Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

“Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem if Mr. Madriani had learned to keep his pecker in his pants,” he says. There is no court reporter here today, so Acosta is free to indulge himself, a few cheap shots. He will enter his ruling by way of a minute order, a single-page form, typed by his clerk.

Meeks and Nelson are carrying on a whispering campaign in the far corner, like they already know what the court is going to do on this.

“I’ve given this great thought,” says Acosta. He’s playing at being Solomon, stroking his chin with the fingers of one hand, affecting the look of the wise.

“The various arguments, and the prejudice to the defendant should I allow unlimited testimony by Mr. Preston. After considering all of these arguments carefully, it is my view that James Preston should testify …”

There’s a palpable sigh from Harry. During the last two days, with its dark omen, he has been boning up hard for the penalty phase. Death looms larger on the horizon now than at any time since the start of the trial.

“I think,” says Acosta, “that it is both relevant and material, these affairs that the defendant appears to have had during her marriage. The jury should be allowed to draw its own conclusions in these regards.” He looks at Nelson deferentially, as if the DA has scored major points on this argument.

The full hammer of vengeance, I think.

“But,” says Acosta, “there is one troubling aspect. Mr. Madriani’s part in all of this.”

I sense more sackcloth and a dusting of new ash.

“Mr. Hinds makes a persuasive argument, that to allow the witness to identify Mr. Madriani is to so thoroughly discredit Mrs. Potter’s attorney as to deny her a fair trial. I think there is merit to this,” he says.

There are furrows over heavy brows here, as if to emphasize this thoughtful, weighty moment in the logical progression of things. As if this notion of fairness is the product of great inspiration, some original thought with the Coconut.

“So,” he says, “the testimony of the witness will be limited. He will not be allowed to identify Mr. Madriani. The others are all fair game,” says Acosta. He is beaming a broad smile at the desk. His arms are open in an expansive gesture to Nelson as if to say “Go get ’em.” This explains Nelson’s gloomy look as we arrived. He’d been given a preview of this by the court.

“One proviso,” says Acosta. “If there’s any independent evidence linking Mr. Madriani to this crime, all bets are off. I may alter my ruling.”

“What does that mean?” I say.

“That means you’d better be clean,” he says. “If I find out that you and your client hatched a scheme to deceive this court, I will allow Mr. Preston to be recalled and to finger you in front of the jury. Do I make myself clear?” he says.

We are to try the case under the cloud of the Coconut’s subjective suspicions.

“Perfectly,” I say.

“Fine.”

The cops have been beating the brush trying to poke holes in my alibi for the night Ben was killed. In assisting me through this travail, Dee has been worse than worthless. The only entry on her calendar for the night in question is a hairdressing appointment, something so cavalier and routine that it jogs nothing of her own recollections.

Instead of the obvious truth, that she has left the office at five and that I was there working when she pulled out, Dee has told the police that she has no idea where I was on the night in question. This has spawned more intrigue than answers, and the police are now redoubling their efforts to link me with Talia.

To my surprise, after all of the pain he has caused, James Preston’s testimony turns out to be largely anticlimactic. Even my own suspicions that he would recognize Tod have turned out to be wrong. On the stand he identifies two men, the illustrious Raul, Talia’s tennis pro, residing in Rio when Ben was killed, and another man, Joseph Blackborn, Talia’s accountant. It would be a neat trick for the prosecution to link Blackborn and Talia romantically. He is fifty-eight going on ninety, slight of build, with thin pursed lips, a face like Don Knotts’s.

Talia tells me that Blackborn was in fact business, that they used the motel to finish some final schedules for income tax returns a year ago, because his office was being painted, and it proved a more convenient location than her own. I believe her.

It seems Raul and I were the only two getting in our licks back before Tod, and we were each ancient history long before Ben was murdered.

The jury seems to treat Preston’s testimony as a serious yawn. All during his brief time on the stand he is giving me the evil eye from the witness box. It seems Mr. Preston doesn’t appreciate the fact that his moment of fame has been preempted by the judge. He glances up at Acosta, an expression of misgiving. I think he believes the Coconut and I are engaged in some iniquitous conspiracy to cheat justice, the lawyers’ guild protecting its own. And he resents this. Apparently no one has explained to him why he is not being allowed to finger me, or perhaps he doesn’t accept this rationale, a fair trial for Talia. Either way, Preston has the composure and equanimity of a stick of sweating dynamite on the stand.

As Nelson finishes with him, I am leaning across Talia and whispering into Harry’s ear. We choose not to tempt fate and therefore waive any cross-examination. There is nothing to be gained, and if I should provoke Preston’s ire, a great deal to lose.

Nelson calls Talia’s neighbor next.

Mildred Foster is nearing eighty, with little else to do but watch the saga of life on parade from the windows of her house. She has lived on the two-acre estate next to Ben and Talia since they moved in five years ago, and to Talia she is a mystery.

“What a strange woman,” she says. “Five years and I’ve never seen her, even outside in the yard.”

“But she’s seen you,” I say, “and more importantly, Ben’s car on the evening he was killed.”

Foster is the kind of person who lives with a spyglass at the window. I would bet that her drapes are frayed and tattered from her fingering them every time a car door is slammed on the street.

Nelson has her up for one reason only. She testifies that Ben’s car was at the Potter house early in the evening on the day he was murdered. She saw it in the driveway, but didn’t see Ben. It is unclear whether arthritis has slowed her sprint to the windows, or whether she was simply distracted.

“Mrs. Foster, can you tell us what time it was that you looked out your window and saw Mr. Potter’s car?”

“About eight,” she says.

“Did you hear it pull up?”

“No,” she says. “My hearing’s not so good anymore.”

“I see, but you looked out your window and the car was parked there?”

She nods.

“Let the record reflect that the witness has answered affirmatively.” Acosta is doing the honors, helping the court reporter.

“So you have no idea what time the car might have arrived there?”

“It wasn’t there at five when I looked out.”

“So sometime between five o’clock, when you looked out your window, and eight o’clock, when you looked again, Mr. Potter drove up and parked his car in the driveway?”

“Objection. The question assumes facts not in evidence, that Mr. Potter was driving the car.”

“Sustained.”

“Correction, Mrs. Foster, is it true that sometime between five o’clock and eight o’clock, someone drove Mr. Potter’s car into the driveway and parked it?”

“That’s true.”

“And that person was not in the car when you looked out the window and saw it?”

“That’s right.”

This is all very neat. Nelson is working on broad inferences, that Talia and a lover were lying in wait at the house, that Ben came home, that they did him with the little handgun and took the body to the office. All circumstantial, but the sort of stuff a jury might use to reach mind-bending conclusions.