get Perlini’s past in front of the jury. If they know who they’re dealing with, they’ll acquit anyone the prosecution puts in front of them.”
“I know it. I know it.” Oleari gave up on his soggy roast beef sandwich and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Judge already ruled on that, y’know.”
I didn’t know. I didn’t have the entire file yet.
“Judge Poker said Griffin Perlini’s priors for child molestation are irrelevant.”
I was afraid of that. As long as Sammy was claiming he didn’t kill Perlini, it made no difference whether Griffin Perlini was the pope, the CEO of General Motors, or a two-bit child predator. I would have made the same ruling if I were the judge. The murder victim’s history makes no difference if the defendant is merely claiming that he didn’t do it.
But Sammy wouldn’t plead diminished capacity. He wouldn’t claim he temporarily lost control. That left me with a case that looked pretty damn strong for the prosecution.
“There’s one guy.” Oleari was using a toothpick. “One guy who says he saw some black guy running from the apartment building at around that same time.”
A black guy fleeing the scene. As a defense attorney, I wasn’t above stereotypes, and white jurors might be willing to buy into the idea.
“Was he wearing a brown jacket and green stocking cap?”
Oleari smiled, then shrugged. The truth, I figured, was that he didn’t know the answer. The interview had probably been conducted by one of the PD’s investigators, and a trial that was four weeks away, in the chaotic life of a public defender, might as well be four years away. “So you got a nice elderly couple that ID’d Cutler, you got a neighbor that saw the same guy with the bomber jacket and ski cap just outside the vic’s apartment, plus the store vids, plus Cutler’s incriminating statements to the cops—”
“And on the other side, I have one guy who saw a black man running.”
“Right. So unless you got a jury from Simi Valley, you better talk Sammy into a temporary insanity defense.”
By the tone of his voice, it was clear that Oleari didn’t expect me to have any more success than he did in that area. But a lightbulb went on. I still had a couple of synapses firing in my brain. “You got Griffin Perlini’s criminal history in your file?”
“Sure. Yeah. We’ll get the whole thing over to you tomorrow, after the judge lets you in.”
Tomorrow, I would appear before Judge Kathleen Poker and formally substitute into the case for Patrick Oleari. I was looking forward to a closer inspection of the entire file.
“Hey, not for nothin’.” Oleari nodded at me. “This is a long way from defending politicians in federal court.”
Apparently, Oleari had followed the Almundo case, too. The federal government doesn’t lose too often, and a lot of people took note. He probably figured I was still at my former, blue-chip law firm. I didn’t have the stomach to correct him and explain myself. Oleari was wondering what in the name of Clarence Darrow I was doing representing Sammy Cutler.
“We have history, Sammy and me,” I explained. I thanked him and left.
I had an idea about how I would get Griffin Perlini’s sordid life before the jury. It was a long shot, and I only had four weeks to pull it off, but it was the only chance we had.
I would need help. I would need a private investigator. A prayer wouldn’t hurt, either, if I still believed in that crap.
I drove back to my office in silence. I thought about old times, back in the day, Leland Park. I don’t remember life before Sammy. He was my first friend and my best friend. Both of our mothers worked part-time and they switched off baby-sitting chores, so whether it was my house or his, we were together from the time we were infants with one of the moms watching us. I made little distinction between his house and mine. If we couldn’t find a toy or a sock or a pack of Crayolas, the first order of business was not
“I know it. I know it.” Oleari gave up on his soggy roast beef sandwich and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Judge already ruled on that, y’know.”
I didn’t know. I didn’t have the entire file yet.
“Judge Poker said Griffin Perlini’s priors for child molestation are irrelevant.”
I was afraid of that. As long as Sammy was claiming he didn’t kill Perlini, it made no difference whether Griffin Perlini was the pope, the CEO of General Motors, or a two-bit child predator. I would have made the same ruling if I were the judge. The murder victim’s history makes no difference if the defendant is merely claiming that he didn’t do it.
But Sammy wouldn’t plead diminished capacity. He wouldn’t claim he temporarily lost control. That left me with a case that looked pretty damn strong for the prosecution.
“There’s one guy.” Oleari was using a toothpick. “One guy who says he saw some black guy running from the apartment building at around that same time.”
A black guy fleeing the scene. As a defense attorney, I wasn’t above stereotypes, and white jurors might be willing to buy into the idea.
“Was he wearing a brown jacket and green stocking cap?”
Oleari smiled, then shrugged. The truth, I figured, was that he didn’t know the answer. The interview had probably been conducted by one of the PD’s investigators, and a trial that was four weeks away, in the chaotic life of a public defender, might as well be four years away. “So you got a nice elderly couple that ID’d Cutler, you got a neighbor that saw the same guy with the bomber jacket and ski cap just outside the vic’s apartment, plus the store vids, plus Cutler’s incriminating statements to the cops—”
“And on the other side, I have one guy who saw a black man running.”
“Right. So unless you got a jury from Simi Valley, you better talk Sammy into a temporary insanity defense.”
By the tone of his voice, it was clear that Oleari didn’t expect me to have any more success than he did in that area. But a lightbulb went on. I still had a couple of synapses firing in my brain. “You got Griffin Perlini’s criminal history in your file?”
“Sure. Yeah. We’ll get the whole thing over to you tomorrow, after the judge lets you in.”
Tomorrow, I would appear before Judge Kathleen Poker and formally substitute into the case for Patrick Oleari. I was looking forward to a closer inspection of the entire file.
“Hey, not for nothin’.” Oleari nodded at me. “This is a long way from defending politicians in federal court.”
Apparently, Oleari had followed the Almundo case, too. The federal government doesn’t lose too often, and a lot of people took note. He probably figured I was still at my former, blue-chip law firm. I didn’t have the stomach to correct him and explain myself. Oleari was wondering what in the name of Clarence Darrow I was doing representing Sammy Cutler.
“We have history, Sammy and me,” I explained. I thanked him and left.
I had an idea about how I would get Griffin Perlini’s sordid life before the jury. It was a long shot, and I only had four weeks to pull it off, but it was the only chance we had.
I would need help. I would need a private investigator. A prayer wouldn’t hurt, either, if I still believed in that crap.
I drove back to my office in silence. I thought about old times, back in the day, Leland Park. I don’t remember life before Sammy. He was my first friend and my best friend. Both of our mothers worked part-time and they switched off baby-sitting chores, so whether it was my house or his, we were together from the time we were infants with one of the moms watching us. I made little distinction between his house and mine. If we couldn’t find a toy or a sock or a pack of Crayolas, the first order of business was not
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