Steve Martini - Compelling Evidence

Acosta makes a gesture from the bench with one hand, like the pope giving a lazy blessing; then he lets me go on probing this area. It seems some of his rancor is beginning to diminish.

“At the time I made the loan, I didn’t know whether she committed the crime or not,” says Skarpellos.

“I must admit, I’m confused,” I say. “You are here testifying in this case, telling this jury that Ben Potter was going to divorce his wife, supplying what would appear to be a neat motive for murder, except for the fact that Mrs. Potter apparently didn’t know about this divorce, and all the while you don’t know whether you think she murdered Ben Potter or not. One day you’re financing Talia Potter’s defense and the next you’re here testifying against her.”

“Objection,” says Nelson. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

“I was subpoenaed,” says Skarpellos.

“The witness seems to think so,” I tell Nelson.

He sits down.

“But you were not under any court order, you were not compelled to call the police, to volunteer this story that you claim you forgot about, this tale of marital woe that you say was related to you by Mr. Potter, were you?”

“No. I called because I thought it was important.”

“We’ve been over all this,” says Nelson.

“So we have,” says Acosta. “Mr. Madriani, move on.”

“Certainly, Your Honor. Let’s talk about Mr. Potter’s estate,” I say. “Did you know that your partner Mr. Hazeltine had prepared Ben Potter’s will?”

“Objection,” says Nelson. “I thought we agreed this was irrelevant.”

“Maybe you agreed it was. I did not,” I tell him. “I’m prepared to make an offer of proof, Your Honor, out of the presence of this witness, demonstrating that this is not only relevant but vital to Talia Potter’s defense.”

Acosta waves us up, a little sidebar at the far end of the bench, away from Skarpellos.

I tell him that other witnesses we will present will tie this together, will show its relevance. In hushed tones I tell them that the Greek had a great deal to gain from the death of Ben Potter. I show them the operative paragraph of Ben’s will, the part that makes Skarpellos his principal beneficiary, but only if Talia Potter cannot be. Nelson argues, under his breath, until I silence him.

“This witness has lied to your own investigators,” I tell him. “Have you checked his alibi for the night of the murder?”

“We have,” he says. “It’s ironclad.”

“It’s a lie,” I say. “He has tampered with another witness, and I will prove it.”

These are serious charges, and Acosta is taking full note.

We back away from the bench.

“I will allow it,” says the judge. A major victory from the briefest moment of whispered argument. I can tell this has an effect on the jury. They are wondering what I have told the Coconut that would make such a difference.

“Mr. Skarpellos,” I say, “did you know that your partner Matt Hazeltine prepared a will for Ben Potter?”

“I don’t know, I may have.”

“Did you ever talk to Mr. Hazeltine about that will?”

He pauses, looking at me. The lie in his eyes, but not yet on his lips. He’s wondering if I have talked to Hazeltine, if I will recall him to the stand. Mostly he is wondering if Hazeltine will commit perjury to conceal what happens in every law office with every confidence that is chewed over by lawyers who believe they are exempt from the canon that a client’s secret is sacred.

“We might have,” he says.

“You might have talked about Ben Potter’s will with Mr. Hazeltine. Surely you’d remember something like that?” I say.

“We talk about a lot of things in the office. I can’t remember them all.”

“I see. You discuss confidential attorney-client information openly among yourselves in the office. This is sort of like gossip?” I say.

“No.” He says this with a good deal of contempt. “Sometimes it’s necessary to talk among colleagues, to discuss things, advice,” he says. “You know.”

“Are you telling us that Mr. Hazeltine came to you and asked for your advice on how to draft Mr. Potter’s will?”

Suddenly his shoulders have a life of their own, shrugging like he’s trying to get this monkey off his back. “He might have,” he says.

“But you can’t remember?”

“No, I can’t remember.”

“Then let’s make this clear,” I say. “For the record, Mr. Skarpellos, isn’t it true that you and Mr. Hazeltine discussed Mr. Potter’s will and that Mr. Hazeltine told you that you had been named as Mr. Potter’s principal beneficiary in the event that something might happen to Mrs. Potter? Isn’t that true?”

It’s a calculated risk. But then I know the dynamics of that place, the firm, and what Tony Skarpellos can exact from the other partners.

“We might have,” he says.

“You might have?” I thunder at him.

“OK, we talked about it. All right?”

“All right,” I say. I ease the pitch of my voice back down, smiling a little, as if to say “See how easy that was?”

I turn and head for the counsel table and a drink of water, like I am toasting a major point that has just been scored. As I pour from the pitcher Harry slides his note pad sideways. The next item on our agenda. I replace the copy of Ben’s will, which I’ve been carrying, and pull another document from files Harry’s organized on the table.

I’m back at Tony in the box.

“Mr. Skarpellos, you were interviewed by the police shortly after the death of Mr. Potter, is that correct?”

“Early the next morning,” he says. He tells us how the cops got him out of bed at three in the morning to inform him that Ben was dead.

“I assume you immediately went to the office?”

“Right away.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“The guy heading up the investigation. Captain Canard.”

“Good,” I say. I’m moving in front of the witness box, seemingly pleased that I have gotten him this far.

“Do you remember what you talked about with Captain Canard?”

“It was confusing,” he says. “A lot of chaos in the office. Cops all over the place.”

“But what did you talk about?”

“He asked me if I knew of any reason why Ben should take his own life.”

“And what did you say?”

“I never bought the suicide,” he says. “I told him no.”

I nod that we are in agreement, at least on this point, like maybe I’ve finally buried the hatchet, like maybe we’re making up. Skarpellos is breathing a little easier now.

“What else did you talk about?”

“He asked if I knew of anybody who might want to kill Ben, anybody with a grudge.” According to the Greek he thought this a little strange, but then considered the questions of possible foul play as part of the police ritual.

According to Tony, Ben was a prince, a man loved by all, and he told this to Canard.

“It was all pretty routine?” I say. “The questions you’d expect?”

“Sure.”

“I suppose they asked you where you were that night?” This is in the police report I have taken from Harry’s stack of documents on the table.

“Yeah. They asked.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I went to a basketball game in the city that night.”

“Oakland?” I say.

He nods.

I remind him about the record and the court reporter, and he puts it in words.

“Who played that night?” I say.

He looks at me, more than a little contempt in the eyes.

“The Lakers,” he says. “L.A.” He’s smiling, like “Try that on.”

“Who won?”

“You know, I can’t remember. It was just a preseason exhibition,” he says. “We left before the game ended and with all the confusion later that night-the next morning,” he corrects himself, “it didn’t really seem important.”