The Judge

CHAPTER 17

Today the courtroom is packed, every seat is occupied, with a line two columns deep in the hallway outside, roped and cordoned to one side to keep the halls clear for workaday foot traffic.

Even with the notoriety of this case, it is not likely that we will see such a crowd again until a verdict is delivered.

There are pickets carrying signs on the steps outside-“Women Against Violence,” “Mothers Against Crime”-exclusive franchises of virtue from which all men are blackballed.

Since the disclosure of the evidence in Acosta’s case, the talk airwaves are hot with anti-male rhetoric, aimed chiefly at those of the political class. At night I can turn on anything electronic and hear screaming voices with their endless anecdotal tales of predatory men. From the more farfetched of this crowd, there is now a cry for a federally mandated neutering program for the male of the species, presumably to tame the violent among us, though this is not entirely clear.

“Susan B. Anthony’s final solution,” says Harry.

From another quarter there is talk of whether judges are sufficiently monitored in their personal behavior. Acosta’s case is the rallying point for judicial reform among the “cause-of-the-hour set” in the state legislature. These are lawmakers who watch television in the afternoon to see what bills they should introduce in the morning.

There are budding campaigns for the protection of witnesses, and the limiting of judicial terms of office. There is even a proposal to limit the number of words that a lawyer may utter in a trial, like the preemptory challenge of jurors, the only difference being that when you run out, they hang your client.

In all, Acosta’s case is a cross between Carnival and a public hanging, with hucksters peddling snake oil from the tailgate of your television set.

It is in this maelstrom of hysterical political dialogue that we are now to obtain a fair trial.

In the shadows there is the deft hand of Coleman Kline, whipping this froth for spin. He is suddenly everywhere on the airwaves. While he studiously discusses none of the particulars of the case, he has views of every social and political issue swirling about it, enough to lay a plush carpet of blame all the way to Acosta’s cell door.

This morning Armando sits next to me dressed in a dark suit, something Lili picked from his wardrobe. It hangs on him like the skin on an Auschwitz survivor, so much weight has he lost since we stalled.

Our first move is tactical. I ask the court to exclude all witnesses from the courtroom. This so that they may not hear the opening statements and conform their testimony accordingly.

Radovich goes me one better and instructs them not to listen to or read reports of the doings in this trial, though this is impossible to enforce.

“Mr. Kline, are you prepared to open?” says Radovich.

“Your Honor.” Kline rises from his chair. He tugs the French cuffs of his linen shirt an inch from the end of each sleeve of his suit coat, like a warrior girding himself for battle. Today he is dressed in his finest, a dark worsted suit, power blue, set off against a blue-and-red-striped club tie. The maroon satin lining of his coat flashes open as he approaches the jury box, and glances quickly at the watch on his wrist.

Then to the rapt silence of the courtroom, Kline opens slowly with the core concepts of his case, the central themes of the prosecution.

Standing four feet from the jury railing, without benefit of a rostrum or notes, he speaks in firm, clear tones, the discourse of death; how the victim’s body was found, dumped unceremoniously in a trash bin, how copious amounts of blood were discovered in her apartment, and the graphic nature of her death-a prelude to the pathologist who will soon take the stand.

“The state, ladies and gentlemen, will prove that this was a murder committed by the defendant, a man who held a position of trust in our society, a judicial officer sworn to uphold the law,” he says, “who betrayed that oath of office.” Through all of this he has an outstretched arm loosely directed at Acosta, pointed more generally at our table so that his words are an assault on any who might support the defendant.

This is an important theme, since if Acosta takes the stand, Kline is certain to revisit the implied violation of his sacred oath of office in weighing the man’s credibility. In all of this, the elements of deceit, the betrayal of trust, place high among the uncharged sins of my client the inferential and unstated reasons why the jury should put him to death.

“We will show that this murder was intended to obstruct the very ends of justice to which the defendant, Armando Acosta, was himself sworn to protect.”

