The Judge (26 page)

You're not up to the defense?" he asks me.

"Lenore was lead counsel," I tell him. "It was her case."

"And you bought in," he says. He reminds me of my pitch for hard cash, the stiff fees I quoted in our first meeting.

"We have taken a mortgage on the house," says Lili.

"I will resist any attempt on your part to withdraw," says Acosta. "We have known each other a long time," I tell him. "Not all of it pleasant. I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable with other counsel."

"We're not marrying each other," he says. "We're fighting off a murder charge. It is what you call a dogfight," he says. "And it is true, that we have had our differences." He gives me an expression, something wrinkled and wise, with an air of the old world to it.

"I suppose I was not always easy to get on with," he says. Acosta is a master of understatement.

"And if you want to know the truth," he says. "I have for many years considered you a son of a bitch."

"Armando!" Lili has one hand to her mouth, a horrified expression. "In fact, I would rate you as the biggest son of a bitch in the courthouse," he says. "But if you are smart, that is what you want when you're engaged in a dogfight. And right now what is important," he says,

"is that you are my son of a bitch. I bought you, and if you don't mind, I would like to keep you." It is a sobering moment. I know that he could make it difficult for me if I try to withdraw. Radovich would have sympathy for a defendant striving to retain counsel on the eve of trial.

And yet this is not the reason that I remain. There are a universe of reasons why I could condemn this man: his short temper, his bias from the bench which is legend, his hypocrisy toward others who have found themselves where he is now--all are bases upon which I could easily and without question burn this devil--but not for a sin he did not commit.

"So where are you?" he says.

"If you want me, I will remain."

"And Mr. Hinds?" he says. "I know you work well together." "I can't speak for Harry. But I think he will do it."

"Good," he says.

With this resolved, Lili leaves us to talk business, and I explain Lenore's purpose at Hall's apartment that night. He listens intently, picks up every point of nuance.

"How well does she know Tony Arguillo?" he asks. Acosta wants to know if I mean in the carnal way.

"They are friends. Nothing more. From childhood," I add.

This brings a satisfied nod. I think he was concerned that Lenore might whisper in his ear at night.

"You think it was more than a one-night stand, as they say, with Hall?" "I don't know."

"You could ask Ms. Goya."

"She doesn't believe that Tony had anything to do with the murder." "Well, she doesn't think I did it. She doesn't think he did it. Who does she think did do it?" What Acosta is telling me is that it is late in the game, and Tony's would be a convenient face to put on the killer. Especially if we don't have to prove it.

"Some evidence, a mild suggestion to the jury," he says, "would go a long way."

"They wouldn't believe it coming from Lenore," I tell him. "She is too easy for the prosecutor to attack."

"That is true." He sees the problem.

I tell him that the note from the calendar is gone.

"That is too bad. We could have put Arguillo on the stand and questioned him with the note."

"We'd have to lay a foundation," I tell him. Minor matters. "Establish where the note was found." We're back to Lenore.

He shakes his head. No help there. Still he is troubled by the fact that Tony sent Lenore on this mission to retrieve the note. "Are you sure she is telling you everything?"

"Why would she lie?" "To protect Arguillo."

"She was your lawyer. She didn't have to take the case." "Precisely," he says.

"You're saying that you think she had a sinister motive to take your case?"

"It is a possibility," he says.

"No. Not in my book," I tell him. "I think she has told us all she knows."

"Perhaps," he says. But I can tell by his expression that he sees my support for Lenore as my own article of faith.

"Is there anything else?" he says. "One other item."

"What is that?"

"A calendar found at the dead girl's apartment. It bears an entry on the date of the murder, in her own hand. It is your name, showing an appointment for that afternoon." If he had even a glimmer of knowledge of this, I can find no sign of it in his expression at this moment. His look is grave as he considers this news.

"I don't understand. I don't know what to say," he says. "I have no idea how it would have gotten there. Apart from that meeting in the hotel room, where they set me up," he says, "I never spoke to the woman or met her. Never saw her before or after." He is genuinely perplexed by this.

"Why would I meet with her again, after she had deceived me the first time?"

"I'm sure that's what the state would like to know," I say.

"It would be foolish. What could I hope to accomplish?" I don't suggest it, but I'm sure Kline has a ready answer to the question.

"Then you have no idea how the note on her calendar came to be there? Your name and a time?"

"No." He shakes his head. Then he looks up at me, deep furrows over dark eyes. "The problem is," he says, "how do we explain this to the jury when we don't have a clue ourselves?" It is precisely the point.

Radovich HAS LABORED OVER THE ISSUE OF THE little girl, Kimberly Hall, for nearly two weeks.

At issue is the right to a public trial in a criminal case. Kline wants to put Hall's daughter on the stand, but out of the presence of the public and the press, with only the jury, judge, and lawyers present. He argues that to do otherwise would traumatize her, that she has suffered enough.

We have resisted this motion, and have demanded the right to voir dire Kimberly out of the presence of the jury before the start of trial.

This is not an unusual procedure with young children. It is important to find out if the child understands the difference between truth and fantasy and, in this case, to determine if she saw anything that night which would make her a competent witness.

All we know is that the night of the murder, the cops found Kimberly cowering in a dark closet a few feet from the living room clutching a teddy bear stained with her own mother's blood. What Kimberly may or may not have seen that night remains a mystery.

