Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

“No questions, Your Honor.”

Cooper smiles at me from the stand as he gets down. He will not be smiling after the hiding he’s sure to get from Nelson. As he leaves the courtroom, Meeks follows him down the aisle at a safe distance, like he’s headed for a drink or the men’s room. I know there will be a lot of angry words in the corridor, verbal pushing and shoving between Meeks and Cooper. This was a noble act by a friend, but nonetheless reckless. His career, I think, may be harmed beyond measure.

They call Matt Hazeltine next.

This does not go well for us. It takes Nelson exactly five questions, and the prenuptial agreement signed by Ben and Talia is in evidence. It is clear that Nelson and Meeks have spent some time with this witness since the preliminary hearing.

The equivocation that marked Hazeltine’s earlier testimony is gone. They have wrung every ounce of gentlemanly conduct from his demeanor. I suspect that the Greek has had something to do with this.

Hazeltine is now certain of the reason for Ben’s insistence on this contract. He doesn’t flinch with the mention of the “gold-digger’s covenant,” but embraces it, looking at Talia as if this term fits her exactly. There are a few flourishes here, remembered conversations between the witness and Ben, that place this contract in a new light, testimony not offered during the prelim. There is nothing solid here, nothing that might be attacked directly on cross, just implications and innuendos that Ben did not entirely trust his wife.

Nelson lays heavily on the lawyer’s interpretation of this agreement.

“The fact,” says Hazeltine, “is that Talia stood to be stripped of everything from the marriage, disinherited, unless she was lawfully married to Ben Potter at the time of his death.”

It is one of those sobering moments in a trial, an evidentiary watershed recognized by the jury. The brighter lights among them, including Robert Rath, realize that they have just been handed a major piece of the puzzle, part of the motive for murder.

With this Nelson completes his questioning of the witness, and I am invited to partake.

“Mr. Hazeltine, in addition to the prenuptial agreement, did you prepare a will for Ben Potter?”

“I did,” he says.

“And under the terms of that will, in the event that Mrs. Potter were to be somehow disqualified from inheriting, was their another heir named?”

“I don’t think I understand your question.” Hazeltine is evading the issue, protecting Skarpellos.

“I’m going to object to this line of questioning. Your Honor, on grounds of relevance.” Nelson is up at his table.

“Your Honor, we’ve heard extensive testimony regarding the victim’s testamentary intentions,” I tell the court. “The state has produced evidence to the effect that if my client was not married to the victim at the time of his death, she stood to be disinherited, to lose everything from the marriage. The inference is clear. The state is trying to make a case that she killed her husband to secure her rights of inheritance. Under the circumstances, we have every right to explore the victim’s intentions in these regards, to determine if there were others who stood to gain from his death, who might profit if my client is convicted.”

“Sustained,” says Acosta.

I look at him, stunned. It is not a good move by a trial lawyer, before a jury. But I cannot control myself.

“Your Honor. This is evidence that was readily admitted in the preliminary hearing, over just this very objection. I have a transcript, here, Your Honor.”

“I can’t account for the errors of the municipal court,” he says. “That was there; this is here. The objection is sustained. Now move on to other matters, or sit down.”

Unless I can establish the link showing that the Greek stood to benefit from the death of his partner and the conviction of Talia, a vital element will be missing from my case. Acosta will have broken my back.

“Your Honor, this is critical evidence.”

All the more pleasure. He looks at me and smiles, a mean Mediterranean sneer.

“Move on, Mr. Madriani.”

“I want this part of the record certified for appeal,” I tell the court reporter.

“Mr. Madriani, move on or I will hold you in contempt.”

Nelson has a look of distaste about him, the appearance of a man who likes to win, but not like this. He’s not making eye contact, with the court or with me. Instead he’s casting about, playing with scraps of paper on the counsel table. But a good lawyer, he quietly takes what is given to him.

And I take my seat, nothing more to be gained from this witness.

Talia is clearly agitated, writing a note to me when I get back to the table.

“Why is the judge doing this?” it says.

I lean over in her ear. “You and me,” I say. “The news story. It offended his sense of dignity.”

She reads the sarcasm in my voice and knows she is now in deep trouble.

Since the day Coop arrived at the house with Walker’s article, that morning when Nikki called and roused me from sleep, she has taken a totally different view of Talia’s trial. She’s been ensconced here in the courtroom for three days running, two rows back, watching me, burning what little she has of vacation from her job, and wondering if her husband, the father of her child, will soon be indicted for murder.

I’ve tried to assure her that they have nothing, that Walker and his sources are playing a game of reckless innuendo. I’ve reminded her of Lama and his threat, consoling her that he has only made good on some bad publicity.

But Nikki is a worrier born and bred. She has watched Talia’s case as it slides from optimism to the lip of oblivion and has now borrowed enough thoughts of woe to keep us both in misery for the next decade. In her mind I am already in shackles and striped pajamas, Sarah seeing me on weekends from behind a little screen of wire mesh. The only consolation she seems able to take from this experience is that I am master of my own fate, that in defending Talia I am in a very real sense now defending myself. Nikki has a renewed sense of confidence in my abilities as a trial lawyer-more confidence, I fear, than I have in myself.

This morning I sit with her briefly and talk, holding her hand and giving her more empty assurances that this is all just journalistic bluster, and wonder myself where it will end.

Talia is at the counsel table with Harry. I catch her eye occasionally looking at us. I sense a little embarrassment here for the pain she has caused, not just to me, but to Nikki. The two of them are cautiously polite to one another, Talia uncertain of Nikki’s feelings. But my wife has been surprisingly cordial, even supportive, in the few comments she has made.

It is eight A.M., and the bailiff waves us on. I hook up with Harry, who is assembling our little library on the counsel table.

The moment of truth has arrived. On the second day after my bashing by Acosta, the judge has us back in chambers to announce his ruling on James Preston, the motel clerk, and whether he may testify.

As I arrive, Nelson is down at the mouth, like maybe he and Acosta have just had words. The Coconut is all preened for his day on the bench. A shirt so heavily starched that he could sleep standing up in it, gold cuff links, and broad red suspenders. He hasn’t yet donned his black robe.

His facial good nature changes as I enter chambers behind Harry. Acosta’s mouth and eyes take on a grim set.

“A seat, gentlemen.” He’s leafing through papers on his desk, as if he can’t find the script on this one.

“This is a real problem,” he says. “Mr. Preston.” He’s still looking for his notes.

He stares at me briefly from under hooded brows.