar.

“The scope,” says Claude, “we got a fingerprint off the scope.” This is a lie of misdirection. We did get a print, smudged and unusable.

“We’re waiting for yours to be sent up by wire now,” he says. In fact this can be done instantaneously by computer link now, a fact that Coltrane probably doesn’t know, and intended to sweat him.

Claude tells him if he cuts a deal now before we match the prints it will go easier, we will help him with the federal violations, put in a good word, that he cooperated.

This does not seem to move the man much. He shows the kind of confidence that grows when you know you wore gloves. I have suspected from the beginning that with only a single smudged thumb print on the scope that maybe this belongs to the evidence tech, the one sent up to flop around on the perch the day I first met Claude.

Dusalt tries a few more pitches, variations on the common theme. Each of them fails to move Coltrane. Dusalt’s powers of persuasion exhausted, Coltrane has taken Claude’s worst punch and is still psychically on his feet.

Claude gives me a little glance, like maybe he should get a rubber hose. We take a break. Coltrane wants to hit the head. We send him with a guard.

Outside in the hall we cluster near an open window at the fire escape for some fresh air, Denny, Dusalt and I.

I’ve tried to reach Nikki up in Coloma three times in the last two hours. She has still not returned. I am beginning to get worried.

“Any ideas?” I ask Claude.

He is wrung out.

The sun is down much earlier these days. I can see dusk closing on the horizon, through the wire mesh. One would wonder what good the fire escape would be, sealed off like this.

I look at my watch, a quarter to seven. Lenore should be deep into it with Ingel and Chambers by now, trench warfare over terms of the jury charge in Ingel’s chambers at the courthouse. With the details to cover, this could go till well after nine.

“What do you want to do?” says Claude. He wants to know how late I want to go.

“A while longer,” I say. “Then we’ll give it a rest. Put him up in a hotel and go at it tomorrow, after court,” I say.

“Sooner or later,” says Claude, “he’s gonna want it to stop. Ask to go free or to see a lawyer.”

“I’ll show him a lawyer,” I say. “Somebody at the U.S. Justice Department.” The message is clear. Cleo Coltrane is not leaving this town unless he tells us what he knows.

In the distance I hear the click of heels on terrazzo, coming this way. A second later Betty, one of the senior secretaries from the office, comes wheeling around the corner.

“Mr. Madriani. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“What is it?”

“Judge Ingel’s called from the courthouse. He was quite insistent, wanted to know why you weren’t at the meeting. He was very angry,” she says. This is how Betty describes the Prussian.

I can imagine. “How did you find me?” I say. I have specifically avoided telling anyone where I was. I had a feeling this would happen.

“It wasn’t easy,” she says. A little exasperation. “He wanted to talk to a lawyer. The judge.”

“Let me guess?” I say. “Roland.”

She nods. “He took the call, and a lot of abuse from the judge.” She says this like I should be grateful to Roland.

“What did Overroy tell him?”

“He looked in your office, saw the note and told the judge you were over here meeting with someone named Coltrane.”

Mental expletives fill my brain. Ingel will no doubt repeat this to Chambers while venting his spleen in his office. Adrian is not stupid. I have missed a command performance at the courthouse to talk to somebody at the county jail. My missing witness. Adrian will be ranting about Fisher’s discovery order, my failure to disclose that we now have our prime witness. I can feel another hiding coming from the judge, and Adrian helping me off with my shirt. Having shafted his settlement offer, he will no doubt take glee in this one.

I’m shaking my head, wishing I were up with Nikki at this moment, breathing mountain air, anywhere but here.

“They did seem angry,” says Betty.

“They.”

“Mr. Chambers called five minutes ago, a few minutes after the judge. He said the bailiff and clerk had left to go home, but that the courtroom door would be left open for you.”

I raise an eyebrow. Adrian’s taking charge. He is probably walking all over Lenore by now, jamming instructions down her throat. If I don’t get there soon, he’ll be wearing Ingel’s black robes.

“They expect you to be there,” she says.

“Wonderful.” I roll my eyes, thank Betty and tell her to go home. Why kill the messenger?

“Get him back in here,” I tell Claude. I’m talking about Coltrane. “Pull him off the john if you have to.”

One more shot, then I’m going to have to go over to the court. Maybe I can bring them a present, a little hard evidence identifying the Scofield killer. It may be my only chance to mollify the Prussian.

Inside, Coltrane looks at me, like it must be my turn again.

“Cleo. Can I call you Cleo?” I ask.

He nods.

I’m holding a large manilla folder in my hand as I approach him. From this I pull an eight-by-ten color glossy photo and slide it on the table in front of Coltrane.