Prime Witness (34 page)

“It can be, yes.”

“Well, either it is or it isn’t?”

“It depends on the circumstances,” says Beckworth.

A look from Chambers, like a hurt child.

“I thought we had a formula,” he says. “Now you tell me it depends on the circumstances. How do we know whether the formula fits a suspect or not if it’s always changing?” he says.

“I didn’t say it’s always changing.”

“Oh. Good,” says Chambers. “For a minute there you had me worried.” This is Chambers’s special talent, the thinly veiled derision of a witness, a kind of microwaved mockery that can fry sound judgment in the most sensible of witnesses, bring on a wave of anger and in time the witless responses that breed trouble for your case.

“Let’s get the rest of this formula,” he says. “You said earlier that the defendant was wearing a baggy coat. Is that part of the formula?”

Beckworth is beginning to regret that he’s allowed Chambers to coin this term.

“It can be,” he says. “Depends on the circumstances.”

“Oh, come on. Can’t we have a formula that works?” says Chambers.

Beckworth does not answer this, but gives Chambers the look it deserves.

The lawyer moves on.

“Well, let me ask you. Did it look like Mr. Iganovich was examining merchandise when you saw him?”

“He was. Yes.”

“So would you say that examining merchandise is also part of the formula?”

“If you say so.”

“Hey. It’s not my formula. It’s yours,” says Chambers. Big smile like he’s just sold the Canadian a hunk-a-shit used car.

“What else?” he says.

“What do you mean?” says Beckworth.

“Well, you stopped and arrested the man. What else caused you to be suspicious? What was the rest of the formula?”

“Well,” Beckworth thinks for a moment. “The way he examined the merchandise.”

“What was it about the way he examined merchandise, exactly, that caused you to question him?”

“He would look at the merchandise, then he would look around, like he was looking to see if anyone was watching him.”

“Ah.” Chambers is nodding now like he’s found the missing link. “Looking sort of shifty-eyed?” he says.

“You could call it that.” Though from Beckworth’s tone this would clearly not be his choice of words.

“Another part to the formula,” says Chambers. “Shifty eyes.” He says this slowly as he goes through the exercise of writing it on a piece of paper, something to be saved for posterity.

“Lemme see,” he says. “So we have furtive gestures, a baggy coat, examining merchandise, and shifty eyes.” Chambers nods, makes a face like he’s convinced. A little more derision.

“Anything else?” he says.

“No, that was it.”

“Oh good. So we have the formula.” Chambers holds his notes up for Fisher to see, then he smiles.

“Now ultimately you stopped Mr. Iganovich.”

“Yes. After he attacked us,” says Beckworth.

“We’ll get to that later,” says Chambers. “Exactly who attacked whom,” he says. “For now just answer my questions.” The smile is gone from his face.

“Ultimately you searched Mr. Iganovich, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how much did you find?” says Chambers.

“What do you mean?”

“How many items of store merchandise did you find on Mr. Iganovich after you wrestled him to the ground—you and what, three other people, and searched him?”

“We didn’t find anything.”

“Excuse me?”

“We didn’t find any merchandise on the suspect.”

A big mock sigh from Chambers, shoulders shrugging, hands out, palms up.

“What do you mean you didn’t find anything. He did the furtive gestures thing didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And a baggy coat. He was wearing the baggy coat?”

“Yes.”

“And shifty eyes. You said he had shifty eyes?”

Nothing from Beckworth.

“Well did he or didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“That’s your formula, isn’t it?” Conveniently Chambers ignores the other item, that the Russian was fingering the scarf when Beckworth saw it disappear.

“Not my formula,” says Beckworth.

“I thought we had something here,” says Chambers.

“This formula,” he says. “Are you telling me that after all this, after sweatin’ blood, getting writer’s cramp—look at my notes,” he says. He turns the paper toward the witness, a lot of unintelligible scribbling. “Now you’re telling me that this thing doesn’t work after all—that your formula’s worthless?”

“I never said it was a formula,” says Beckworth.

“Sure you did. Would you like me to have the court reporter read it back to you?”

