"Yes."
"Do you know how many customers purchased glasses of that kind, the so-called high-index glass set in Specter Four Thirty frames, since the frames were offered for sale by Vision Ease?"
"Two," he says.
"Do you know whether one of these was Lili Acosta?" "It was," he says.
For an accused defendant it could be said that there is not much that is more damaging than a matching fingerprint, though Kline is working m steve HABIM with evidence approaching that realm at this point. It is now becoming clear what he laid on Oscar Nichols to convince him of acosta's guilt-- the bloodied spectacles resting on the railing, and the witness who sits on the stand.
"Anything else peculiar about the lenses?" asks Kline. He is not finished.
"I would say the correction for astigmatism is unusual." "Perhaps you could explain to the jury in laymen's terms?"
"The prescription here is for a reading glass, a common prescription for eyes as they age. But the patient who wore these also suffered from serious astigmatism. That's an irregularity in the curvature of the lens of the eye. It results in light entering the eye not meeting at a single focal point. If serious, this can result in blurred vision. The patient who wore these glasses suffered from astigmatism in both eyes."
"Was it serious?"
"For some forms of work," says Hazlid, "it would be quite an impairment."
"I won't get into the methods of corrects. We don't need to do that," says Kline. "But with regard to the pair of spectacles before you in evidence, do you know what the prescription is for each lens in these glasses?" The moment of drama, Kline with his sword drawn, aimed at our vitals.
"I do."
"Would you please tell the jury?"
"Omitting the correction for reading, which is common, a plus two for each eye, the correction for astigmatism to the left eye is three point two five diopters, by twenty-three degrees. For the right eye it is four point two five diopters, by one hundred and fifty-seven degrees."
"Would you say that is an unusual prescription?"
"I would say that it is highly unusual." With this, Kline appears to have come further than he anticipated with this witness. He is beaming at the jury box, not a smile, but the stern expression of resolve. There is an electric atmosphere in the room at this moment, a clear shift of momentum that I am not likely to reverse with this witness. With a single item of evidence Kline is on the verge of crossing the threshold beyond reasonable doubt, over the river and into the prosecutor's promised land, where the burden would shift to us.
"Doctor, can you tell us, do you have on record the vision prescription for the defendant, Armando Acosta, as last recorded by Vision Ease?"
"I do," he says. "And what is it?"
"What I have just given you," says Hazlid. "It is the same prescription as found in the pair of glasses in evidence before you." As he says this, you could drop a pin in the jury box and locate it by its own sound. The glasses on the jury railing at this moment are the focal point for eighteen sets of eyes, jurors and alternates, all with a single question. How will the defendant explain the presence of these at the murder scene, a sliver of their broken glass embedded like a piece to a puzzle in the victim's foot?
after THE TESTIMONY ON THE EYEGLASSES, kline brings on his next witness like icing on the cake, cream in your coffee, or a nail in your coffin, depending on your point of view.
With hair that went fully white before he was fifty, Oscar Nichols has an amiable face and a soft sermonizing style that makes the passing of a sentence in criminal matters sound like a religious experience. There is a certain ethereal quality to his manner that has caused the less benevolent of the courthouse crowd to refer to him over the years as "Uncle Remus." He is not an imposing figure. I would guess he stands five feet six and weighs a hundred and fifty pounds with sand in his pockets. He has a kind of permanent smile etched in his cheeks, grin ridges like cement.
His ascendancy to the bench lends credence to the theory that the meek shall inherit the earth, or at least that portion of it inside the bar railing.
To this day I do not know his politics. He runs his court by consensus, an endless search for agreement among the disagreeable--a kind of legal burlesque in which prosecutors and defense attorneys who despise each other haggle over justice for defendants who would kill them both if the guards would only remove the shackles.
Nichols is everyman's vision of the benevolent grandfather, a monument to innocence who prays at the altar of trust. He would give matches to an arsonist who said he was cold. He would also, in a pinch, do the right thing, which unfortunately at this moment means offering incriminating testimony against an old friend.
This morning Acosta seems almost relieved to see him. I have to stand and do barricade duty in the aisle to keep the Coconut from talking to the witness who is about to hang him. Even with this they get in a quick exchange of pleasantries inquiries about each other's wife and family, the press taking notes.
Kline is busy pushing some papers at his table across the gulf, while he confers with one of his associates. He has been deft in his handling of these last witnesses, making up for lost ground.
With the glasses he laid a nice trap, discovering evidence that was out side of the loop, spectacles not purchased from Acosta's regular optometrist and therefore not discovered by us. For Armando's part, he has apologized profusely for this oversight. He now remembers that the glasses were last seen in his house months before. He has no idea how they came to be found at the scene of a murder.
My cross of Hazlid was an exercise in damage control. I picked around the edges, the only point of any import, the missing temple screw. On this Hazlid threw me a bone, acknowledging that based on the condition of the screw hole, the lack of torque and twisting around it, it is probable that the screw was missing before the glasses were trampled in Hall's apartment. Forensics never found the screw, and Hazlid testified that it would be difficult if not impossible to use the glasses with out it.
From this I drew conjecture, that the witness could not discount entirely, that it was possible that the glasses had been discarded by their owner, perhaps tossed aside where anyone could have found them.
The inference is clear; somebody planted them. Whether the jury will buy this is another matter.