This morning we are assembled in the courtroom--the judge, the hwyers, Acosta, and a psychologist from Child Protective Services. What is revealed here today will determine whether Kimberly testifies in the trial. Kline has assigned one of the female deputies in his office the task of dealing with the little girl, though she is not likely to ask many questions here today, as this is our party. His theory is that a woman may be able to get more from the child than he would. No doubt our side would have had Lenore do this had she not been bounced.

Then the thought hits me like an iced dagger, something I had not considered before this moment: Kimberly was in that closet when Lenore and I entered the apartment that night.

The thought sends a cold chill, apart from the fact that she may have seen us, that without knowing we had left her there. The former I quickly dismiss. She could not have seen anything. The closet door was closed, at least I think it was.

The only people beyond the railing of the bar are Brittany Hall's mother and her stepfather, who at this moment are waving at their granddaughter, as she sits perched on two telephone books in the witness chair.

"Are you okay down there?" Radovich leans over the side of the bench and gives her a broad paternal grin.

"We're pretty special. They let us sit way up here," he says. "So we can see everybody out there." She looks at him, but says nothing. She seems neither amused nor comforted by his words.

Radovich has shed his robes and sits in shirtsleeves and an open collar, a concession to the child's anxiety.

"Would you like me to come down there with you?" he says. She shakes her head.

"We're gonna do this together, aren't we?" She looks at him silently, conveying the thought, no doubt, that she would rather he do it alone.

"Let's go on the record," he tells the court reporter. The woman starts hitting the keys on the stenograph. "You're not scared, are you?" says Radovich.

She shakes her head bravely.

"Let the record reflect that she has indicated no." " She is just too terrified to speak.

Radovich gets up from the bench and comes down into the well of the courtroom, in front of the witness stand, where he is almost at eye level with the little girl.

"Kimberly. Do you know why you are here?" the judge asks. More head shaking, the judge interpreting for the record. "Can you tell us what your name is?" She shakes her head. "You don't know your name?" More head shaking.

"You know your name?" She nods.

"You know your name, but you won't tell me?" She nods again. "Wonderful," says Radovich.

"Will she talk to you?" The judge is addressing the psychologist.

The woman gets up and crosses the room. She huddles with the little girl at the witness stand, talking in tones that I cannot hear. From this conversation comes a tremulous little voice.

"Kimberly," it says.

"And your last name?" says the woman. "Hall."

"Good." Radovich signals the psychologist not to go too far.

"Kimberly. We need to have you tell us what, if anything, you saw the night your mommy was hurt. Do you think you can do that?" She looks out at her grandparents for encouragement. Her grand mother is nodding her head feverishly, until the judge intervenes.

"Madam, the purpose of this exercise is to find out whether the little girl knows anything. Don't coach her," he says.

The woman folds her hands in her lap. Mum is the word.

"Do you remember that night, Kimberly? The night your mommy was hurt?" Radovich wants to do as much of this himself as he can to avoid traumatizing the child. She nods again.

"I'll bet you do," Radovich whispers under his breath as he straight ens up and wipes sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.

"You didn't take down that last comment," he says to the court reporter.

A few key strokes and it disappears.

"Kimberly, can you tell me where you were that night?" he says. The first question for which a nod will not suffice.

She looks up at him, chews a silent word with her mouth, and then responds, "I was in the closet."

"You were in there alone?" She shakes her head. The court reporter by now is taking license to record the silent yeas and nays without the judge's instruction.

"Was somebody in there with you?" She nods. "Who?"

"Binky," she says. "Who's Binky?" "My bear."

"Ah. I've seen Binky," says Radovich. "A fine-looking bear."

"Where is he?" she asks. "Why can't I have him?" Radovich turns around and rolls his eyes. He's managed to step in it.

"Didn't the policeman give you a little bear?" "It wasn't Binky," she says.

"Well, we'll talk to them about that. Okay?" A stern nod that is something out of a Shirley Temple movie, as though this is a promise she expects him to honor.

"Was it dark in the closet that night?" says Radovich. Another nod.

"Could you see anything?" The child is shaking her head.

Radovich turns and gives us a look, like, "Maybe this is a dry hole."

"Let's go off the record," he says, and he takes a short walk to the other side of the bench, followed by the psychologist. In a couple of seconds this becomes a convocation as the female deputy from Kline's office and I mosey over to hear what is being said.

"It's a delicate issue." Radovich is speaking to the psychologist.

"How do I ask her how her mother's blood got all over the little bear?" "Very tactfully," says the shrink. "She might not know it's blood.

You might ask her how it got dirty." Radovich gives her an expression of approval. "Good idea," he says.

We adjourn and he returns to the witness box. "Kimberly. Can you tell me how Binky got dirty?" "Mommy bled all over it," she says.

So much for indirection.

"Did you see this?" says Radovich.

"Oh, yeah. Binky's all bloody. I think he got hurt, too," she says.

"I think Binky's gonna be fine," he says. "He's in the hospital getting better," he tells her.

"Mommy, too?" she says.

Radovich turns so that only the lawyers and Hall's parents can see him. The expression on his face tells me there is not enough money in the world to compensate for this kind of work.

He turns back to Kimberly. "Just a second, sweetheart. I'll be right back." Radovich wants another conference. We convene in the same place. "Has anybody told her her mother is dead?" he asks.

"She has been told that her mother is in heaven," says the psychologist.