“Would you like me to come down there with you?” he says.
She shakes her head.
“We’re gonna do this together, aren’t we?”
She looks at him silently, conveying the thought, no doubt, that she would rather he do it alone.
“Let’s go on the record,” he tells the court reporter.
The woman starts hitting the keys on the stenograph.
“You’re not scared, are you?” says Radovich.
She shakes her head bravely.
“Let the record reflect that she has indicated ‘no.’”
She is just too terrified to speak.
Radovich gets up from the bench and comes down into the well of the courtroom, in front of the witness stand, where he is almost at eye level with the little girl.
“Kimberly. Do you know why you are here?” the judge asks.
More head shaking, the judge interpreting for the record.
“Can you tell us what your name is?”
She shakes her head.
“You don’t know your name?”
More head shaking.
“You know your name?”
She nods.
“You know your name, but you won’t tell me?”
She nods again.
“Wonderful,” says Radovich.
“Will she talk to you?” The judge is addressing the psychologist.
The woman gets up and crosses the room. She huddles with the little girl at the witness stand, talking in tones that I cannot hear. From this conversation comes a tremulous little voice.
“Kimberly,” it says.
“And your last name?” says the woman.
“Hall.”
“Good.”
Radovich signals the psychologist not to go too far.
“Kimberly. We need to have you tell us what, if anything, you saw the night your mommy was hurt. Do you think you can do that?”
She looks out at her grandparents for encouragement. Her grandmother is nodding her head feverishly, until the judge intervenes.
“Madam, the purpose of this exercise is to find out whether the little girl knows anything. Don’t coach her,” he says.
The woman folds her hands in her lap. Mum is the word.
“Do you remember that night, Kimberly? The night your mommy was hurt?” Radovich wants to do as much of this himself as he can to avoid traumatizing the child.
She nods again.
“I’ll bet you do,” Radovich whispers under his breath as he straightens up and wipes sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.
“You didn’t take down that last comment,” he says to the court reporter.
A few key strokes and it disappears.
“Kimberly, can you tell me where you were that night?” he says.
The first question for which a nod will not suffice.
She looks up at him, chews a silent word with her mouth, and then responds, “I was in the closet.”
“You were in there alone?”
She shakes her head. The court reporter by now is taking license to record the silent yeas and nays without the judge’s instruction.
“Was somebody in there with you?”
She nods.
“Who?”
“Binky,” she says.
“Who’s Bulky?”
“My bear.”
“Ah. I’ve seen Binky,” says Radovich. “A fine-looking bear.”
“Where is he?” she asks. “Why can’t I have him?”
Radovich turns around and rolls his eyes. He’s managed to step in it.
“Didn’t the policeman give you a little bear?”
“It wasn’t Binky,” she says.
“Well, we’ll talk to them about that. Okay?”
A stern nod that is something out of a Shirley Temple movie, as though this is a promise she expects him to honor.
“Was it dark in the closet that night?” says Radovich.
Another nod.
“Could you see anything?”
The child is shaking her head.
Radovich turns and gives us a look, like, “Maybe this is a dry hole.”
“Let’s go off the record,” he says, and he takes a short walk to the other side of the bench, followed by the psychologist. In a couple of seconds this becomes a convocation as the female deputy from Kline’s office and I mosey over to hear what is being said.
“It’s a delicate issue.” Radovich is speaking to the psychologist. “How do I ask her how her mother’s blood got all over the little bear?”
“Very tactfully,” says the shrink. “She might not know it’s blood. You might ask her how it got dirty.”
Radovich gives her an expression of approval. “Good idea,” he says.
We adjourn and he returns to the witness box.
“Kimberly. Can you tell me how Binky got dirty?”
“Mommy bled all over it,” she says.
So much for indirection.
“Did you see this?” says Radovich.
“Oh, yeah. Binky’s all bloody. I think he got hurt, too,” she says.
“I think Binky’s gonna be fine,” he says. “He’s in the hospital getting better,” he tells her.
“Mommy, too?” she says.
Radovich turns so that only the lawyers and Hall’s parents can see him. The expression on his face tells me there is not enough money in the world to compensate for this kind of work.
He turns back to Kimberly. “Just a second, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.” Radovich wants another conference. We convene in the same place.
“Has anybody told her her mother is dead?” he asks.
“She has been told that her mother is in heaven,” says the psychologist. “She says she understands. But she asks when her mother is coming back.”
It seems that at the tender age of five, going to heaven is a concept with all the finality of a trip to Disneyland. In her young mind, Mommy is due back wearing mouse ears any day.
“You tell her that her mother is not in the hospital,” says Radovich. It’s clear that the judge is not going to do this. From the look, Radovich would rather take a good beating by some thug with a sap.
The shrink walks over and delivers the message. This takes several seconds, and by the time we get back to the counsel table Radovich is back in place.
He quickly gets off the subject of death and asks her where she found Binky that night.
The little girl is thinking, swallowing buckets of saliva, images playing in her tiny brain, the aftermath of violence.
“Do you remember where you picked him up?”
She nods.
“Where?”
“On the floor,” she says. “Binky was on the floor.”
“Where on the floor?”
“By Mommy,” she says.
“How did Binky get dirty?” says Radovich.
“I heard Mommy in the front room. They were shouting.”
“Who was shouting?” Radovich is picking up the pace, as if now maybe he’s getting somewhere.
“Mommy.”
“Who was with Mommy?”
She shakes her head and offers a tentative shrug, a lot of expression for such a little body.
“You don’t know?”
She shakes her head again.
“You never saw who was there with Mommy?”
More head shaking.
“Let the record reflect that she did not see whoever was with her mother that night,” says Radovich. First big point.
I can sense Acosta as he gives a palpable sigh, his entire body suddenly easing in the chair.
Radovich questions her for ten minutes and gets nothing of substance. This is hard work. He is sweating profusely. His white dress shirt is stuck to his back, soaked through in three places.
“Maybe you’d like to try for a while.” He turns to me.
“You’re doing fine,” I tell him.
“Right.”
Talking to this little girl now is to play with fire. So far she has not hurt us. If she says anything damaging I will have no choice but to cross-examine her.
Radovich returns to her on the stand, and offers her a glass of water. She takes it and asks for a straw. He has his clerk search for one in her office, and when she comes back empty he sends out to the cafeteria.
“Maybe you’d like a Coke?” he says.
This lights up her face and she nods. Radovich pulls a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gives it to the bailiff.