“The jury is to disregard the question and any implications,” says Radovich.
“I have no more questions of the witness,” says Kline. He says this almost absently as he fishes for his checkbook in the maroon silk lining of his coat.
“You’re damn right,” says the judge. “It’s gonna cost you six hundred dollars for the last one. Pony up to the clerk,” he tells him.
“I will see counsel in chambers,” he says. “Five-minute recess.” Radovich slams his gavel so hard that the hammerhead separates from the handle and careens across the floor, hitting one of the sheriff’s guards in the foot.
By the time we get inside, Radovich has not cooled. Kline is still pocketing his checkbook and overflowing with apologies. “I spoke before I thought,” he says.
“You may have talked us all into a mistrial.” Radovich is several shades of red.
“I don’t think it’s that serious,” says Kline.
“You aren’t the appellate court,” says Radovich. “At least not yet.” He has been smelling ambition on Kline since the start and now it slips from his lips.
“If there’s a problem it can be handled by an instruction,” says Kline. “They’ve been told to disregard it.”
“Your Honor, the question was clearly laid,” I say. “The jury cannot have missed the implication. They would take a strong lead from the conclusions of a sitting judge, one with no incentive to lie.”
“So what do you want?” says Radovich. “To try this thing again?” He’s looking to see if I’m moving for a mistrial. This he would no doubt deny.
“No,” I tell him.
“Then what?” he says.
“Some leveling of the playing field,” I tell him.
Kline has a wary look. He sees something coming but is not sure what.
“I think it can fairly be argued,” I say, “that Mr. Kline begged the question of motive for my client’s temper, the reason for his intemperate statements about the victim. I think we should be allowed to inquire into this on cross examination.”
There’s a wail from Kline that I suspect can be heard outside in the courtroom. The press is probably wondering if Radovich is skinning him with a cat-o’-nine tails.
“Your Honor, I was very careful not to get into that. It’s beyond the scope of direct.” He moans in front of the judge’s desk, insisting that there is no precedent. “Besides,” he says, “anything Nichols would have to say on that score is clearly hearsay, with no exception.”
“On the matter of precedent,” I say, “there are cases dealing with the context of a witness’s testimony. It’s only fair that the jury should understand the context in which my client made these statements. What motivated them?”
“What could justify such ugly remarks?” asks Kline.
“Why don’t we let the witness tell us,” I say.
“On your own time,” he tells me. “You want to call him in your own case, fine,” he says. “You can ask him what you want.”
The problem with this, and Kline knows it, is that to call Nichols as our own witness would no doubt open the issue of Acosta’s character. Cross this line, and the Coconut’s life is an open book, the pages of which I do not know myself, though I would venture that Gus Lano and the boys from Vice have already penned volumes of this, bound and stacked, waiting to be read.
“Enough,” says Radovich. “You want to get into motive for the statements”-he’s looking at me-“do it.”
“But, Judge. .” Kline’s final appeal is cut off.
“You don’t like it, object,” says Radovich.
He’s done with us, out from behind the desk and heading for the courtroom, Kline and I still squabbling in his wake.
Once there, back at counsel table, Acosta has a hand on my arm, trying to find out what happened.
“Watch and see,” I tell him. “I don’t know.”
Radovich calls the room to order. Nichols is on the stand.
“Your witness,” says the judge.
When I get my opening I do not wait. The theory here is to strike while Radovich is still hot, angry with Kline. If he’s going to give me an edge it will be now.
“You testified,” I say, “that the first thing you remember my client, Mr. Acosta, saying is that Ms. Hall lied.”
“That’s correct,” says Nichols.
“Did he say what she had lied about?”
“Objection. Beyond the scope of direct.”
“Overruled on those grounds,” says Radovich.
“Hearsay,” says Kline.
Radovich wavers only an instant before he pronounces overruled. Kline now knows that this, a bad ruling on evidence, is the balance of his sanction.
“Please answer the question,” I tell Nichols.
He seems delighted to comply. “He told me that she lied about the nature of their conversation the evening he was arrested. That he had never tried to solicit an act of prostitution, but instead had been called by Ms. Hall on the telephone, who asked him to meet with her.”
“Did he tell you why she wanted to meet with him?”
“According to Judge Acosta, she had information for him in connection with a grand jury investigation.”
“Did he say which one?”
“Yes. It involved an investigation into police corruption. Specifically, the Police Association.”
“So according to Judge Acosta. .” Kline doesn’t even bother to object when I use the title. At the moment he is more concerned about the content of the testimony. “He was lured to this meeting with information relating to official duties.”
“Objection. Mischaracterizes the evidence,” says Kline.
“Overruled.”
The fact that Radovich doesn’t think so gives credence to the assumption.
“That’s what he told me,” says Nichols.
“And this is why he was angry?”
“That, and because he said she fabricated evidence,” says Nichols. “False testimony concerning his alleged solicitation.”
“And it was in this context that he made the rash statements that you testified to earlier?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Nichols is anxious to take the edge off of this if possible. To do his duty without damaging a friend. His kind of justice.
“Did Judge Acosta say anything during this conversation about Ms. Hall being involved with the Police Association, the people under investigation?” I ask.
Nichols thinks hard for a moment. He clearly wants to help, but cannot. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
I of course know the answer to this already. Nichols would have volunteered had he known. Anything to resurrect his friendship. The purpose in asking is to plant the seed with the jury.
“Did he ever tell you that she was closely associated with members of that association, in particular, the officers assigned to Vice who were with her the night Judge Acosta was arrested?” I water and nurture it.
“No. I’m afraid not,” he says.
I turn back toward my table, as if I am finished, then stop at some fleeting afterthought.
“One more question, Judge. I’m curious,” I tell him. “Did you ever tell the police when they questioned you, or the district attorney, about Judge Acosta’s insistence that he was set up, framed on the prostitution matter?”
“Yes. I told them what I told you.”
I look over at Kline. The effect of this is to make clear that he was withholding this from the jury.
“And did they pursue it with you? Did they ask a lot of follow-up questions about the details of what Ms. Hall might have told Judge Acosta to lure him there that evening?”
Nichols’s eyes brighten. He may be a soft touch, but he is not stupid. He sees where I am going, a lifeline to rehabilitate his relationship.
“As a matter of fact, no, they didn’t.” Then before I can turn, he goes the extra yard. “They didn’t seem interested.”
Kline gasps, then holds the objection. He knows the damage is done.
CHAPTER 26
The last witness the State brings on is there for a single purpose, to end their case on a note of melancholy.