Undue Influence (46 page)

“I’m going to ask you one more time. What did the doctor tell you?”

“Something about a test,” he says. “A pregnancy test?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“That the test was positive,” he says. “Meaning?”

“That Melanie was pregnant.”

“So this was on October tenth?”

“If you say so,” he says. “I don’t know the date.”

“Would you like to look at the medical records?” I ask. “The doctor made a notation of the conversation.” I turn to the table to get them. These we have subpoenaed from the physician. “I’ll take your word for it,” he says.

“Well, then, I ask you, how could Melanie have told you that she was pregnant as early as August or September if she wasn’t tested until October and the results delivered on October tenth?” A lot of faces from Jack, mostly pained expressions. He could have a million answers for this, that women know these things before they are tested, that she wasn’t tested until later in the pregnancy, that he was wrong about when Melanie told him. But he doesn’t come up with any of these. Instead he backpedals and trips over his own lie. “I thought it was Melanie who first told me. Maybe I was wrong,” he says. “Maybe I heard it from the doctor first. I don’t know what difference it makes.” The problem here is that Jack can’t be sure what the physician has told me, if anything.

Vega can’t recall whether he made admissions at the time of the telephone conversation that this was the first he was hearing of the pregnancy. I could show him the transcript of his tapped phone to assure him that, while as Dana said, “you could hear a pin drop,” Jack did not actually say anything. But it’s too late. It is the problem that when you litter the landscape with too many lies you forget where the truth is. Vega simply attributes this once more to a faulty memory. Only this time the jury is looking with more than a few arched eyebrows. “So from what you can remember now you did not hear about the baby for the first time from Melanie, but from the physician, and this was roughly three weeks before your wife’s death?”

“I don’t know.” Jack’s ultimate refuge when cornered.

“Did you ever talk to your wife about the pregnancy?”

“Sure we talked about it. What the hell,” he says. “What? You think we wouldn’t discuss something like this?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“Absolutely,” he says.

“When? Where?”

“Several times,” he says. “Lots of places. We were very happy about the child.”

“You wanted this baby?”

“Absolutely.” Jack is absolute about everything except the details.

“Quite a feat, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Your child must have been one of the miracles of modern medicine.”

“How’s that?”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Vega, that twelve years ago you underwent minor surgery, a procedure carried out in your doctor’s office, a vasectomy?”

Jack suddenly swallows his Adam’s apple, three or four heaving bobs.

“Whatya ”

“As a result of this procedure is it not a fact that you were incapable of fathering a child during your marriage to the victim, Melanie Vega?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Vega, that the unborn child who died in your wife’s womb was fathered by someone else?”

“No,” he says. “That’s not true.”

“Should I get your medical records? I have them right here.”

“No. I had the vasectomy,” he says. “But the child was mine.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. But sometimes things happen. I just figured it didn’t take.”

“You figured it didn’t take?”

It is the key to our case, the crowning blow, the fact that the child is not Jack’s, that he has known this from the inception and now lies about it bold-faced before the jury, the motive for murder. “Mr. Vega, isn’t it a fact that you didn’t discuss this child at all with your wife? That she kept the pregnancy a secret? That she went to her death believing you knew nothing about it? Isn’t it a fact that she tried to conceal it from you because she was having an affair with another man, and that you found out about this?”

“That’s not true,” he says. “She didn’t know about the call from her physician, did she? The one you intercepted.”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t tell her though, did you?”

“No. I forgot.” The same old saw.

“Isn’t it a fact that your wife had another lover?”

He sits staring at me in the box, wordless.

“Isn’t it true that she had another lover and that you found out? Who was it, Mr. Vega? Who was it that got your wife pregnant? Who?” I say.

“Who… ?”

“Enough. ” When the word comes it is screamed at me from behind, a female voice, anguished and broken. I turn, and it is Laurel.

Standing at the counsel table, tears lining her face. “Enough,” she says.

Harry has a hand on her arm, trying to get her to sit, a stunned expression on his face like she erupted without warning. Even Woodruff is dumbfounded, palming the handle of his gavel but not striking the bench. A matron moves in behind, putting two hands on Laurel’s shoulders, a signal for her to sit, evidence in the eyes of the jury that she is not free to move about as she wishes. “Enough about the child,” Laurel says, and with that she slumps back into her chair. I look, and the jury is mesmerized. All eyes on Laurel.

Almost in a daze I say: “Your honor, could we take a brief recess?”

