"Who is Norman Jefferies?" "Vice officer," he says.
"And Howard Hoag?" I have saved the best for last. "Same," he says.
"Do you know if these officers are currently on active duty with the Capital City Police Department?" To this I get a howling response from Kline, who is out of his chair.
"Objection. Sidebar," he says. Radovich waves us over.
"Your Honor, he's trying to poison the jury," says Kline. "He knows damn well they are suspended."
"Maybe the jury needs to know it," I tell him. "What's the relevance?" says Kline.
"That my client was framed, and that these same officers are now attempting to plant evidence of contraband in the home of his lawyer," I say.
"There's no evidence of that," says Kline.
"They are suspended from active duty," I tell him. "Pending an investigation," he says.
"Talk to me," says Radovich. "I'm the one making the decisions here." Kline makes an appeal that evidence of the suspension is irrelevant.
That it may mislead the jury.
I counter that police misconduct goes to the heart of our case.
Solomon style, Radovich slices the baby in half. "You can inquire as to the suspension, but not the cause," he says.
We depart from the bench, each with half a loaf.
"Detective Stobel, can you tell the jury whether these officers, the names I have read to you from the victim's phone directory, whether they are currently on active duty with the police department?"
"They are under suspension," he says, "pending investigation." I study the faces of the jury. This has an effect, curiosity if nothing else.
There is almost a palpable groan from Kline's table.
"And the names of each of these officers appear in the victim's telephone directory, in what appears to be her own handwriting?"
"It would appear so," he says.
"Can you tell me who is Zack Wiley?" I ask. "He was an officer. Deceased," says Stobel. "Was he assigned to Vice?"
"Yes."
"And how did he die?"
"He was shot to death during a drug raid," says Stobel.
"And the victim, Brittany Hall, apparently knew him as well." "Objection. Calls for speculation. Just because his name appears in the book," says Kline.
"Sustained. Rephrase it," says Radovich.
"The dead officer, Zack Wiley's name appears in the victim's telephone directory, in her own hand, isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"So all of these officers would have known each other if they worked on the same detail in Vice?"
"I assume so," he says.
"And the victim, Brittany Hall, would have known them because on occasion she worked Vice undercover, as a reserve deputy?"
"Yes."
"Do you know if she ever socialized with any of these officers?" "I don't know."
"You never asked during your investigation?" "No."
"Why not? Wouldn't that be pertinent information?" "Not necessarily."
"Isn't it possible that Brittany Hall might have been killed by a jealous lover?"
"There was no evidence of that," he says. "How would you know if you didn't ask?"
"We didn't ask because it seemed purposeless," he says.
"And you still don't know whether the victim dated any of the men listed in that little book?"
"No."
"If she had dated any of them, would you consider that significant?" "Maybe. It would depend on the circumstances."
"If she had a date with any of them on the night of the murder, would you consider that significant?"
"Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence," says Kline. He wants to put an end to this inquiry as quickly as possible.
"Sustained," says Radovich.
"Do you know, Detective, whether there is an active investigation into the death of Officer Wiley, the officer listed in this little book?"
"I'm going to object to that," says Khne. "Irrelevant."
"Not if Brittany Hall knew something about Wiley's death that others did not want the authorities to know." Radovich holds up a hand for me to stop talking, a stern look, and waves us to the side of the bench.
When I get there he's waiting for me. "Mr. Madriani, I'd appreciate it if you wait to make your point until after I rule on the objection."
The plain fact is that by then I might not be able to. "Sorry, Your Honor."
"Don't do it again," he says.
"I want an instruction that the jury is to disregard it," says Kline. "There is no evidence that she knew anything of the kind." Radovich looks to me. "Do you have an offer of proof?" he says.
"She knew some of the officers present at Wiley's shooting. They show up in her book."
"So what?" says Kline. "There's no evidence she knew anything." Radovich gives me an arched eyebrow, waiting for more. When it is not forthcoming, he sustains the objection.
"I don't want to hear anything more about the Wiley investigation unless there is some evidence of linkage," he says. "Am I clear?" I give him a grudging nod, and he dismisses us.
"The jury will disregard the last comment of defense counsel, as if you never heard it," he says. "Do you have any further questions of this witness?" I confer briefly with Harry, then raise my head. "I think we are done."
"Maybe we should take a break," says Radovich.
Then it hits me. "One more question. Your Honor. If I could." "One more," he says.
"Detective Stobel. Do you know why the killer moved Ms. Hall's body from her apartment to the Dumpster in the alley?"
"We think maybe he panicked," he says. "Panicked?" I say.
"People who panic do a lot of crazy things," he says.
"Yes. They run from the scene. They drop evidence. They may confess to a friend. But they don't usually take the body with them, unless there is
a reason."
"Is that a question?" says Radovich. "Do they?" I ask.
The expression on Stobel's face at this moment is a million unstated answers, none of them sufficiently plausible to justify words.
"I don't know," he finally says.
"Thank you." It is what I thought it would be, a gaping hole in their case, something they cannot answer. Ifacosta killed her, why did he move her body?
HERE ARE TWO THINGS THAT TROUBLE ME," I TELL him. These are imponderables that lie in the middle of our case like floating naval mines.
Acosta and I are doing lunch today, as best we can in one of the small attorney interview rooms off the holding cells in the bowels of the courthouse. I can hear the tapping of rain on the windows outside, beyond the metal mesh and iron bars.
We are settling in, the door to the conference room still open.
Armando is in a cheery mood, buoyed by the belief that after months of preparation we have finally begun to lay waste to their case.
He looks up from his sandwich, corned beef on rye, which my secretary has gotten for us at a little stand down the street, along with a carton of potato salad.