With this, Kline lays open his theme, “the fallen judge,” to which he will return time and again. He tells them that the state will produce a witness who will verify beyond any reasonable doubt that the defendant attempted to engage in illicit and unlawful sexual relations with the victim, an undercover operative working with the police, and that Acosta was netted in this undercover sting, “a corrupted and fallen judge,” he says.

He walks them through the chronology of events in the earlier case, from the failed wire on Brittany Hall the night of the prostitution sting, to the collection of her statement by prosecutors, the contents of which he carefully skirts to avoid the hearsay objection. Still the point is well-made: that Acosta had a clear and indisputable motive for murder.

Through all of this, the eighteen souls-twelve jurors and six alternates-sit behind the railing, riveted by the unfolding tale.

Kline deftly deals with the picky little points, the circumstances that incriminate, stacking one upon the other as he continues to gather steam, until at a point he breaches the surface, belching fire and brimstone, unable to avoid the moral judgment. He is a verbal Vesuvius.

“We will show,” says Kline, “that this defendant had a reputation for illicit liaisons with other women that ultimately led to prostitution and murder.”

Radovich’s eyes go wide. A look at the seamier side, judicial life in the big city.

I can hear the frantic scratching of soft lead on paper. Reporters behind us in the front row getting cramps taking notes, trying to catch all the sewage being dumped on Acosta’s head at this moment.

The man is tugging at my sleeve.

“You should object,” he says.

I am already halfway to my feet as he says this.

“Your Honor, this is improper.”

“Mr. Kline,” says Radovich, “you are aware of the limitations regarding character,” he says.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Then the jury will disregard this last statement,” says the judge.

The issue here is whether the state will be allowed to delve into Acosta’s character, past acts that are not related to the crimes in question. This is taboo unless we open the issue ourselves by placing evidence of our client’s good character before the jury. With the Coconut, this would be something on the order of foraging for grass in the Sahara.

“Carry on,” says Radovich.

Kline gives him a slight bow of the head, an appropriate show of respect that for anyone else might come off as subjugation, but not with Kline. He picks up without losing a beat.

“The state will prove,” he says, “beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant, Armando Acosta, brutally and in cold blood murdered Brittany Hall, a judicial witness, in order to silence her and save his faltering judicial career.”

It is only a taste of what awaits us in the trial.

Then, for nearly two hours of uninterrupted monologue, Kline postures for effect, pacing in front of the jury box, as he makes point after point, turning on the key issues of his case, the hair and fibers, which he says expert witnesses will link to the defendant; the note in the victim’s own hand showing an appointment with the defendant for the day of the murder; the absence of any alibi for the defendant; the broken pair of reading glasses found at the murder scene, which Kline says he will link unequivocally to our client.

With this I glance over at Acosta, who gives me a daunting look. If they have evidence of this they have failed to disclose it.

Harry nearly rises from his chair, but I motion him to let it go. There is time for this out of the presence of the jury. Why make an issue here and mark it indelibly in their minds?

I see Harry make a note.

Kline has difficulty on one point that he cannot seem to explain, and yet cannot pass over without comment. Why, in his theory of Acosta as killer, would the judge move the body after the murder, to deposit it in a trash bin a mile from the woman’s apartment?

Kline admits that this involved risk, which no rational person would take on lightly. But then he adds that the defendant at that moment would not be acting rationally. His quick explanation is that having committed murder, the man panicked.

“Your Honor, I object. This is surmise and argument,” I tell Radovich. “Do the people intend to produce evidence on the point?”

Kline gives me a look like this is unlikely. How would he climb into my defendant’s mind?

“Then you shouldn’t be mentioning it here,” says Radovich. “The jury will disregard the last comment, the speculations of the district attorney,” says the judge.

Acosta raps me on the arm lightly with a clenched fist, a blow for our side.

It is a nagging loose thread, one that Kline cannot tuck neatly into his case. The fact remains that he has no ready explanation why the killer would take the time and assume the risk of moving the body. It is one of those gnawing points that lends itself to other theories, suggesting another sort of killer, one with reason to move Hall’s body. The first that comes to mind is a live-in lover. And yet no evidence of cohabitation was discovered in the apartment, no male clothing in the closet or drawers, no witnesses who saw men coming and going. And no effort was made to conceal the fact that death occurred in the woman’s apartment. For the moment, the mysterious movement of Hall’s body is a little more useful to our side, since we have no burden of proof.

