She retreats far enough into the kitchen to grab the pot of coffee off the counter and is back in the dining room offering refills.
"Besides," she says, "Kline would say anything to undercut me." None of this, of course, answers the charge that her representation of Acosta is motivated by all the wrong instincts. Acosta's case is taking on all the signs of a feudal bloodletting.
Tonight we are assembled around the table in my dining room, a working dinner which we have just finished, Lenore, Harry, and I. We are sampling liqueurs with coffee. Harry wants to know if he gets paid even if he i can't remember details tomorrow. He has given up the coffee and is now alternating straight shots of creme de menthe and Kahlua from his cup.
Sarah is playing with Lenore's two daughters, ages eleven and ten, older girls whom she idolizes. She has reached the age at which her only lexicon is reduced to a single word: "Cool." The kids have disappeared into Sarah's upstairs bedroom as if they had died and gone to heaven, the only evidence of their existence the occasional thumping of feet and laughter overhead.
Since my wife Nikki died of cancer nearly two years ago I have tried to spend as much time as possible with Sarah, dividing my life between ; my daughter and that jealous mistress that is the law. It has not been easy. There have been crying jags and shouting, not all of these emanating from Sarah!
As a father in Nikki's parental wake it was always easy to be the good cop. Nikki was the law under our roof. She loved our daughter very ;; much. It was out of that love that she held to standards while I became ' the perennial soft touch. Now I must wear both hats, partier and disciplinarian, and Sarah's take on the latter is that her mother would always and invariably have cut more slack. I have a whole new respect for single parents and the forces that play on them.
Before us on the dining table are stacks of manila folders, legal files ' with labels and burgeoning stacks of paper. Harry has spent the afternoon organizing and digesting the first bits of discovery from Acosta's case, mostly police reports and preliminary notes from their investigation.
The first thing I notice is that some of these are authored by another client. Tony Arguillo.
"Worried about a conflict?" says Harry.
It is an issue, a cardinal rule in the law that an attorney may not represent two clients with adverse interests. The fear here is that should he become a witness against Acosta, might be victimized on the stand by me should I possess confidential information derived in my role as Tony's lawyer: something to discredit him on the stand, knowledge of a crime or other misdeed. It is one reason that criminal lawyers do not make a habit of representing peace officers.
"Has Tony told you anything that might compromise him?" says Lenore. "If he did I couldn't tell you," I say. In point of fact he has not. I am probably the only person in whom he has not confided.
Lenore guesses that this is only a potential problem. "We can avoid it by finding other counsel for Tony. A substitution," she says. "Besides, his part in the grand jury probe is over." The fact that she knows he has testified is itself a violation of confidence.
"Arguillo is not paying anything. Acosta is," says Harry, ever the pragmatist. "Facts of life. I'll draw up a consent for substitution of counsel. I know some schmuck who will take his case." What Harry means is some other schmuck.
"As long as we're cleaning skirts," I say, "what about yours?" I'm looking at Lenore.
"What?" she says. "I didn't represent Tony." "No, but you talked to Hall."
"You mean the interview in the office?" "Right."
"She wasn't a client."
"True," I say. "But you were privy to information held by the state in its case against Acosta."
"That was prostitution. This is murder. Different case," she says. "You don't think Kline will tie the two together? It's all motive," I say. "The prostitution sting led to the murder. That's the state's motive."
"All the same, we'll acquire everything they have in discovery. Where's the harm?"
"Except for attorney work product," I tell her, "your own notes."
"There was nothing there of any substance. I was never privy to the state's strategy in the case. You think Kline would have taken me into his confidence?"
"You can be sure he'll raise it."
"Yeah, along with the Magna Carta and the Declaration of Independence. That doesn't mean it's relevant."
"Just a warning," I tell her.
"Worry about it when we get there," she says. Lenore is not the kind to get ulcers borrowing future problems. Not like me.
"So what have we got?" I ask Harry.
