The Judge

CHAPTER 11

We can thank god for little favors. We have checked Acosta’s optometry records and we believe we have identified all the lenses that have been prescribed for him. Lili Acosta has located each one of these, except for the pair the cops took from her husband that day in the jail. These, the ones the police have, were carefully marked for identification so that there is no chance of error, some mix-up. Since we can produce each of the glasses prescribed for our client showing dates of prescription and purchase, the cops cannot prove that the glasses found at the scene of Hall’s murder belong to the judge.

This morning we are in the superior court, trying to dodge another bullet, the second day of argument on a motion for a stay, trying to stave off Kline, the man Lenore called an idiot. So far he has demonstrated more agility than a cheetah in heat.

Acosta is seated next to me at the counsel table, a wary sheriff’s guard positioned behind him, with two more standing like linebackers deeper in the courtroom in case the Coconut tries to go off tackle.

Lili sits one row behind him, the rail of the bar between them, not allowed to touch by the attending guard.

There is only a smattering of the press in attendance.

Two weeks ago, out of the blue, with no warning, Kline set a trial date on the charge that everyone had forgotten about, the original prostitution count.

A verdict is not his purpose. Kline wants to try Acosta not in a court of law but in the forum of public opinion, poisoning a vast audience with charges of vice. Potential jurors who hear this might find themselves halfway to a verdict in the capital case before we can empanel them in the later murder trial. If along the way he can force us to defend in the prostitution case, he gets a peek at some of our cards.

Even Lenore must concede that the effort shows a certain ingenuity, more than she is willing to credit Kline with.

I think it is a mistake to underrate him. What he lacks in style he makes up for in dogged persistence. He is aggressive, competitive, and articulate. There is not a tentative bone in the man’s body. As for temperament, the only time I have seen him lose it was that day in Lenore’s office, in their spat over Acosta’s case and who would interview the witness. I think perhaps there is a volatile chemistry here between Kline and Lenore. It is something that gives me pause in the ensuing trial.

At this moment he is at his own counsel table with one of his subalterns, when he breaks from their hushed discourse and crosses the void. From the corner of one eye, I can see that he is starched from cuffs to the elbows, replete with gold links that blind me.

“Mr. Madriani.”

I turn to him.

“We’ve not had time to talk,” he says, “since that day in my office. I would wish you good luck, but under the circumstances. .” He gives me a look that finishes this thought. “But I do hope we can begin and end as amiable adversaries,” he says. “Professionals to the end.”

He has a broad smile, one that leaves me wondering at the depth of his sincerity. It is the thing about Kline. You never know.

I shake his hand.

“Counsel.” He eases past me, open hand still extended.

Lenore looks at him but says nothing. Nor does she take his hand.

“Well,” says Kline, “I tried.”

He smiles one more time and retreats to his own side.

Acosta is looking at her. Any illusion that Lenore as a former prosecutor might possess influence with the state goes the way of the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny.

“Good move!” I whisper to her from the side of my mouth. “Stick your spur in a little deeper. Let’s see if we can really motivate him.”

Before she can humor this with a reply there is movement in the corridor behind the bench. Judge Radovich emerges, announced by the bailiff.

Harland Radovich is from one of the mountainous counties to the north, a place presided over by a dormant volcano and a three-judge court, where cattle ranching and open range are still a way of life. Radovich drew the short straw from the Judicial Council as the out-of-county candidate and has landed Acosta’s case along with all of its pretrial trappings.

He is ageless, though if I had to guess, I would put him in his mid-fifties. He sports cowboy boots and a ruddy out-of-doors look with a straight Oklahoma hairdo, including cowlick and forelock like the spiraling ends on a cob of corn. He makes no pretense of being a legal scholar, but seems imbued with a certain innate common sense that for some reason we normally attribute to a closeness with the earth.

It is difficult to say what Acosta’s take is on this. He and Radovich are beings from different planets.

“Good morning,” says the judge.