Kline has saved the most poignant and powerful for last.

“There is,” he says, “a motherless little child left by this brutal crime.” Kimberly Hall, a hapless five-year-old.

“Little Kimmy,” as he calls her, is waiting in the wings to tell us what happened.

Up to this point he had not indicated whether he would call her as a witness. Though she remains on his list, I had assumed this was for psychic value, and to keep us off balance.

Following the little girl’s traumatized performance outside of court, her stone silence and confusion in front of the camera, we had concluded that she would not appear. She had offered nothing concrete by way of evidence, at least not verbally. Now Kline seems to be saying otherwise.

“This little girl was present during the argument and violent confrontation that took her mother’s life,” he tells the jury. “We are not certain at this point whether she can identify the killer, but she can attest to the valiant struggle that her mother made to save her own life, and the violence that took that life.”

It is clear what he is doing. If the child cannot identify the killer, she can at least, by her very presence in the courtroom, attest to the tragic loss suffered in this case.

I am torn as to whether to rise and object.

Radovich looks at me. He has seen the video and knows that it is void of any such evidentiary content. On a proper motion he might bar the witness from testifying, strike Kline’s bold statements, spare Kimberly the need to appear.

The problem here is that to object before the jury on such a sensitive point would be to do more damage than good. Regardless of her tender years, Kimberly is the only possible witness who was present on the night of the murder. Any objection may send the signal that we have something to hide. With Acosta whispering animated protests in my ear, I sit silent and suffer the point at Kline’s hands.

He balances precariously, just on the edge of argument, as he talks about the child. For an instant, Kline is overcome himself by the emotion of the moment, his voice cracking, then breaking. He talks about the living victim of this crime, Kimberly Hall. That these thoughts seem to drain him emotionally is not lost on the jury. Several of the women on the panel offer pained expressions, as if they would like to ease this load from Kline’s shoulders.

I am on the edge of my seat, half a beat from objection.

Then, as though in a daze, Kline draws himself up, as if this comes from an inner strength he did not know he possessed.

“You will hear from little Kimberly Hall in this courtroom,” says Kline. He doesn’t say what they will hear. Promising more in an opening statement than you can deliver at trial is like stepping on a legal land mine. Your opponent is certain to saw off your leg somewhere above the knee in closing argument.

“And after you hear this little girl. .” His voice breaks one more time. He regroups. “And after you hear Kimberly,” he says, “it will be left to you to decide who murdered her mother.” He turns and looks at Acosta as he says this. “And what punishment should be meted out for that terrible crime.”

With this thought Kline leaves the jury, and as he turns for the sanctuary of his counsel table, there is, halfway down his cheek, a lone tear. It is in every way a capital performance.

We are on the noon break, and I am going over notes in the courthouse cafeteria with Harry, prep for our opening, when a bailiff from one of the other departments finds us.

“Mr. Madriani. You got a call,” he says. “On one of the pay phones outside.”

I give Harry a look, like who would call me here?

“Maybe the office,” he says.

I leave him to take it, make my way across the room, shuttling between tables to the bank of pay phones on the wall outside. The receiver for one of these is dangling near the floor by its cord. I pick it up.

“Hello.”

“It’s me.” Lenore’s voice. “I took a chance that you would be lunching in.” She means in the courthouse.

Lenore has been careful not to be seen near the courtroom since her ouster from the case. She has taken up other digs for work, another friend across town, at least until the trial is over, a kind of moving Chinese wall to avoid tainting the partnership with conflict. Despite this, she is still working in the shadows, shamelessly feeding us information.

“How is it going?” she asks.

“My turn in the tumbler this afternoon,” I tell her. “Our opening statement.”

“Any surprises from Kline?”

I tell her about the reading glasses, that the state has promised the jury that they will link these to Acosta.

“Maybe Kline is hoping,” she says. “Throwing up a little dirt in hopes that some will stick.”

At the moment this sounds more like our own case.

