Undue Influence

Chapter 20

This morning Harry and I take the courthouse elevator up to four. When the door opens, it’s a mob scene. But the lights and microphones are not in our faces. Today the press is doing double duty.

Laurel’s trial competes for attention with a circus across the hall, the trial of Louis Cousins, a twenty-seven-year-old wiz-kid, graduate of Stanford and scion of a wealthy family who is accused of sodomizing and slitting the throats of two teenage girls out in one of the suburbs three years ago.

Cousins has straight blond hair that spends a lot of time covering half of his face, images of Adolf, and eyes that reek of unmitigated evil. His features, while fine, look as if they have been chiseled in arctic ice, so hard is his demeanor; a face that for its expression could carve the heart out of a passing nun and not look back.

Cousins’ trial has become a farm club for shrinks who want to break into the big time of courtroom testimony. This is all paid for by Louis’s father, who is leading a sort of psychic safari into his son’s past. Each therapist and clinician has a more entertaining notion of Louis’s debased and brutal childhood, all of which of course occurred behind the walls of private estates and the tinted windows of chauffeured limos.

After hours of examination, and tests that some might equate to the stirring of entrails in a dish, the high priests of the human mind seem no longer to be in doubt to what happened, only who did it. This was quickly resolved after a brief consideration of Old Man Cousins’ net worth, the source of their fees. It has now been determined that it was one of Louis’s nannies who must have debased the boy during his formative years. At least this is what Louis has fished from his repressed memory during hours of psychic handholding and graphic descriptions by his lawyers of death in the gas chamber. His attorneys are now hell-bent for retirement peddling this theory to the jury.

Harry is deeply moved by the compassion of those who heal the human mind. Lately he has asked more than once why Laurel can’t come up with her own horrific tales of childhood trauma. Like Harry says, ‘she could at least sit on the commode for a while and try.’

Harry is playing Keenan counsel. In cases involving the death penalty in this state the defendant is entitled to two lawyers: one to handle guilt or innocence — my role — and the other to do what is called the penalty phase, whether if convicted, Laurel should be put to death or be sentenced to life in prison. Harry is therefore on a perpetual search for mitigation, anything that might jerk a tear from the eye of an empaneled juror.

This morning Laurel is brought in without shackles, followed by a matron and another guard, who melt into the background as soon as she is seated at the table with us. This is done each day of the trial, before the jury is allowed into the box, to avoid any implications of guilt that might attach if jurors were to see her constantly in custody, attended by guards.

She is wearing a flowing brown skirt, pleated from the waist, and a white double-breasted blouse, cotton broadcloth with long sleeves, all very plain except for the collar, which is nonexistent and a little severe.

I comment on this.

‘A touch from Mary Queen of Scots,’ she tells me.

Harry, the resident historian, gets into it, that in fact they wore big ruffled collars back then.

‘Not when they cut off her head,’ says Laurel.

Harry considers this for a moment, then concedes the point.

Laurel, it seems, has a refined and sharpened sense of gallows humor.

Still, her dress is tasteful. I have known clients who left to their own devices on the first day of trial would show up looking like the heroine in some potboiling bodice-ripper, blouse tattered by a cat-o’-nine-tails, and tied to a stake like Joan of Arc.

We go over the lineup of probable witnesses for the day.

‘First up is Lama,’ I tell her. ‘Unless they changed the order.’

Cassidy is at work, assembling the bits and pieces of their case.

Word is that Jimmy is particularly angry with me. My treatment of him during pretrial motions. As if this, being the subject of Lama’s enmity, is a new experience for me.

I am hearing rumors that Jimmy has stumbled over dirt from the post office bombing, physical evidence involving fingerprints, my own, that federal investigators turned up at the scene. Knowing him as I do, Lama is no doubt puzzled by the fact that the feds are not all over me at this moment like some cheap blanket in a rainstorm. Seeing only a part of the picture, Lama wouldn’t know that they’ve already taken my statement, that in fact they know what I was doing there. I am not anxious to have Jimmy know this, as it would give up a part of our theory surrounding Jack and the Merlows.

‘Lieutenant Lama, can you tell the court how the body was discovered?’ Cassidy has him on direct.

