I can tell by her expression that Talia has finally come to understand her dilemma. If I put her on the stand she cannot lie. If she tells the truth she plays into Nelson’s hands, she produces her accomplice. Moreover, she admits that she lied to the police concerning her whereabouts the night of the murder. I can hear Nelson to the jury: “A woman who would lie to avoid a mere social stigma, the embarrassment of an affair with another man, might also weave tales to cover up murder.”
If I am to represent her, Talia can no longer take the stand in her own defense. She will have to live with her story never given under oath, of a trip to Vacaville that no one can prove, a lie to be buried under the cloak of constitutional privilege and the right of silence.
His name is etched deep in gold on the oak plaque next to his office door. Duane Nelson has the corner slot, Sam Jennings’s old office, with a view to the courthouse across the street. Harry and I are ushered in. I’ve left Talia at home. I can’t trust her judgment. Loose lips, a slip of the tongue, some untimely emotion-at this stage, each can be fatal. I will call her if we need to confer, in the event that Nelson makes us a deal too good to decline.
He rises from behind the desk as we enter and extends a hand; a broad smile spans his lean face. He’s haggard. The duties of this place are wearing on Duane Nelson.
I greet him by surname and he corrects me.
“Duane,” he says. “Let’s dispense with the formalities.”
He’s not alone.
“I think you know Detective Lama.”
Jimmy Lama keeps turning up, like a bad penny. His hand starts to move out from his side to take mine in greeting. This is a show of professionalism for Nelson’s benefit.
“We’re acquainted,” I tell Nelson. I make no effort to shake Lama’s hand, but leave it drifting in space. He pulls it in and wipes it on his coat like a dirty knife.
“Harry Hinds, my Keenan counsel,” I tell them.
Harry shakes hands with Nelson and gives a little nod toward Lama. He uses me like a blocking back, as if I’m in his way, preventing him from being more cordial. From twenty years of criminal practice Harry’s formed his own sense of Lama, the sting of salt in an open wound.
“Yes, well,” Nelson fills the awkward silence, “Lieutenant Lama has recently joined our office. He’s been appointed to head up the DA’s division of investigation. So I thought he should sit in.”
“Lieutenant?” I say. My voice has gone up an octave in obvious surprise. “I guess congratulations are in order.”
Lama’s not sure whether to smile. He’s considering the source.
“Maybe we should get started.” Nelson’s trying to put a face on it, this thing between Lama and me.
“Please,” he says, “have a seat.”
Lama settles back onto the couch against the wall, to the right of Nelson’s immense cherry-wood desk. The DA drops into the wine-colored leather executive chair, button heaven, huge with a rolled and tufted headrest, something from a cattle baron’s bordello. Harry and I take what’s left, the two client chairs across from Nelson. They’ve arranged everything but bright lights in our eyes.
Nelson presses a button on the ancient wooden intercom that seems to take up a quarter of his desk.
“Marsha, could you come in for a second?”
A young secretary enters, blond and bubbly, maybe three years out of high school. She has the body of an angel, all swept up in an hourglass silk dress that clings like plastic wrap. From appearances, Marsha does light typing and heavy gofer duty. Lama’s all eyes, but careful in his looks, something less than his lecherous self. He’s new, unsure of where he stands yet with Nelson.
“Would anyone like coffee?” Nelson’s offering.
Harry and Lama place orders and Marsha leaves.
“Guess it’s my party,” says Nelson. “Well, no mystery. I thought it would be wise to see if we can identify any common ground, see if there’s any way we can save the county the cost of an expensive trial.”
“Civic of you,” I say.
Nelson laughs a little and opens a file on his desk.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet?” he says. “The judge assigned to the case?”
I look at him, all eyes.
“Armando Acosta,” he says.
The Coconut. The chief prosecutor in a county such as this possesses many advantages of office, not the least of which is an intelligence system with pipelines to every police precinct and courtroom in the city.
“You should get notice this afternoon,” he says. I can tell from Nelson’s tone this news is supposed to concern me. I have drawn a judge, a man anxious to flash a message of law and order to the voters before the law forces him to run for election in a year.
Actually I’m surprised. With a shortage of Latino candidates, and affirmative action being what it is, the grapevine is full of rumors that Acosta is headed to the court of appeals.
Nelson wastes no time, launching into the evidence, the strength of their case, the overwhelming circumstances, all of which he says point to my client as part of a conspiracy to kill her husband. He’s not giving anything away. It’s a rerun of the evidence trotted out in the preliminary hearing, no indications that they’ve altered the theory of their case. If you believe him, the cops are making little headway on identifying Talia’s co-defendant. But it’s only a matter of time, according to Nelson. I think this is a little bob-and-weave for our benefit. By now they must know about Tod. He’s done everything but light himself in neon.
Lama chimes in, as if to advance the company line a little. “The lady had so many lovers it’s hard to get a fix,” he says.
“Spare me,” I tell him.
“We’ll get him,” says Lama. Like most of what Jimmy Lama has to say, this comes off sounding like the cheap threat it is.
“We have a carefully constructed case here,” Nelson cuts in. “We take no short cuts,” he says. “I’m not interested in that. I want the people who did the crime.”
While these words are delivered to me, Lama sits quietly looking at his boss, a little rebuked.
“If you ask me,” he says, “I will tell you the truth. I believe that your client did it. Otherwise I would never have charged her. I’m not interested in political points, but convictions. Only convictions.” He pauses, making a little angle with pointed fingers under his chin. Then a slight tilt of the head, a little expression of concession.
“Still, I can accept your position. You believe your client is innocent. It’s always more difficult to settle a case when a lawyer believes in his client,” he says. “I can accept that.”
“No,” I tell him. “It’s always more difficult to cut a deal when a client knows she’s innocent.”
His eyebrows go up a bit. “So you don’t think you can sell it to her?”
I make a face, like “Maybe.” “Depends on what I have to sell.”
“What would you like?”
“What is this, buyer’s day?” I ask him.
“Give me a wish list.”
I screw up my face a little, like a market merchant about to kibitz with a customer.
“Manslaughter, second degree.” This means that if Talia did it, if she killed Ben, it was the merest of accidents. I am only one step above simple battery, and only professional shame and the fact that any plea bargain must be approved by the court prevents me from asking for that.
For a thin man Nelson has a hearty laugh, with a range of control that traverses two octaves. Halfway to a high C Lama kicks in with his own chortle, a cheap chorus to show the boss he’s on board.
“That’s rich,” says Nelson. He’s catching his breath, his face a little red. “But I guess I asked for it. I had something a little more realistic in mind,” he says. His voice now takes on the sobriety of a pitchman.
“Listen, this could be very hard on both of us. We can make it easy, and do your client a service in the process. You’ve got a problem. The evidence is stacked in spades against Mrs. Potter. She’s not someone a jury is likely to take sympathy on,” he says. “A wife with wayward tendencies-who kills for money.” He arches an eyebrow as if to show me how he will make Talia out the villain. “All we want is her help, her cooperation. To put this thing behind us. She identifies her accomplice, I’ll drop the special circumstances. No death penalty. She cops a plea to first- degree murder. She gets twenty-five to life. With a kind word from me I’d bet she’d do no more than twelve years. Still be a young woman when she comes out.”