“No.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t that be pertinent information?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Isn’t it possible that Brittany Hall might have been killed by a jealous lover?”
“There was no evidence of that,” he says.
“How would you know if you didn’t ask?”
“We didn’t ask because it seemed purposeless,” he says.
“And you still don’t know whether the victim dated any of the men listed in that little book?”
“No.”
“If she had dated any of them, would you consider that significant?”
“Maybe. It would depend on the circumstances.”
“If she had a date with any of them on the night of the murder, would you consider that significant?”
“Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence,” says Kline. He wants to put an end to this inquiry as quickly as possible.
“Sustained,” says Radovich.
“Do you know, Detective, whether there is an active investigation into the death of Officer Wiley, the officer listed in this little book?”
“I’m going to object to that,” says Kline. “Irrelevant.”
“Not if Brittany Hall knew something about Wiley’s death that others did not want the authorities to know.”
Radovich holds up a hand for me to stop talking, a stern look, and waves us to the side of the bench.
When I get there he’s waiting for me. “Mr. Madriani, I’d appreciate it if you wait to make your point until after I rule on the objection.”
The plain fact is that by then I might not be able to.
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
“Don’t do it again,” he says.
“I want an instruction that the jury is to disregard it,” says Kline. “There is no evidence that she knew anything of the kind.”
Radovich looks to me. “Do you have an offer of proof?” he says.
“She knew some of the officers present at Wiley’s shooting. They show up in her book.”
“So what?” says Kline. “There’s no evidence she knew anything.”
Radovich gives me an arched eyebrow, waiting for more. When it is not forthcoming, he sustains the objection.
“I don’t want to hear anything more about the Wiley investigation unless there is some evidence of linkage,” he says. “Am I clear?”
I give him a grudging nod, and he dismisses us.
“The jury will disregard the last comment of defense counsel, as if you never heard it,” he says. “Do you have any further questions of this witness?”
I confer briefly with Harry, then raise my head. “I think we are done.”
“Maybe we should take a break,” says Radovich.
Then it hits me. “One more question, Your Honor. If I could.”
“One more,” he says.
“Detective Stobel. Do you know why the killer moved Ms. Hall’s body from her apartment to the Dumpster in the alley?”
“We think maybe he panicked,” he says.
“Panicked?” I say.
“People who panic do a lot of crazy things,” he says.
“Yes. They run from the scene. They drop evidence. They may confess to a friend. But they don’t usually take the body with them, unless there is a reason.”
“Is that a question?” says Radovich.
“Do they?” I ask.
The expression on Stobel’s face at this moment is a million unstated answers, none of them sufficiently plausible to justify words.
“I don’t know,” he finally says.
“Thank you.” It is what I thought it would be, a gaping hole in their case, something they cannot answer. If Acosta killed her, why did he move her body?
CHAPTER 21
“There are two things that trouble me,” I tell him. These are imponderables that lie in the middle of our case like floating naval mines.
Acosta and I are doing lunch today, as best we can in one of the small attorney interview rooms off the holding cells in the bowels of the courthouse. I can hear the tapping of rain on the windows outside, beyond the metal mesh and iron bars.
We are settling in, the door to the conference room still open. Armando is in a cheery mood, buoyed by the belief that after months of preparation we have finally begun to lay waste to their case.
He looks up from his sandwich, corned beef on rye, which my secretary has gotten for us at a little stand down the street, along with a carton of potato salad.
“You should try this,” he says. “It is really very good.” He is pointing to the potato salad, which he has tasted with one finger because he cannot find a spoon in the paper bag.
“I thought things have been going very well,” he says. “What’s the problem?”
Before I can answer, he cuts me off, issuing a directive to one of the jail guards, a man he knows by first name.
“Jerry, would you get me a plastic fork?” he says. “Oh, and a cup of coffee.” In this Acosta treats the man as if he were wearing white livery, hovering over our table with a napkin crossing his forearm.
“How about you? Coffee?” he says.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“Just one,” he tells the guard.
Acosta has spent much of his professional life in these private warrens behind the courtrooms. He is courteous, but still treats the guards like bailiffs in his court. He has them scurrying to and fro, fetching and carrying, first names and smiles at every turn. Strangely enough, they seem to accept this. I cannot tell if it is out of habit or derives from the bureaucrat’s sense of survival, the uncertainty of whether the Coconut will beat the current rap and return to their midst in all his previous glory. In any event, Jerry comes with a fork and coffee, then closes the door and leaves us.
“So what is your problem?” says Acosta.
“I still can’t figure why the killer moved the body,” I tell him. “It makes absolutely no sense. If she were killed in someone else’s house I could understand it. But why from her own apartment?”
He bobs his head a little while he chews, partly on his sandwich and partly on the conundrum I have just posed. He is finally forced to agree that this does not make sense.
“Especially since the killer made no effort to clean up the evidence, except for fingerprints,” he says, “and no implications seem to flow from the location of the crime. Still, it is not our problem, but theirs.”
My concern is that they may find an answer that is not helpful to our case, though I cannot imagine what it could be. I tell him this.
“My friend, you borrow too many problems,” he says. “When was the last time you saw a crime of violence that made sense?” Acosta seems to opt for the police version that the killer probably panicked.
“I wouldn’t take the body with me,” I tell him.
“Maybe they will have to come up with a better explanation for the jury. Still,” he says, “it is not up to you and me.” He goes on eating as if this is not his concern.
“You said there were two things. What is your other problem? You sure you don’t want any of this?” He has the fork in the carton of salad.
I shake my head. “The note with your name on it, on Hall’s calendar.” I unwrap my sandwich and leave it lying open in the paper on the table.
“Hmm.” He is chewing, mustard running down his chin. He catches it with a napkin before the yellow stuff can reach his tie.
“I must say, your handling of that was masterful,” he says. He mops up a little more with the napkin. “The interpretation that she met with others regarding my case. No doubt it is what happened,” he says.
“I gave the jury an alternative theory,” I tell him. “I’m not at all certain it’s the best one.”
The odor of my inference wafts heavily over the table between us, more pungent than the dill in his sandwich. Suddenly he stops chewing and looks at me, dark arched eyebrows.
“You think I have not been forthcoming?” he says. “That I’m withholding something?”
“I simply don’t want any surprises.”
He raises a palm out to me. “I swear to you. I was not at that apartment that afternoon, that evening, or any other time. I have never been there in my life,” he says. “On my mother’s grave.” He makes a gesture crossing his heart as he says this.