Lama’s on the stand, pursed lips as if the question takes some consideration before responding. I think Jimmy’s disappointed. There’s only a smattering of press in the front rows. We are not likely to get the full contingent until the Cousins trial is over. Woodruff has allowed the spectacle to be piped outside the courtroom to the cable channel that specializes in notorious trials. But it seems that Jimmy has even lost out on this. While it’s true they are taping it, there will be no live broadcast. Without some heavy precedent, some wild advance in the law of severed penises or other legal novelty to boost ratings, Jimmy’s testimony is likely to fill the dead air in the middle of the night.

‘The victim was found by her husband,’ he says, ‘lying in the bathtub of the couple’s master bedroom.’

‘By the victim’s husband, you’re referring to Mr. Jack Vega?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And about what time was this called in to the police?’

Jimmy looks at his notes. ‘According to our log sheet at the station, the call was received at exactly zero-forty-three hours.’

‘And in civilian time?’

‘Twelve forty-three in the morning,’ he says.

‘Just before one A.M.?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were you the first officer on the scene?’

‘No. A patrol car with two officers was the first to arrive. They were followed by the EMTs-’

‘The emergency medical technicians?’

‘Yeah. That’s right. I got there about-’ He reviews his notes. ‘One-thirty.’

‘A.M.,’ says Cassidy.

‘Correct.’

Cassidy is slow and meticulous, like a mason with bricks, skillful with the mortar, knowing that to build her case everything on these lower courses must be true and level.

‘And what did you find when you arrived?’

‘The body. The victim was lying on her back in a large bathtub in the master bath. There was some blood in the tub, no evidence of any struggle.’ He pushes this, a lot of facial ticks and misplaced emphasis. But it’s a big point. The state is trying to shut the door on any last-minute ploy for manslaughter, inferences of a battle for the gun, and an accident. They have been moving in this direction from the inception of their case.

‘There appeared to be a single gunshot wound under the chin — here.’ Lama points with a forefinger like a cocked pistol up under the jaw, to one side, a little to the right, close to the throat, showing the path of the bullet up into the head.

‘Was the body clothed?’

‘No. She was, ahh-’ He motions with his hands, groping like he’s not sure how to say it. In the buff. Bareass. Jimmy, who no doubt clawed his way out of the womb spitting profanities about darkness and water, is now busy doing the sensitive detective.

‘She was in the altogether,’ he finally says.

‘She was naked?’ Cassidy looking at him.

Fine. There — a woman has said it.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Naked.’

‘Like maybe she was getting ready for a bath?’

‘Objection. Leading.’ I shoot at it while seated, with the eraser end of a pencil.

‘Sustained.’

Cassidy regroups.

‘Did you have any way of determining what the victim was doing just before she was shot?’

‘It looked like she was getting ready to take a bath,’ says Lama. Oh, good. He got it.

‘There was a folded towel on the floor near the bath, and some bath oils on the side.’

‘You indicated earlier that you found no evidence of a struggle. How did you determine this?’

‘A number of things,’ he says. ‘It’s true that there was a couple of broken bottles on the floor across the room, but quite a distance from where the body was found,’ he says. ‘There was no obvious tattooing around the bullet wound.’

Lama’s all over the place, mind starting to wander.

‘You mean powder burns from the gun?’ Cassidy clarifies.

‘Yeah. Powder burns. There was none of those. So we figured the range of fire was some distance, maybe ten, twelve feet, probably while the victim was lying prone in the tub. We believe the bottles were broken when the killer panicked and brushed into them, knocked them off a shelf after the murder.’

‘Objection. At this point we have only a dead body — no evidence of murder.’

‘Sustained. The reporter will strike the last part of the witness’s answer.’

‘Lieutenant, could you rephrase your last response?’

‘We think the bottles were busted when the perpetrator panicked.’ He spits the p’s of each word at me.

‘Besides,’ he says, ‘the bath towel was on the floor nice and neat, not disturbed or anything like it would have been if there’d been a fight.’ He looks at me like that’ll teach you to object.

A cold and calculated shot from a distance is better for their case. It offers the jury some hint of premeditation and deliberation.

‘And there was no evidence that the body was moved after the shooting?’

Shameless leading, but I let it go. Lama might put the shooter in another building with a scoped-sight if I push it.

‘That’s right. From what we could see, she was shot while lying in the tub.’

‘Did you find any fingerprints?’

‘No. That was real curious,’ he says.

‘Why do you say “curious”?’

‘’Cuz we dusted real good. And there were places you would expect to find some prints, especially for the victim.’

‘And you didn’t?’