We regroup back near the holding cells, and I tell her that this is not good. Her conduct has injected a whole new element into our case. What the jury thinks of this I have no way of knowing. I cannot read them as to Laurel’s emotive appeal, whether they might see this as an admission that she had something to do with the murder, or was merely taking pity on Jack. What she tells me is that she could no longer deal with the matter of the child, my picking away further at questions regarding this dead infant and its origins. “Everybody is talking about it like it was a thing. An event and nothing more,” she says. “It wasn’t. It was a living breathing human being. A baby,” she says. “A little baby. Its life snuffed out before it had a chance.” Laurel, the good mother. It is the most troubling aspect of the case to her, that an innocent child has been killed. She apologizes, but says she simply cannot deal with the dead infant. I tell her that I will stay clear of it. My hand in the air, two fingers like a scout. The point is now made, I tell her. It is all I can do given her explosive attitude on the subject. One more outburst and there is no telling what could happen to our case. “Nothing further will be said by me about this child until my closing argument,” I tell her. “Then I will have to talk about it. But I will do it briefly and discreetly.” She nods as if she understands.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I take her by the arm and we head back out. When we get to the courtroom, Cassidy turns a wicked gaze on Laurel. Lama actually grins.

She has given them something they have not been able to make from their own case, the whiff of suspicion, the suggestion that Laurel is now gored by conscience, that she cannot deal with the unintended consequences of her own violent act. I can tell by the look in Morgan’s eye that we have not heard the last of this dead child. I shudder to think what might happen if I am forced to put Laurel on the stand.

Woodruff comes out. The bailiff calls the court to order, and Jack heads back into the box. The judge tells me to proceed. “Mr. Vega, how long have you been a member of the Legislature?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he says.

“Just answer the question.”

“Twelve years,” he says.

“You’re not planning on running for reelection, are you?”

“No. I’m retiring,” he says.

I look to Harry and he lifts the top off the box.

“Retirement?” I say.

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard some of them called country clubs,’ but I’ve never heard the people who are sent there called retirees,” I say. He’s looking at me, not saying a word. But from the expression I know that Jack is the only other person in the room at the moment who knows what I am talking about. For the first time today we are speaking the same language. His face like a stone idol, struck by a lightning bolt. He’s looking now at the box. I can only imagine what is running through his mind. For Jack, an out-of-body experience. “I’m going to object to this.” Morgan is out of her chair, about to step on a land mine. “The question of Mr. Vega’s future plans is irrelevant. If counsel has a question, he should ask it, and stop badgering the witness with inane comments,” she says. “Then I will,” I say. “Mr. Vega, is it not a fact that you have entered a plea of guilty to multiple felony counts, violations of federal law relating to political corruption?” There is a swell of movement, like an undulating wave through the press rows, an audible gasp from the audience, the kind of revelation that comes in a courtroom once in a blue moon. A reporter in the second row actually says “Holy shit,” loud enough for Woodruff to hear it but ignore. One guy near the center aisle turns, pad in hand, and with a finger in the air circles his hand in a quick motion, like the signal to start engines. I can see cameras and lights outside through the glass slit in the courtroom door, revving up part of the media ride that Jack will be taking. He still hasn’t answered my question.

“I… ” Cassidy breaks off before she starts her sentence. Heated whispers in Lama’s ear. Jimmy is all shrugs, like a cheap stuffed doll that’s been repeatedly kicked in the ass. He doesn’t have a clue. “Your honor, I’m going to object to this… to this line of questioning.

We’ve… We’ve received no notice of any of this.”

“Nonetheless, it is true, is it not?” I’m bearing down on Vega.

Woodruff holds up a hand. “The witness will not answer. There’s an objection pending.”

“Your honor, we have certified copies both of the indictment and the record of conviction. We are not responsible for the state’s lack of knowledge in this area. We are not required to share the fruits of our own investigation with them. “I would point out that Mr. Vega is the state’s witness. We did not call him. These convictions go to his qualifications to testify. If he chose not to disclose this disability to the state, that’s their problem. They should take it up with him.”

“But, your honor,” says Cassidy.

“He’s got a point,” says Woodruff. “You called the witness.”

“But the conviction wasn’t public record.”

“First maybe we should find out if there was a conviction.” Woodruff motions for the papers, to examine them. I hand a set of the documents up to the bench, and Woodruff scans them.

