Undue Influence

Chapter 17

Judge Austin Woodruff is from an old-line GOP family in the valley, more conservative than God, but without the compassion. He is fifty-four, with a ruddy complexion and an aristocratic bearing made more patrician by his utter lack of humor. Woodruff is a stone-face that could slay a dozen comics.

He has the look of authority, like some aging anchorman from the network days of yore — a flowing gray mane and eyebrows like spun silver. He is what the average citizen thinks of when he or she hears the word ‘judge.’

He can be called fair in every way that the word is defined and spelled, from lack of bias to ability on the bench. Though at times I have wondered if he has ever seen a defendant he likes or a golf course he does not. He is stern, with the personality and warmth of a bronze bust, which has moved some cruel observers to lay on a few monikers. I have heard cursing references to the Ice Prince and Old Marblehead issuing forth from stalls in the men’s room, but the one I like best, and which seems to have stuck, is Chuckles.

For better or worse, Austin Woodruff is our trial judge. At the moment he’s shuffling papers on the bench.

Harry and I are in Department Twelve to argue motions intended to prevent the state from putting its own spin on the various faces of truth. Dana has joined us today, just behind the railing. She is here earlier for a luncheon date. Since Hawaii she has taken a particular interest in the case.

This morning Morgan Cassidy sits at counsel table with Jimmy Lama, the cop from hell, and a young assistant DA, a kid getting his first glimpse down into the volcano of crime.

Laurel is not present, as is the custom when a defendant is in custody. I have tried to impress upon her the significance of these motions. Lose on a critical piece of evidence here, and half of our case can be flushed before the judge impanels the first juror.

The state’s case is one of circumstance. The prosecution will argue that Laurel is a woman consumed by jealousy, a former spouse shed like old clothes, who was embittered and furious with Melanie for stealing her husband. They will insist that this rage was stirred and rekindled when Jack made a grab for the kids. Among suspects, they will show that Laurel had the best motive, as well as ample opportunity to kill. The state will argue that that is exactly what she did.

To the idle observer all this might seem the barest of suspicions, and they would be right if it were not for a few items of evidence that put the cloak of credence on this theory. Cassidy has these, items of evidence fixed into her case like screws in a coffin lid.

Two pieces of physical evidence presumably purporting to show that Laurel was at the scene the night of the murder could be viewed as highly incriminating; the small rug that Laurel was busy laundering when she was arrested in Reno and which Jack insists was in the master bath the night Melanie was shot, and a gold compact with Melanie’s initials found in Laurel’s purse after the arrest.

The police also have a witness, Mrs. Miller who will testify that Laurel was seen in the neighborhood, near the Vega house, about the time of the murder.

Woodruff’s voice has the tonal qualities of an aging baron of broadcast, like a bullfrog who swallowed honey, mellifluous and deep, as it is this morning when he asks us if we are ready to proceed.

He doesn’t wait for a reply, but immediately launches a series of questions, like torpedoes under the waterline of our first motion.

‘What is this about the rug?’ he says. ‘You want to keep it out? On what grounds?’

‘No, your honor.’ I am waving him off. ‘That’s not our motion.’ Something more defensible, I tell him.

‘Well, what is it?’

Not an auspicious start. Woodruff hasn’t read any of the moving papers, our written agreement.

‘The rug can come in,’ I tell him. ‘Though I would alert the court that there is a factual dispute as to its ownership and where it came from.’

‘That’s a question for the jury,’ he says. ‘Not for this court. Not for a motion.’

‘I agree.’

Our motion is more subtle, not exactly home turf for Chuckles. So I lead him through the argument. Jack’s testimony that the rug came from the murder scene is damaging enough, though Laurel will insist otherwise. I can hope for some neutral pitch on this, a jury that is at least in doubt as to who they will believe.

What I want to avoid are the unstated inferences by Cassidy that might allude to Laurel destroying evidence when she washed the rug or dipped her hands in solvent.

I am a believer in the adage that facts seldom settle an argument. It is the implications drawn from them that most often win the day or cause the damage.

This is the case in the state’s lab report given to us in discovery. It refers to gunpowder-residue tests which were ‘inconclusive because of chemicals into which the defendant intentionally dipped her hands.’

I make my pitch to Woodruff, and we go at it tooth and tong, Cassidy and I. She is insisting that the rug speaks for itself. A talking rug is one thing. What I’m afraid of is that left to her own devices in trial, Cassidy may try to jump on this thing and fly.