He shakes his head, lips turned down, an expression from the Old World. ‘We didn’t even find prints for the victim on the door to the bathroom or on the front of the tub. You’d expect porcelain would hold good prints,’ he says. ‘And how’s the lady going to get down into the tub without at least touching the outside edge?’ Jimmy looks at Cassidy like this is a riddle, playing it like high drama.

‘And what did you conclude from this?’

‘That the perpetrator.’ He looks at me. ‘That the perpetrator wiped the surfaces clean after he or she,’ he says, ‘shot the victim.’

‘To avoid detection?’ she says.

‘Sure. Why else?’

‘In your search of the scene did you find the murder weapon?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No gun.’

‘Did you search the entire house?’

‘We did.’

‘And the area outside?’

‘Everything. Real thorough.’

‘And you found no murder weapon?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have occasion to talk to the victim’s husband, Mr. Vega, at the scene?’

‘I did.’

‘And did you ask him if there was a gun in the house? If he or his wife owned one?’

‘I did. And I was told that neither he nor his wife had ever owned a gun.’

‘What did you conclude from this?’

‘That whoever shot Mrs. Vega brought the weapon into the house and left with it when they were finished.’

‘So they came prepared to kill?’ she says.

‘Objection.’

‘Withdrawn,’ she says.

Morgan looks at me a wan smile, like sure, just try to unring it.

‘Did you find anything else in the bathroom that morning?’

‘Yes. We found a single spent bullet cartridge, nine-millimeter.’

Cassidy walks to the evidence cart, studies it for a second, and picks a single plastic bag off the cart.

‘May I approach, your honor?’

Woodruff nods.

‘Lieutenant, I would ask you to look at the bullet cartridge in this envelope and ask if you can identify it.’

He studies it for a second, looks at the notations on the label stuck on the bag. A nine-millimeter looks like any other.

‘That’s it. That’s the cartridge we found in the bathroom. That’s my mark on the evidence bag,’ he says.

‘And you bagged this yourself.’

‘One of the evidence techs,’ he says. ‘Under my direct supervision. But I marked the bag — there.’ He points with a thumbnail.

‘I would ask that this bullet be marked as People’s Exhibit One,’ says Cassidy.

‘Any objection?’ The judge looks at me.

‘No, your honor.’

‘Did you find anything else at the scene?’

‘Some fibers,’ he says.

Cassidy’s back to the cart. She returns a second later, handing him another bag.

‘Those are the fibers. We found them on the floor near the base of the tub. Again I marked the bag to identify it,’ says Lama.

This, the fiber evidence, is something new that they have developed, though from reading the lab report I think they are reaching.

Cassidy has this marked for identification without objections. All the little pieces of her case. If she can build on them and show some incriminating link, some relevance connecting these pieces to the defendant and the crime, Cassidy will at the appropriate time try to move them into evidence, like a carefully thought-out chess match, each move calculated for effect.

‘Apart from the cartridge and the fibers already identified, did you find anything else that morning?’

‘We took into possession a copy of a videotape from a security camera situated on the front porch of the residence.’

Cassidy retrieves a videocassette from the cart and approaches the witness. He identifies it from an evidence tag.

‘Detective, have you looked at the contents of this tape?’

‘I have.’

‘And can you tell the court what you saw?’

‘The tape is calibrated as to date and time, with those elements showing on the top right-hand corner of the picture as it appears on a videoscreen. The tape in question is a special slow-playing tape that lasts up to twelve hours. It’s not like the commercial stuff you use at home,’ he says. ‘So there’s a lotta stuff on it.’

He verifies that the tape is dated the day Melanie Vega was killed, but that it stopped for reasons that he does not explain before the time of death.

‘We’re not interested in everything,’ says Cassidy. ‘Just the pertinent parts.’ What she means is anything that she can use to hang Laurel. ‘Can you tell the court what you saw on the tape?’

‘I’m going to object.’ I’m on my feet. ‘The best evidence is the tape itself. Why do we need the witness to characterize it?’

‘Your honor, we need to lay a foundation,’ says Cassidy.

In order to put an item into evidence, it is necessary to lay a proper foundation. In the case of a physical object, this generally means some showing that it is relevant to the issues in dispute in the case. The tape would ordinarily be viewed by the jury at the time that it is admitted into evidence. It is my point that with regard to the tape Morgan has already laid a foundation.

‘For that purpose,’ says Woodruff, ‘I’ll give a little latitude. Do it quickly.’

