Lying in Judgment, page 18
“Objection.” Connelly raised her hand.
“Strike the last sentence,” Judge Green said.
Baldwin tapped his pen several times on his legal pad. “Ms. Calzano... No more questions.” He sat down, head held high. A smug expression filled his ruddy, sweaty face.
Peter’s spirits sank. Baldwin had established a clear motive for Vasquez. Several, in fact.
Connelly rose from her chair. “Ms. Calzano, did you ever see or hear Mr. Dark confront Mr. Vasquez about the information you collected?”
“I believe he did, yes.”
“Did you see this happen?” Connelly asked. “Do you have first-hand knowledge of him confronting Mr. Vasquez?”
“Objection!” Baldwin jumped to his feet. “The defense is asking the impossible of this witness.”
“Thank you, Counselor.” Connelly flashed a triumphant smile. “Your honor, by the prosecutor’s own admission, it is impossible to know if any of Ms. Calzano’s testimony even bears on the case. If Mr. Vasquez did not learn of it, it cannot speak to motive. Therefore, the defense moves to strike Ms. Calzano’s entire testimony.”
Bold move, and clever. Peter’s respect for Connelly climbed a notch.
“Counselors, approach the bench,” the judge said.
“It’s not impossible to know,” Ellen whispered. “Vasquez could testify.”
The conference at the bench broke up. “Ms. Calzano’s testimony stands,” the judge said. “However, the prosecution’s objection is overruled. Ms. Connelly, please repeat the question for the witness.”
Red-faced, Baldwin collapsed into his chair. Peter wiped his brow. Calzano’s damning testimony would make acquittal that much harder.
Connelly returned to her desk. “Ms. Calzano, are you certain Mr. Dark confronted Mr. Vasquez with your findings about his immigration status?”
“He said he was going to. He had to go back to Florentino’s to pick up his last paycheck. It makes sense that–”
“Ms. Calzano, I did not ask you what makes sense,” Connelly said. “Please answer, yes or no, whether you have direct evidence that Mr. Dark told Mr. Vasquez about your findings regarding his immigration status.”
Calzano turned to face away from the jury, and dipped her head. “No, I do not.”
“Do you have any direct evidence that Mr. Dark was able to share your findings about the so-called ‘green card marriage’ with Mr. Vasquez or Ms. Aguilar?”
Say no. Say no!
“I can’t be certain,” Calzano said. “It was his intention to tell them both, however.”
Peter pumped his fist in minor celebration. Calzano’s damaging testimony might not matter, if Baldwin couldn’t prove that Alvin had confronted Raul about it.
Vasquez turned in his seat toward the sparsely filled gallery. No Martina. No Gabriela, and from all appearances, no family, either. Peter sank into his chair. Vasquez, fighting for his life, had been abandoned not by one woman, but two—Martina, whom he loved, but who did not love him, and Gabriela, his wife of convenience. He was alone in the world.
Sounded awfully familiar.
Connelly took a slow step toward the witness. “Ms. Calzano, you stated earlier that your findings—regarding the extension of his green card, for example—could impact Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status. Do you recall those statements?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you an attorney?”
Calzano seemed puzzled. “No. As I mentioned, I’m a private investigator.”
“I see. Do you have formal legal training?” Another step.
“No, I do not.”
Connelly took another step and planted her feet. “If you would, please explain for the court what background you have that would make you an expert in the many fine nuances of immigration law.”
“Objection.” Baldwin shot to his feet. “Counsel is asking for an excessive burden of credentials for this witness.”
“The witness claimed her findings could jeopardize Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status,” Connelly said. “The defense wishes to know upon what basis she makes this judgment.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Judge Green said. “Overruled.”
Peter leaned forward in his seat. Connelly was gambling, attacking Calzano’s credentials. Hopefully she’d done her homework.
“I become familiar with various aspects of the law through my work, on a case by case basis,” Calzano said, red-faced. “I obtain legal advice as needed from attorneys with whom I am associated, as I would from an expert in any field.”
