Since my wife, Nikki, died of cancer nearly two years ago I have tried to spend as much time as possible with Sarah, dividing my life between my daughter and that jealous mistress that is the law. It has not been easy. There have been crying jags and shouting, not all of these emanating from Sarah.
As a father in Nikki’s parental wake it was always easy to be the good cop. Nikki was the law under our roof. She loved our daughter very much. It was out of that love that she held to standards while I became the perennial soft touch. Now I must wear both hats, partier and disciplinarian, and Sarah’s take on the latter is that her mother would always and invariably have cut more slack. I have a whole new respect for single parents and the forces that play on them.
Before us on the dining table are stacks of manila folders, legal files with labels and burgeoning stacks of paper. Harry has spent the afternoon organizing and digesting the first bits of discovery from Acosta’s case, mostly police reports and preliminary notes from their investigation. The first thing I notice is that some of these are authored by another client, Tony Arguillo.
“Worried about a conflict?” says Harry.
It is an issue, a cardinal rule in the law that an attorney may not represent two clients with adverse interests. The fear here is that Tony, should he become a witness against Acosta, might be victimized on the stand by me should I possess confidential information derived in my role as Tony’s lawyer: something to discredit him on the stand, knowledge of a crime or other misdeed. It is one reason that criminal lawyers do not make a habit of representing peace officers.
“Has Tony told you anything that might compromise him?” says Lenore.
“If he did I couldn’t tell you,” I say. In point of fact he has not. I am probably the only person in whom he has not confided.
Lenore guesses that this is only a potential problem. “We can avoid it by finding other counsel for Tony. A substitution,” she says. “Besides, his part in the grand jury probe is over.”
The fact that she knows he has testified is itself a violation of confidence.
“Arguillo is not paying anything. Acosta is,” says Harry, ever the pragmatist. “Facts of life. I’ll draw up a consent for substitution of counsel. I know some schmuck who will take his case.” What Harry means is some other schmuck.
“As long as we’re cleaning skirts,” I say, “what about yours?” I’m looking at Lenore.
“What?” she says. “I didn’t represent Tony.”
“No, but you talked to Hall.”
“You mean the interview in the office?”
“Right.”
“She wasn’t a client.”
“True,” I say. “But you were privy to information held by the state in its case against Acosta.”
“That was prostitution. This is murder. Different case,” she says.
“You don’t think Kline will tie the two together? It’s all motive,” I say. “The prostitution sting led to the murder. That’s the state’s motive.”
“All the same, we’ll acquire everything they have in discovery. Where’s the harm?”
“Except for attorney work product,” I tell her, “your own notes.”
“There was nothing there of any substance. I was never privy to the state’s strategy in the case. You think Kline would have taken me into his confidence?”
“You can be sure he’ll raise it.”
“Yeah, along with the Magna Carta and the Declaration of Independence. That doesn’t mean it’s relevant.”
“Just a warning,” I tell her.
“Worry about it when we get there,” she says. Lenore is not the kind to get ulcers borrowing future problems. Not like me.
“So what have we got?” I ask Harry.
He’s rummaging through papers, mostly his notes on a yellow legal pad.
“Two crime scenes,” he says. “The alley where they found the body, and her apartment. That’s where they think the murder occurred. They dusted her place for prints. No report yet. Let’s hope the Coconut had the good taste to wear gloves,” says Harry.
Lenore gives him a look, exasperated. The thought is well taken. If we’re going to take the man’s money, we should at least make a show of innocence.
“Bad form,” says Harry.
We move on.
“Hair and fibers,” he says. “Hair is coarse and reddish brown. Not human, according to their report. It was found in the girl’s apartment, and on the blanket in which the victim was wrapped. Armando was probably shedding. Full moon,” says Harry.
“Shit,” says Lenore.
“There are children present,” he says.
“I know. I’m looking at one of them.” Lenore fixes Harry with a steely gaze and moves the bottle of Kahlúa away from him. As she does this she has to lean over the table, and I catch Harry taking a peek.
The association of Madriani, Hinds, and Goya may have some rough sailing ahead.
“Maybe Hall owned a cat or a dog?” says Lenore.
“Not according to the neighbors,” says Harry. “They’ve never seen an animal in the place.”
“She was wrapped in a blanket?” I ask. Back to basics.
“We’ll get to that,” he says. “Also some blue carpet fibers found on the blanket. Unknown origin.”
“What color was the carpet in her apartment?” I am hoping that Lenore has the presence of mind not to answer this. Harry doesn’t know about our little jaunt to Hall’s apartment that night. We have treated this on a need-to-know basis. Harry doesn’t need to know.
“Bzzzzz,” Harry. Sound effects like a quiz show, the problem with meetings outside the office over drinks and dinner.
“The answer is mauve,” he says. “There’s no lab report yet, but my guess is the fibers are some cheap nylon. I think they’re assuming some trunk fur here,” says Harry. “From the perp’s vehicle.”
“Do we know the color of the carpet in Acosta’s car?” asks Lenore. “The one they impounded.”
Harry shakes his head.
“Make a note to ask Acosta,” she says.
“What am I, the fucking secretary?”
Lenore reaches over and grabs the other bottle. Harry cops another peek, a man with a death wish. He must like what he sees. He makes the note and goes to the next item.
“They also found a broken pair of reading glasses, bent frames. At the girl’s apartment,” he says. “Wire rims. Half frames. One lens was cracked, like maybe somebody stepped on it.”
“Did Hall wear glasses?” I ask.
The thought is piercing, that the killer dropped a pair of glasses.
“Not when she read her statement in my office that afternoon,” says Lenore. “I suppose she could have been wearing contacts. Kept the glasses in her purse.”
“Does the police report say whether they were men’s or women’s?” I ask.
“Lemme see.” Harry roots through one of the piles of paper, like a guinea pig eating yesterday’s Tribune on the bottom of his cage.
“Not it. No.” Another page goes flying. “Here it is.”
He reads silently for a moment.
“No. Just says, ‘Identified for photographs and directed Forensics to gather one pair of broken spectacles found on the living room floor of the victim’s apartment. Appear to be reading glasses. Spectacles evidenced bent metal frame and one broken lens. Possibly damaged during struggle with assailant.’” Harry shrugs. “That’s it.”
This becomes a showstopper as we consider the possibilities, and avoid conjecture on the one that could be most damaging.
“Could be nothing,” says Lenore.
Harry and I are both looking at her, but it is Harry who says it.
“Acosta wears cheaters.”
There is a moment of sober silence as we consider the ramifications.
“We can’t assume that our client is telling us the truth,” he says. “One thing is certain. The cops will be checking Acosta’s prescription to see if it’s a match.”
The glasses are one of those pieces of evidence that as a prosecutor you love. If they’re a match to Acosta the cops will play it to the hilt. If they are not they will try to bury them, some incidental left in her apartment by anyone, swept onto the floor in the melee with the killer, while we argue to a deaf jury that they are exculpatory evidence, left there by the real killer.