‘Lieutenant, if you could just summarize what’s on the tape.’

‘Yes. At eight-seventeen P.M., on the night Melanie Vega was killed, a woman appears on the tape at the door of the victim’s residence.’

‘Can you identify that woman?’

‘It was the defendant — Laurel Vega.’

With this Lama points at Laurel, sitting next to me. It takes him a second to point straight. That this is out of cadence with his words makes clear that this gesture was planted, something conceived in the mind of Cassidy or one of her assistants as a moment of drama, and badly played by Jimmy.

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Is there any kind of soundtrack on the tape?’

‘Unfortunately no,’ he says.

‘Could you tell what the defendant was doing?’

‘There was a long and very heated argument-’

‘Objection.’

‘I don’t want to be hearing about any arguments on the tape,’ says Woodruff.

I move to strike the witness’s answer, and Woodruff orders it.

‘How long did this conversation between the victim and defendant go on?’

Lama looks at his notes. ‘Four minutes and thirty-three seconds,’ he says.

‘And how did it conclude?’

‘The defendant smashed the videocamera with a flowerpot before-’

‘Objection, your honor.’

Woodruff looks like he’s been shot with a cattle prod on the bench. Brushy eyebrows, all aimed at Cassidy.

‘That’s all. I don’t want to hear another word about the tape,’ he says. ‘You want it marked?’ Woodruff looks at her. Cassidy’s not winning any points with the judge. If we are lucky, we can bank these little moments of enmity toward the opposition, a credit to draw on in a tight moment on a motion or some future fray with Cassidy and her troops.

The clerk does the deed, marking the tape as one of the People’s exhibits. Morgan looks at her notes. She’s covered all the critical points with the witness and is starting to reach into areas that are drawing my objections and Woodruff’s aggravation.

‘That’s all for this witness,’ she says.

‘Cross?’ says Woodruff.

I stand and approach the witness box, maintaining an appropriate distance, Lama and I locking eyes, a little bit of moisture, pimples of sweat on his upper lip.

‘Lieutenant Lama. Is it fair to characterize you as part of the prosecutorial team in this case?’

‘I’m a police officer, nothing more, nothing less.’

Lama is a lot less, but I won’t belabor the point here.

‘Isn’t it true that on this case you’re working with the deputy district attorney over there, Ms. Cassidy?’

‘That’s my job,’ he says.

‘So you’re part of her team?’

‘If that’s what you want to call it,’ he says.

‘You’ve talked to her about this case — I mean outside the courtroom. Isn’t that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve shared whatever information you have pertaining to this case with her? You’ve discussed the testimony that you planned to give here today?’

‘Yes.’

‘In fact, isn’t it true that in preparing to testify here today you’ve gone over your testimony with her in some detail? In fact rehearsed it?’

‘We talked about it.’

‘How many times?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Two, three?’ I play the numbers game.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘That many?’ I say.

He gives me a look.

‘Isn’t it true that in preparing to appear here today you rehearsed your testimony with Ms. Cassidy, that you went over it in considerable detail a number of times to ensure that you would get it right?’

Ordinarily I might not press this. But given Jimmy’s slamming in pretrial motions, it’s a safe bet that Morgan has had Lama closeted with one of the drones from her office for days, more dress rehearsals than a Broadway production.

‘We talked a few times.’ It’s all he will say.

‘You didn’t talk to us, did you?’

‘Whadda ya mean?’

‘Well, you didn’t sit down and talk to the defense attorneys — Mr. Hinds and myself — and tell us precisely what you were going to say here today, did you?’

‘I don’t have to,’ he says.

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Because it’s your job to convict the defendant, isn’t it?’

I’m busy destroying the myth that cops are neutral, simple crime fighters with no ax to grind. The police mind-set in any investigation usually fixes quicker than mercury. Show them a suspect, sometimes with scant evidence, and they point with the relentless force of a compass to a magnet.

‘It’s my job to solve crimes,’ he says.

Cape-and-blue-tights time. Lama as the masked avenger.

‘Oh — so you have no interest in convicting this defendant?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘No, you didn’t, did you?’

I let the jury savor the point for a moment.

‘Can you tell us, Mr. Lama’ — somewhere along the way Jimmy’s lost his rank. Why cloak him with authority? — ‘was there an all-points bulletin issued for the arrest of a suspect on the night that Melanie Vega died?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who issued that APB?’