“From whom did you obtain legal advice regarding Mr. Vasquez’s case?”
“My attorneys—Sampson, Hale, Brock of Palo Alto, California. Would you like their contact information?”
Now Connelly flushed red. The tapping of Baldwin’s pen echoed across the room. “No, thank you. No more questions.” Connelly retook her seat. Vasquez leaned over to whisper in her ear. She patted his arm.
Peter slapped his knee. Damn. What a mixed bag. Calzano knew her stuff, but the usefulness of her testimony remained in doubt. His fellow jurors’ faces reflected annoyance and confusion.
Well, then. He’d just have to clarify things.
Chapter 39
With the coffee maker out of commission, Larry wandered the long, narrow jury room at lunch break as if he were lost.
“What a waste of time!” Ellen said, waiting in line for the restroom. “They presented all of that evidence regarding motive, and we don’t know if the killer was even aware of it.”
“Not ‘the killer’,” Stanley said from the far end of the table. “The defendant.”
“I stand corrected.” Ellen shifted her weight from one foot to the other and glanced at the restroom door again. “I mean, if he knew what was going on, then wow—there’s tons of motive. But did he?”
“He must have,” Alex said. “Remember, they argued the night of the murder.”
“But what about?” Stanley asked. “It could have been anything: the girl, Alvin getting fired, who knows?”
“Too bad that couple didn’t get out of their car sooner,” Larry said. “They could have told us what they were saying.”
Peter’s vision blurred and he could no longer read his cell phone’s screen. That couple—Marcia and David. Too busy making out in the car to notice the goings-on outside. Typical. Years ago he and Marcia arrived a half-hour early to a movie, and rather than watch ads for overpriced candy in the theater, they listened to music in the car. An old Phil Collins song came on the radio, one they’d danced to when they first started dating. As always, he sang the chorus to her, his baritone well-trained and smooth from childhood choir experience: “I can feel it coming in the air tonight...” She blinked bedroom eyes at him and ran a finger up his forearm. He pulled her in close. They never did see the movie. Dozens of passers-by got quite a show, though.
“The defense attorney is going to have to pull a rabbit out of her hat to save this one,” Sheila said, startling him. He frowned. Not what he wanted to hear. Not, not.
Christine exited the restroom and sat next to him. “Are we on for lunch?”
He didn’t remember making lunch plans, but his memory was pretty poor lately. “Sure. Let me check my phone messages first, okay?”
“You’re not supposed to do that in here,” Carlos said. “No cell phones in the jury room.”
Too tired to argue, Peter waited until he and Christine reached the hallway to retrieve his voice-mail. “We’ll be releasing Thelma Robertson from our care this morning,” the bureaucratic hospital voice said. “Please make arrangements to pick her up at eleven o’clock.”
Dammit. Somebody screwed up. He’d arranged for her to be released late in the afternoon. He listened to the second message as he followed Christine down the stairs.
“Our plane is delayed,” Elizabeth’s recorded voice said. “It’ll be over an hour late. Can you meet us at the airport around 3:30? I’ll hold off on renting a car until I hear from you.”
He closed the phone and rubbed a temple with his free hand. “Good old passive-aggressive Libby,” he said to Christine’s inquisitive stare. “What part of ‘tied up until five o’clock’ does she not understand?”
“If she’s anything like me, she’d prefer to be tied up after five.” Christine smirked.
Jesus. He turned away from her to hide the physical reaction in his groin. He dialed the hospital and punched keys to navigate through the voice menu system: non-emergency assistance, then in-patient care, followed by the stroke unit, where a live human answered. But the odyssey continued. Hospital staff passed his call from one person to the next in search of whoever was in charge of his mother’s release. No one seemed to know. Finally he reached Angela Wegman.
“Hi, Peter,” she said. “Shall we see you down here shortly?”
“Afraid not.” His heart pounded. No way she would get her hands on him. “I’m still on jury duty. My sister was supposed to pick Mom up this afternoon, but her plane is late. Can we pick her up after five?”