‘What other reason could the defendant have for taking it to Reno and washing it,’ she says, ‘but to remove blood or other evidence?’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I tell the judge. ‘That kind of speculation.’

‘It’s a natural conclusion to be drawn from the evidence,’ says Cassidy.

‘Did the state find any blood?’ I say. ‘Or any other evidence?’

‘How could they? Your client washed it off.’

‘That’s speculation,’ I tell her.

Woodruff is becoming a potted plant. He finally notices.

‘Address your arguments to me,’ he says.

‘Your honor. The rug is stolen property,’ she says. Morgan Cassidy has a positive gift for torturing facts. In her hands evidence can take on more twists and embellishments than wrought iron.

‘According to whom?’ I ask.

‘According to the victim’s husband.’

‘Stop. Stop. One at a time,’ says Woodruff. ‘First you.’

He points to Cassidy. Morgan doing what she does best, seizing the initiative.

She argues that the rug is stolen property, that the state is entitled to a reasonable inference, that mere possession of this item by the defendant is evidence of her guilt.

I bellow like some wounded bull before she can finish.

‘There’s no evidence that the rug was stolen.’

Woodruff is scratching his head, a blizzard of dandruff on the bench blotter. They don’t pay enough for these decisions, he’s thinking.

I lead him to the affidavit signed by Laurel under penalty of perjury that the rug was hers, that it was never at the victim’s residence.

‘So what?’ says Cassidy. ‘We have a counteraffidavit signed by Mr. Vega to the contrary. It clearly puts the rug in the victim’s house at the time of the murder.’

‘Fine. There’s a dispute of fact,’ I say. ‘There is nothing approaching established evidence that the rug was stolen. That’s for the jury to decide.’

‘And if they decide that it is stolen, are we entitled to an instruction?’ says Cassidy. She’s talking about a jury instruction so that they can infer guilt from the mere possession of the rug.

‘That’s an argument for another day. We’re not here to talk jury instructions. Or am I wrong?’

‘Good point,’ says Woodruff. He’s finally on the same page with us.

Cassidy is making an effort to frame the issues to her own liking. Enough sand thrown up and maybe I’ll lose my place on the sheet, start singing out of tune. We’ve done a complete circle and we’re back to square one. Woodruff points to me.

‘Your turn.’

‘The problem is not what the jury might be allowed to deduce from fairly presented evidence,’ I tell him, ‘but what the prosecution might be permitted to infer when talking about that evidence — the rug and the solvents on her hands,’ I say.

Like a light has come on behind Woodruffs eyes. He finally gets it.

‘They wouldn’t do that,’ he says.

I read to him from the lab report, the supposition that Laurel intentionally frustrated the powder-residue tests by immersing her hands in the chemicals.

‘Oh,’ he says.

Cassidy, sensing the hammer about to fall, starts to argue.

‘Enough,’ says Woodruff. He looks at her. ‘Did you find any powder residue on her hands?’

‘How could we, your honor?’

‘Anything on the carpet?’

‘It was washed clean.’

‘And you want to infer that this involves intentional destruction of evidence?’

‘We should be given the latitude,’ says Cassidy. ‘What’s so speculative?’ she says. ‘The defendant fled the scene, took the carpet, washed it to clean away any evidence. What could be more clear?’

I don’t think Woodruff is going to buy this, but he is listening — a dangerous sign.

‘Is that a reasonable inference?’ I ask. ‘Think about it, your honor, if the state’s theory is correct. Let’s assume you commit a murder. So you grab a soiled rug from the scene, splotched with blood, and drive a hundred and thirty miles to another city to wash it. If it’s evidence of a crime, why not leave it at the scene? If it’s true what the state says, that the carpet was in the house, then its discovery there after the crime would in no way implicate or incriminate you, would it? Unless the killer had a fetish for cleanliness, why take it?’ I say.

‘Maybe she panicked,’ says Cassidy.

‘Fine. Then why not dispose of it somewhere on the road, after panic had subsided?’

For this Cassidy has no response.

‘If any inference is to be drawn from possession of the rug, from its washing in a public laundromat in full view of other patrons, that inference should not be one of guilt, but innocence,’ I say. ‘People with guilty knowledge don’t act in this way,’ I tell them.

Dead silence. Woodruff looking at me.

