Read Online Death's Witness by Paul Batista - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Batista
Ads: Link
didn’t you hear me? Overruled.”
Hutchinson, who had been looking up at the judge as if waiting for a sign from heaven, realized he had to answer. “Many D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
times. I met with them many times. Those numbers are probably right.”
“And you rehearsed your testimony for this trial with Mr.
Steinman before you appeared here three days ago?”
“I have had many conversations with Mr. Steinman recently.”
“And he told you to say that you were trying to protect Congressman Fonseca when you lied to the Grand Jury. Didn’t he put those words into your mouth?”
“I can’t recall.”
“You can’t recall? It just came to you right now, is that it? You 49
needed an explanation as to why you were lying then and under oath why you’re not lying now. You needed that kind of explanation, didn’t you?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
Steinman was standing now. Judge Feigley’s grand bench was so elevated and the prosecution table so close to the bench that Steinman had to tilt his head back at a steep angle, like Dorothy looking up at the Wizard of Oz. “The question is compound, Judge, not intelligible.”
“I just overruled the objection, Mr. Steinman. I think the witness can answer it. I’ll ask the court reporter to read it back.”
The reporter leaned forward, pulling the folded paper from a small basket attached to his machine. He reread the question in a precise, falsetto voice.
Hutchinson answered, “Yes, I did.”
“And Mr. Steinman told you to say you lied to protect my client, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Hutchinson glanced at Neil Steinman, who appeared to be reading notes on the table in front of him, feigning unconcern, just as if he were concentrating on a newspaper in a crowded subway car. Hutchinson then filled the pause that Sorrentino deliberately prolonged. “But it was true, I wanted to protect the Congressman.”
“I didn’t ask you that, did I, Mr. Hutchinson?”
P A U L B A T I S T A
Steinman was relieved when Judge Feigley spoke into her microphone, “You’re here just to ask questions, Mr. Sorrentino, not to make comments. I’m the judge. This is my courtroom.”
Steinman was even more relieved when he saw that Sorrentino couldn’t conceal a quick, angry look at Judge Feigley.
She had interfered with him and Sorrentino plainly didn’t like that. Yet Steinman also knew Sorrentino had made his points.
Hutchinson’s Midwestern patina of earnest honesty, carefully cultivated over three days of direct examination, had been cracked, irrevocably.
50
* * *
By the afternoon of the next day Hutchinson looked ashen. He was visibly sagging, slumped back in the witness chair, and giving mumbled, monosyllabic answers to Sorrentino’s questions, or answering, “I don’t know” or “I don’t recall” about subjects he should have known or should have recalled.
For his part, Sorrentino grew in strength and range as Hutchinson wilted. His questions probed everywhere, from the core of the case—what Hutchinson really knew about the government’s claims that Congressman Fonseca accepted paid-for vacations to the Caribbean, stock, and cash in exchange for placing telephone calls and writing letters to help Selig Klein’s companies and other trucking and waterfront businesses—to issues that simply and tellingly related to Hutchinson’s own credibility, such as claims made by his former wife in year-old divorce papers that he had twice beaten her in their apartment in the Watergate and lied to the police about the beatings.
Hutchinson, as Steinman knew, was now almost incapable of anticipating and dealing with Sorrentino’s shifting subject areas.
Toward the end of the second afternoon, with the day’s recess not far off ( Judge Feigley was not a hard worker, holding court from ten in the morning to noon, with a two-hour break for lunch, and then limiting the afternoon session to two hours), Vincent Sorrentino asked, “Now, sir, I want
Hutchinson, who had been looking up at the judge as if waiting for a sign from heaven, realized he had to answer. “Many D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
times. I met with them many times. Those numbers are probably right.”
“And you rehearsed your testimony for this trial with Mr.
Steinman before you appeared here three days ago?”
“I have had many conversations with Mr. Steinman recently.”
“And he told you to say that you were trying to protect Congressman Fonseca when you lied to the Grand Jury. Didn’t he put those words into your mouth?”
“I can’t recall.”
“You can’t recall? It just came to you right now, is that it? You 49
needed an explanation as to why you were lying then and under oath why you’re not lying now. You needed that kind of explanation, didn’t you?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
Steinman was standing now. Judge Feigley’s grand bench was so elevated and the prosecution table so close to the bench that Steinman had to tilt his head back at a steep angle, like Dorothy looking up at the Wizard of Oz. “The question is compound, Judge, not intelligible.”
“I just overruled the objection, Mr. Steinman. I think the witness can answer it. I’ll ask the court reporter to read it back.”
The reporter leaned forward, pulling the folded paper from a small basket attached to his machine. He reread the question in a precise, falsetto voice.
Hutchinson answered, “Yes, I did.”
“And Mr. Steinman told you to say you lied to protect my client, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Hutchinson glanced at Neil Steinman, who appeared to be reading notes on the table in front of him, feigning unconcern, just as if he were concentrating on a newspaper in a crowded subway car. Hutchinson then filled the pause that Sorrentino deliberately prolonged. “But it was true, I wanted to protect the Congressman.”
“I didn’t ask you that, did I, Mr. Hutchinson?”
P A U L B A T I S T A
Steinman was relieved when Judge Feigley spoke into her microphone, “You’re here just to ask questions, Mr. Sorrentino, not to make comments. I’m the judge. This is my courtroom.”
Steinman was even more relieved when he saw that Sorrentino couldn’t conceal a quick, angry look at Judge Feigley.
She had interfered with him and Sorrentino plainly didn’t like that. Yet Steinman also knew Sorrentino had made his points.
Hutchinson’s Midwestern patina of earnest honesty, carefully cultivated over three days of direct examination, had been cracked, irrevocably.
50
* * *
By the afternoon of the next day Hutchinson looked ashen. He was visibly sagging, slumped back in the witness chair, and giving mumbled, monosyllabic answers to Sorrentino’s questions, or answering, “I don’t know” or “I don’t recall” about subjects he should have known or should have recalled.
For his part, Sorrentino grew in strength and range as Hutchinson wilted. His questions probed everywhere, from the core of the case—what Hutchinson really knew about the government’s claims that Congressman Fonseca accepted paid-for vacations to the Caribbean, stock, and cash in exchange for placing telephone calls and writing letters to help Selig Klein’s companies and other trucking and waterfront businesses—to issues that simply and tellingly related to Hutchinson’s own credibility, such as claims made by his former wife in year-old divorce papers that he had twice beaten her in their apartment in the Watergate and lied to the police about the beatings.
Hutchinson, as Steinman knew, was now almost incapable of anticipating and dealing with Sorrentino’s shifting subject areas.
Toward the end of the second afternoon, with the day’s recess not far off ( Judge Feigley was not a hard worker, holding court from ten in the morning to noon, with a two-hour break for lunch, and then limiting the afternoon session to two hours), Vincent Sorrentino asked, “Now, sir, I want
Similar Books