“Yes, but they’ll charge you for an extra day, and I guarantee your insurance won’t cover it,” Wegman said. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll call Dr. Nuttbaum at Sunset Gardens and see if they can send their shuttle.”
“That would be great,” Peter said. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“No problem. Happy to help. But I want to talk to you, and your sister if possible, about your mom’s recovery. When can you make it over?”
Um, never. “I’m not sure. How about I call you when we’re done here for the day?”
She agreed. He wrote her number on a receipt and stuffed it into his wallet. Christine tugged him out the courthouse door to the street. “Hungry yet?” Impatience rang in her voice.
His stomach rumbled. “I could eat all of Montana. Where shall we go?”
They chose the Olympus, a popular Greek place on West Burnside—a ten-block walk, but do-able with their long lunch break. “I may have to make some calls,” he said. “But I promised you lunch, so lunch you shall have.”
“A man of his word. Such a rarity.” They walked up Fourth Avenue, and she slipped her arm through his. After a few moments, he pulled his arm away.
“I need to check my phone.” He reached into his pocket.
“Still there?” she asked.
He flipped it open and frowned. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard from my boss.”
“About your buddy’s problem, or about how indispensable you are?”
“Both.” He drifted away from her. She stepped around a stopped pedestrian, bringing her within inches of Peter’s elbow again. He clasped his hands behind him and quickened his pace, but she kept up with him. At the corner, he stepped off the curb.
“Careful!” She grabbed his arm. A bicyclist sped by, inches from a nasty collision. Her hand lingered on his forearm.
“Thanks.” He unclasped his hands and crossed his arms in front.
Her hand dropped to her side. “Do I make you nervous, Peter?”
“No, no.” He waited on the traffic and brushed his fingers through his hair. Several strands floated to the ground.
“Okay. If you say so.” The walk signal lit and she pressed a palm against his back. “Earth to Peter. Green light.”
She did most of the talking, light chit-chat, the rest of the way to the restaurant. She asked for, and got, her favorite booth by the window, a definite step up from the tightly-packed, vinyl-topped squares surrounded by rickety wooden chairs nearby. Kitchen noises erupted every few moments whenever servers burst through a pair of swinging wooden doors to deliver the kitchen’s savory dishes.
They sat across from one another in the booth. The midday sun reflected off the menu’s laminated surface. “What do you like here?” he asked.
“The baba ganoush is to die for,” she said. “Hey, why so jumpy?”
“Am I?”
She rolled her eyes. “Very. What’s up?”
“Well, let’s see.” He tossed the menu onto the table and counted on his fingers. “One, my mom just had her second stroke in six months. Two, my siblings want to move her to some nutcase religious hospital. Three, I’m getting divorced any day now. Four, my best friend is getting fired and thinks I sold him out. And five, for some odd reason, I haven’t slept well in months. I’m out of fingers, but six, I’m stuck on the jury of a murder trial where my soon-to-be ex-wife shows up and her boyfriend’s a witness. I don’t know, though. Why would I be jumpy?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I won’t mention it again.”
He toyed with his fork. Several seconds passed. “Christine, I’m the one who should apologize. You’ve been nice to me all week. I have no business jumping all over you like that.”
“I’ve been too pushy with you,” she said. “I do this all the time. My friends say it’s why I’m still single. I scare men off.”
He drummed on the tabletop. “Are you still burning for that guy who left you?”
She shrugged. “Kyle left his mark, but that was a long time ago. I moved to Portland in part to get over him—to make a fresh start. I knew a guy here, and thought we had potential.” She shuddered. “Boy, was I wrong.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve met,” he said. “I find you very interesting. But I’m not yet in a place where I can get into any kind of relationship.”
“Hey, slow down, buddy.” She held up her hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Friends first, okay?”
His ears burned. He’d never understand women. “You bet. Friends. Sounds great.”
