I'm surprised that Wallace is calling Martez at this point in the case, but I'm not worried about it. That changes the moment she walks into the room and I see Willie Miller's face. All he says, very softly, is “Ooohhh, shit.”
All I can do is sit there and brace myself for what is sure to be a disaster, and it is just that. Martez is a twenty-six-year-old Hispanic woman, whose connection to the case has nothing whatsoever to do with the laboratory at which she works. That is a coincidence, and one which Wallace knew he could rely on to minimize the likelihood of our checking her out in advance.
Wallace leads her through her story, which takes place on a June night nine years ago, almost three years before the McGregor murder. Speaking with a heavy Spanish accent, she relates meeting Willie Miller at a bar. He was drinking heavily, but she agreed to go outside with him. He walked her into an alley behind the bar, where he became verbally abusive. When she tried to leave and reenter the bar, he punched and kicked her.
“I screamed. I begged him to stop, but it was like he couldn't even hear me. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“What happened next?” asks Wallace.
“His friends came out and pulled him off of me.”
“Was that easy for them to do?”
“No, it took four people. He was completely out of control. Kicking and screaming profanities.”
“Did you speak to any of them afterward?”
She nods. “Yes, they said he had done this before, that he had a drinking problem he couldn't control.”
Wallace draws out of her the fact that she was treated at a hospital for her injuries, and produces the emergency room record to substantiate her account. He then turns her over to me to cross-examine. I have no idea what the hell to ask her.
“Ms. Martez, did you report this alleged incident to the police?” I ask.
“No, I was not a citizen then, and-”
“You were here illegally?”
“Yes, but now I am an American. I became a citizen two years ago,” she says proudly. Great, next I'll get her to show the flag she's knitted to hang over the courthouse.
She tells the court that she was afraid to report the incident, because she did not want to risk deportation. And she didn't see any coverage of the first trial, because she was in another city living with her sister. It was only when she saw the current media blitz that she recognized Willie and came forward, which she considered her duty as a citizen of America, the country she loves, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
I end my cross, before I do any more damage to my client's case. I do this even though I would very much like to kill my client for not telling me anything about this.
Kevin, Laurie, and I arrange to meet with Willie in an anteroom after the court session, and we sit there talking, waiting for his arrival. Kevin is distraught that he blew it by not following up on Martez's name, but I don't blame him. I blame myself.
“I didn't lay a glove on her.”
“How could you?” Kevin asks.
I ignore that; it doesn't fit in with my self-flagellation. “I'm a lawyer defending somebody on trial for his life. I'm supposed to be prepared.”
Laurie tries to change the subject to the defense's case, which is coming up rapidly. She asks who my first witnesses are going to be.
“Witnesses?” I ask. “You mean I'm supposed to have witnesses that can help my client?”
“Andy-”
I cut her off. “I must have been out the day they went over that in law school. Because I don't have a goddamn thing, and-”
I could go on like this for hours, but I'm interrupted by Willie being led into the room. Thank goodness, the one person I'd rather beat up than myself.
Willie, in an uncharacteristically contrite manner, tells us that the story Diana Martez told is true. He had a drinking problem for over three years, but he became sober at least six months before Denise McGregor was killed.
“You told us you never had a problem with alcohol before,” I say.
“I was embarrassed, okay?”
This man who has been on death row for murder for most of the past decade was embarrassed to reveal that he had a drinking problem, which he subsequently conquered. The mind boggles.
“Are there any more little incidents out there like this that you're too embarrassed to talk about? Were you involved with the Kennedy assassination? Or maybe the Lindbergh kidnapping?”
“Come on, man. There's nothing else.”
“How did you become sober?”
“I joined a program. It wasn't easy, man, but I did it,” he says with some restored pride. He gives us the name of someone in management at the program, and then we let the guard take him away.
Before he leaves, he says, “I'm sorry if I screwed things up.”
My anger has been defused, and I tell him that it's okay, that we'll deal with it, even though we won't.
Laurie, Kevin, and I go back to my office for our evening meeting. I tell Laurie I want her to keep after Betty Anthony. I still have this notion that the answer to everything lies in that photograph, and the answer to that photograph lies with Betty Anthony.
We kick around our plans for the defense's case, and when we're done Kevin is the first to leave. Laurie lingers behind, and we get to talking. I ask her a question that I shouldn't, but which I am psychologically unable to avoid asking.
“How are things with what's-his-name?”
“You mean Bobby Radburn?”
I nod. “That's him. The guy who couldn't throw a baseball through a pane of glass.”
“He's a creep,” she says. “It's a common ailment among men.”
I should be glad to hear this, and I am, but I also feel bad that she has obviously been hurt and disappointed.
“Listen, Laurie … there's something I need to tell you.” I say this without having a clear idea what it is that I need to tell her.
“Don't.” She lets me off the hook.
Before I can get back on the hook, there is a knock on the door. Since this is the same office I was nearly killed in by an intruder, I call out to find out who it is. The response is from Nicole and her father, who had dinner nearby and stopped by to see if I was in the office so he could say hello. I would almost prefer it had been the intruder again.
Nicole and Philip are very friendly, and greet Laurie warmly. Nicole marvels at how many hours we are putting in on the case, but I respond that we unfortunately seem to be running in place and not getting anywhere.
Philip says, “It may not be your fault. Your client just might be guilty this time.”
“That makes me feel much better,” I say.
Nicole and Philip wait while Laurie and I discuss a few more aspects of the case, including the photograph. I tell Laurie that I am prepared when court reconvenes on Monday to go to Hatchet for permission to depose both Markham and Brownfield about it. It will be a fishing expedition, but I think there's a good chance he'll let me do it.
Laurie, obviously uncomfortable with this little family reunion, says her goodbyes. I drive Nicole home, knowing that I'm with the wrong woman. Someday that piece of information may not stay buried, and it might even come out of my mouth.
SATURDAYIS MY DAY OF REST DURING A trial. I try and wipe the case from my mind, at least for most of the day, and do something relaxing. There is time to intensify the preparation on Sunday, and I find that if I take Saturday off, or mostly off, I am to a degree rejuvenated.
Today is a particularly perfect Saturday, since the relaxation God has sent me a Knicks playoff game on television. The Knicks are playing the Pacers in the Garden, with the best of seven series tied at two games apiece. I don't bet on Knicks playoff games, because I don't need a rooting interest, and because I could never bet against the Knicks anyway.