It is hard to argue with the stupidity of this act. If Laurel murdered Melanie, the antics with the scrap of carpet defy all logic.

‘Seems pretty clear,’ says Woodruff. He looks at Cassidy. ‘You can introduce the rug into evidence. But I don’t want to hear any inference about nonexistent bloodstains or powder residue on the defendant’s hands that couldn’t be found,’ he says.

‘Your honor-’

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Next.’ Woodruff looks at me.

‘What about the statement in the lab report?’ I ask him. Why settle for a half loaf if I can get it buttered? ‘We would move to have it stricken,’ I say.

An imperious look from the judge.

‘Maybe you can soften the language.’ He looks at Cassidy.

‘She put her hands in the solvent. How many ways are there to say it?’ she says.

‘Take out the word “intentionally” and we can live with it,’ I say.

‘There. How about that?’ says Woodruff.

Cassidy, shaking her head. ‘Fine,’ she says.

‘Why couldn’t you two have stipulated the point before coming here?’ The judge looks at me.

He has never tried the word ‘compromise’ on Cassidy.

‘Now… what’s next?’

Woodruff is poring over the papers.

‘Looks like a witness-identification problem,’ he says. ‘What do we have, a bad lineup?’ He looks down his nose at Cassidy. She’s not winning any points here: what happens when you circle the wagons and make an issue on every point.

‘The lineup was tainted,’ I say.

‘How?’

‘We’ve subpoenaed witnesses,’ I tell him.

‘Is that necessary?’ says Woodruff.

I think maybe he’s got an early starting time on the links.

‘I think we could handle it in oral argument,’ says Cassidy.

She would.

‘Is the prosecution willing to stipulate?’ I ask.

‘To what?’ says Cassidy.

‘To exclusion of the identification evidence.’ I’m talking about the witness who claims she saw Laurel at Vega’s house the night of the murder.

‘Not on your life,’ she says.

‘Then I’d like to call my witnesses.’

A lot of grousing from the judge. I do some groveling, assurances that I will move it along.

Looking at his watch, Woodruff gives me the nod.

‘You got twenty minutes,’ he says.

I call Jimmy Lama to the stand and have him sworn to testify.

Lama has prepped for this as well as he can under the circumstances. True to form, he has tried to sandbag us on a witness.

Margaret Miller is Jack Vega’s neighbor. Harry and I had talked to her in the weeks following the murder. She had given us dirt about Melanie’s male visitors and the fact that she had seen Laurel twice at the Vega home on the night of the murder, the first time when the two women argued on the front porch. The second visit was closer to the time of the murder, and Miller has told the police that she saw Laurel in a sweatshirt and hood out on the street in front of the house.

The problem here is one of procedure and fundamental fairness, something as alien as moon rocks to Lama.

I turn to Jimmy in the witness box.

We establish the facts, that he heads up the investigation in the case, and that he interviewed Mrs. Miller.

‘How many times did you interview her?’

Lama’s counting on his fingers. ‘Three…’ A glazed look in his eyes as he thinks back. ‘Three interviews and a lineup,’ he says.

‘And at this lineup did Mrs. Miller identify Laurel Vega?’

‘She did. She said the defendant was at the house twice that night.’

‘This lineup — it was the one attended by my colleague, Mr. Hinds?’ I look over at Harry.

‘Yeah. He was there. He didn’t object, say anything was wrong at the time,’ says Lama. Getting in his digs.

‘Was that the only lineup you conducted for this witness?’

He makes a face. ‘How do you define lineup?’ he says. Knowing Lama, he is not above a little perjury — it’s just that if he’s doing it, he wants to know it.

‘I’m talking about a live appearance of the defendant with other potential suspects before the witness.’

‘Then that was the only lineup,’ he says.

Harry has advised me that Laurel was picked out of a group of five other women, all dressed as she was, in jail togs. The women were all of the same approximate height and coloring. Each one was asked to step forward and one at a time to don a sweatshirt with a hood, and to give a full profile, both sides of her face, to the witness, who was in a booth, behind a glare screen. It was a textbook lineup, no suggestions by Lama or the other cops who were present. The problem, it appears, developed earlier.

‘Before you scheduled the lineup for the witness, did you have occasion to show Mrs. Miller some photographs?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How many photographs did you show her?’

He makes a face. ‘Four, five, maybe a half dozen?’ He leaves a lot of wiggle room.

