“And you’re telling me I can—?”
“Trust her? Completely. You have my word.”
“So what will you say to the DA?” Paul asked.
“According to Rashid, this guy Mirza is going to tell the jury that he saw your man pull a large plastic bundle from the backseat of his cab in an alley off Lankershim Boulevard the night Spinova was killed. Presumably the reason there was no blood in the backseat of your man’s cab is because she was killed somewhere else and dumped there.”
“That’s their theory,” said Paul. “Lemme get this straight, Mirza can positively identify Mustaffa as the man driving the cab and dumping the body?”
“Rock solid, according to Rashid,” said Alex.
“You’re sure? I need to know how confident he is, whether I can shake him on cross.”
Mirza had ID’d Mustaffa from a photo array. Paul already knew that. He was hoping beyond hope that he could get the witness to equivocate on the identification, just a slight crack in the wall. After all, presumably, he was a disinterested witness with no stake in the case. Was he absolutely, positively one thousand percent certain it was Mustaffa that he saw? No one was ever one thousand percent sure of anything. “It might have been him, I can’t be entirely sure.” This was all Paul needed. Something he could play with and stretch like a rubber band in front of the jury on closing, and hope that it snapped.
“According to Rashid, Mirza will positively identify your client at the scene, and he won’t be burdened by any doubts.”
Paul’s heart climbed into his throat. “Don’t tell me that Mirza has photographs of the body being dumped. And how does Rashid know all of this?”
“No, there are no photos,” said Alex. “Rashid says Mirza will be lying through his teeth.”
“What?”
“Listen carefully. Do you have a notepad? Here’re the details on what Rashid told me. We’re both going to have to move quickly.”
The Criminal Courts building on Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles had an ominous feel for Madriani ever since the start of the Mustaffa case. Even the courtroom was foreboding, Department 123 on the thirteenth floor. Had Madriani been superstitious, the only thing worse might have been the number of the Beast—666.
Bad news, too, that the DA had been off-put by Alex Cooper’s attempt to intervene in one of his biggest cases. But Alex had surprised Madriani by taking the week off from her own job and flying out to be at the trial, sitting discreetly in the rear of the courtroom — one spectator among many — after her friend Jenny Corcoran confirmed that her presence might help Madriani get at the truth.
This morning, on direct examination, the testimony of Terry Mirza was presented to the jury as if it were written, produced, and directed for a Broadway production with an audience of twelve. It came on smooth as silk as the nine women and three men in the jury box took notes and listened intently. There was not the slightest equivocation as Mirza identified the defendant, Ibid Mustaffa, as the man he saw in the alley that night, the one who dragged the plastic-shrouded and bloodied body of Carla Spinova from the backseat of his yellow cab.
Mirza even identified the cab number as well as the license plate number of the vehicle. He had everything but the VIN number off the engine block. When asked if he was absolutely certain that it was Mustaffa that he saw that night, he said he had no doubt whatsoever. He told the jury that he observed the defendant clearly from several different angles as Mustaffa struggled under the bright lights of a streetlamp to drag the body over to the edge of the alley, against the side of a building, where he left her and drove off.
The witness also testified that the defendant was wearing gloves. This would explain the lack of fingerprints on the plastic tarp used to wrap the body.
When the prosecutor had hammered the last nail in Mustaffa’s coffin and turned the witness over to Paul, the jurors were looking at Madriani as if to say, Try and get out of that one.
Paul introduced himself to the witness. “Mr. Mirza, let me ask you, what is your first name, your given name? It’s not Terry, is it?”
“No. It’s Tariq.”
“What is the origin of the name? I mean, it’s not English or Irish or German.”
“Objection, Your Honor. What’s the relevance?”
“I think the jury has a right to know a little bit about the witness and where he’s from,” said Paul.
“I’ll allow it,” said the judge. “But keep it short, Mr. Madriani.”
“Mr. Mirza, where is your family from?”
“My parents were Bedu, Bedouins. From the desert, originally Saudi Arabia.”
“Do you have family in Saudi Arabia at the present time?”
“I have an uncle who lives there.”
“Were you born here in this country?”
“No. I came here when I was three with my mother and father and two brothers.”
“Do you have any other relatives living in the Middle East, say, outside of Saudi Arabia, at the present time?”
“Objection as to relevance, Your Honor.” The prosecutor was on his feet once more.
“May we approach the bench?” said Madriani.
The judge waved them on. Off to the side, away from the witness, Paul told the judge that the questions were intended to lay a foundation for the issue of credibility, which was always relevant. After all, it was the prosecution who put the witness on the stand.
“I will give you a little latitude, Mr. Madriani, but let’s try and tie it to something in the case.” The judge eased back in his chair.
Paul picked up where he left off.
“Yes,” said Mirza. “I have one brother and my grandparents who live in Shubra al-Khaymah.”
“And where is that?” said Paul.
“It’s a town just outside Cairo in Egypt.”
“So your family lives in the same country my client is from?”
“If you say so,” said Mirza.
“When is the last time you spoke to your family in Egypt?” said Paul.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“A month ago?”
“Longer.”
“Two months?”
“I don’t know. As I said, I can’t remember.”
“Mr. Mirza, isn’t it a fact that the testimony you have offered before this jury here today is false? Is it not true that you never saw anything that night and that, in fact, the information you have testified to here today was provided to you by outside parties who have threatened your family in Egypt unless you testify in accordance with their instructions?”
“No, that’s not true,” said Mirza.
“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Mirza, that you received a letter, typed correspondence, hand-delivered to your home, instructing you to incriminate my client, telling you what to say, giving you details including the defendant’s taxi number, the license number of the vehicle, the location of the alley, and other specifics like the time of your supposed observations, and telling you that unless you did as the letter instructed your family members in Egypt would be killed? Is that not a fact?”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The discomfort level of the witness was obvious.
Madriani lifted a sheaf of papers from the table in front of him. Beneath the papers were several large glossy photographs as well as photocopies of a letter and its envelope. Madriani handed one set to the bailiff who delivered it to the judge and another to the prosecutor.
“May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” The judge nodded as he read from his copy of the letter.