David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

“Because I called his office in San Diego. They said he was out of the area, unavailable for several days. That he could not be reached. I didn’t want to leave a message. What I have to tell him is highly confidential.”

“He was supposed to give his opening statement today.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Is there any way you can reach him?”

“I don’t know. Is it urgent?”

“If he wants to save his client it is vital.”

“What is it?” Alex Cooper already knew more than she should have.

It took Alex almost two hours to track Madriani down through his office in Coronado and from there to his cell phone in LA where she left a message. Just after three East Coast time, noon in LA, he called her back during a break in the trial.

“I hope it’s important,” said Madriani.

“Pressed for time, are you?”

“Just a couple of sharks from the DA’s office working their way up my leg from the ankle to the knee. Nothing to worry about.”

“Rashid has been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday,” said Alex. “He says the DA’s office is about to lower the boom on your client.”

“I thought they already had,” said Paul.

“A witness by the name of Terry Mirza. Do you know the name?” asked Alex.

“I do,” said Paul. “But how does Rashid know—?”

“Be quiet and listen. You don’t have much time. Rashid claims this guy Mirza saw your man dump Spinova’s body in an alley in West LA the night of the murder.”

Mirza’s name was on the state’s witness list but the information had not been released to the press or made public. Even Paul did not yet know the precise details of Mirza’s testimony, only that he was a percipient witness to the body dump, only sketchy notes from police reports that the cops had left intentionally vague. They had closeted Mirza away since before the trial to keep him out of the clutches of Paul’s investigators, not that Mirza would have talked to any of them.

“Why are you telling me this, Alex?”

“Because I trust you. I trust your reputation. And there are two ways to go at this. I happen to believe that a DA’s job is to do justice.”

“What two ways do you have in mind?”

“Like I said, the DA out there is a good friend of mine. I’ll call him. Maybe he’ll listen to me. Take a hard look at what we give him about Cairo. Let him know he may be sitting on exculpatory evidence.”

“I hope your second idea makes more sense. He’s been stonewalling me on this.”

“Look, Paul. I can’t go rogue here, much as I might like to. But one of my best friends just left the office. Jenny Corcoran. She’s waiting for a background check for an appointment she just got at Justice in DC. She’s a pit bull in the courtroom. She might work with you on this.”

“And you’re telling me I can—?”

“Trust her? Completely. You have my word.”

“So what will you say to the DA?” Paul asked.

“According to Rashid, this guy Mirza is going to tell the jury that he saw your man pull a large plastic bundle from the backseat of his cab in an alley off Lankershim Boulevard the night Spinova was killed. Presumably the reason there was no blood in the backseat of your man’s cab is because she was killed somewhere else and dumped there.”

“That’s their theory,” said Paul. “Lemme get this straight, Mirza can positively identify Mustaffa as the man driving the cab and dumping the body?”

“Rock solid, according to Rashid,” said Alex.

“You’re sure? I need to know how confident he is, whether I can shake him on cross.”

Mirza had ID’d Mustaffa from a photo array. Paul already knew that. He was hoping beyond hope that he could get the witness to equivocate on the identification, just a slight crack in the wall. After all, presumably, he was a disinterested witness with no stake in the case. Was he absolutely, positively one thousand percent certain it was Mustaffa that he saw? No one was ever one thousand percent sure of anything. “It might have been him, I can’t be entirely sure.” This was all Paul needed. Something he could play with and stretch like a rubber band in front of the jury on closing, and hope that it snapped.

“According to Rashid, Mirza will positively identify your client at the scene, and he won’t be burdened by any doubts.”

Paul’s heart climbed into his throat. “Don’t tell me that Mirza has photographs of the body being dumped. And how does Rashid know all of this?”

“No, there are no photos,” said Alex. “Rashid says Mirza will be lying through his teeth.”

“What?”

“Listen carefully. Do you have a notepad? Here’re the details on what Rashid told me. We’re both going to have to move quickly.”

THE CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING ON Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles had an ominous feel for Madriani ever since the start of the Mustaffa case. Even the courtroom was foreboding, Department 123 on the thirteenth floor. Had Madriani been superstitious, the only thing worse might have been the number of the Beast—666.

Bad news, too, that the DA had been off-put by Alex Cooper’s attempt to intervene in one of his biggest cases. But Alex had surprised Madriani by taking the week off from her own job and flying out to be at the trial, sitting discreetly in the rear of the courtroom—one spectator among many—after her friend Jenny Corcoran confirmed that her presence might help Madriani get at the truth.

This morning, on direct examination, the testimony of Terry Mirza was presented to the jury as if it were written, produced, and directed for a Broadway production with an audience of twelve. It came on smooth as silk as the nine women and three men in the jury box took notes and listened intently. There was not the slightest equivocation as Mirza identified the defendant, Ibid Mustaffa, as the man he saw in the alley that night, the one who dragged the plastic-shrouded and bloodied body of Carla Spinova from the backseat of his yellow cab.

Mirza even identified the cab number as well as the license plate number of the vehicle. He had everything but the VIN number off the engine block. When asked if he was absolutely certain that it was Mustaffa that he saw that night, he said he had no doubt whatsoever. He told the jury that he observed the defendant clearly from several different angles as Mustaffa struggled under the bright lights of a streetlamp to drag the body over to the edge of the alley, against the side of a building, where he left her and drove off.

The witness also testified that the defendant was wearing gloves. This would explain the lack of fingerprints on the plastic tarp used to wrap the body.

When the prosecutor had hammered the last nail in Mustaffa’s coffin and turned the witness over to Paul, the jurors were looking at Madriani as if to say, Try and get out of that one .

Paul introduced himself to the witness. “Mr. Mirza, let me ask you, what is your first name, your given name? It’s not Terry, is it?”

“No. It’s Tariq.”

“What is the origin of the name? I mean, it’s not English or Irish or German.”

“Objection, Your Honor. What’s the relevance?”

“I think the jury has a right to know a little bit about the witness and where he’s from,” said Paul.

“I’ll allow it,” said the judge. “But keep it short, Mr. Madriani.”

“Mr. Mirza, where is your family from?”

“My parents were Bedu, Bedouins. From the desert, originally Saudi Arabia.”

“Do you have family in Saudi Arabia at the present time?”

“I have an uncle who lives there.”

“Were you born here in this country?”