“Why did you call?” I can sense in her breathless tones that there is more than curiosity at work here.

“I am hearing rumblings from people downtown that Lano is on the warpath,” she tells me.

“Somebody take his rawhide chew stick away?” I ask.

“It may not be so funny,” she says. “It is your name he is taking in vain. He got service on the subpoenas yesterday afternoon.”

Lenore is talking about the legal process Harry spent a week preparing, subpoenas with enough small print to strain Lano’s eyes. Hinds is rooting around in the association’s private papers, tracking through the organization’s financial dealings like a dog peeing on somebody else’s lawn. He has demanded bank statements and telephone records, with particular emphasis on the private line that rings in Lano’s office. These would be obtained from third parties, so Lano cannot destroy or alter them.

“Word is, he’s storming around his office, demanding your scalp,” she tells me.

“When’s the next performance? Harry would like to buy tickets.”

“Lano may cut a comic figure, but he is not one to take lightly.”

“Is he threatening my life?”

“Lano’s more subtle than that. Besides, I’m not privy to the private conversations of the rabble that hangs in his office.” According to Lenore, there are those among his cadre who are no doubt sticking pins in my effigy as we speak.

“You knew we had to cross over these waters,” I tell her. “It’s been part of our defense from the beginning.”

“True, but I thought I would be standing there with you.”

This is it. A moment of pained silence on the phone, the guilt that is eating at Lenore.

“And I didn’t think you would do it with such enthusiasm,” she says.

“What can I say? Harry gets carried away.”

“Then maybe you should let Harry start your car in the mornings,” she says.

“You make it sound ominous.”

“Just cover your ass,” she tells me. “I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to it.”

This is a conversation we can continue at another time.

“Are we still on for tonight?” I ask her.

“Are you sure you won’t be too tired?”

“I’ll get the wine.”

“What, so we can drown our sorrows?” she asks.

“That and other things.”

She laughs, something just on the edge of seductive. “Your place, eight o’clock.” I hear the click on the line and dead air, and in my mind the resonance; the lyrical qualities of Lenore’s voice.

The presumption of innocence is an intellectual exercise not subscribed to by the common man. For this reason, after Kline’s scorched-earth opening it is an uphill battle to drag the jury back to neutral ground.

I start with something that is not always obvious in such a formal setting: introductions. It is an effort at bonding that every good lawyer learns.

“My name is Madriani,” I tell the jury, “Paul.” I give them a toothy grin, which, pleasantly, most of them return.

“My client”-I gesture toward the table-“Judge Acosta.”

“Objection.” Kline is out of his chair.

“What? You would deny the common decency of an introduction?” In fact I have baited him, knowing that he would object to this.

“I object to the use of the title ‘judge,’” he says. He starts to speak, and Radovich cuts him off in midsyllable.

“Sidebar,” he says.

By the time I get there Kline is already bubbling over with venom.

“The defendant was suspended from the bench,” he tells Radovich. “Order of the supreme court,” he says. “Pending disposition in this trial. He should not be referred to as ‘judge.’”

“Petty point,” I tell him. “There is nothing legal in the title. You show me where it says in the law that someone cannot call themselves a judge.”

“It’s misleading,” he says. “Confusing to the jury.”

“Then we can explain it to them. Tell them that there’s a temporary order that will be expunged when my client is acquitted.”

“Fat chance.” Kline gives me a “screw you” expression.

Radovich coaxes Kline to accept the title, with an explanation to the jury. “I think that would solve any confusion,” he says.

It is more than I had expected.

“Absolutely,” I say. “We can cooperate to work out the language.” We have just started and I am already six yards up Kline’s ass with a hot poker.

“No, Your Honor, that’s not right. The fact is that he’s been removed from the bench,” says Kline. “There is only one judge in this courtroom,” he tells Radovich. Always pander to power.

It is a point that will have an effect on the jury, and Kline wants to settle it early.

Radovich wrinkles the skin at the bridge of his nose.

Kline senses the ground shifting under his feet.

“Perhaps we could refer to the defendant as ‘former judge,’” says Kline. “We can live with former judge.” The master of the fall-back position.