Another goes to Cassidy, who quickly sits and pores over them with Lama, a lot of grim looks. All the while Jack sits in the box, turning various shades of gray. A couple of times Woodruff consults with him quietly over the edge of the bench and receives sober nods from Jack. “It appears these are authentic,” says Woodruff. “Certified copies,” he says. “Subject to a later motion to strike, I will allow counsel to explore the question,” he says. Cassidy’s still protesting. “Unfair surprise,” she says. “We’ve been sandbagged by federal authorities,” she tells Woodruff. At one point she actually mentions Dana by name, in the same way one might spit out another four-letter word. It is all to no avail. Woodruff says her objections are noted and tells her to sit down. I hand a set of the documents to Jack, the only player who hasn’t seen them, and I ask him if in fact they do not accurately reflect the convictions entered in his name in the federal court. He starts to whine about his deal. “They weren’t supposed to release any of this until the end of the trial,” he says. “We had an arrangement,” he tells Woodruff. He’s ignoring me like I’m not here, making his appeal to the black robes. “Take it up with the federal court,” says Woodruff. Jack is pitched back into the dark pit with me. “Mr. Vega, I ask you one more time. Do these documents accurately reflect your convictions under various pleas of guilty to felony charges in the federal court?”

“I suppose,” he says. “I’m not a lawyer.” Like the iron statues of Lenin, you can hear the thud, the sick leaden sound. Jack the upright legislator has just toppled. With this there’s a swell of murmuring in the front rows. Pencils worked to a dull point. A couple of the electronic folks head out to strike postures and make news in front of their cameras. The final blow. I reach into the packet of documents and pull out a sheaf of stapled pages, four in all.

It is a sentencing brief prepared by Jack’s lawyers. I call the court’s attention to the document, and a minute later we are all singing from the same sheet. I ask Jack to read it. When he is finished I wade in.

“Did your lawyers prepare this?” I ask him.

“Yeah.”

“Then you advanced this argument to the federal court. That because your wife was murdered you made a hardship appeal for straight probation on the federal charges. No prison time,” I say. “Is that right?”

“The kids needed a father,” he says. “She was in jail.” He’s pointing to Laurel. “Yes, based almost entirely on your allegations,” I say. “There are some who might suggest that you should have been there instead.” I’m talking about jail. “I didn’t commit murder,” he says.

“And neither did my client. And you know it,” I tell him.

He doesn’t respond to this. The best answer I could have hoped for.

“The fact remains,” I say, “that while your wife was dead and your former wife was in jail awaiting trial on charges of murder, that the only one who actually seems to have benefited from this sorry state of affairs was you. Isn’t that so?”

“How did I benefit?” he asks.

“Your wife has a lover. You were jealous. She got pregnant. So you killed her, framed your former spouse, and used the tragedy to ease your own sentence on criminal charges. Masterful,” I tell him. “Brilliant. It almost worked.”

“That’s bullshit,” he says.

“What one could expect from a man who has survived by his wits in the Legislature for two decades.” I speak like this is some den of thieves, a rabbit warren for breeding organized crime, which Jack has now confirmed by his own conduct. What the public suspects, what we both know, that there is a litany of further indictments in the offing. With any luck these will be breaking during our case-in-chief. He repeats the denial, Jack’s stockin-trade: “Bullshit. This is bullshit.” Woodruff seems to give him license here, realizing that the witness is at a loss for words, that in defense he should be allowed his best form of expression. It has its effect on the jury, and Jack slowly realizes this. “I lost my wife.” He sits up straight in the chair, finds the last scrap of dignity, and stares me in the eye. “And you found the silver lining in that adversity, didn’t you?” I wave the sentencing brief in my hand for him to see. It is a question that requires no response. The answer lies in Vega’s weary eyes as he surveys the media, knowing what is in store. It is a classic case, Jack digging himself a hole by his convenient memory. It started with the gun, a throwaway issue in this case, that he could easily have disclosed to the cops. But to Jack there was more intrigue in concealment. The adventure of deception has made up the better part of his life. This first slipup tainted him as to the second, the rug and its true ownership. If Jack had been a standup guy on the pistol and told the cops about it, his word might have carried more weight as against the black-and-white terms of the settlement agreement. As it is, this all now devolves in a common theme about Jack’s neck, that nothing he says can be believed, that here sits a man who is a stranger to the truth. It is a portrait now stretched and displayed in the chipped and frayed frame of political corruption, an image that could be properly hung only in a rogues’ gallery.