She extended her right hand for a handshake. He clasped it in his left. “Hey,” she said. “No ring.”
He gave her hand another squeeze and pulled his free. “Yup. Step one toward recovery: stop reminding myself of the pain in my past. Accept the changes and move on.”
“That’s great!” She clapped her hands in front of her chin. “This calls for a celebration!” She picked up the wine list.
“No wine for me,” he said. “I’m fighting to stay awake in court as it is.”
She sighed. “Spoil sport. Actually I was going to treat you to some ouzo. Okay, then. After trial today. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Don’t take ‘no’—take a rain check. I have to take care of my sister and Mom tonight.”
“Oh, right. I keep forgetting. Okay, next week then.” The waiter came and they ordered hummus and souvlaki. “Now, back to your wife.” She sipped her water. “Why is her boyfriend a witness to this trial? What was she doing at that restaurant with him?”
He crunched an ice cube in his mouth. Sweat collected on his scalp. He wiped his brow and sipped his water. “If I’d have been there,” he said, “none of this would have happened.”
Stupid, stupid. Shut up. The sound of his heartbeat, now pounding double-time, deafened him to the clatter of the busy restaurant. He rested his heavy head against one hand and raised his water glass with the other.
“What do you mean, none of this would have happened?” she asked. “You would have somehow prevented the murder?”
The room spun. He set his water down and steadied himself with both palms flat on the table. Sweat beaded across his forehead and trickled down his back. Breaths came hard, labored.
She leaned forward across the table, her gaze intense. “What are you saying?” she asked. “Are you responsible for Alvin Dark’s death? Are you a ... murderer?”
Peter stared at her, unable to move or breathe.
Chapter 40
Christine’s laughter shocked Peter out of his immobile trance.
“Oh, my God!” She sputtered, fighting to control her paroxysms. “You should have seen the look on your face just now!” She doubled over, holding her stomach. Convulsions of laughter overtook her again. Nearby customers stopped eating and stared.
Peter forced air into his lungs and closed his eyes. The spinning slowed. His stomach swirled like the blade on a chainsaw. He took a few more deep breaths, and the storm subsided.
So did Christine’s laughing fit. After a few moments, she asked, “Peter? Are you okay?”
He opened his eyes. After a moment, her blurry face came back into focus. He blinked and shook off dizziness. “Sorry. I was off somewhere else for a moment.”
“I noticed,” she said. “Sorry about laughing at you. I was just... well, anyway. I don’t understand what you mean. How would your being there have prevented the murder? Or did I misunderstand?”
He dabbed his forehead with a paper napkin, then crumpled it into his fist. “What I meant was, maybe I wouldn’t be divorced right now. Maybe she wouldn’t have left me that night.” No, that didn’t make sense either.
“That night?” Christine asked. “She left you the same night as the murder of Alvin Dark? What a coincidence! Are you sure?”
“I mean she wouldn’t have left me at all.” His shirt stuck to his skin like plaster. His chest constricted. He took shallow breaths through his mouth. The large, bright room suddenly shrank. “Or, she wouldn’t have left me when she did. I don’t know. I’m not making sense, am I?”
“No, you’re not. But as long as you realize it, there’s hope for you.” She winked. The waiter arrived with their hummus and refilled their water glasses.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said to the waiter. “Could you bring me a shot of that ouzo?”
“Make it two.” She grinned. “I can’t let you have all the fun.”
The booze helped him relax enough to eat most of his food, and some forty minutes later he slapped his credit card on the bill. But the waiter returned with a troubled expression.
“Sir,” the waiter said, “do you have another credit card we can try?”
“What’s the problem?” Peter asked.
“The charge was refused,” the waiter said in a low voice. Peter dug another card out of his wallet. “I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “but we don’t accept American Express.”
“Here.” Christine dropped her Visa card on the table. “I’ll get it. You can pay me back later.” Her cheerful tone was gone.
“I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot. I don’t know what’s going on.” He sighed. “One more thing to take care of.”