‘And was Mrs. Miller able to identify the defendant from the photographs shown to her?’

‘She was.’

‘Did you bring these photographs with you?’ I know that he has because I have subpoenaed them. It is reversible error, grounds to exclude Mrs. Miller’s identification if he cannot produce all of the pictures used.

Lama’s holding a large manila folder, an inch thick, overflowing with a couple dozen photographs, various sizes, black-and-white and color.

He hands me the folder. Jimmy’s starting to play games — hide the trees in the forest.

‘This is all very nice.’ I start to chew his ass. ‘But I subpoenaed the photographs used in the identification by Mrs. Miller, not your entire file.’

‘They’re in there,’ he says, like you find ’em.

I hand the file back to him. ‘Show me.’

He makes like a table with the railing in front of the witness box and starts propping up pictures, first one, then another.

‘I think it was this one. No. No. This one here.’ He goes through twenty shots and finds two that look familiar.

The law is clear. A defendant has an absolute right to the presence of counsel at a lineup, something that doesn’t attach to a photo identification. But there are rules. The police are free to show a witness pictures of a suspect who is in custody, as a prelude to a more formal lineup. The problem develops when the photo identification is so suggestive as to single out the defendant and therefore poison the whole process.

It is the kind of game that Lama lives for — sear some picture of your client into the mind of a witness, with all the finesse of a branding iron on a bovine’s ass, and then run the suspect through the loading chute of a lineup. This is Jimmy’s kind of sport.

It takes Lama three minutes, and he is certain only about the picture of Laurel, an eight-by-ten color photo with bright lights in her eyes and numbers jammed under her chin on a placard. As for the other four shots of women he pulls from the file, he thinks they are the ones used in the photo lineup.

These are harmless, all color shots, the same size as Laurel’s of women in booking poses with white numerals on black placards.

Lama wiggles and twists like a worm on a hook when I ask him if he’s absolutely certain that these are the photos. I press him.

‘Pretty sure,’ he says.

This gets the eyes of the judge looking at him.

‘Lieutenant, I ask you for the last time — are you absolutely certain that these are the photographs used in the identification of Laurel Vega?’

Cassidy’s looking at him. A critical piece of evidence hanging in the balance. If he says no, the fate of the witness is sealed. The law is clear. The identification must be excluded. The defense has an absolute right to see the pictures used to identify a suspect, to test the validity of the process. If the state can’t produce them, that’s all she wrote.

Sweat on Jimmy’s head. Looking at me, then to Cassidy.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘They’re the ones.’ He leans as if he’d like to say it — ‘I’m pretty sure’ — but I’m waiting to kick his ass and he knows it.

The sigh from Cassidy at her table is nearly palpable.

‘That’s all for this witness,’ I say.

‘Anything on cross?’ says the judge.

Cassidy begs off.

Lama starts to leave with the folder of pictures.

‘I’d like to keep those for the moment.’

He starts to pick through, to hand me the five he identified.

‘All of them,’ I say.

A look that could kill, then he hands me the folder.

I ask the court if another attorney can join Harry and me at the table.

Cassidy is all eyes.

‘Any objection?’ The judge looks to her.

She steps into it with trepidation, the two women locking eyes.

‘I know Ms. Colby well,’ she says. Some light banter — what Dana’s doing slumming in the state courts. The two women exchange stiff smiles. ‘Though I would like to know what a Deputy U.S. Attorney is doing in these proceedings.’

‘Here in an unofficial capacity,’ I tell the court.

‘What’s the purpose?’ says Cassidy.

‘Professional courtesy,’ I tell her.

The court allows her to come inside the railing and sit in the chairs behind us but not at counsel table.

Close enough for my purposes, I think.

Miller has been outside, sequestered in the hallway. We had a cordial conversation by phone a week ago, a follow-up to our earlier meeting. We talked about the lineup and the photo ID, a conversation that proceeded with regularity until near the end, when she asked a question.

Lama takes his seat next to Cassidy. He’s whispering in her ear.

‘I hope this won’t take long,’ says Woodruff.

‘A couple of minutes,’ I tell him.

Margaret Miller is on the stand and sworn, the picture of fairness, what you would think of as womanhood if someone said ‘apple pie.’ She wears a print dress and an attitude like portraits on a candy box, hair like spun silk, all smiles and maternal warmth. Sitting next to Woodruff, the two look like the ‘before’ ad for some aging-hair elixir.

