conviction, it is all there.
"Now that that's out of the way," he says, "what do we do next?" It is suddenly clear to me that he actually has no clue. A man who has spent twenty years in the law, a good part of it on the bench, he has not the slightest hint of a defense.
Lenore discusses first the question of an alibi, some good citizen who could vouch for Acosta's whereabouts at the time of the murder. This is a problem, as the police have not as yet indicated their best guess as to when Hall was killed. Acosta compounds this, telling us that he was alone much of the day and that evening. Depressed, he'd parked his car at a turnout on the highway near the river. What he was contemplating while doing this he does not say, though the look in his wife's eye, the glance she sends to Lenore, conveys volumes.
"No one saw you?" says Lenore. "You didn't talk to anyone?"
"At the time I would have been poor company," he says. "I wanted to be alone. I was upset." According to him, he had bottomed out, having been removed from the bench by order of the supreme court the week before. In a fit of frustration he had fired his lawyer on the prostitution charge that morning.
"I understand," she tells him. "Still, during that entire period, the day she was killed and that evening, you didn't talk to anybody, by phone?
Call a friend? Go anywhere where someone would have seen you?" He shakes his head. n sieve Mmm "Did you purchase anything? Food, gasoline?
Perhaps a merchant who might remember you around the time that she died? " More head shaking.
"What time did you get home that night?" I ask.
"I didn't. I didn't return home until the following afternoon. Sometime around two," he says.
His wife confirms this sorry fact, that she was worried sick during this period.
We question Acosta as to any statements he may have made to the police following the murder. Unfortunately we don't have the details of his precise words. He tells us that he made some equivocal comments concerning a note with his name on Hall's calendar. Lenore and I exchange glances when he mentions this. It is the note she had seen that night.
According to Acosta, based on his confused statements, the police are now contending that he knew about this note, and that he was there the evening of the murder.
It is the rule of nature on the order of gravity that the desire to talk when in trouble is always a mistake.
"Is it possible that they have another suspect?" This happy thought is injected by Lenore.
"I don't think so," says Acosta.
"How can you be so sure?" she says.
"Because they have convened a grand jury to take evidence, and I have not been called to testify." Lenore looks at him slack-jawed. He doesn't tell us where this information comes from, and we do not ask.
The Capital County courthouse has more leaks than a litter of dogs with bad kidneys, and Acosta would of course know where each of these lifts its leg.
"A number of acquaintances have been called as witnesses," he tells us. "Mind you, I don't know what they were asked, or what they might have said under oath."
"Give us a guess," I say. Cat and mouse.
He gives a little shrug, a tilt of the head, best guess.
"If a prosecutor were to ask the right question, of the right witness." He makes a dried prune of his face, all wrinkles around the mouth, conjuring the possible. "One of them," he says, "might mention certain rash statements. Some intemperate remarks made in a moment of anger."
I let my silent stare ask the obvious.
"I was upset," he says. "And I said some things." "Like what?"
"I can't remember the exact words. I might have said something, called her a liar, maybe something worse."
"Brittany Hall?" He nods.
"I was angry. They set me up," he says. "Who?"
"The cops," he says. The defense of every John: entrapment. "The entire prostitution thing was a setup," he says.
"And you were angry. You called her a liar. What else?" I say. There's a lot of rolling
"Now that that's out of the way," he says, "what do we do next?" It is suddenly clear to me that he actually has no clue. A man who has spent twenty years in the law, a good part of it on the bench, he has not the slightest hint of a defense.
Lenore discusses first the question of an alibi, some good citizen who could vouch for Acosta's whereabouts at the time of the murder. This is a problem, as the police have not as yet indicated their best guess as to when Hall was killed. Acosta compounds this, telling us that he was alone much of the day and that evening. Depressed, he'd parked his car at a turnout on the highway near the river. What he was contemplating while doing this he does not say, though the look in his wife's eye, the glance she sends to Lenore, conveys volumes.
"No one saw you?" says Lenore. "You didn't talk to anyone?"
"At the time I would have been poor company," he says. "I wanted to be alone. I was upset." According to him, he had bottomed out, having been removed from the bench by order of the supreme court the week before. In a fit of frustration he had fired his lawyer on the prostitution charge that morning.
"I understand," she tells him. "Still, during that entire period, the day she was killed and that evening, you didn't talk to anybody, by phone?
Call a friend? Go anywhere where someone would have seen you?" He shakes his head. n sieve Mmm "Did you purchase anything? Food, gasoline?
Perhaps a merchant who might remember you around the time that she died? " More head shaking.
"What time did you get home that night?" I ask.
"I didn't. I didn't return home until the following afternoon. Sometime around two," he says.
His wife confirms this sorry fact, that she was worried sick during this period.
We question Acosta as to any statements he may have made to the police following the murder. Unfortunately we don't have the details of his precise words. He tells us that he made some equivocal comments concerning a note with his name on Hall's calendar. Lenore and I exchange glances when he mentions this. It is the note she had seen that night.
According to Acosta, based on his confused statements, the police are now contending that he knew about this note, and that he was there the evening of the murder.
It is the rule of nature on the order of gravity that the desire to talk when in trouble is always a mistake.
"Is it possible that they have another suspect?" This happy thought is injected by Lenore.
"I don't think so," says Acosta.
"How can you be so sure?" she says.
"Because they have convened a grand jury to take evidence, and I have not been called to testify." Lenore looks at him slack-jawed. He doesn't tell us where this information comes from, and we do not ask.
The Capital County courthouse has more leaks than a litter of dogs with bad kidneys, and Acosta would of course know where each of these lifts its leg.
"A number of acquaintances have been called as witnesses," he tells us. "Mind you, I don't know what they were asked, or what they might have said under oath."
"Give us a guess," I say. Cat and mouse.
He gives a little shrug, a tilt of the head, best guess.
"If a prosecutor were to ask the right question, of the right witness." He makes a dried prune of his face, all wrinkles around the mouth, conjuring the possible. "One of them," he says, "might mention certain rash statements. Some intemperate remarks made in a moment of anger."
I let my silent stare ask the obvious.
"I was upset," he says. "And I said some things." "Like what?"
"I can't remember the exact words. I might have said something, called her a liar, maybe something worse."
"Brittany Hall?" He nods.
"I was angry. They set me up," he says. "Who?"
"The cops," he says. The defense of every John: entrapment. "The entire prostitution thing was a setup," he says.
"And you were angry. You called her a liar. What else?" I say. There's a lot of rolling
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