We make the representations for the record, Kline for the people, Lenore for our side. It is, after all, her case. I am striving to keep a low profile. If I can substitute out early on, I will.

Yesterday was lawyers’ day. We all sallied forth with arguments on the hot legal issues. There was the question of joinder: whether the crimes, solicitation and murder, were sufficiently related, one allegedly being the motive for the other, that they were required to be joined in the same trial. This was Lenore’s pitch, to head off a separate trial on the misdemeanor case. The state has after all charged the killing of a judicial witness as the basis for special circumstances, the grounds to seek the death penalty if Acosta is convicted.

Radovich spent much of the day scratching his head. How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? If he’d had a haystalk he would have put it in his teeth. He is not one prone to reason on a high level. It is something Kline discovered early on, and all day he played the judge like a piano.

He argued that our attempt to avoid a separate trial was an invasion of prosecutorial discretion, the sacred right of the state to bring to justice those who have violated the law. He reminded Radovich that the court could not substitute its judgment for that of the state in determining when to bring charges.

From the wrinkled eyebrows on the bench I could tell this was a sensitive point with Radovich. After all, he is a mere visitor in our county, not somebody who has to face the electorate here.

In all of this, the politics of Kline’s arguments weighed heavier than the law. He had sized up Radovich, a keen assessment. Here sits a judge reluctant to extend his judicial reach, a conservative cowboy of the old school. Tell the judge that your opponent’s argument will offend another branch of government, and watch him recoil.

We lost the argument on joinder, and this morning we are down to our last straw if we are to avoid a potentially disastrous mini-trial on the iniquities of the Coconut. It may not be one of those momentous events in the law- a man and a woman haggling over the terms of vice-but if seeded into the minds of a jury, it may be enough for Kline to execute our client.

This morning we do battle over the issue of evidence, whether the state has enough to actually bring the solicitation case against the Coconut. With Brittany Hall dead and the failure of the electronic wire to record the conversation, it is our position that there is no evidence.

But Kline has again proved resourceful. He says he has a witness, an offer of proof.

“Let’s get on with it,” says Radovich.

Seconds later the bailiff escorts a man, perhaps thirty, dressed in casual clothes, to the witness stand. He is sworn and steps up to take a seat.

Kline, whose witness it is, opens on him while Lenore sits next to me, steaming.

“State your name for the record.”

“Harold Frost.”

Harold is also known as “Jack” to those on the force because of his disposition. He is an ice king, a man who in a pinch could shoot you four times and demonstrate all the remorse of a rock. He is a tall string bean of a man, bald, with a fringe of short brown hair above the ears, narrow-set eyes, and a crooked, hawklike nose that some say matches the man’s scruples. If I were going to look for someone on the force who might test the tensile strength of the truth on the stand, it would be Jack Frost.

“Would you tell us what you do for a living?”

“I’m a sergeant, employed by the Capital City Police Department.”

“And how long have you been employed in that capacity?”

“Thirteen years,” he says.

“In what division are you currently employed?”

“Vice.”

There is little finesse here. Instead Kline goes right for the jugular, directing the witness’s attention to the night Acosta was arrested in the hotel room with Hall. Frost says he was on Vice detail, assigned to a three-man, one-woman unit at the Fairmore Hotel, a unit designed to ferret out high-priced call girl activities in the upscale hotels downtown.

“We were trying to nail the johns, to discourage the commerce,” as he calls it.

“Did you have occasion that evening to make an arrest?” says Kline.

“I did.”

“Do you recall who it was you arrested, and on what charge?”

“Right there.” Frost points with a finger toward our client. “He was arrested and charged with section six forty-seven B.”

“Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant, Armando Acosta.”

Radovich nods.

“Is that a Penal Code section?” says Kline.

“Right.”

“And what is Penal Code section six forty-seven B, Sergeant?”

“Solicitation to commit an act of prostitution. It’s a misdemeanor,” says Frost.

“One involving moral turpitude, is it not?”