‘I did.’

‘And who was it issued for?’

‘Your client,’ he says. ‘Laurel Vega.’ Having screwed up so badly on the first effort, this time Jimmy doesn’t try to point, but merely gestures with his head in the casual direction of our table.

‘So you determined fairly early on that Laurel Vega was the principal suspect in the case?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How many years of experience do you have investigating crimes?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘And I guess after all that time you get a pretty good feel for this kind of thing? How to exercise judgment as to when to issue an APB? When to pick up a suspect?’

‘Lots of things come with experience,’ he says.

‘And this APB — did it identify the suspect as possibly armed and dangerous?’

‘It did.’

‘This means that police in apprehending the suspect would probably do so with drawn weapons?’

‘If they valued their lives,’ he says.

‘Why was that?’

‘Because she was dangerous.’

‘And how did you form all of these opinions so quickly that evening? The opinion that Laurel Vega was the principal suspect and that she was armed and dangerous?’

‘The victim had been shot. We didn’t find the gun. We had to figure she had it on her.’

‘Very good, Mr. Lama. But how did you determine that Laurel Vega was the principal suspect?’

‘Well — we had the tape. The security tape,’ he says.

‘Oh. You were able to play the tape back that morning at the scene to review it?’

I flip through some pages in my hand, a copy of the police report from that night.

Lama suddenly becomes clairvoyant, sensing where I am headed, eyes like a rabid dog.

‘Come to think of it,’ he says, ‘we didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘We didn’t view the tape that morning.’

‘Why was that?’

‘The camera was broken,’ he says.

‘And without a functioning camera for this particular equipment, you couldn’t actually play the tape back, could you?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘We couldn’t.’

I know this from reading the follow-up investigative reports. The cops weren’t able to review the security tape from the house for nearly five hours, until a vendor for the system supplied them with the necessary equipment. By that time the APB had been in effect for nearly four hours.

‘So you didn’t have the tape at the time the APB was issued. So what evidence did you rely on in issuing the bulletin for the arrest of Laurel Vega, the information that she was armed and dangerous?’

‘Well … her husband,’ he says.

‘You mean Jack Vega? Laurel Vega’s former husband?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what did Mr. Vega tell you that caused you to issue the bulletin to arrest Laurel Vega?’

‘We asked him if he knew of anyone who might have wanted to kill his wife.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He gave us the name of Laurel Vega.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Well … and some other things.’

‘What things?’

‘That Laurel Vega hated the victim. That she was jealous. You know,’ he says, ‘the stuff you expect in a divorce.’

‘Just the usual stuff?’ I say.

‘Yeah. Pretty much.’

‘And did Mr. Vega tell you that he actually saw Laurel Vega commit this crime?’

‘No. He wasn’t home at the time.’

‘Well, did Mr. Vega tell you that he’d seen Laurel Vega at his home that night?’

‘No.’

‘So what we have here is Mr. Vega’s bald allegation, without any evidence to support it, that Laurel Vega hated his wife. Certainly enough to talk to the defendant. To question her,’ I say. ‘So the evidence for her arrest must have come when you went to question her?’ I say.

‘No.’ He says this through locked jaws, all the sound emanating down onto his chest.

‘What?’

‘No.’ Louder so the jury can hear it now.

‘I don’t understand, then. What evidence did you have for arresting Laurel Vega?’

‘We had a dead body,’ he says.

I look at him, dead center in the box. ‘Are you telling this court that except for the unsupported suspicions of Jack Vega — bald allegations without any evidence — that you had no basis to issue the all-points bulletin that morning?’

‘She had a rug that came from the scene,’ he says.

‘She had a rug that you now claim came from the scene, but you didn’t even know that at the time of the APB.’

He would jump on the horse of the eyewitness, Mrs. Miller, but that is now excluded evidence. If he mentions it, opens his mouth, any hint, I will have a mistrial in the flash of an eye.

‘We found a compact in her purse that belonged to the victim. Hell, she was in Reno, running from the scene, when they found her.’

‘After you arrested her,’ I tell him. ‘You found the compact days after you issued the all-points bulletin calling my client armed and dangerous, subjecting her to arrest at the point of loaded pistols. And you had no idea where she was when you issued the APB — did you?’

‘At the time she was our best suspect,’ he says. Righteous indignation on the stand.

‘To this day she remains your only suspect because you haven’t bothered to look for any others. Isn’t that true?’