I ask the court for a moment in private, and I spend my time turned away from the witness, talking in Dana’s ear, idle chatter, but obvious so that Mrs. Miller cannot miss this. Then I turn my attention to the witness.

She identifies herself for the record, and we take up the details of the photo ID. I ask her if she remembers meeting with Lama on the day in question.

‘Very clearly,’ she says.

‘And did he show you some pictures?’

‘He showed me one picture first, by itself, the night that Melanie — Mrs. Vega — died, and then later several others.’

‘That one picture, do you remember it?’

‘Oh sure. Your client,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen plenty of pictures of her in the paper since.’

I have wondered what Jack was doing with a picture of Laurel, the ex-wife he loathed, unless there was some design in this. It appears that he and Lama found a purpose for this photo in poisoning the wellspring of Mrs. Miller’s recollections, planting the seed that it was Laurel that Miller saw that night — an onslaught of suggestion.

We talk about Lama’s photo lineup. I’m shuffling some of the prints in my hands, images down so she cannot see them.

‘Do you think you would remember those pictures if I showed them to you again?’

‘I think so. I could try,’ she says.

I show her the first in the series, one of the shots offered up by Lama moments before.

‘Emm.’ She asks if she can hold it in her hand, so I give it to her. She’s shaking her head. ‘Maybe I don’t remember as well as I thought,’ she says.

I try the next. No luck.

It’s not until the third picture, Laurel’s, that she finally smiles. ‘That’s the one I identified,’ she says. She looks at me. ‘Your client, I believe,’ she says.

I nod.

She’s squinting at Dana in the distance.

Finally Cassidy gets it.

‘Your honor, I’m going to object to the process being used with this witness.’ Cassidy’s out of her chair. ‘This is deceptive,’ she says.

‘A fair test of the witness’s memory,’ I say. I ask the court if I can approach for a sidebar, a conference at the bench.

‘What’s the problem?’ whispers Woodruff.

Cassidy wants Dana outside the railing. She’s leveling assertions that I’m intentionally confusing the witness.

‘Lawyers are routinely allowed inside the bar,’ I tell him.

He makes a face. ‘Fine,’ he says, ‘but no more private conversations with the lady.’ He gives me a look.

‘Fine, your honor.’

We’re back out.

‘Mrs. Miller, can I ask you to look at a few more pictures?’

‘Certainly.’

I give her the last two that Lama culled from the file. No cigar. She has no recollection of these. ‘But then I only saw them once,’ she says.

‘How many times did you see the picture of my client?’ I keep it face down so she can’t get another look.

‘Oh. At least twice, maybe three times,’ she says. ‘The officers showed it to me the first time they came to the house. They asked me if I ever saw the woman before.’

‘This was in connection with the death of Melanie Vega?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Did you assume from this that the woman in the picture might be a suspect in the crime?’

‘Objection,’ says Cassidy. ‘Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.’

‘I’m asking about her state of mind at the time,’ I say, ‘not what she thinks now.’

‘I’ll allow it,’ says Woodruff.

‘And they kept showing you this picture, the one of my client?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Fair game,’ says Cassidy. ‘That’s a permissible process during the course of investigation.’

‘And a very good way to alter the memory of a witness,’ I tell the court.

Woodruff wags his head from side to side. Maybe, but not sufficient to exclude the identification.

I’m wandering in the courtroom. I end up leaning against the railing, a few feet from Dana, where we look at each other but say nothing.

Lama’s talking to Cassidy, but she sees what’s going on and tears herself away.

‘Your honor, I’m going to object. This is a clear deception. Counsel would have this witness believe that Ms. Colby, the lawyer sitting there, is the defendant.’ She points toward Dana. ‘It’s a clear effort to confuse the witness, and I think it should be put on the record.’

‘What are you objecting to?’ says Woodruff. ‘I didn’t hear a question,’ he says.

‘I’m objecting to where counsel is standing.’

‘Give me a break,’ says the judge.

‘Fine,’ says Cassidy. ‘Withdrawn.’ She smiles, damage done.

Lama has the back of one hand halfway down his throat, suppressing a high-strung cackle.

Mrs. Miller gives me a look like ‘you nasty man.’ Still, she reserves a goodhearted smile. A woman who enjoys a contest of wits.

So we’ll do it the hard way.