“Objection. Calls for a legal conclusion,” says Lenore.

“Sustained.”

Kline would like to get this in. It would cinch up the issue of motive; a judge threatened with removal from the bench and the loss of career might well move to silence a witness.

“Were you the arresting officer that night?”

“One of two,” he says.

“Who was the other?”

“My partner, Jerry Smathers.”

“Tell us, Sergeant. Is it the usual process to physically take a suspect into custody in such a case?”

“Usually the suspect is cited and released.”

“Tell us about the process.”

“Objection,” says Lenore from the table. “Irrelevant. The issue here is not whether our client was arrested or cited, but whether the state presently possesses sufficient evidence to sustain a conviction, or for that matter to even take the matter to a trial.”

“Overruled,” says the judge.

Kline motions the witness to answer.

“In most cases,” says Frost, “identification is made, usually a driver’s license. A current address is obtained, and the suspect is asked to sign a promise to appear in court.”

“Like a traffic ticket?” says Kline.

“Right.”

“Why wasn’t that done here?”

“Because the defendant refused to sign the citation.”

“He refused?” Kline is now turning, playing to the press.

“Yes.”

“Did he say why?”

“Not exactly,” says Frost.

“What did he say?”

“He said it was bullshit.”

“Those were his words?”

“He called the whole thing bullshit. Said we were all pimps.”

Kline takes the moment to glimpse the press, a lot of pencils flailing, noise like chicken scratches on paper.

“The defendant gave no other explanation for his refusal to sign the citation?” asks Kline.

“He asked if we knew who he was.”

Facial gestures from Kline, feigned surprise. He is good at this.

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I didn’t care who he was. That if he didn’t sign the citation he would be arrested.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He told me to shove the ticket up my ass.”

Acosta is now at my shoulder, lips to my ear. “It is all true. I lost my temper,” he whispers. “It is also true that he is a pimp,” he adds.

“Did you know that the suspect was a judge of a court of record?” says Kline.

“I knew who he was,” says Frost.

“Did this influence you?”

Such knowledge to the likes of Jack Frost would be like painting a bull’s-eye on the suspect.

“No, it didn’t influence me.”

“Did you arrest him at that point?”

“We tried to reason with him.”

I would check his flashlight for dents, Frost’s standard method of reasoning.

“I told him that if he signed we wouldn’t have to take him into custody, and that he could go home.”

“Not true,” says Acosta. More revelations in my ear. “They handcuffed me immediately. No mention of a citation,” he says. “And they got me there under false pretense.”

“But he still refused to sign the citation?” asks Kline.

“Right. He became abusive,” says Frost.

“More foul language?” says Kline.

“Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained. Let the witness think up his own answers,” says Radovich.

“Your Honor.” Kline with a smile, like how could the court think there is anything but truth telling here?

“Move on,” says Radovich.

“So what did you do, Sergeant?”

“We had to arrest him.”

There’s a pause as Kline retreats to the podium, turns, and leans on it.

“I would ask you to direct your attention to the moments immediately preceding the arrest of the defendant, before you entered that hotel room, and tell the court who was present in the room at the Fairmore Hotel at that time?”

“Before I went in?”

“Yes.”

“That would have been the female decoy, Brittany Hall, and the defendant.”

“Just the two of them alone in that room. No other officers or witnesses?”

“Right.”

“Where were you at that time?”

“I was outside the hotel room door.”

“What were you doing there, outside the door?”

“I was trying to listen,” says Frost.

“Why?”

“For security,” says the cop. “We had word that the electronic wire worn by the decoy had malfunctioned.”

“You were told this?”

“Right.”

“And so you were outside the door in case the decoy needed help?”

“Right.”

“Listening?”

“That’s correct.”

“Was the decoy a policewoman?”

“No. She was a reserve officer, a police science student who volunteered on occasion for such duty.”

“She had performed these duties before?”

“Four or five times that I know of,” he says.

