Only Duane Nelson is quoted by name, a single and terse “No comment.” Nelson, it seems, takes the court’s gag order seriously, though some on his staff do not. Even without names I can place some of these.
According to the article, an unnamed witness has identified me as one of a number of men seen over a period of months checking into a local hotel with Talia. The hotel goes unnamed. But Walker says the witness will appear at trial.
Lama’s motel clerk. Jimmy Lama has made good on his threat. He has staked me to an anthill. I finger the edges of the paper. If this becomes evidence in Talia’s case, the jury will be giving me all the credence they would give a snake-oil salesman.
Another unidentified source has told Walker that I was fired from the firm when Ben Potter discovered I was having an affair with his wife. It seems the Greek has finally put all of the pieces together, enough to guess at my reasons for departure from the firm, to make this charge, without proof, from his bunker of anonymity.
I look at Coop, my expression one of a child in search of a father confessor. Suddenly, I have a burning desire to talk, an overwhelming compulsion to unburden myself on a sympathetic shoulder into a friendly ear.
He senses this. His hands are on my shoulders, his face in mine. “I can’t hear this,” he says. “Not now.”
He’s not angry. He’s protecting me. Whatever he knows, whatever I tell him, Nelson can force Coop to repeat in court. He knows this. In this time of panic, my lawyer’s wits abandon me. Coop is thinking more like the lawyer than I.
“Why don’t you pack it in,” he says. “If the jury gets wind of this, if Nelson gets this into evidence, she’s dead.” These words ring with finality. “You may go down with her. Cut a deal now.”
“What kind of deal can I get with this?” I sweep the tabloid off the table onto the floor with my hand.
“Only one thing worse than a tainted defendant,” he tells me, “is a tainted defendant represented by a fallen lawyer.”
Nikki’s phone call. She has seen this. I have to talk to Nikki.
“What can I say?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
I just want him to leave, so I can call Nikki. For her to know about my affair is one thing. To have her nose rubbed in it, to be humiliated in public print, is another. The irony of this is that Nikki is the one person I can bare my soul to with impunity, husband to wife. But I fear she will not want to hear it.
Coop’s heading for the door now, repeating his advice that I cut a deal, and chiding me a bit. “Common sense,” he says, “should have told you not to take her case, for her own sake, if not for your own.”
He is of course right, but now I simply want him to leave.
“What will you do?” he says.
“I don’t know. I’ll talk to Harry, the court. Assess the damage,” I tell him. “I need to think.”
“If there’s anything I can do,” he says, “within the bounds.” He’s got his pipe out, getting ready to pollute my house.
I thank him and move him farther toward the door.
“Don’t forget to call off your woman, the paralegal,” he says as I close the door. “Tell her to forget about the claim check and the hardware store.”
“Yeah, sure,” I tell him. This is the last thing on my mind. I sprint for the phone and dial Nikki. Her line is busy. Friends have begun to call, the women in her cabal, all picking from my bones.
CHAPTER 32
Eli Walker may have dreamed of fame, but never, in his driest moment, did he expect this. We are in chambers again, Nelson and Meeks, Harry and I, Acosta and the court reporter. Walker has the seat of honor, next to his attorney, directly in front of the judge’s desk.
Acosta is dressing him down, giving him a lesson in gag orders and how they operate. While the court’s order doesn’t directly bind Walker, he’s been subpoenaed by the court to answer certain questions, out of the reach of the jury. The Coconut wants to know the identity of certain of Walker’s sources, primarily those touted as being close to the investigation. The inference here is that these people were part of the prosecution team, and hence bound by the original gag order.
Eli is playing this notoriety for all it is worth. He showed up in court, walking the gauntlet of cameras in the hallway outside the courtroom, a slow procession, as if he were wearing ermine and carrying a scepter. Now he confers with his attorney, hand cupped to ear, like some syndicate boss in a senate hearing.
The Coconut is beginning to fume with these antics, psychic smoke rising from his ears.
Eli’s lawyer tells Acosta that Walker is asserting the state’s Shield Act, that the information is privileged, that Walker cannot be compelled to disclose the identity of his sources.
This is like waving a red flag under the nose of a raging bull.
“Sir.” Acosta is now looking at Eli’s lawyer. “You are treading on thin ice. Continue with this and you may be sharing a cell with your client.” He’s talking about contempt, the ultimate hammer of any judge.
The Shield Act, or so-called newsman’s privilege, takes up a single section of the codes. It has been lobbied into law by newspaper publishers, enacted by the politicians and scoffed at by the judiciary, which has shredded it with exceptions in a dozen court decisions. This is what happens when the legislative branch attempts to limit the powers and prerogatives of those who wear black robes.
Acosta’s mastery of the legal issues here leads me to believe that he has actually spent time in the case reports over the weekend, since Walker’s column, sifting the law. He is laying the groundwork for the record, speaking in muted tones and crystalline terms that a two-year-old might comprehend, with an eye on appeal should Walker choose to go to jail rather than talk.
“So that there is no misunderstanding, Mr. Walker, the Shield Act is a qualified privilege only,” says Acosta. “This means that where issues of fair trial are involved, as they are here, it must give way. In short, the Shield Act does not apply to protect these sources. Do you understand?”
More conferencing, Walker to his lawyer and back.
“Your Honor, my client would like to cooperate, but he can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t, counsel? Are you telling me that he doesn’t know the identity of his own sources?”
With Walker I can believe this might be the case.
“No, Your Honor. He is constrained by professional ethics.”
This I cannot believe.
“He cannot in good conscience reveal the identity of these sources.”
Nelson is fuming in the corner. From all indications he has turned his office on its ear looking for the culprit. He was caught flat-footed when the motel clerk fingered me late last week from a file shot on television. News, presumably, the witness wasn’t supposed to be watching. I am now left to wonder how many of the jurors have also seen Eli Walker’s column. Judicial orders that they shade their eyes are difficult to enforce. It’s like watching water turn to steam, you may never know the cause, you see only the result, in this case a quick conviction.
I could give Nelson a little help in his search for the office leak, point him in the right direction, but this morning the DA is looking at me as if I am some lowlife. Acosta too is miffed that I should be compromised like this, not concerned for my own reputation, but fearful that this latest fracas may result in a mistrial.
Through all of this, the court is looking at ten days of wasted time and money, and the bad press that accompanies it if the case must be dumped. This is to say nothing of the months of preparation. It is not something that Acosta wants on his judicial resume, not something likely to lead to further elevation. Some judges are defense oriented, others side with the prosecution. Armando Acosta has only one constituency that he strives to attend, himself. He is determined to discover the people responsible for this leak and to punish them accordingly.