understand it, too, they’d have no problem with you, because you were lying to protect the Congressman? It was okay to lie for that reason, God, we’d all do it.
You worked for him. He was your friend, your benefactor. But these jurors here, looking at you now, they know you wouldn’t lie D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
to them because now you’re protecting yourself, isn’t that right?”
The voice was listless. “I’m not protecting myself, Mr. Sorrentino.”
“Oh, you’re not? Isn’t it true that whether you go to jail or not, or for how long, depends on how well Mr. Steinman and his friends there at the prosecution table think you’ve performed for these jurors?”
“I don’t understand.”
“If Mr. Steinman thinks you did a good job, you walk, correct?
No jail. If he and his friends think you didn’t do so well, maybe 47
they don’t recommend as much leniency to the judge, and you go to prison, isn’t that right, sir?”
Alone in the witness box, Hutchinson, with a broad forehead and thinning, sandy hair, finally said, “I don’t understand that to be the deal.”
Sorrentino feigned shock, scorn. “You don’t? You told Mr.
Steinman you went to Harvard College, that you went to business school at Yale, but you don’t understand what your deal is?”
“I understand my agreement with the government, Mr. Sorrentino. But I don’t believe it is what you say it is.”
“Let’s read it, sir.”
Sorrentino asked the judge to have the courtroom deputy, a burly woman in a black business suit, give government exhibit 163 to the witness. It was a three-page letter, signed more than eleven months ago by Hutchinson and Steinman. During his direct examination of Hutchinson, Steinman had the skill to produce the plea and cooperation agreement then so that the jury wouldn’t learn the news of the promise of potential leniency for Hutchinson for the first time on cross-examination.
“Why don’t you look at the second page of that letter, sir?
Toward the bottom.”
Vincent Sorrentino paused. He walked away from the podium where he had been standing and moved toward the middle of the rail of the jury box. He was in profile to the jurors. He held a copy of the letter.
P A U L B A T I S T A
“Take a look at the paragraph at the bottom, sir, the paragraph numbered four. Read it out loud. And then tell me this: doesn’t it mean that Mr. Steinman and his friends can decide that if they don’t think you perform well, if they think you’ve been anything less than terrific here, they can urge the judge to send you to jail for the tax evasion and mail fraud you’ve pleaded guilty to?”
Leaning backward in his chair as Hutchinson stared at the document, Neil Steinman glanced at Sorrentino—slim and lithe—and wondered if Hutchinson would remember the careful way Steinman had rehearsed him for this scene.
48
Hutchinson didn’t. Instead, he said, “I don’t have to read it out loud, Mr. Sorrentino. It does say what you say it does, not in those words exactly, but yes, it does say that.”
Sorrentino turned his back on Hutchinson, faced the jury briefly, and then walked to the podium. “You have difficulty with the truth, don’t you, sir?”
“Objection,” Steinman shouted.
“Sustained.”
Sorrentino didn’t care that Judge Feigley had rejected the question. His face and his gestures showed no disappointment.
“You testified just a few minutes ago that you lied to the Grand Jury to protect the Congressman, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“By the way, it wasn’t your idea to say that, was it?”
“That was my testimony.”
“But over the last year, you’ve met with Mr. Steinman and his friends twenty times, twenty-five times, after you decided to turn on the Congressman?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled. It’s cross-examination, Mr. Steinman. I’ll permit it.”
Steinman persisted, “But, Judge, it’s irrelevant how many times the witness met with us.”
“Mr. Steinman,
You worked for him. He was your friend, your benefactor. But these jurors here, looking at you now, they know you wouldn’t lie D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
to them because now you’re protecting yourself, isn’t that right?”
The voice was listless. “I’m not protecting myself, Mr. Sorrentino.”
“Oh, you’re not? Isn’t it true that whether you go to jail or not, or for how long, depends on how well Mr. Steinman and his friends there at the prosecution table think you’ve performed for these jurors?”
“I don’t understand.”
“If Mr. Steinman thinks you did a good job, you walk, correct?
No jail. If he and his friends think you didn’t do so well, maybe 47
they don’t recommend as much leniency to the judge, and you go to prison, isn’t that right, sir?”
Alone in the witness box, Hutchinson, with a broad forehead and thinning, sandy hair, finally said, “I don’t understand that to be the deal.”
Sorrentino feigned shock, scorn. “You don’t? You told Mr.
Steinman you went to Harvard College, that you went to business school at Yale, but you don’t understand what your deal is?”
“I understand my agreement with the government, Mr. Sorrentino. But I don’t believe it is what you say it is.”
“Let’s read it, sir.”
Sorrentino asked the judge to have the courtroom deputy, a burly woman in a black business suit, give government exhibit 163 to the witness. It was a three-page letter, signed more than eleven months ago by Hutchinson and Steinman. During his direct examination of Hutchinson, Steinman had the skill to produce the plea and cooperation agreement then so that the jury wouldn’t learn the news of the promise of potential leniency for Hutchinson for the first time on cross-examination.
“Why don’t you look at the second page of that letter, sir?
Toward the bottom.”
Vincent Sorrentino paused. He walked away from the podium where he had been standing and moved toward the middle of the rail of the jury box. He was in profile to the jurors. He held a copy of the letter.
P A U L B A T I S T A
“Take a look at the paragraph at the bottom, sir, the paragraph numbered four. Read it out loud. And then tell me this: doesn’t it mean that Mr. Steinman and his friends can decide that if they don’t think you perform well, if they think you’ve been anything less than terrific here, they can urge the judge to send you to jail for the tax evasion and mail fraud you’ve pleaded guilty to?”
Leaning backward in his chair as Hutchinson stared at the document, Neil Steinman glanced at Sorrentino—slim and lithe—and wondered if Hutchinson would remember the careful way Steinman had rehearsed him for this scene.
48
Hutchinson didn’t. Instead, he said, “I don’t have to read it out loud, Mr. Sorrentino. It does say what you say it does, not in those words exactly, but yes, it does say that.”
Sorrentino turned his back on Hutchinson, faced the jury briefly, and then walked to the podium. “You have difficulty with the truth, don’t you, sir?”
“Objection,” Steinman shouted.
“Sustained.”
Sorrentino didn’t care that Judge Feigley had rejected the question. His face and his gestures showed no disappointment.
“You testified just a few minutes ago that you lied to the Grand Jury to protect the Congressman, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“By the way, it wasn’t your idea to say that, was it?”
“That was my testimony.”
“But over the last year, you’ve met with Mr. Steinman and his friends twenty times, twenty-five times, after you decided to turn on the Congressman?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled. It’s cross-examination, Mr. Steinman. I’ll permit it.”
Steinman persisted, “But, Judge, it’s irrelevant how many times the witness met with us.”
“Mr. Steinman,
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