“And while you were outside the door to the hotel room at the Fairmore that night, did you overhear any part of the conversation between the defendant and Ms. Hall?”

“Yes.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard the defendant offer money to the decoy for the act,” he says.

I see Lenore roll her eyes.

“That’s not true,” says Acosta.

Radovich raps his gavel, and Acosta bites his tongue.

“How much money did the defendant offer Ms. Hall to engage in an act of sex?”

“Two hundred dollars,” says Frost.

“And specifically what did he talk about by way of a sexual act? Did he get specific?”

“Half-and-half,” says Frost.

A look that is a question mark from Kline.

“Sexual intercourse and oral copulation,” says Frost.

Frantic pencils behind me in the press row.

“Did he suggest this, or the decoy?”

“No. No. It was the defendant.”

“It is why I did not want a preliminary hearing,” Acosta whispers to me. “You can see what they are doing. All lies,” he says. He turns to Lili and shakes his head. If he cannot deny it publicly he can at least do so privately, to the one person this would hurt the most. He mouths the words, silently, “It is not true.”

“Your Honor.” Kline notices that Acosta is turned around in his chair. The press is reading his lips.

“Mr. Acosta.” Radovich motions with one hand for him to turn around, face front. The judge gives me a look, as though I am dilatory in my job of baby-sitting.

“Get on with it, Counsel.” Radovich seems to take no pleasure in this.

“So you clearly heard the defendant offer this money in return for sex?”

“Yes.”

“And you can testify to this in trial, in open court, under oath?”

“Sure.”

For the moment Kline has what he wants, money offered, the first element of the crime, consideration. He floats a few softball questions up: “Did the decoy suggest the act?” “Who took the conversation toward sex?”

This is all intended to show that Acosta was not entrapped, that the crime was inspired in his own mind.

“Did the defendant do anything after that?”

“Objection,” says Lenore. “No foundation. The witness has never said that he could see what they were doing.”

“Could you see them?” asks the judge.

“No.”

“Sustained. Next question.”

Kline is searching for the other element, the overt act. This could come in several ways: money paid, pants dropped. The problem is that disrobing or the payment of cash does not require words, unless the decoy is counting out change and giving receipts.

Kline regroups at the podium, studies the cop on the stand for a moment.

“Sergeant Frost. Did you hear anything else outside the door that evening?”

“What, like the rustling of clothes? The crinkling of cash? Give me a break,” says Lenore.

“Is there an objection in there somewhere?” says Radovich.

“Leading,” says Lenore.

“Overruled.”

“Did you hear anything else outside the room that night?” Kline presses.

“I, ah. I heard Ms. Hall say. .”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“Let me ask you another question,” says Kline. “How did you gain access to the room where the defendant and Ms. Hall were?”

“I had an electronic card key. A passkey to the room,” he says.

“Fine, Sergeant. And you used that key to enter the room?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you see when you entered that room, with the key?”

Frost thinks for a moment. He still doesn’t get it.

“The defendant and Ms. Hall,” he says.

Kline is nodding, trying to draw him out. Frost doesn’t understand. Kline finally gives up and asks the question.

“Sergeant. Specifically what was the defendant doing when you entered the room that night?”

“Oh,” he says. “He had his hands on Ms. Hall. He was pushing her toward the bed.”

“That’s a lie!” Acosta is on his feet before I can hold him down. One of the sheriff’s deputies comes up behind him.

“Mr. Acosta, be quiet. You’ll have your opportunity,” says Radovich.

This is worse than we could have expected. More than an overt act, it carries inferences of force. Given the girl’s subsequent murder, it is highly prejudicial.

“The witness is lying,” says Acosta.

“Then let your counsel deal with it,” says the judge. He motions Kline to get on with it.

The deputy has his hands on Acosta’s shoulders, directing him back into the chair.

“You say you think the defendant was pushing the decoy, Ms. Hall, toward the bed. Do you know this for a fact?”

“It’s what I saw.”

“And what did you conclude from this?”

