The Lincoln lawyer - By Michael Connelly Page 0,128
a girl and the man I was with already told me he would be finished by ten because he had to go to his business.”
“Well, can you tell the jury why it was that you did not have to sit with Mr. Roulet like you did with Mr. Talbot and subject him to a freak test?”
Her eyes drifted over to Minton. She was hoping for a rescue but none was coming.
“I just thought he was a known quantity, that’s all.”
“You thought he was safe.”
“I guess so. I don’t know. I needed the money and I made a mistake with him.”
“Did you think he was rich and could solve your need for money?”
“No, nothing like that. I saw him as a potential customer who wasn’t new to the game. Somebody who knew what he was doing.”
“You testified that on prior occasions you had seen Mr. Roulet with other women who practice the same profession as yourself?”
“Yes.”
“They’re prostitutes.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know them?”
“We’re acquaintances.”
“And do you extend professional courtesy to these women in terms of alerting them to customers who might be dangerous or unwilling to pay?”
“Sometimes.”
“And they extend the same professional courtesy to you, right?”
“Yes.”
“How many of them warned you about Louis Roulet?”
“Well, nobody did, or I wouldn’t have gone with him.”
I nodded and looked at my notes for a long moment before continuing. I then led her in more detail through the events at Morgan’s and then introduced the video surveillance tape from the bar’s overhead camera. Minton objected to it being shown to the jury without proper foundation but he was overruled. A television on an industrial stand was wheeled in front of the jury and the video was played. I could tell by the rapt attention they paid to it that they were enamored with the idea of watching a prostitute at work as well as the aspect of seeing the two main players in the case in unguarded moments.
“What did the note say that you passed him?” I asked after the television was pushed to the side of the courtroom.
“I think it just said my name and address.”
“You didn’t quote him a price for the services you would perform?”
“I may have. I don’t remember.”
“What is the going rate that you charge?”
“Usually I get four hundred dollars.”
“Usually? What would make you differentiate from that?”
“Depends on what the client wants.”
I looked over at the jury box and saw that the Bible man’s face was getting tight with discomfort.
“Do you ever engage in bondage and domination with your clients?”
“Sometimes. It’s only role playing, though. Nobody ever gets hurt. It’s just playacting.”
“Are you saying that before the night of March sixth, you have never been hurt by a client?”
“Yes, that’s what I am saying. That man hurt me and tried to kill —”
“Please just answer the question I ask, Ms. Campo. Thank you. Now, let’s go back to Morgan’s. Yes or no, at the moment you gave Mr. Roulet the napkin with your address and price on it, you were confident that he would not be a danger to you and that he was carrying sufficient cash funds to pay the four hundred dollars you demand for your services?”
“Yes.”
“So, why didn’t Mr. Roulet have any cash on him when the police searched him?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t take it.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
I hesitated for a long moment, preferring to punctuate my shifts in questioning streams with an underscore of silence.
“Now, uh, you are still working as a prostitute, correct?” I asked.
Campo hesitated before saying yes.
“And are you happy working as a prostitute?” I asked.
Minton stood.
“Your Honor, what does this have to do with —”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“Okay,” I said. “Then, isn’t it true, Ms. Campo, that you have told several of your clients that your hope is to leave the business?”
“Yes, that’s true,” she answered without hesitation for the first time in many questions.
“Isn’t it also true that you see the potential financial aspects of this case as a means of getting out of the business?”
“No, that’s not true,” she said forcefully and without hesitation. “That man attacked me. He was going to kill me! That’s what this is about!”
I underlined something on my pad, another punctuation of silence.
“Was Charles Talbot a repeat customer?” I asked.
“No, I met him for the first time that night at Morgan’s.”
“And he passed your safety test.”
“Yes.”
“Was Charles Talbot the man who punched you in the face on March sixth?”
“No, he was not,” she answered quickly.
“Did you offer to split the profits you would receive from a