“We would prefer judge, with a fair explanation to the jury,” I say.

“I’ll bet you would,” says Kline.

“I would prefer to get on with the trial,” says Radovich. “Former judge it is,” he says. “Now get to work.”

It is an unsettling label, one that begs more than it answers, like the term ex-husband, with all the negative connotations. From the state’s perspective it is moot. Kline will no doubt refer to him as “the defendant” whenever he cannot call him “killer.”

As I head back toward the jury railing Acosta flags me to the table.

“What happened?” he says.

“For the time being you are mister,” I tell him.

He has a hold on my sleeve, telling me that this is mean-spirited, unfair.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I tell him.

From his expression, I can tell he is not satisfied with this, but accepts it for the moment. With the Coconut, appearance is everything. He may wear jail togs outside of this courtroom, but in his mind he is still “His Honor” in robes.

I make my way back to the jury railing, where I make apologies for Kline’s interruption.

This draws another objection. Radovich tells him to sit down, and me to move on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce my client, Armando Acosta.”

He rises only slightly from his chair as the guards eye him nervously. Acosta gives the panel something that the affected might construe as a courtly gesture. There is a move he does with one arm across his waist as he bends, that looks like his hand should be holding a velvet cap with a plume of feathers. This Acosta has practiced for days in his cell. It is more than I had wanted, and comes off as just a little eccentric. It would be fine if insanity were our defense.

Before he can curtsy or perform the minuet, I cough to get the jury’s attention off of him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “the prosecutor in this case has skillfully told you what evidence he has. But there is something missing, seriously missing in his presentation. What he has not told you, is what he does not have.”

I quickly cover the areas of weakness in our case, the fact that Acosta has no alibi for the night of the murder, and that some of the physical evidence found on the victim, carpet fibers and hair, may, on first blush, appear to be similar to hair and fibers found at Acosta’s residence. But I tell them to keep their minds open. They will hear evidence that similar does not mean identical.

It would be foolish to pass over these points without acknowledging their existence, as if we are hiding from the truth.

I do not touch on Oscar Nichols and the damning threats against Hall Acosta made to him that day over lunch. So far Nichols has not turned up on the prosecution’s list of witnesses, so I gamble that they will not find him.

“The prosecutor has told you what he has,” I say. “But he has not been completely forthcoming.”

With this there are stern expressions from beyond the railing.

“He has not told you about the evidence that is missing from his case.”

One old lady looks at me, pencil poised over paper, as if I am about to indict Kline for tampering with the proof.

“There is so much that he has not told you,” I say, “that it is difficult to know where to begin.”

Radovich, elbow on the bench, one hand propping up his chin, gives me a look like I’d better figure it out soon.

“The prosecutor, Mr. Kline,” I tell them, “does not have an eyewitness to the crime. In fact he has not a single eyewitness who can put my client anywhere near Brittany Hall’s apartment that night. He does not have a witness, but he has not told you this,” I say.

I turn from the jury box, take a step, and turn back.

“The prosecutor does not have a murder weapon. To this day,” I tell them, “he has only a theory of how the victim came to suffer the so-called blunt-force trauma that killed her. He has no weapon, no instrument of death that would implicate my client. But he has not told you this.”

My rhythm takes on the cadence of a child’s rhyme.

“The prosecutor has no fingerprints linking my client to the scene of the murder, or to the location where they found the victim’s body in the alley that night. But he has not told you this. Nor does he have any blood belonging to my client at the scene of the murder, or in the alley where they found the victim. But he has not told you this.

“He has no documents, no receipts for any purchases by my client on the night of the murder that would place him anywhere near the location of this crime. But he has not told you this.

“He has no confession, no statement incriminating my client. But he has not told you this.

“He found no bruises on my client’s body, no scratches on his face that would indicate a physical altercation or violent struggle in the period immediately preceding the victim’s death. But he has not told you this.”

Heads are beginning to bob and sway with the refrain. Follow the bouncing ball. At one point I actually use my pencil as if I were directing a choir, and two of the women smile. They would finish the line aloud for me if I stopped:

But he has not told you this.