He's rummaging through papers, mostly his notes on a yellow legal pad. "Two crime scenes," he says. The alley where they found the body, and her apartment. That's where they think the murder occurred. They dusted her place for prints. No report yet. Let's hope the Coconut had the good taste to wear gloves," says Harry.
Lenore gives him a look, exasperated. The thought is well taken. If we're going to take the man's money, we should at least make a show of innocence.
"Bad form," says Harry. We move on.
"Hair and fibers," he says. "Hair is coarse and reddish brown. Not human, according to their report. It was found in the girl's apartment, and on the blanket in which the victim was wrapped. Armando was probably shedding. Full moon," says Harry.
"Shit," says Lenore.
"There are children present," he says.
"I know. I'm looking at one of them." Lenore fixes Harry with a steely gaze and moves the bottle of Kahlua away from him. As she does this she has to lean over the table, and I catch Harry taking a peek.
The association of Madriani, Hinds, and Goya may have some rough sailing ahead.
"Maybe Hall owned a cat or a dog?" says Lenore.
"Not according to the neighbors," says Harry. "They've never seen an animal in the place." She was wrapped in a blanket?" I ask. Back to basics.
"We'll get to that," he says. "Also some blue carpet fibers found on the blanket. Unknown origin."
"What color was the carpet in her apartment?" I am hoping that Lenore has the presence of mind not to answer this. Harry doesn't know about our little jaunt to Hall's apartment that night. We have treated this on a need-to-know basis. Harry doesn't need to know.
"Bzzzzz," Harry. Sound effects like a quiz show, the problem with meetings outside the office over drinks and dinner.
"The answer is mauve," he says. "There's no lab report yet, but my guess is the fibers are some cheap nylon. I think they're assuming some trunk fur here," says Harry. "From the perp's vehicle."
"Do we know the color of the carpet in Acosta's car?" asks Lenore. "The one they impounded." Harry shakes his head.
"Make a note to ask Acosta," she says.
"What am I, the fucking secretary?" Lenore reaches over and grabs the other bottle. Harry cops another peek, a man with a death wish. He must like what he sees. He makes the note and goes to the next item.
"They also found a broken pair of reading glasses, bent frames. At the girl's apartment," he says. "Wire rims. Half frames. One lens was cracked, like maybe somebody stepped on it."
"Did Hall wear glasses?" I ask.
The thought is piercing, that the killer dropped a pair of glasses.
"Not when she read her statement in my office that afternoon," says Lenore. "I suppose she could have been wearing contacts. Kept the glasses in her purse."
"Does the police report say whether they were men's or women's?" I ask. "Lemme see." Harry roots through one of the piles of paper, like a guinea pig eating yesterday's Tribune on the bottom of his cage.
"Not it. No." Another page goes flying. "Here it is." He reads silently for a moment.
"No. Just says, Identified for photographs and directed Forensics to gather one pair of broken spectacles found on the living room floor of the victim's apartment. Appear to be reading glasses. Spectacles evidenced bent metal frame and one broken lens. Possibly damaged during struggle with assailant."
" Harry shrugs. "That's it." This becomes a showstopper as we consider the possibilities, and avoid conjecture on the one that could be most damaging.
"Could be nothing," says Lenore.
Harry and I are both looking at her, but it is Harry who says it. "Acosta wears cheaters." There is a moment of sober silence as we consider the ramifications.
"We can't assume that our client is telling us the truth," he says.
"One thine is certain. The cops will be checking Acosta's prescription to see if it's a match." The glasses are one of those pieces of evidence that as a prosecutor you love. If they're a match to Acosta the cops will play it to the hilt. If they are not they will try to bury them, some incidental left in her apartment by anyone, swept onto the floor in the melee with the killer, while we argue to a deaf jury that they are exculpatory evidence, left there by the real killer.
"Just to be safe," I say, "let's get Acosta's prescription." "Maybe his wife has it," says Harry, "or can steer us to his optometrist."
"We can ask him if he is missing any glasses tomorrow," says Lenore. "We'll see him at the jail."
"Like I say. His wife should know who his optometrist is." On such matters Harry does not trust clients. It is the nature of his practice, and perhaps in this case Harry's take on the character of our client.