"You should try this," he says. "It is really very good." He is pointing to the potato salad, which he has tasted with one finger because he cannot find a spoon in the paper bag.
"I thought things have been going very well," he says. "What's the problem?" Before I can answer, he cuts me off, issuing a directive to one of the Jail guards, a man he knows by first name. ' steve rum "Jerry, would you get me a plastic fork?" he says. "Oh, and a cup of coffee." In this Acosta treats the man as if he were wearing white livery, hovering over our table with a napkin crossing his forearm.
"How about you? Coffee?" he says. "I'm fine," I tell him.
"Just one," he tells the guard.
Acosta has spent much of his professional life in these private warrens behind the courtrooms. He is courteous, but still treats the guards like bailiffs in his court. He has them scurrying to and fro, fetching and carrying, first names and smiles at every turn. Strangely enough, they seem to accept this. I cannot tell if it is out of habit or derives from the bureaucrat's sense of survival, the uncertainty of whether the Coconut will beat the current rap and return to their midst in all his previous glory. In any event, Jerry comes with a fork and coffee, then closes the door and leaves us.
"So what is your problem?" says Acosta.
"I still can't figure why the killer moved the body," I tell him. "It makes absolutely no sense. If she were killed in someone else's house I could understand it. But why from her own apartment?" He bobs his head a little while he chews, partly on his sandwich and partly on the conundrum I have just posed. He is finally forced to agree that this does not make sense.
"Especially since the killer made no effort to clean up the evidence, except for fingerprints," he says, "and no implications seem to flow from the location of the crime. Still, it is not our problem, but theirs." My concern is that they may find an answer that is not helpful to our case, though I cannot imagine what it could be. I tell him this.
"My friend, you borrow too many problems," he says. "When was the last time you saw a crime of violence that made sense?" Acosta seems to opt for the police version that the killer probably panicked.
"I wouldn't take the body with me," I tell him.
"Maybe they will have to come up with a better explanation for the jury. Still," he says, "it is not up to you and me." He goes on eating as if this is not his concern.
"You said there were two things. What is your other problem? You sure you don't want any of this?" He has the fork in the carton of salad.
I shake my head. "The note with your name on it, on Hall's calendar." I unwrap my sandwich and leave it lying open in the paper on the table.
"Hmm." He is chewing, mustard running down his chin. He catches it with a napkin before the yellow stuff can reach his tie.
"I must say, your handling of that was masterful," he says. He mops up a little more with the napkin. "The interpretation that she met with others regarding my case. No doubt it is what happened," he says.
"I gave the jury an alternative theory," I tell him. "I'm not at all certain it's the best one." The odor of my inference wafts heavily over the table between us, more pungent than the dill in his sandwich.
Suddenly he stops chewing and looks at me, dark arched eyebrows. "You think I have not been forthcoming?" he says. "That I'm with holding something?"
"I simply don't want any surprises." He raises a palm out to me. "I swear to you. I was not at that apartment that afternoon, that evening, or any other time. I have never been there in my life," he says. "On my mother's grave." He makes a gesture crossing his heart as he says this.
"Then what do you make of the note?" I ask him.
"The same as you," he tells me. "Probably a reminder that the girl penned to herself for a meeting with others. This would not be unusual,
" he says. "The prosecutor in such a case would want to talk to her. I was a notable public official. True, it may have only been a misdemeanor, but still an important case. The police would want to talk to her to ensure that she gets her story straight. Especially given what happened here." He thumps the table for emphasis.
When I don't pick up on this immediately, he puts his sandwich down. "Don't forget they framed me," he says. "They would of course be nervous that she might slip on the stand, say something that did not jibe.
An inconsistent statement that might undo the entire case could be more than embarrassing. It could have incriminating implications for them."
"But why just your name on the note?" I ask.
"Perhaps she was in the habit of making such cryptic entries on her calendar. Who knows?" I have in fact checked Hall's calendar for the day she met with Lenore in the D.A.'s office, the only date on which I know there was a meeting involving the case. She did make a notation. It referred not to "Acosta" but to Kline, by name, with the time set for their meeting. There were several other similar entries, all of them very specific, including two with the investigating Vice cops. I am only happy that Kline did not find these, and mention them to the jury to undercut my argument. But it begs the question why, on the day she died, did she use Acosta's name?
In common parlance we call it a "death rattle." It is one of those terms that through use has passed into the realm of fantasy so that many no longer believe it is an actual biological phenomenon. In fact, it is.
Forensics experts tell us that the death rattle is the result of involuntary spasms in the vocal box brought on by increased acidity in the blood following death. The noise itself is alternately described as a loud bark or whooping rasp emitted by a victim sometime after death.
It is just that question, the time of Brittany Hall's death rattle, that is in issue here today.
On the stand is Dr. Simon Angelo, the Capital County coroner. He is a man in his forties, slight of build, and bald, with a fringe of graying hair that rings his head like clouds with their tops sheared. His face is angular and narrow, sharp features including a cleft chin and deep-set dark eyes. To any defense lawyer in this town, he is the doctor to the devil.
He has now cast in stone the state's explanation of how the witness, Brittany Hall's upstairs neighbor, heard the victim shout sometime between seven-thirty and eight on the night she died. For Kline this has been a problem, the need to close the gap between the alleged four-thirty meeting on Hall's calendar with Acosta, and her cry sometime after seven-thirty.
Angelo has been most accommodating in helping the prosecution avoid any apparent contradiction in its timeline. His answer is simple: the later cry was Hall emitting a loud, singular death rattle.
"So, Dr. Angelo, in your expert medical opinion," says Kline, "it is conceivable that it could take a considerable length of time for the acid level to build in the blood sufficient for this sound, the death rattle as you call it, to possible," says Angelo. "It would vary from case to case."