Nichols presents a different set of problems. From a strategic point the difficulty is the relationship between the two men. It goes back twenty years. Everyone in the courthouse knew they were tight. If there was one person on a professional plane that Acosta would have confided in, it was Oscar Nichols. It is this friendship, and the notion that Nichols has now been persuaded that Acosta is guilty, that is the most damaging aspect--a friend, a judge, who has made his own judgment. Coming on top of the glasses, this is certain to have an insidious effect on the jury.
Kline stumbles on the social proprieties starting off. He calls him "Your Honor" and then corrects himself, referring to Nichols instead as "Judge." This seems to run contrary to his earlier insistence that there should be only one judge in the courtroom using the title. But Kline is not one to be shackled by consistency.
"Judge Nichols, would you tell the jury how long you have known the defendant?"
"More than twenty years," he says.
"Would you consider yourself a friend?" Nichols looks over at Acosta and issues a deep sigh, something painful that could be read in many ways. "Yes. I would." Then adds: "I hope so." If his voice were analyzed for stress at this moment, it would send the dial off the meter, pencil marks skittering over the edges of the graph paper.
Kline disarms and inveigles, floating up marshmallow questions about the cloistered nature of the judicial branch, the loneliness of judging, and the need to confide, like gods, only among themselves.
"I suppose this would spawn an element of trust among colleagues?" says Kline. "To share things?" He means their darkest secrets.
"I suppose, on professional matters over the years," says Nichols, "you would develop confidants. People you could talk to." This is not exactly what Kline had in mind.
"And on personal matters. I suppose you would discuss those, too?" "It happens," says Nichols.
"Would you say that in the past you've had such a relationship with the defendant?"
"At times."
"And is it fair to say that at times he's had the same kind of confidential relationship with you? He would talk, share things?" Kline is animated, filled with gestures of good faith to show he has no cards up his sleeves.
"Yes."
"So you shared things back and forth?" "At times."
"Judge Nichols, are you familiar with the J Street Diner, just down the street from the courthouse?"
"Yes."
"Do you sometimes have coffee there?" "On occasion."
"Is it one of those places where judges sometimes go to get away from the courthouse?" Nichols weighs this. Then concedes. "At times."
"Where you can have a private conversation without a lot of lawyers, or maybe the media looking on?"
"Leading and suggestive," I tell Radovich. The diner is not after all the village confessional.
"Sustained."
"Anyway you can go there and get away from the courthouse?" Kline is back to where he started.
"Yes." He draws the witness to the twenty-fifth of June last year and asks him if he remembers a conversation with the defendant at the diner.
"Yes. I remember." Nichols's voice goes up an octave, anxiety registering as pitch. He takes a drink of water from the glass on the railing in front of him, and has trouble looking at Acosta as he does this.
"Do you recall who suggested having coffee that day, whether it was you or the defendant?"
"I think it was Judge Acosta," says Nichols. For a moment he looks over as if perhaps he is going to ask, "Armando, do you remember?" But then he realizes where he is.
"Did the defendant come and get you in your office in the courthouse?" "I think he called."
"Why didn't he just come downstairs and get you?" Kline knows the answer. By that time Acosta had been suspended from the bench following the prostitution arrest. He wants the witness to say this.
"He wasn't there that day," says Nichols. "Why not?"
"Because of the difficulties a few nights before." This is Oscar's shorthand for saying that his buddy had been busted seeking party favors.
When Nichols tries to cut the corner, taking this edge off, Kline brings him back, reminding him of this ugly incident, the prostitution sting.
"Yes. That's right," he says. "He'd stepped down from the bench." "Stepped down or suspended?" It's clear Kline's not getting a lot of help from Nichols. Perhaps the witness is having second thoughts.
"I suppose suspended' is the proper term," says Nichols.
"Good," says Kline, "so that we get it right for the record." Nichols is back at the glass of water, wiping sweat from his forehead shooting a glance at Acosta, who by now is stone faced, issuing only an occasional shrug when it comes to the facts he cannot deny, a kind of dispensation offered to a friend.
"I take it this is uncomfortable for you?" says Kline.
A long deep sigh from Nichols. "It's not fun," he says.
Kline knows that the more painful this is, the more likely the jury is to accept Nichols's testimony as truthful.
"Was there anyone else present other than yourself and the defendant during this conversation over coffee?"
"You mean at the diner?" "Yes. At the diner."
"No. Just the two of us."
"And do you recall what the conversation was about?" "He was ..."
"The defendant?" says Kline.
"Yes. The defendant was ..." Kline manages to put the word in Nichols's mouth while the witness is busy searching for a term that will lessen the impact of what he has to say. Nichols finally settles on "upset." "And what was he upset about?" says Kline.
"The arrest," he says.
"This would have been the prostitution arrest?" "Yes."
"Now, upset can mean a lot of things to different people," says Kline. "When you say upset, what exactly do you mean?"
"I mean he was upset." Nichols is not going to offer synonyms and allow Kline to take his pick of the most damning. "Do you mean he was sick?" says Kline.
Nichols mentally chews on this, knowing it is not what he means at all, but then finally says: "In a way he was sick."
"Or was he mad? Angry?" Clearly Kline would prefer one of these. "That, too," says Nichols.
Kline concentrates on the portion reflecting anger and asks whether this was directed at anyone in particular.