Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

This is a little dance that we’ve been doing now for nearly two months-Lama, Gibbs, and I. It seems that my client is part of a larger group-ladies of the night who franchise their services to lobbyists and others who use the women to influence votes and other public actions. Lama wants their client list. Harry has dubbed mat list “the boink book.” The police have been conducting a white-collar-crime investigation, and the list of clients has become pivotal.

“She wants our consideration,” says Lama, “me lady’s gotta lay down and roll over.”

“Excuse me?” says Acosta.

“Feed us some of the bigger fish,” says Lama.

“Oh,” says the judge.

“What the officer’s trying to say,” says Gibbs, “is that the defendant is a key witness. She knows the identities of significant public officials who have partaken of her services in return for votes and other official acts.”

“So we’re talking bribery?” says Acosta.

“In a big way.” Lama’s nodding now as if the judge has finally caught on.

“What would you have me do, officer, package the lady for felony trial just so that you can squeeze her a little, based on this-your bald allegations?” Acosta has a look of wonderment on his face.

“In a word, yes.” It is Lama at his deadpan best.

“Your Honor, all we want is her cooperation.” Gibbs tries to put a face on it, tries to silence Lama before he can do more damage.

“We are prepared to allow her to enter a plea to a single misdemeanor charge of prostitution, in return for her testimony.”

“I don’t like this,” I say. “If the state has evidence of my client’s complicity in other crimes, I have a right to see it, Your Honor.”

“You don’t have a right to anything, counsel,” Lama shoots from the lip. “This information is confidential. It’s got nothing to do with the prosecution of your client.”

“Well, excuse me,” I say, “but I’d like something besides your word for that.”

Verbally we have stepped around Acosta. I’m now toe to toe with Lama, my words directed down the line past Gibbs, who sits fidgeting in his chair, flustered by the eroding decorum.

I ask Lama what he’s doing here. I note that he did not make the arrest on my client. “I didn’t know that the police department was acting as a mouthpiece for the DA these days.”

Gibbs is stung by the remark. He looks at me, an injured expression. Lama begins to rise from his chair.

“Enough, gentlemen-enough.” Acosta passes his hand over the desk like a prophet trying to calm the waters.

“My client’s not copping a plea, and she’s certainly not testifying until I know more.”

Here the Coconut finally takes note of my presence. “Of course, of course, Mr. Madriani is correct.” He smiles. I have given him a way to bring this thing to a head. “If you have a deal, you must, of course, offer it through counsel.”

“All we want are some names,” says Gibbs. “A little cooperation.”

“The court can’t give you that, only my client can.” Gibbs has opened the door a crack, and my foot is in it.

“We can subpoena her.” Lama wallows about like a water buffalo in the mud.

“And she can take the Fifth,” I say. “You can’t compel her to testify if that testimony will incriminate her-and the last time I looked, it took two to commit an act of prostitution-or bribery.”

Acosta is growing restive, distracted by something else, some other, deeper concern. I can read it in his eyes, which have wandered from us.

“Perhaps I should bring my client in here, and we can see if she’s willing to testify, and if so under what conditions.”

Like an ammonia capsule, my suggestion delivers the Coconut from his comatose state. “No, no, we do not have time for that. I have a crowded docket today.” His hands flail the air, palms out in protest. “Besides, I have learned from long experience that it is best to separate clients and their emotions from the details of plea bargaining and settlement negotiations.”

It is as I suspected: Susan Hawley has been a busy woman.

I play me final trump card. “Well, I think it’s only fair to explain that my client has given me precise instructions not to accept any offer short of an outright dismissal of all charges. I believe that in return for such an offer she might be persuaded to testify.”

“Bullshit.” Lama’s on his feet.

“Maybe. But unless she gets it, you don’t have a witness.”

“Listen …” He begins to move around Gibbs.

“Officer, sit down.” Acosta’s in no mood for a brawl. His baritone voice echoes off the walls. “I think we’re going to have to continue this matter on another date.”

Acosta tells Gibbs to start thinking about immunity for my client. He says that with the crowded court calendar this is not something he wants to see tried in his court. Lama’s fuming. But the Coconut is tired of humoring him. There’s some haggling over calendar conflicts. We settle on a date three weeks off. It’s the first line of defense in any criminal case-delay. I waive time. At this point the last thing Susan Hawley needs is a speedy trial.

“Counsel!”-Acosta looks at me-“I don’t think there will be any need for you to bring your client to court when we next convene on this matter. There’s no reason to inflict any unnecessary inconvenience.”

“Certainly, if the court pleases-and there’s no objection from the prosecution.” I look at Gibbs, whose mouth is about to open.

“Well, the court pleases,” says Acosta, “and there is no objection from the prosecution.” Gibbs’s jaw slacks, his lines usurped by the court. As we rise to leave, Armando Acosta leans back in his chair and arches his spine, an expression of relief etched on his face. I suspect it isn’t the first time Susan Hawley has had this judge by the balls, though the last was unquestionably in more private and provocative surroundings. It would appear that her expectations of dismissal are not idle thoughts after all.

In the days following Ben’s death, my mind has been playing tag with thoughts of recrimination, of my role in his misery with Talia. The funeral is now past, part of yesterday’s news. Alone in my office I study a copy of the Trib, which lies on my desk next to a tall glass of bourbon. I look at the three-column photo above the fold.

Talia was, I think, at least in that moment when light hit Mr. Kodak’s emulsion, heavily into appearances. She has made the front page. Her face shrouded by black lace, her mourning suit by Armani, she is the chic picture of stoic sorrow. She stands three steps up on the cathedral stairs for the world to see, head held erect, a slight breeze ruffling the lace about her face. All that is missing is the toddler at her knee dressed in long coat; saluting the coffin. Under the picture a bold lead for the cutline: WIDOW GRIEVES. Talia knows how to set a scene.

I sip my drink and remember our last meeting. A dim hotel room across the river, ensconced in a once posh tennis resort now turned to seed.

I rolled to her side of the bed and felt the cold wetness of my own passions, a small portion of which had pooled in the creases of the sheets beneath where her loins had rested.

She moved about the room a picture of indolent calm, gathering wisps of lacy underthings. Silence seemed Talia’s special refuge after passion.

In my own time I came to understand that Talia was an innocent, in the way that rich men’s daughters are often innocent, as if they are somehow immune to the usual social conventions. In the months that we met, following my separation from Nikki, whenever we registered at a hotel I huddled under a broad-brimmed hat behind the heavy collar of a long coat in the winter or oversized dark glasses that concealed a good part of my face in the heat of summer. I used more aliases than there are characters in a Tolstoy novel.