‘Mrs. Miller — did you think that the woman sitting here looked like the defendant? Like the woman in the photograph?’ I ask. It’s a fair question.

Cassidy’s expression is little simpers, like good luck.

‘I thought maybe she changed her hair color,’ says Miller. ‘It’s different,’ she says. ‘But I think there is a little resemblance.’

Apart from the fact that they share a gender, there is virtually no likeness between Laurel and Dana. What mischief suggestion can play with the human mind.

‘Now, you’ve looked at five photographs of different women, Mrs. Miller. Apart from the picture of my client, do you recognize any of the other pictures in the group?’

‘I can’t say that I do,’ she says.

‘Are these the pictures that Lieutenant Lama showed you at the time of the photo identification?’

‘I can’t be sure of some of them,’ she says. ‘But two I know are missing,’ she tells the court.

‘Which are those?’

‘The black woman,’ she says.

Woodruff is incredulous. ‘He showed you a picture of a black woman?’

She nods to the judge.

Lama’s ducking for cover, slinking in his chair.

‘Lieutenant. None of these pictures, the ones you picked out, shows a black woman.’ Screw the fact that Lama isn’t on the stand. The judge wants an answer.

Shoulders and a lot of shrugging from Lama.

‘What about it?’ says Woodruff.

‘I think the witness is mistaken,’ he says. Left with an alternative, admitting to perjury or impeaching the memory of his own witness, Lama’s made his choice.

‘You also missed the one that looked like my granddaughter,’ says Miller. ‘Remember? We talked about it.’ If the devil is in the details, Lama’s on his way to hell.

It was the question about the black suspect from Mrs. Miller on the phone that alerted me. Why would a police officer show her a picture of a black woman when she had told him repeatedly that the figure she saw that night outside the Vegas’ house was white?

I offer her the folder and ask her to look through it. She finds the black woman in twenty seconds, a mug shot of a face with corn-rows, a severe birthmark going up the side of her face into the hairline. There would be no confusing this with pictures of Laurel. It takes her a couple more minutes to find the other four photos. Like debutantes at a ball, these are not mug shots, but black-and-white glossies, like something from a high-school yearbook. Lama must have scoured the files of some local modeling agency for these. If you were going to pick a doer from among the bunch, it would not be this lot.

‘I told him that this one here looked like my granddaughter,’ says Miller. She holds up one of the photos, proud of the good-looking girl in her hand, all-American youth, a good twenty years younger than Laurel.

‘Your honor, I move that the identification of the witness be excluded.’

Cassidy is hissing profanities into Jimmy Lama’s ear, feeling victimized by his shoddy practices. She breaks off in midsentence to salvage what she can.

‘Your honor, the witness may have an independent recollection of the defendant, untainted by the photographs.’ Morgan’s out of her chair, open palms to the bench, the supplicant. ‘It could be harmless error,’ she says.

‘You have a strange notion of error, counsel.’ Woodruff bearing down from the bench. It is one thing to argue legal points, another to mislead a court. Lama has crossed the line. The only question for Woodruff is whether Cassidy was along for the ride.

Woodruff, for a show of fairness, allows her a chance to redeem the evidence. A token gesture. I think he’s already made up his mind. What happens when you drag lies before a court.

Cassidy’s off-balance. She throws a few softball questions at Mrs. Miller. Whether she had a firm recollection of the figure she saw that night in front of Vega’s house. Whether she had a clear view.

Rattled, and now unsure of what is happening, thinking that perhaps she has done something wrong, Mrs. Miller is filled with equivocations, not certain of her recollections. It’s been a long time; it was dark that night; the woman wore a hood — enough backstroking for an Olympic medal. Try as she will, Cassidy can’t get the witness to hurdle the fence back to the land of certainty.

Finally she puts an end to a painful process.

‘Your honor, we would argue that any error is harmless.’ She makes a final stab. But no gold ring.

‘The motion is granted,’ says Woodruff. ‘The identification of the defendant by this witness is excluded.’

‘Is there anything else?’ he says. Woodruff is looking at Cassidy. He is clearly angry, a sense that he has been badly used by Lama. What a judge feels when he knows he’s been lied to. If jeopardy had attached, and I had some plausible grounds for dismissal, I would lay them before the court at this moment.

A pained expression on Jimmy’s face. Woodruff wants to see him in chambers after lunch. Lama had better hope that the judge takes his from a bottle and that Woodruff is a happy drunk.