He looks at me, a tortured expression. Lama would like to answer but doesn’t know what to say. If he concedes the point, he’s damned; if he says this is not true, I will ask him what other suspects he’s pursued, what other leads he’s rooted out of the swill of his investigation. We both know the answer to that one.

‘All of the evidence points to your client,’ he says.

‘All of the evidence that you’ve produced,’ I tell him, ‘because you haven’t bothered to look for any evidence that would exonerate her, that might point to the real killer. Isn’t that true?’

I’m busy planting the seeds of my case in the jury box — thoughts of another killer. It’s one of the problems with their case. They have backed into probable cause for Laurel’s arrest after the fact, finding the compact, and the rug, and Mrs. Miller’s crippled identification. At the time of the APB they had none of these. No doubt with half an effort we might have knocked over the initial arrest, though they could have cured any defect in a short time. It was better to leave it alone and use it here to bloody Lama.

‘We’ve been fair and open-minded,’ he says. ‘We’ve conducted a professional investigation.’

‘You call this professional?’

‘I do,’ he says.

‘Is it professional to issue an order to arrest my client based solely on Jack Vega’s suspicions?’

He doesn’t answer, but looks at me, straightens his tie, then wipes his upper lip with the sleeve of his coat. A better response than I could have hoped for, all in body English.

‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ I tell him.

‘I gave you one. It was a professional investigation.’

‘A moment ago you said that Mr. Vega told you that Laurel Vega hated his new wife. That she was jealous. The stuff you expect in a divorce. Those were your words. What did you mean by that?’

Everything above the shoulders is bobbing and weaving like one of those dogs on a dashboard with its head on a spring, Lama trying to say it without words.

‘You know,’ he says.

‘No, I don’t know. What did you mean?’

‘I mean a bad divorce. The two women didn’t like each other.’

‘And you know about this stuff?’

‘Thirty years in law enforcement, you know a lot about a lot of things.’

‘I suppose you handled a lot of domestic calls over the years, back in your squad car days?’ I say.

‘My share,’ he says.

‘Then you know about women in divorces?’ I ask him.

‘You bet. Like to scratch your eyes out,’ he says.

With the gender factor of this jury, I can hear Cassidy sucking air at the table, Jimmy about to step in it.

‘So women can be violent in a divorce?’ I say.

Suddenly he sees where I’m going, leading him to the pit of political heresy, a reversal of the doctrine that women are the victims in domestic violence. Jimmy’s eyes visit the jury box and come back wary.

‘Men do it too,’ he says. ‘They smack ’em around sometimes … the ladies,’ he says. ‘So we’d have to step in and stop it.’ Jimmy to the rescue.

‘Ah, so it can be violent all the way around?’ I say.

‘Sure. Absolutely,’ he says.

‘Well, did it ever occur to you that Mr. Vega might have had his own reasons for wanting to shower suspicion on his former wife?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean it’s a bad divorce, one involving a lot of bitterness. Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Vega might have had his own reasons to shower hostility on his former wife? To make accusations against her without evidence? That would be a natural thing in a bad divorce — wouldn’t it?’

‘We had no reason to hold suspicions that he might be misleading us,’ he says.

‘But you were willing enough to form every kind of suspicion against his former wife. To the point of branding her a murderer?’

‘There was evidence,’ he says.

‘All of which I contend is suspect, and all of which I would remind you was acquired after the fact of her arrest. What else did Mr. Vega tell you that night?’

‘He was upset. We didn’t want to press him,’ he says.

‘You didn’t want to press him! You didn’t want to press him!’ I do this on an uptilt with my voice, gaining an octave, looking at him with incredulous eyes.

‘I see. So it was easier to arrest my client, to issue an all-points bulletin calling her armed and dangerous, to subject her to the hazards of deadly force, arrest under the pointed guns of nervous officers — it was easier to do this than it was to investigate the facts, to find out exactly what lay behind Jack Vega’s accusations against his former wife?’

‘In hindsight,’ he says, ‘we probably would have done it differently.’

With this I can see Cassidy cringe.

‘I’ll bet you would have,’ I say.

The first rule of cross. Once he steps in it, leave him there. From the beginning I have suspected that there was something else that motivated Laurel’s arrest, something that caused Lama to fall into his own pit of seething vipers on this thing: his hatred of me and his early acquired knowledge that Laurel was, after all, my kin.