I would light a bonfire and have them all singing along, if Radovich would allow it.

My litany goes on at length as I highlight all the classic points of incrimination, all of which are absent in this case. Kline has given me an opening, an early slip that we cannot expect again. He sits fixed, bolt-upright in his chair, playing with a pencil, pretending that this is all nothing, while I rape him atop the jury railing to a chorus of “But he has not told you this.”

Welcome to the practice of felony trials.

Acosta is nearly giddy in his chair as he watches my performance, itching to join in. Finally I bring it to an end, breaking the rhythm.

“There is a great deal that the prosecutor has not told you about that night,” I say. “About this case. Much of this will not come before you in this trial until the defense has a chance to present its own case. You must agree to keep an open mind. Can I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, for your solemn promise? Will you wait to form a judgment until we have a chance to present our case?”

It is a rhetorical question, but nearly every juror is now nodding in the box. One woman actually speaks up and says, “Yes.”

There is an atmosphere in the courtroom like a tent revival at this moment. Jurors that have seen the light. It is time for conversion, immersion in the truths of our case.

“My client, Mr. Acosta, was, before his arrest, an aggressive judge on the superior court of this county. A respected member of the bench.”

So I dissemble a little on character. This is not evidence, and I cannot be impeached.

“He has pursued the business of judging in an aggressive manner, too aggressive for some who have come under the scrutiny of the county’s grand jury.

“This case,” I say, “is about law enforcement. It is about police. And as in every occupation there are good police officers, and a few, hopefully a very few, bad ones.”

I lead them on a tour of the grand jury probe, information that Acosta has given me about the investigation, despite the fact that he is sworn to secrecy in such matters. In motions before the trial we thrashed out the limits of how far I can go on this, and I take it to the limit.

“There was, ongoing at the time that Brittany Hall was murdered, an intense grand jury investigation, an investigation into police corruption in this city, by a panel of jurors, not unlike yourselves. A part of that investigation is still in progress, and while I cannot divulge specifics about that matter, suffice it to say that it involves charges of serious criminal misconduct by a number of police officers under investigation.”

There are hot pencils scratching on paper in the press rows. There has been wind of this investigation for months, rumors in the press, but this is the first official confirmation. It is what happens in the winds of conflict when the right to a fair trial clashes with government secrecy.

I am not allowed to talk about the murder of Officer Wiley, or the suspicion that he may have been killed by fellow officers to silence him because he knew too much.

Still there are bulging eyes in the jury box, a few plunging Adam’s apples as they listen.

“My client in this case, Armando Acosta, served as the judge in charge of that grand jury. He was vigorously pursuing that investigation at the time that he was arrested for soliciting prostitution.”

Here is a straight recitation of the facts:

“We will present evidence that that arrest was engineered by the very police officers who were the subject of the grand jury probe, and that Armando Acosta’s arrest had one purpose and one purpose only: to stop the investigation, and to intimidate the honest officials who were striving to weed out corruption on this city’s police force.”

I am drawing wide eyes from the panel, several of whom are taking notes.

“We will produce evidence that the victim in this case, Brittany Hall, was closely allied with members of that force, having worked as a civilian employee with the Vice detail.

“We believe that there are reasons, reasons that will become apparent to you with the evidence of this case, why Brittany Hall was murdered, but not by Armando Acosta. The evidence will show, ladies and gentlemen, that Brittany Hall was murdered by others, because she knew too much.”

With this I cross the Rubicon. I am committed to the theory of our case, and while we have no burden of proof, the jury is not likely to forget what I have promised to show them.

I return to the implied promise that I have extracted from each of them, to withhold judgment until our case is presented.

I move toward conclusion, where I know that the court will give me more leeway, and I edge into argument.

Kline shifts nervously in his chair, but hesitates to object, knowing that Radovich is likely to give me license here.

“These are cynical times, ladies and gentlemen. Times in which the presumption of innocence, which the law guarantees to each of us, has too often been twisted into an assumption of guilt. Such cynicism may double where the charge is brought against a public official, particularly one in a position of trust, such as a judge.” I turn this point against Kline.

