“Had lunch with him last week. I see him in court,” I say; “beyond that neither of us has much time for poker these days.” I have been wondering myself about Coop of late. I had always believed that George Cooper was a man of unlimited resilience. The tandem tragedies visited on his life have now proven me to be wrong. He puts a face on it in court, a professional veneer that weathers even the most blistering assaults by hostile lawyers and imperious judges. But outside of the courtroom he is a different man, subdued in ways I have never seen before, a shadow of the expansive and gregarious man I once knew.
Sarah’s up in my lap again, this time in a cotton pajama. We call them “rabbit suits,” the things that little kids sleep in, complete with feet and the embroidery of a hot air balloon on her tummy. She’s hugging and kissing me good night, big hugs with her arms full around my neck, and little kisses so delicate they would not disturb the petals on a rose.
Nikki takes her, and the two of them head for the back of the apartment to read about bears and trolls, castles and elves, the stories that lull little minds to sleep.
I am left alone to think, and as always my thoughts return to the trial now rapidly approaching.
This thing with Tod, it bothers me. Almost as much as it does Talia. He is different from her other friends. He’s continued to support her, stand by her even now when the risks are plain. The others, her social set, shed Talia like a flea-infested blanket shortly after the preliminary hearing. Now they follow her fate daily from the safety of their clubs or the security of their homes. They read about it in the sanitized columns of their morning newspaper, or watch as her life unravels on the tube at night.
I’ve heard this morning from Talia that Tod has been called by the police to appear in a lineup. According to the cops it’s all routine. But I know better. My letter to Nelson-the one accompanying the little handgun and identifying Tod as having touched it, to exclude his prints-has singled him out. He’s to go tomorrow with a number of other men, all acquaintances of the defendant, to stand before the white wall with the horizontal lines. Lama’s keeping his witness, the motel clerk, busy.
I’ve told Talia of my concern, that in the end I think Tod will be the enemy. She scoffs at this. But if he is charged, the dynamics of conflict will set in. Represented by other counsel, he will be sequestered from Talia by his own lawyer. This imposed silence, this quarantine, will fire suspicion. Nelson will bleed it like the fatted calf, with alternative offers, deals to each of them, if they will only roll over on the other. I have wondered many times how much perjured testimony these tactics breed in our courts. Though I have used them myself many times, in that former life, when I worked for the DA’s office.
Nelson is true to his word. Twenty-four hours after I informed him of Talia’s rejection, her refusal to plead, we are headed for court. He has asked Acosta to set a trial date.
Talia and I run the gauntlet of cameras and microphones down the broad corridor leading to the courtroom. In her lust for news one of the radio jocks, a woman with a mike trailing a long cord to the recorder strapped over her shoulder, has managed to hook six feet of cable in the jangling bracelet on Talia’s wrist. The two of them do an awkward dance down the hall to my chorus of “No comment … maybe we’ll have a statement later.” Finally, at the courtroom door they disengage, Talia unclipping and abandoning her bracelet with a dozen dangling colored stones. The price of freedom.
In the sanctuary of the Coconut’s courtroom a sea of heads whip around to see us as we open the door. The pencil-wielding press is waiting for the main event.
Acosta is on the bench taking a plea in another matter. I usher Talia to the back row of chairs and take a seat beside her. The defense attorney and the deputy DA are haranguing each other over some detail that hasn’t been worked out. Acosta’s lost interest in this duel. He’s tracking us with his eyes at the back of the courtroom. Then he returns to the business at hand.
“Maybe you want to use my chambers to work this thing out.” It’s not a question. Acosta is pointing like the deity on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, toward the opening at the side of the bench, the hall that leads to his chambers.
“Don’t waste my time,” he says. “The next time you come here, I expect you to have these things worked out.”
The deputy DA takes the brunt of the judge’s wrath. He turns and sees his boss seated, tapping on the railing. Nelson is flanked by two of the senior deputies from the office. I know one of them. Peter Meeks is a wizard with the written word, a master of briefs. In junior high, where crib notes and the brokering of homework were the path of passage, part of the rites of puberty, Meeks would have been the guy drafted to pen the daily essays.
The two lawyers in front of Acosta pick up their papers. The defense attorney leads his client away, still grousing about some part of the deal he wasn’t getting. They drift past the bailiff’s station to the hidden door back behind the bench and disappear, grumbling into the shadows.
Acosta shuffles files and looks up at us.
“People versus Talia Potter.”
Pleasantries are exchanged as Acosta shifts social gears, a little more upbeat now that Nelson is at the table and the court is no longer dealing with the hired help.
Talia and I spread out at the defense table.
“The people are asking for a trial date, is that correct?”
“Correct, Your Honor.” Nelson and his two assistants take their seats and fumble with a few papers.
“Mr. Madriani, before we get to a date, this court would like to know your intentions with regard to venue.”
The court is asking whether we intend to try to move the trial to another city, a change of venue to ease the sting of adverse pretrial publicity.
“We’ve considered a change of venue, Your Honor. However, given the nature of the press coverage in this case, the fact that my client’s husband was nationally prominent and that news of his death and these charges have run repeatedly on the national wires, I’m not sure that a change of venue would serve any purpose.”
“I’m inclined to think you’re right,” says Acosta. I can tell what he’s thinking, that this is easier than it should be. “Then I take it you’re waiving any motion for a change of venue?”
“I didn’t say that, Your Honor, only that we will not seek a change at this time. We would reserve the right to file an appropriate motion at a later time, during voir dire, if it becomes apparent that we cannot empanel an impartial jury.”
Harry and I have set aside $10,000 of our limited resources to hire a market research firm whose specialty is the demographics of jury selection. The company will do a random population sampling for Talia’s case. In ten days we will know what portion of Capitol County has heard of Talia, read about the crime, and formed opinions as to her guilt or innocence. We will know the socioeconomic breakdown of those who believe her innocent and those who think she might be guilty. We will know the effects of five months of blistering daily news coverage. Similar samples will be taken in four other counties of comparable size where, if a change of venue is ordered, we might expect the case to be moved. This will tell us whether anything is to be gained by moving the trial. So for now, I maneuver to keep my options open.
Acosta’s not sure what to do with this thing, the open and unresolved issue of venue. It’s not in the bench book, the folder of crib notes they gave him with his robes that he clutches like the Bible on the bench. Like most compulsives, he likes things in neat little boxes.
He clears his throat a little and looks at Nelson. “Do you have any problem with that?”.