“It’s what it looked like when I did comparisons.”
“Are you sure you didn’t sniff this glue?”
Franks actually says, “No,” before he realizes that this is a dig by Kline.
“I have no more use for this witness,” says Kline. He musters all the contempt possible in a human body and dismisses the witness with a gesture, the back of his hand.
It is the best he can do, given the anger that is welling up within him at this moment. His rage would be stratospheric if he only knew the truth. The impressions attested to by Jerry Franks are mythic. The content of the note, what we have agreed he would testify to if it came to that, would read, Tony A. 7:30.
It is short and crisp, a cryptic reconstruction by Lenore of what was on the paper that night, the best she can remember months after the fact.
“You’re out of your mind. Crazy,” says Harry. “Gonna lose your ticket. And the judge ain’t worth it.” Harry’s talking about Acosta. We square off in the corridor outside the cafeteria during a break, where I have finally told Harry the truth about Franks’s testimony. “This is not like you,” he says.
The fact that this could offend Harry’s sense of ethics for a moment has me wondering about my own moral center of gravity. Then I realize it’s not that I have done something wrong that bothers Harry, but that I might get caught.
It’s a gamble of some proportions, but not as great as Harry thinks. I have not shared some of the things I know, and others that I now suspect, with my partner.
“What are you gonna do next?” he says.
“Gall the next witness.”
“No, I mean for a living, after you get disbarred.”
I look at him and he is not laughing.
We push through the crowd in the corridor outside the courtroom, the end of our morning break. A news crew, cameraman, sound tech, and a reporter on the fringes are the first to see us. The reporter jockeys for an angle to herd us into one of the side corridors.
“Can we have just a minute for an interview?”
Harry and I are trying to pick up the pace to get away.
“No time now,” I tell him.
“The D.A. is saying that he’s going to subject the calendar to his own testing. Do you have any comment?” Lights in my eyes.
“We will expect him to share his results,” I say.
“You’re not concerned about this?”
“Why should I be? I know what was on that calendar.” At least part of this is the truth.
“Whose name was on the note?” By now there are more cameras, enough lights to film a movie, a growing throng so that they block our way.
“Follow the trial,” I tell them, “and you’ll find out. All will be revealed,” I say, giving them a deliberate sound bite so that several of them turn in front of their own cameras, to put a twist on it for a closer: “There you have it. .”
Out of the crowd comes a hand on my arm from behind. When I turn it is Gus Lano.
“Cute. Very cute,” he says.
The last thing I want is an argument here in front of the cameras with Lano.
“Now if you could tell me when you’re gonna call me?” He is almost polite in his inquiry.
“When I get around to it,” I tell him.
Lano has been cooling his heels in the outer corridor for two days now, under subpoena. I have told him he could be called at any moment. Tony is standing behind him over his shoulder, two bumps on the same log.
Lano waves a small paper envelope in front of my eyes, florid drawings in bright colors, a commercial jet superimposed over an exotic beach somewhere, a female bottom in a bikini poking over the wing tip, all the fantasies conjured by commercial art.
“Tickets to fly,” says Lano, “bags packed and downstairs. I’m outta here tomorrow night. Five o’clock flight.”
“We all have our problems.” I push by him and he grabs my arm one more time.
“Five o’clock,” he says. “You can call me next and get it over with.” He is serious. Lano thinks I will actually structure the order of my evidence to accommodate his vacation plans.
“If you like I can get an order from the court to have the marshal hold you.” I remind him that as a peace officer he is an attaché of the court and cannot leave until they are finished with him.
“My ass,” he says.
“It will be if you try to leave.”
Several of the cameras are now back on, capturing these last words for posterity.
“Excuse me.” I push through, Harry behind me.
“Are you a witness?” One of them asks Lano.
“Only because of the harassment and abuse of the defense. Figments of their imaginations. They are calling witnesses that have nothing to do with the case as a smoke screen.”
The reporters are eating this up.
He has an outstretched arm pointed in my direction as I walk away. “The defense in this case is grounded on the defamation of upstanding law enforcement officers,” he tells them. “People who risk their lives for public safety every day,” he says. “They are willing to do anything to win.” Lights are suddenly on my back, accusations I can do nothing about and would rather not hear. Lano’s impromptu news conference. I hear my name taken in vain one more time as Harry lets the courtroom door close behind us. The war of media spin is beginning to leave tractor marks on my face.
Inside, the audience is milling, standing room only. I look at my watch and we are late. Kline is not at his table, nor is Stobel. Acosta is at ours, backed by a guard. I send Harry forward to chaperon. Something is up-it is in the air. One of the bailiffs approaches.
“They want you back in chambers,” he says.
I make my way down the corridor past the bench, wondering what intrigue of procedure Kline is up to now. My best guess, he is renewing his motion to reopen his case to call Lenore, some new evidence he claims to have discovered.
“They have been waiting for you inside.” It is a stern look I get from Radovich’s clerk when I show my face that is the first indication I may be wrong.
The minute I am through the judge’s door, I can feel that the air is heavy with a charge of electricity.
Radovich is behind his desk, brows knit and heavy, like images of God from the vaulted ceiling of some Renaissance chapel. Kline barely looks at me, and Stobel turns away.
“Mr. Madriani. I’m glad you could make it,” says the judge. This is clearly his party, and it has me worried.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I offer some feeble excuse about cameras in the corridor.
“Never mind that,” says Radovich. “There have been some serious charges made. During the break Mr. Kline had one of his experts examine that calendar.”
All of a sudden there is a knot in my stomach the dimensions of a good-sized boulder.
“We are concerned,” says Radovich, “that they could not find any evidence of indented writing.”
I actually stammer in trying to speak, something Kline seems to enjoy, if a smile is an indication.
“How thorough could they have been in the time that they had?” I finally say.
“That could be it,” says the judge. “But I thought it was only fair to tell you that the people are making an inquiry in this matter.”
“Something for their case in rebuttal?” I say.
“That’s not what we have in mind,” says Kline. “I’m not worried about your witness. I suspect the jury can see through that for themselves. But suborning perjury is a more serious matter. Especially for an officer of the court.” Kline’s anger has laid quick roots.
“You’d better hope you can back that up,” I tell him. I take a step forward, in his face, as I say this. The best defense. .
“For your sake I hope that he cannot,” says Radovich.
There are a million reasons, I tell the judge, why impressions of writing may be transitory. If heavy items were laid on top of the calendar in the evidence lockup, or if it was folded or rolled, what was there when we examined it months ago might now be obliterated.