Perri O'Shaughnessy - Unlucky in Law

If Nina let herself really look at that tragic, distorted face, cut off from the world after only four decades in it, she would not be able to sleep at night. She concentrated on the bruising on the neck, then covered the photos.

“Okay, blood, bones, and body. You got it,” Ginger said. “Pass me copies of whatever you have. I’ve got to stop in Salinas by five and get back to Sacramento.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Out in the fog, Ginger packed her zippy yellow Porsche with the files and got behind the wheel.

“Good luck,” Nina said.

“Luck is roulette,” said Ginger. “This is poker.”

Monday 9/15

MAINTAINING THE VALLEY’S REPUTATION AS CALIFORNIA’S FRESH-FOOD heartland, the breeze around the Salinas courthouse carried along the scent of broccoli. Pulling her new gray wool blazer close around her, Nina walked between the columns and headed toward the west wing under the early morning sky. All along the upper walls of the courthouse building, concrete reliefs of faces from California history that had always looked to her like gargoyles seemed to watch her suspiciously. The entryway doors opened like a maw. Her client waited inside, in the belly of the beast.

The first day of trial is overwhelming, as the first day of a war is overwhelming.

She pulled a case full of heavy files and her iBook, purse securely hung from her shoulder, determined to appear resolute however uncertain she might feel. Button that tailored jacket, girl, she told herself, and keep your eyes open.

As she hurried in, Klaus and Deputy District Attorney Jaime Sandoval were already arguing in front of the elevator on the first floor. “Ten minutes,” Klaus was saying. “If you were a gentleman, you would agree.”

“Judge Salas will start on time, unless you fully explain why you suddenly need a last-minute consultation with your client, Mr. Pohlmann,” Jaime said. The prosecutor’s face wore a look Nina had seen before, superficial deference for the old man masking a smirking condescension. He had tried a case opposite Nina early in the summer. With Nina he usually maintained an amiable front, but Klaus had already provoked him out of it.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Ah, now we have a real lawyer here. Please tell this man that we need to speak with Mr. Wyatt before the jury comes in,” Klaus said. The elevator doors swished open and the three of them entered, Nina in the lead, noticing that since she was wearing three-inch heels, Klaus was actually shorter than she was. He wore a red rosebud boutonniere. Jaime, portly and closely shaven, standing on the other side of her, exuded citrus aftershave and irritation.

Why now, Klaus? she thought. Haven’t we already talked to Stefan Wyatt? But since something had apparently come up, her job as second chair demanded that she leap in and support Klaus, so she said to Jaime, “You know he won’t be brought in by the bailiffs until the stroke of nine-thirty, and the jury will be in at nine-thirty-one. We just need a couple of minutes.”

“Then ask Judge Salas,” Jaime said, staring straight ahead at the door.

“He’ll do it if you agree, Jaime. You’ll need a lot of accommodations, too, over the next few weeks. Is this how you want it to be? No mutual courtesy?” she asked.

“Of course not. But Mr. Pohlmann never lets a deadline go by without challenging it. This is the start of a murder trial. He’s had months to talk to his client. Salas is not going to hold things up unless he hears a damn good reason. I haven’t heard one.”

They stepped out into a milling crowd of lawyers, reporters, and spectators, the doors to Courtroom 2 still locked, Klaus gesticulating and excited, saying something about how he didn’t have to give a reason, but Jaime shouldered his way over to the clerk’s office and disappeared from view.

“Mr. Pohlmann, Mr. Pohlmann.” Annie Gee from the Salinas Californian appeared in front of them just as Nina took Klaus’s arm, intending to steer him toward a conference room. “Any comment this morning? Any change in your strategy?”

Nina held on, steering him through the crowd. Over his shoulder, Klaus said grandly, “My client is innocent. He will be acquitted.”

“Come on,” Nina said, and Klaus let himself be led into a quiet waiting room.

As soon as the door closed Klaus sat down, grinning at her. With his tiny beard and ruddy cheeks he appeared as rested and bright as a little old elf. “We have him on the run already,” he said.

“Jaime?”

“He’s off balance.” He chuckled at the thought.

“What do you need to talk to Stefan about?”

Klaus’s white eyebrows raised, as if her question came out of nowhere. “Why, nothing. But it’s all Mr. Sandoval can think about right now. We won’t really ask for extra time.”

“That doesn’t seem very-”

“He told me in the last trial I had with him that he thinks I should retire. He thinks I’m a terror. Unpredictable. Why not encourage that kind of thinking? He makes a weaker opponent when he expects weakness.”

“O-kay.” Nina set her case against the door, looked at her watch, and sat down opposite the old man. Their styles were different, she reminded herself, and this wasn’t her case. “We have five minutes,” she said. “You were going to show me your opening statement.”

Klaus pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed them over. Scanning them, Nina said, “Summarize it for me.”

“Well, I greet the judge and jury. Then I talk about what we’re going to prove. Yes. Mr. Wyatt’s alibi. The fact that he is just a patsy for the interests of the Russians. Then we show how Alex Zhukovsky lies. He probably killed his sister, Christina, not Mr. Wyatt.”

Through suddenly parched lips, Nina said, “But we agreed on Friday that we can’t use a third-party defense. Zhukovsky denies he ever talked to Stefan, and Paul hasn’t been able to prove he did at this point. If we tell the jury we’re going to prove something and then can’t do it, they’ll remember. We’ll get into trouble with the judge. It will hurt Stefan.”

“Alex Zhukovsky is lying, that’s a definite fact. You will prove that.”

“Klaus, we’re going to cast some suspicion onto Alex Zhukovsky during the trial, but we’re in no position to do anything more than establish doubt. It’s Stefan’s word against Zhukovsky’s, and we’re not going to let Stefan testify. We’ve talked about this a dozen times.” Panic leaked around the edges of her carefully built composure. “You can’t do this,” she said.

“You are telling me what I can and can’t do?”

Nina tried to keep her tone soft. “But we agreed…”

“You are so smart, Miss Reilly,” Klaus said, “I think you should make the opening statement.” He tapped a finger on the table. “Yes, that is a fine idea. Get your toes wet.”

“But…” She thought, What is going on here? She picked up the yellow lined papers he had given her and inspected them harder this time. A flowery greeting covered the first page, half-illegibly. The other pages, other than some fountain-penned chicken-scratchings of notes, were essentially personal reminders that could speak only to Klaus.

She rocked back, thoughts racing. Why had he fobbed the opening off onto her? He might mean to toughen her up for the long race by demanding an opening sprint. He might be overreacting to her doubtfulness. Or he had reasons she couldn’t yet fathom.

She looked at him. Klaus had lost not a shred of dignity through the years. Though physically small, he gave the overall impression of enormity, which was never so apparent as when he was interviewed or photographed by the press. He was the local legal colossus, as historically significant in his own world of Monterey County as Ernest Hemingway and Franklin Roosevelt were in theirs. He had won cases that couldn’t be won and had made law along the way. Who was she? By comparison, she was a pipsqueak mouse skittering in the corners of the courtroom, hardly one to question him. And yet…