“Objection, calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

“Did you see him push her onto the bed?”

Frost hesitates for a second, a fleeting moment of truth.

Kline knows he must have the right answer or he will come up short.

“Yes,” says Frost.

The sag in Kline’s posture, the relief in his face is nearly palpable.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Your witness,” he says.

As an offer of proof it begs a lot of questions. Unfortunately they are all questions of fact, for a jury to determine, something we don’t want to do.

Lenore moves to the podium with all the purpose of a bull terrier routing a rat.

“Good morning.” She says this to Frost, whose tight smile is like two rubber bands.

“Sergeant Frost. You say you were told that the electronic wire worn by Ms. Hall that night malfunctioned. Is that correct?”

“Right.”

“When were you told this?”

“I don’t know. A few minutes before I went upstairs.”

“So you weren’t outside the door the entire time?”

“No.”

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch.” Dodge the details.

“More than a minute?”

“Yeah.”

“More than five minutes?”

“I don’t know.”

“More than two minutes?”

“Like I say, I don’t know.”

“So it could have been less than two minutes?”

“Probably more than that.”

“Were you standing there or kneeling?”

“Standing, I think.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not exactly,” says Frost.

“Could you have been lying on the floor?”

He looks at her as if the question is intended to make him look foolish. “No.”

“So you were either standing or kneeling, for two minutes or five minutes, and at some time before you went upstairs, you don’t know precisely when, you were told that the decoy’s electronic wire had failed?”

Frost looks at her, an expression to kill, but offers no other answer.

“Who told you that the wire had failed?”

He thinks for a moment. “I can’t remember. One of the other officers.”

“Well, let’s try and pin it down. You say there were only four of you assigned to the unit that night. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“And it couldn’t have been Ms. Hall. She was busy in the room?”

“Right.”

“So it either had to be your partner, Smathers, or the other person. Who was the other person assigned to the unit?”

“It was Officer Smathers,” says Frost. Suddenly his memory is better. “I remember he was monitoring the wire.”

This does not divert Lenore. “Who was that fourth person in the unit that night?”

“Brass,” says Frost. He’s shaking his head in uncertainty. “Somebody I didn’t know. A lieutenant assigned from headquarters. I think he was monitoring operations.”

“He was monitoring your performance and you never got his name?”

“I was told,” he says. “I just can’t remember.”

“But you can remember all the details of the conversation between the defendant and Ms. Hall.”

“I was concentrating on that,” he says.

“I’ll bet,” says Lenore.

“We can do without the commentary,” says Radovich.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Was that usual, Sergeant? Somebody assigned from headquarters?”

“From time to time,” says Frost. “They liked to see how we were performing. In case there were complaints.”

“Have you been the target of a lot of complaints, Sergeant?”

“No.”

“And you don’t remember the lieutenant’s name?”

He thinks for a moment. “No. It should be in the report.”

In fact it is not. I had looked at Lenore askance when Frost testified that there were four people in the unit that night. The arrest report reveals only three: Hall, Frost, and Smathers. The mystery man is new to the equation.

“Have you seen this officer since?”

“Hmm.” Considered thought. “No.”

“Let’s talk about the wire,” says Lenore. “Had this ever happened before? Trouble with the electronics?”

“A few times,” he says.

“Do you know what causes it?”

Frost makes a face, an expression for a million reasons. “The things are touchy. Sometimes they get wet,” he says.

“Was it raining inside the room that night, Sergeant?”

Some smiles in the press row.

Frost looks at her, the picture of sarcasm. “No.”

“Was the decoy taking a shower?”

“No, but she might have been sweating.”

“Was she sweating?”

“How do I know? I wasn’t inside the lady’s bra.”

“You couldn’t see her, could you?”

“No.”

“There was no keyhole in the door, was there?”

“No.”

“What kind of lock was it?”

“Electronic,” he says. “You slip a card in a slot and pull it out, and the lock releases. You push the latch and the door opens.”