“You must fight the tendency to think in those terms. You must not listen to the merchants of cynicism,” I tell them.

As I say this I am staring directly at Kline in his chair. He is halfway up, out of it.

“And instead,” I say, “look at the evidence of the case, and rely on your own sound judgment. I am confident that if you do that, you will find Armando Acosta not guilty.”

Outside on the courthouse steps I am having microphones thrust in my face. Harry and I are blocked by a phalanx of men and a few women wielding cameras on their shoulders, hot lights in our eyes. It is a movable feast for journalists.

“Mr. Madriani, can you tell us what you know about the grand jury investigation of the police association?”

“I cannot say anything more,” I tell them.

“Are indictments coming?”

“You’ll have to ask the district attorney’s office about that.”

“Sir, you made some rather serious accusations in your opening statement. We’d like to know what evidence there is to back this up.”

“Watch in court like everyone else,” I tell them.

Harry finds a seam in the cordon of cameras, lowers a shoulder, and I follow him through the hole.

Somebody asks Harry a question I cannot understand.

“No comment,” he says. Harry nudges one of the minicams and the thing nearly falls off the operator’s shoulder, saved only by a strap around the guy’s arm.

One woman with a microphone comes at me from the side.

“Have you talked with Mr. Lano or his association concerning these charges?”

I ignore her.

“Do you intend to call Mr. Lano to the stand?”

By now she is behind me and I am opening the distance between us, continuing to ignore the stream of questions.

“Mr. Madriani, are you telling us that Gus Lano or some of his supporters had something to do with the murder of Brittany Hall?” This last is shouted above the din of other reporters, so that there is no one on the street within fifty feet who can miss it.

“That seems to be the thrust of your opening statement,” says the reporter. The new journalism: If you can’t get a reply, testify. Her voice will be on the six o’clock news, with pictures of the back of my head, silence as a public admission.

“Why don’t you answer their questions?”

When I look up, I’m staring into the face of Tony Arguillo. He has come from someplace in this mob to put himself between Harry and me, and is now blocking my way to the curb.

“Well?” he says. “At a loss for words?”

“The judge has issued a gag order,” I tell him. “And if you’re smart you’ll keep your mouth closed.”

“A gag order. Oh, yes. That’s it. Upholding the requirements of the profession,” says Arguillo. He makes the word sound dirty.

“Right,” he says. “It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that what a cock-sucking lying lawyer says in a courtroom is privileged, now could it. The fact that lies made there are immune from the laws of defamation-a little slander?”

I nudge him with a shoulder and for a second Tony stiffens. I think we are going to get into it, right here in front of the cameras. His two little beady eyes are locked on me like the homing beam on a missile. Then he breaks this and turns to a couple of the reporters.

“I’ll tell you that everything he said in that courtroom is a crock,” he says. “A pack of lies.” It is Tony as the true believer. He seems genuinely offended by the disclosure of information about the grand jury investigation, this despite the fact that it is old news, chewed over in the press for months.

I push past him.

“Who are you?” One of the reporters is talking to Tony.

“Can we have your name?”

Arguillo’s ignoring them.

“Why don’t you talk about it out here where you can get your ass sued?” Tony continues to taunt me from behind this time. “Just like the rest of the fucking breed. Fucking lawyers all the same.” They will be using a lot of electronic bleeps on the news tonight.

My blood is boiling like hot lead to the tips of my ears. I fight the temptation to turn and get into it. I ignore him, one fist clenched and shaking at my side; I walk away.

Harry’s made it to the curb, where he’s hailed a passing cab. It pulls up and he opens the door. The throng of journalists move in around us like piranhas boiling on the surface of a lake. As I look over the top of the vehicle, I see a figure staring intently at me from across the street. It is Gus Lano, making no pretense of the fact that I am the center of his attention at this moment. I am wondering if he was in the courtroom to hear the opening, perhaps with Tony, or if he has heard the questions being propounded here on the steps.

Whatever Lano’s sense of our case had been before this moment, he is certain to have a whole new perspective now.