For the moment we pass this.
"Anything else from the girl's apartment?" I ask.
"Forensics found some trace evidence, microscopic shavings of heavy metals..." Harry's thumbing through the notes trying to find it.
"Here it is. Little bit of gold on the edge of the metal coffee table," he says. "Trace amounts."
"Where do they think it came from?" says Lenore.
"According to the report, speculation is that it might have scraped off of some jewelry worn by the perp. A watch, a bracelet, something like that," says Harry. He gives us a big shrug with his shoulders.
As he does this, Lenore is looking at me, both of us with the same thought. There is no mention of the little gold item we glimpsed that night, the shiny object buried in the potting soil on the floor of Hall's apartment. What it was and how it got there we are now left to wonder, along with an even bigger question: What happened to it?
"Not much beyond that," says Harry. "Preliminary notes. Blood found, no typing as yet. Murder weapon is believed to be a blunt object, based on the massive head wound. Not found at the scene." Lenore and I exchange a knowing glance. We had both assumed that the girl struck her head on the metal corner of the tabletop during a fall.
Now we are confronted with suspicions that it may have been more than this.
"Anything on the condition of the body?" says Lenore.
This sends Harry scurrying for other notes. He finds what he's looking for.
"Her attire didn't leave much to the imagination. A pair of white nylon panties, and a cotton top. That and the blanket the killer wrapped her in," he says. "Oh. And there was a large bath towel wrapped around her head." I look at Lenore.
"Probably to keep blood off the interior of the killer's car," she says.
"You'd think the blanket would have done that," I say. She gives me a shrug.
"The report notes some bruising on the victim's throat. Probably the result of the violent confrontation leading to death, according to the cops," says Harry.
"Did they do a rape kit exam?" says Lenore.
Harry looks for the report, finds it, and pages down with one finger. Flips the page.
"Yeah. Here it is. According to the report, pathologist did it, but no findings."
"What does that mean, negative result?" I ask.
"Not necessarily. Standard instructions from our office," says Lenore. "was not to disclose anything except the essentials in the early reports.
They'll tell you they did the report, but not what they found."
"I thought it was supposed to be a search for justice," says Harry. "That's what we want the information for," she says. "Just us." There is a long history of mandatory discovery in this state, something that used to be a one-way street with the prosecution disgorging all of its information to the defense. But the worm has now turned, and recent laws demand reciprocal discovery. The cops are experts at hide-the-ball, something we are still learning.
"Semen in the victim would be critical evidence," I say. "Especially if the perpetrator was a secretor." This could lead to a blood typing, or more to the point, a DNA match.
But Harry is troubled by some other obvious point, something that Lenore and I discussed that night after leaving Hall's apartment.
"Why would the killer move the body? Seems an inordinate risk," he says.
There is no rational answer to this. But then homicide is not a rational act. That those who perpetrate it might act illogically is the rule rather than the exception. It is why so many are caught. Harry doesn't buy this.
"The glasses I can understand," he says. "People panic, drop things.
Their business card at the scene," says Harry. "But take a dead body and move it. I could understand if the place belonged to the killer.
Move the body. Mop up the blood. But it's her apartment. There's no evidence that she lived there with anyone except her child. At least the reports don't disclose any roommates." It is one of those imponderables. Lenore shakes her head.
"What if somebody else moved the body?" I say.
"That's crazy," she tells me. "Makes no sense. Why would anybody do it? " I scrunch up my face, a concession that I do not have a better answer.
I make a mental note to see if somehow we can work this crazy act, the movement of the body, into our defense.
"Let's talk about the child," I say.
"Little girl," says Harry. "Five or six." He can't remember so he paws through the pile of paper. "Here it is. Five years old," he says. "Name is Kimberly."
"Where was she that night?" I ask. "She was there," says Harry.
Lenore's gaze meets mine like metal drawn to a magnet. This is the first time we have heard this. The little girl has not been mentioned in the news accounts; apparently she's being shielded by the cops.
By this point I'm stammering. "Did she see anything?"