“How thick was that door, Sergeant Frost?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay any attention.”

“Well, was it one inch thick, two inches?”

“Like I say. I didn’t pay any attention.”

“Was it heavy, hard to push, when it was unlocked?”

“It was a hotel door,” he says. “I didn’t break it down. I just opened it.”

“Do you know if it was wood or metal?”

“I didn’t send it out for analysis. I couldn’t say.”

“Sergeant Frost, would it surprise you if I told you that door was an inch and a half thick, steel frame and outer case, filled with insulation, so that it was not only fire rated, but virtually impervious to sound?”

He makes a face. Gives her a shrug. “Maybe the walls were thin,” he says.

“What was the tone of voice Ms. Hall and the defendant used that night?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, were they shouting, whispering, talking in a normal tone?”

“I don’t know.”

“A moment ago you told us you heard them.”

“That’s right,” he says.

“So what tone of voice were they using?”

“Normal,” he says. “Normal talk.”

Lenore turns away from him at the podium. She drops her voice an octave: “Sergeant, when did you last have your hearing checked?”

“What?”

“Objection, Your Honor. A cheap trick,” says Kline. “I would have hoped for something more from worthy counsel,” he says.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you were able to hear me.” Lenore turns Kline into her own witness.

“You were facing toward me, away from the witness,” he says.

“The witness by his own admission had a locked door between himself and the two people inside the room that night, an inch and a half of steel and sound insulation, and he just told us they were talking in a normal voice. If he couldn’t hear me, he couldn’t hear them.”

“Now you’re an acoustics expert,” says Kline. “You have no idea what he heard that night.”

“Neither does he.” Lenore points at Frost. “Next he’ll tell us he has X-ray vision. And I’m sure that before we’re all finished he’ll don a cape and tights in a bathroom stall somewhere, and fly around the room for us.”

“Counsel”-Radovich doesn’t like this-“if you have objections, couch ’em the right way, and address ’em to the court.”

“I’d like this. . this. . this. .” Kline searches for a term sufficiently low to describe Lenore’s antics. “. . this stunt”-the best he can do-“stricken from the record.”

“Overruled,” says Radovich. “The witness’s ‘what’ will remain in the record.”

“I’d like an answer to my question,” says Lenore. “When was your hearing last checked?” Insult to injury.

“I have a complete physical every year.”

“Does that involve a complete auditory test, or do they just look in your ears?”

“Look in the ears,” he says.

“Did they find anything inside?” she says.

“Objection.” Kline’s back up.

“Sustained. Ms. Goya, you’re testing the patience of this court.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

“Get on with it.”

Kline sits down.

Lenore studies the ceiling tiles of the courtroom for a moment, collecting her thoughts.

“Sergeant,” she says, “were there any instructions given to Ms. Hall that night in order to ensure her personal safety?”

“Like what?” he says.

“Well, here you had a young woman, going behind locked doors with strange men. You had no idea whether potential suspects might be armed. There must have been some precautions taken. Was she armed?”

“No.”

“Was there any kind of signal that she might give if she got in trouble?”

“Like what?”

“Like a signal word. Some way to communicate that she wanted help?”

“We had a signal,” he says.

“So if the signal is spoken by the decoy you would pick it up on the electronic wire and that would be the clue that she was in trouble. You’d come running?”

“That’s right.”

“The police report talks about a backup safety device used that night.”

“There was a panic button,” he says.

“Could you tell the court what a panic button is?”

“It’s in the report,” he says.

“Fine. Tell us what it is.”

“It’s an electronic button set to a different frequency than the wire. Sometimes it’s pinned in the decoy’s clothing. Usually it’s in her purse.”

“Sort of a signal of last resort?” says Lenore.

“If you like.”

“Was this button something that you used all the time?”

“No. Just in certain cases.”

“Why was it used in this case?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it have been because someone anticipated that the electronic wire wasn’t going to function in this case?”

“No. Nothing like that,” he says. “We just used it in some cases and not in others.”

