I concur that this would be foolish.
A preliminary hearing to test the state’s evidence to force them to produce some of their key witnesses at an early stage before all the evidence may be developed is a major advantage for the defense.
“It would force them to buy into a single theory of prosecution, perhaps before they are ready,” I tell him. “The testimony of any witnesses who appeared would be fixed in concrete.”
“Yes,” he says. “I know. Unrefuted testimony on the alleged prostitution charge, and whatever evidence they claim to have linking me to her murder. Correct me if I am wrong, Counselor.” Acosta is looking at me. “We would not be offering any evidence in opposition. Am I right?”
My expression is one of concession. “That’s true,” I tell him. “It would be stupid for the defense to tip its hand if it doesn’t have to. It’s a chance for us to take a peek at their case without revealing our own. To attack it if we can.”
“So you wouldn’t get a dismissal of the charges at the preliminary hearing?”
“I won’t know until I see all the evidence,” I tell him. But I concede that a dismissal at that stage is always a long shot. As he well knows, the state has a lesser burden, not proof beyond a reasonable doubt.
“Then I would be condemned in the press without an opportunity to defend myself. My public image destroyed,” he says.
“But we would make out a case at the trial,” says Lenore, “a convincing defense.”
“Yes, maybe five or six months from now. By that time my reputation in the community would be gone. A relentless bombardment of speculation and innuendo,” he says, “all fed by a one-sided hearing. My career would be over. No, I won’t do it. There will be no preliminary hearing.”
I start to argue, and he cuts me off.
“And I will not waive time,” he says. “We will demand to go to trial in sixty days.”
“We need time to prepare,” says Lenore.
“Again, correct me if I am wrong, Counsel.” He looks at us both sternly in the eyes. “Waiver of a preliminary hearing, and a speedy trial, are these not matters within the ultimate control of the client? Items upon which you may advise me, but upon which I have the final word as a matter of law?”
We both sit mute. Acosta already knows the answer. He has clearly thought about this for some time.
“Then I have spoken. Sixty days to trial,” he says.
He rises from the stool on the other side.
“Oh. And one more thing,” he says. “You should apply for a gag order. I will not have Kline or anyone else trying me in the press. Is that clear?”
As if by some strange form of metamorphosis, he has suddenly recovered the imperious tone of his former self, the old Acosta, eyes that I have often conceived as demonic staring at us through inch-thick glass.
He is implacable. His final word on the matter as he turns and gestures to the guard that our meeting is over.
Lenore and I remain, shell-shocked, sitting in the ashes, considering our dilemma, the problem that lawyers have with a judge for a client.
From his look I can only imagine that it’s his day out of the office. There must be no labor business to conduct, though I find it difficult to imagine Gus Lano being involved in anything that could legitimately be called business.
I see him across the lobby of the county jail as Lenore and I are leaving, followed by one of his hulking shadows, a guy whose hairdo looks like the skin on a kiwi fruit.
Lano is wearing a loud Hawaiian print shirt and white beachcombers. This is capped by a pair of canvas boat shoes sans the socks. He is shaking hands and doing some backslapping with a couple of the guards, probably members of the union.
Though Lano tries, the image he cuts is not so much dapper as what one would expect of some debauched pirate after pillaging the Love Boat. He has the definitive paunch and love handles like budding flippers on a porpoise.
When he finally sees me, Lano’s gaze is not so much at me as through me. I edge the other way, nudging Lenore to follow, but Lano is not one to miss an opportunity for an awkward meeting. He ambles over and cuts us off.
“Counselor,” he says, “fancy meeting you here.”
“Business,” I tell him.
“Lemme guess,” he says. “The judge.”
There is nothing that goes on in this place that he would not know about with lackey guards carrying messages like scribes to the pharaoh.
In the silent void that follows, he is busy ogling Lenore. When I don’t offer an introduction, he does his own.
“Gus Lano.” He holds out his hand, under an evil grin that strives for lascivious but ends up as creepy.
She hesitates as long as possible, and when the hand doesn’t disappear, she finally takes it. “Lenore Goya,” she says.
“Ah. The infamous Ms. Goya. I was wondering how long it would be before we met. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says.
“All of it good, I hope.”
“Not as good as what I see,” he tells her.
“Is that a compliment, or are you just leering?” she asks.
“Oh, a compliment, a compliment,” he says. “Don’t misunderstand,” he says. “Though I see you are sleeping with the enemy these days.” Now Lano’s looking at me.
Lenore is not certain of his meaning. I think he senses the psychic growl, the hair spiking on her neck.
“Leaving the side of truth and justice,” he tells her. “Turning over a defense leaf.”
“A living,” she says.
I swear that there is dribble running in a crease down the chin of Lano’s subordinate. The man seems utterly removed from our conversation, as if perhaps human discourse is something beyond his comprehension. At the moment I am envious.
“So how goes the battle?” asks Lano. “Your case for the judge?” As if I am going to tell him.
“Mistaken identity,” I say. “Highly circumstantial.”
He laughs at this, as if he knows more about our case than we do.
“Yeah. Hard to believe that a judge, of all people, would do that. Murder some broad about to testify in a case,” he says.
Lenore, whose attention had started to drift, suddenly zeros in, like one of those Gatling guns on an incoming missile.
“That’s true,” she says. “It’s always easier to understand murder when the victim is some supercilious male prick.”
He studies her, wondering if there is some special meaning in this for him.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I’m from the old school. I meant a female witness,” says Lano, as if “broad” were a legal term of art.
“I meant some supercilious male prick,” says Lenore. She would spell it for him if he asked.
“Hey, gimme a break.” He socks Igor in the arm. “Tough lady,” says Lano.
He tries to laugh if off. “Remind me not to get in front of that one in a courtroom.” He directs this toward me. Lano’s had enough chatting with the girls.
“As long as you’re in front of me I won’t worry,” says Lenore.
Hopping around on one foot like he’s been burned again. “You got a real tiger in that one,” he tells me.
“Perhaps you should count the scratches on your ass,” I say. The art of tiger training by Claude Balls.
He puts the best face on it, more self-deprecating laughter. “Seems like the only person in more trouble than me at the moment is your client,” he says. “But then I suppose when you swim in the sewer you’re bound to get dirty.”
“Meaning?” I say.
“Meaning that it’s no secret Acosta spent a lotta time fraternizing with the lower orders,” he says.
“I’m sure you would know about such things,” says Lenore.
By now he’s decided the best defense is to ignore her.
“If he didn’t have the inclination he would never have been out on the street that night,” he says. Lano’s talking about the night they netted the Coconut in the prostitution sting.