“No.”

Chambers moves away from the witness, stands with one hand on his hip.

“And after all that, you didn’t find anything on my client.”

“We found a silk scarf on the floor,” says Beckworth, “near where we scuffled.”

“Ah. And the police charged Mr. Iganovich with stealing this scarf?”

“No. They didn’t.”

Mock shock from Chambers. “No? Why not?”

“Insufficient evidence,” says Beckworth.

“In other words the scarf could have fallen off the table of merchandise while you and the others were beating on Mr. Iganovich?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Mr. Chambers.”

“Sorry, your honor. Slip of the tongue.”

A deep sigh from the witness. It will be a long day. Before it is over, Reginald Beckworth will be wondering where Adrian Chambers left his rubber hose and floodlight.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“
A
w, your honor.” Hands in the air, arching back, Chambers is complaining to Judge Fisher. Then he stamps around on the floor like some six-year-old, slapping the thigh of his pant leg. He’s putting on a tantrum that seems to be more amusing to Fisher than disturbing.

“This was wrong,” he says. “There’s no basis, no basis at all.” Chambers is huffing and puffing below the bench, showing more aggravation than anger, playing on Fisher’s sense of fairness, like some sacred trust has been violated. He’s just been told about my earlier meeting with the judge, behind closed doors, my session to mask the evidence on the prime witness in the Scofield cases. Existence of a witness has not yet been mentioned. We can expect the eruption of Vesuvius with that.

“This is ex parte communication,” he says, Latin for “single party,” a one-sided conversation with the judge out of the presence of the opposing side, something generally considered a high taboo in the law. “Unethical as hell,” Chambers calls it.

To this, Fisher takes exception, a little personal privilege to shield his integrity. He cites the code section that permits this process for limited purposes.

“You’re being notified now,” says Fisher. “Everything was on the record,” he says. “The transcript of our in-camera session is available for review, on appeal.”

“Good,” says Adrian. “Then I would like a copy as soon as possible.”

“It will remain sealed until the appropriate time.”

“Not good enough,” says Chambers.

“It’ll have to be,” says the judge. “You don’t like it, take an appeal.” Adrian knows this will not get him a glimpse of the transcript. Only the court on appeal would see it, to ensure that Fisher has not abused his discretion in going behind closed doors.

The judge is in no mood to tarry with Chambers. Two-thirds of the motions filed by the defense bordered on the frivolous. In Fisher’s view he has now wasted four days hearing these.

Today has not been a winner for Adrian. After taking them under submission, the bulk of his motions have been denied by the court. The Russian’s statements to the security guards as they wrestled on the floor of the department store have been ruled admissible for trial.

Chambers has also failed to exclude the stun gun, which pathologists may now link to the burn wounds on two of the victims, the first two college kids.

In all, Adrian is not happy. It is the lot of the defense lawyer confronted with mounting adverse evidence. I know the sinking feeling that he must be experiencing now, in the pit of his stomach. Having lost on these motions, for Chambers and Iganovich the start of trial will feel like the second half of a football game, with the home team down 21-zip.

Fisher launches into a reading of the minute order from our closed session. Chambers is to get all our investigative and lab reports, everything we have on the Scofield murders with a single exception, he says.

“All information pertaining to any witness or witnesses to those crimes shall be withheld from discovery, treated as confidential and not disclosed to the public until such time as any and all witnesses are in police custody. At that time fair disclosure shall be made to the defense concerning any and all evidence provided by such witness.” He looks up. “Is that clear?” he says.

Chambers stands stone silent, staring up at the bench, his jaw slack, seemingly struck by this revelation. Several seconds pass, then a single question, nearly inaudible.

“There was a witness?” he says. Puzzlement like a mask on his face.

Iganovich has just heard the translation. He’s trying to talk to his lawyer. Chambers isn’t paying attention. Finally sees him, holds out a hand and tells him to sit down and be quiet. Chambers’s frustration is now matched by his client’s.

Fisher says that the court will not comment further on the matter, and admonishes the parties to exercise similar restraint. We are given copies of the order by the clerk. Chambers looks at his, reads it again carefully. He takes several seconds to mentally regroup, recover, like a prizefighter staggered by a punch.