The point is well made here, that if the cops wanted to set Acosta up, some bogus reason for a meeting between Hall and the judge, they would not want a recording of their conversation. If he became angry, a safety word would be worthless with no wire to pick it up. The button was Hall’s lifeline.

“So what instructions did you give Ms. Hall? How was she instructed to use the safety signal and the panic button?”

“Signal word first,” says Frost. “Button second, only if the first didn’t work.”

“Why not use the button first?”

“There was always risk in using it. The john might see her do it. Get violent,” he says.

“Was Ms. Hall pretty bright? Cool under fire?”

“Yeah.”

“She knew what she was doing?”

“You could say that.”

“She would follow instructions well?”

He makes a face, concession, and nods.

“I take that to mean yes?”

“Yes.”

“Had she ever used these safety procedures before, to your knowledge?”

“The safety word. She needed it a couple of times with other johns. The button, she’d never seen before. We had to tell her how to use it.”

“What was the signal word that night?”

“A phrase. Something. I can’t remember. We change ’em all the time.”

“‘It’s a hot night’?” says Lenore.

This was not something contained in the police report. Kline looks at Lenore, his eyes venal little slits, knowing there is only one place she could have gleaned this information: her interview with Brittany Hall that day in her office. He makes a note on the outside of his file folder as I look at him.

“Was that the safety signal for trouble that night?” says Lenore. “‘It’s a hot night’?”

“It coulda been,” he says. “Sounds right.”

“Did you hear those words uttered that night by the decoy, Ms. Hall? Did you hear her say, ‘It’s a hot night’?”

“No.”

“But you were listening at the door, right?”

“Right.”

“And you heard the conversation between the defendant and Ms. Hall? Voices in a normal tone, stating all the terms of commerce?” says Lenore.

“That’s right.”

“But you never heard the decoy utter the words ‘It’s a hot night’?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Sergeant, that the decoy uttered that phrase not once, but three separate times, and you couldn’t hear it, because you couldn’t hear anything through that door?”

“That’s not true,” he says.

Lenore could only have gotten this from Hall, and Kline knows it.

“Then how do you explain the fact that you responded to the signal of last resort, the electronic signal from the panic button, which Hall had been instructed not to use unless the safety word failed?”

This is recorded in the police reports, an undeniable truth. Frost entered the room only after being told that the signal had sounded.

“Maybe she panicked,” he says. “Made a mistake.”

“Right.”

It is the problem with little inconsistencies. They tend to breed like flies.

“Sergeant Frost, you say you heard this conversation between the defendant and Ms. Hall from your position outside the door. What exactly did you hear?”

“I heard the defendant offer Ms. Hall money in exchange for sex.”

“Yes. We all heard you testify to that. But what were the defendant’s words. Precisely?” she says.

“I didn’t write them down,” he says.

“So you can’t recall the defendant’s words?”

This could be fatal to Kline’s argument.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what did he say?”

“He negotiated with her,” says Frost.

“Looking for a bargain, was he?”

The witness makes a face, like it happens.

“What were his words, Sergeant Frost?”

He thinks for a moment. “How about two hundred-two bills-something like that.”

“That’s as precise as you can get?”

Frost screws up his face, thinks for a moment.

“He said. .” Some hesitation. “He said, ‘I’ll give you two hundred dollars for sex.’”

Lenore almost laughs at this, the colloquial pitch put forth. Like the john was buying milk.

“Those were his exact words. ‘I’ll give you two hundred dollars for sex’?”

“Right.”

“A moment ago you said half-and-half.”

“What difference does it make?” Acosta in my ear. “It is all lies.”

“Then we should cut it out like a cancer,” I whisper back to him. When our eyes meet, there is, for the first time, some melding of minds here, a sense in his expression that makes me believe him. It is not that I believe the Coconut is incapable of these acts. He has probably done them at one time or another. But I do not believe that he has done them this time.

