He is in his mid-forties, well-dressed, and articulate in the details of vision care.
A foundation for the broken glasses has been laid previously by the Homicide detectives, who have identified them as having been found at the scene in Hall’s apartment. They were marked by the clerk and given an evidence number, which Kline now refers to.
He has the witness remove the glasses from a paper evidence bag. Because there is blood on one portion of the broken lens, Hazlid wears surgical gloves to examine them.
“Doctor, have you had the opportunity to inspect these glasses previously?” he asks.
“I have.”
“Let’s begin with their condition,” says Kline. “What can you tell us about that?”
“The left lens is cracked. I would say as a result of some considerable force.”
“Perhaps by someone stepping on them?”
It is leading and suggestive, but with the broken glass taken from the victim’s foot as attested to by the medical examiner, there is little point in objecting.
“Perhaps. That would probably do it,” says Hazlid.
The witness picks the glasses up and looks at them more closely. “The metal frame is bent, probably the same force that cracked the lens. The left temple screw is missing.”
“That’s the part that holds the little stanchion that goes to the ear in place?” Kline calls it a hinge.
“Right.” Though Hazlid would clearly have another word for this.
“And can you tell us, is there anything unique about these glasses, either with respect to the lenses or the frame?”
“Both,” says the witness.
Acosta is in my ear as I try to listen. He is adamant that he has never seen the doctor before. This is not his regular optometrist, and Acosta is at a loss as to how the man could possibly connect him to the glasses. I tell him to sit and relax, but he is highly agitated.
“Let’s start with the frames,” says Kline. “In what regard are they unique?”
“It’s a type of frame that is manufactured specifically for Vision Ease,” he says. “A special licensing arrangement. We don’t sell many of them, because they’re quite expensive.”
“Does it have a name or a model number?”
“It’s called a Specter Four Thirty,” says Hazlid.
“And they’re not sold by any other retailer?”
“No.”
Bad news for us.
“Do you know how many were sold, say, in the last five years by Vision Ease?”
“I can look it up,” he says.
“Please.”
For this Hazlid has brought along a computer printout, a small ream of fan-folded pages that he ciphers through like an accountant until he finds what he’s looking for. He puts one finger under something at the left margin and moves it across the page, then looks up.
“Forty-one pair,” he says.
“That’s all? Nationwide?”
“Correct.” Hazlid explains that the manufacturer has been selling this particular frame for only two years, that they are very pricey and haven’t caught on. He attributes this to price resistance.
“How much?” says Kline, peering at the glasses as though he might purchase them if they didn’t have blood all over them and a cracked lens.
“Wholesale they run one hundred seventy-nine dollars. They retail for four hundred and eighteen,” he says.
Kline whistles low and long at the markup. Several of the jurors laugh. It is something about which I cannot object.
Hazlid tries to justify this. “Designer frames,” he says.
There is a clear innuendo as Kline looks over at Acosta, an indictment by inference. This has its effect on the jury, people sitting here for thirty dollars a day and mileage, looking at my client who now stands charged with purchasing a set of frames worth half a month’s salary.
“Do you know how many pairs of these particular frames were sold by your own store?”
For this Hazlid doesn’t consult his documents.
“Three,” he says.
“And yours is the only branch in Capital City?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s the next nearest store that would sell this frame?”
“The Bay Area,” says Hazlid.
Kline closes that door quickly. He asks how many that store has sold, and gets four more. The only other stores are in the southern part of the state, where the witness accounts for five more sales.
“So in the entire state,” says Kline, he’s calculating in his head. “They sold a total of twelve of these particular frames?”
“That’s correct.”
“Does the retailer maintain records of these sales?”
“We do computerized inventory at the point of sale,” he says.
Harry drops his pencil on the table and glances at the lights on the ceiling, and then over at me, body language that is not good. I do not return this.
“When a customer comes in, we get their address and phone number, the stock number of the item purchased, in this case frames, and a file number from which we can retrieve their prescription if it’s on record.”
I am trying to look cool, undaunted. Acosta next to me is an automaton. He has said nothing since his initial disclaimer about the doctor.
“So you have records of sale for each of the three customers who purchased the Specter Four Thirty frames from your store?”
“Yes.”
“Do those records reveal a sale of this particular brand and model frame to the defendant, Armando Acosta?”
“No.”
The sigh of relief from Harry at the end of our table is palpable. He picks up his pencil, wipes some sweat from under his nose, and looks over at Acosta. He actually slaps him on the arm, the first show of solidarity Harry has displayed with our client.
There is little emotion from the Coconut other than surprise at Harry’s jubilation.
“Do you show any sales for this frame in the last name of Acosta?” asks Kline.
“Yes.”
Harry stops the party.
“And in what name is that?”
“Lili Acosta,” says the witness.
“And is there an address?”
“Two thirty-four Sorenson Way, out in Oak Grove,” he says.
Harry snaps the pencil in his fingers, one end flying onto the floor. The Coconut is dog shit again.
Lili is not here today, the first time she has missed since the trial’s start, and I am left to wonder if this is by design. Harry looks down the line at me, over the top of his own glasses, a flat expression like I told you so.
“I had forgotten about them,” says Acosta. He is in my ear. “They were a gift from my wife. I did not wear them, except at home.”
It is the reason we have been blindsided by the glasses from the murder scene: they were not purchased through Acosta’s regular optometrist, whose records we have scoured. Now we are left with egg on our face to bluff our way through.
Kline steps back a pace and looks up at Radovich on the bench. “I think the record will reflect that that is the residence address of the defendant, and that Lili Acosta is the wife?” He turns toward me.
“We’ll stipulate,” I say. Anything to cut this short.
“When was the purchase made?” Kline’s back to the witness.
“September eighteenth, a year ago,” says Hazlid.
He gets the price, full retail, and the fact that Lili paid for them with a credit card, a joint account with her husband.
“But these are men’s glasses?” says Kline.
“Right. I would have to assume-”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. There’s no need to be assuming anything,” says Radovich.
Kline regroups, that avenue being blocked, he tries another.
“Did she indicate who they were for at the time of purchase?”
“Objection. No foundation. Hearsay. The witness has not testified that he sold these glasses,” I tell Radovich.
“Sustained.”
“Do the business records reflect this?” says Kline.
“No.”
Kline doesn’t need an answer, the question is enough. The jurors are capable of filling in this blank for themselves: a wife’s purchase of men’s glasses.