“Your honor,” he says. “May we approach? A sidebar?”

Fisher waves us on.

Chambers, Goya and I huddle at the bench. Adrian’s doing all the talking.

“This is the first I’ve heard, your honor, about a witness. Clearly the state must have known about this for some time?”

He gets nothing but stone faces from the rest of us huddled there. He can see he’s getting nowhere like this.

“Well, of course, it’s a major coup,” he says. “Congratulations,” he tells me. He takes another tack, like maybe with this witness we are now finally on the track of the true Putah Creek killer. This is all very cordial, though Adrian’s face has the pallor of a sick man. Clearly we have caught him flat-footed on this.

Still, there is no question, he sees this as an opportunity for his case. The classic SODDI defense (Some Other Dude Did It) is always more persuasive with a jury when you can put a face to the deed. This is part of the reason why I have delayed in turning over information on the prime witness as long as I have.

When Chambers finds out what this witness knows he will no doubt move as quickly as possible to construct it neatly into his case. He will sand off the rough edges of discrepancy regarding this witness, his testimony, and the Russian’s version of defense. Knowing Adrian, he will apply a little lawyer’s license, indulge the facts until the two stories slide together like a well-oiled drawer. The longer I can keep him from this information, the better.

“You can understand this comes as a major surprise, this witness,” Chambers says to Fisher.

One of the chief purposes of discovery, that exercise in the exchange of information between opposing sides before trial, is the avoidance of surprise. Chambers reminds us all of this, still beaming with cordiality and smiles.

“This information, your witness, will be critical to my case,” he says.

Then he looks me square on, a broad smile, the expression of some intimate. “Of course I understand,” he says. “A disclosure of this kind, the identity of the witness, it would raise hell in the press.”

Chambers thinks we know who the witness is, just not where to find him. I leave him with illusions.

“You were wise,” he tells Fisher, “to provide a protective order.”

The judge is all smiles, delighted by Chambers’s demonstration of tolerance and understanding.

“Still,” he says, “it would be appropriate to share what the state knows. I’m an officer of the court, with an obligation to protect the interests of my client.” He reminds us that we’re all under a gag order.

Fisher doesn’t bite. “You’ll get all the information as soon as we have the witness,” he says.

“It is a critical witness,” says Chambers. “Until you can find him . . .” He stops in mid sentence, calms down and looks at me. “I am assuming,” he says, “that the witness is a male?” He stands there, a big-eyed question mark.

I offer him the social intercourse of a chimney brick. “Never mind, not important,” he says. His inquiry dies.

“Mr. Chambers, is there a point to this?” sighs Fisher.

Chambers shields one side of his mouth with a legal pad to keep his voice from carrying. He’s giving sideways squints at the fourth estate in the front row.

“I wonder, your honor, if we could at least have some estimation as to how long before there will be some disclosure concerning this witness? How close are you,” he says, “to finding this witness?” This last is stated in high confidence to me.

“It’s a fair question,” says Fisher. “Any idea, Mr. Madriani?”

“We’re looking, your honor. It has top priority in our investigation,” I say.

“But no estimate of time?” he says.

“No. Not yet.”

“There you have it, Mr. Chambers.” Fisher looks at him. “Maybe your client would like to reconsider the time frame for trial? The court would be willing to accommodate,” he says, “if Mr. Iganovich wishes to change his mind, to waive time. In light of this information.”

Chambers makes a face, almost an idle gesture, like maybe he already knows the answer.

“Would you let me confer?” he says.

“Certainly. Take your time.” Fisher is more than willing. Anything to get Iganovich to waive time for trial, to push it back a few months, to give Ingel the tawny rose-colored hues of a tropical tan and the disposition to match.

Adrian’s off to the table, hunkered down with his client and the interpreter. A lot of talking and animation from the Russian, shrugging shoulders and perplexed expressions.

In less than a minute Chambers returns. “Can’t get him to budge,” he says. “He’s adamant. He wants a speedy trial.”