“Maybe he said, ‘I’ll give you two hundred dollars for half-and-half,’” says Frost.

“Which is it?”

“Half-and-half,” he says. “It was half-and-half.” A satisfied look. A story he can live with. How big a lie can take refuge in ten words?

“And you’re sure about the two-hundred-dollar part?”

“Absolutely.” Frost gives her a judicious nod.

Acosta flinches at my side. “A fucking lie.” He at least has the adjective right.

“I want to testify,” he tells me. A disaster in the making. I tell him to be quiet.

Lenore turns away from the witness for a moment, shuffling some papers. She reaches over and flips a single page onto the table in front of Kline. He picks it up and reads. Before he can finish, Lenore asks the judge if she can approach the witness. Radovich nods, and on the way she delivers another page to the judge.

“Sergeant, I’m going to show you a document and ask if you can identify it.” She passes a third page to the witness. He looks at it.

“Do you know what that is?”

“Inventory sheet,” he says.

“And where does it come from? Who generates that particular sheet?”

“The county jail,” he says.

“And what’s the purpose of this particular form?”

“To account for a suspect’s personal belongings when he’s booked.”

“You’ve seen these forms before? Maybe not this particular one, but others like it?”

“Sure.” He drops the form onto the railing in front of the witness box, and turns his attention from it.

“And does this particular form have a name on it?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look.

“Whose name?” says Lenore.

“The defendant. Armando Acosta.”

“And the charge?”

“Six forty-seven B,” he says.

“Is that the personal property booking sheet for the night in question?”

“Appears to be,” he says.

“Is there a box on that form, Sergeant, entitled ‘Cash in Possession’?”

Frost’s expression is suddenly vacant, like the eyes of a man turned inward, searching for a soul that isn’t there.

“Sergeant, I would ask you to look at the box entitled ‘Cash in Possession’ and tell me what it says.”

Frost picks up the paper and looks, and suddenly it settles on him. He is a stone in the witness box, not responding to her question.

“Tell me, Sergeant, did your decoy take credit cards? Or maybe she was in the habit of taking personal checks from johns? What does it say in that box, Sergeant?”

He looks at Kline, who cannot help him.

“Tell us, Sergeant, how is it possible that the defendant could have offered your decoy a two-hundred-dollar fee for services, when he had only forty-two dollars and twenty-seven cents in his possession that night? Was she offering discount coupons? Tell me, Sergeant.”

“I don’t know,” says Frost. “I only know what I heard.”

“Isn’t it common practice, Sergeant, in such an undercover arrest, to wait until after the suspect pays his money before effecting an arrest?” This is a problem for them, since the police report makes it clear that Hall had never been paid.

By now Frost is a face filled with concessions. “In some cases,” he says.

“In virtually all cases, isn’t that what you are told? To wait until you see the color of their money? Isn’t that, the payment of money, usually the overt act required to make an arrest?”

“Sometimes,” he says.

“Not sometimes, Sergeant. Isn’t that what you are told? Isn’t that standard operating procedure in such an arrest?”

“Objection, counsel is arguing with the witness,” says Kline.

“Sounds like a good argument to me,” says Radovich. “Overruled.” The judge is waiting for an answer.

“Tell us, Sergeant, why did you enter the room that night before the defendant paid any money to your decoy?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The wire failed. I guess I panicked.”

“But you heard everything that was going on. That’s what you told us. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Sergeant, that no money was paid over, because no offer of any money was ever made by the defendant that night? That their conversation had nothing to do with prostitution?”

Pencils scratching in the background. Dense looks from the press row, wondering what they could have been talking about.

“That’s not true,” he says.

“Then how do you explain a two-hundred-dollar offer when the defendant didn’t have two hundred dollars?”

“Maybe he was gonna have her put it on the tab,” says Frost.

“Move to strike. Nonresponsive,” says Lenore.

“Granted,” says the judge. “Answer the question,” he says.

“I can’t,” says Frost. “I don’t know.”

It is always the problem with a lie.