of Los Angeles.
“Your Honor,” he said, “the answer was clearly nonresponsive. As you pointed out so eloquently, this is cross-examination.”
O’Hara was not impressed. “Thank you very much for the endorsement, Mr. Conroy. Now if you’ll let me rule? Ask your question again, and I direct the witness to answer only the question asked.”
A minor victory, Steve knew, but in this trial any bone was welcome.
“Are there any lighting conditions in your report?” Steve asked.
“No,” Siebel said.
“You are aware that the corner you mention has dark patches, aren’t you?”
“Dark patches?”
“What scientists refer to as illumination absences?”
Officer Siebel squinted at Steve.
“You do know what I’m talking about, surely,” Steve said.
Moira Hanson objected again. “No foundation, Your Honor.”
“Sustained. In plain English, Mr. Conroy.”
That was fine with Steve. Because he’d just made up the term illumination absences. All he wanted was the jury to think he had Bill Nye the Science Guy on the defense team. These days, juries were under the spell of the CSI: effect. They all thought forensic evidence was abundant and could clinch any case in an hour. Prosecutors hated that, because most cases weren’t so cut, dried, preserved, and plattered. Steve intended to plant the idea that science was against the DA.
“Illumination absences refers to measurable dark spots. There are all sorts of dark spots on that corner, Officer Siebel, where you can’t see a thing, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I could see clearly.”
Steve turned to the judge. “Why don’t we take the jury down there tonight, Your Honor, and we can—”
“Approach the bench,” O’Hara ordered. “With the reporter.”
Putting on a sheepish look, Steve joined Hanson in front of the judge.
“You know better than to make a motion in front of the jury,” O’Hara said.
“He knows, but does it anyway,” Hanson added. She was like the smarty in school who dumps extra on the kids who get sent to the principal’s office.
“What?” Steve said. “It was just a request.”
“I know what you’re doing,” O’Hara said.
“Representing my client?”
“If this is representation, I’m Britney Spears. You’re taking shortcuts. Well, you’re not going to get away with it. Not here. And you don’t want to tempt me. Another disciplinary strike and you’re out.”
That was true. Steve had been out of rehab for a year after dealing with a coke addiction and losing his job with the DA’s office. Now that he was trying to establish a private practice, no easy task, he did not need the state bar on his back again. They wouldn’t be so forgiving this time.
“And what’s that load about this illumination thing?” O’Hara asked. “You better have a foundation for asking that.”
“I can find a scientist to back it up.”
“You can find a scientist to back up anything,” Hanson said.
“I won’t allow it,” O’Hara said. “I think you’re just whistling in the dark, so to speak.”
“Representing my client, Your Honor.”
“Call me Britney. Go on. But watch every step you take, sir.”
Steve didn’t have to. He’d gotten what he could out of the witness. All he needed was one juror to think that maybe this officer didn’t see what he thought he saw. One juror to hang the thing, and then maybe Moira Hanson would call her boss and say it’s not worth a retrial. Let the guy walk.
Sure. And Santa Claus sips Cuba Libres at the North Pole.
2
Steve’s cross-examination of Officer Siebel was the last order of business on a hot August Friday. Monday they’d all come back for closing arguments, giving Steve a whole weekend to come up with some verbal gold. Which he knew he had to spin to get Carlos Mendez a fair shake.
It would also give him time, he hoped, to get some sleep.
Steve pointed his Ark toward his Canoga Park office. The Ark was what he called his vintage Cadillac, and by vintage he meant has seen better days. It dated from before the Reagan administration and had been overhauled and repainted and taped together many times over. Steve scored it at a police auction five years earlier. The main advantage was it was big. He could sleep in it if he needed to. Even back then, as he was sucking blow up his snout like a Hoover, Steve suspected he might be homeless someday.
Hadn’t happened yet. And with the help of the state bar’s Lawyer Assistance Program, maybe it wouldn’t. The LAP is supposed to help lawyers with substance-abuse problems. Steve had managed to keep the monkey off his back for a year. Not that he wasn’t close to