of eyes here, resolve turning to concession. "I might have said something else."
"What?" This is like pulling teeth.
"Maybe ... I don't know. I might have wished her dead," he tells us. "I would think you might remember something like that," I tell him. Acosta shrugs.
"You told somebody you wished she was dead?"
"I might have said something like that. Called her some names," he says, "and wished she were dead."
"Terrific," I say. "Can you remember the exact words?" "Is that important?" he says.
"If the cops have talked to the witness," I tell him.
He puts fingers to forehead, like the Great Karnak summoning all his powers.
"I think I might have said that death was too good for the cunt." The Coconut's loose translation of wishing someone dead. "Wonderful. And this death wish. Who was it made to?" I ask.
"You have to understand," he says. "After the arrest none of them would talk to me. They passed me in the hall as if I were a ghost. People I had worked with for twenty years pretended they didn't know me.
My own clerk called in sick the next morning. Can you believe it? My own clerk. And the others were laughing at me..."
"Who did you make the statement to?" He gives me a large swallow, his Adam's apple doing a half-gainer from the ten-meter platform. "Oscar Nichols," he says.
Nichols gets my vote for "Mr. Congeniality" on the bench, every-man's judge on the superior court. Lawyers all love him because, like the village harlot, he is easy. An African-American in his early sixties, quiet and soft-spoken, he is judicious to a fault, seeing every side of ever)' issue so that he is terminally paralyzed by indecision. Given his way, he would massage every case so that no one loses. I am not surprised that it was Nichols who became Acosta's psychic shoulder to cry on in his time of trouble.
Even so, I am sucking air, breathless. I have a client trained in the law who makes statements to a sitting judge that may now be construed as a death threat against a dead witness.
"He was a friend," says Acosta. The operative word no doubt being the one that puts this in the past tense.
"You don't know any felons?" I ask him.
As soon as I utter these words I regret them. The expression on Acosta's face at this moment is not one of anger or arrogance, but something I have not seen before. It is the lost look of anguish. It is a natural inclination that we hide our vulnerability from those we dislike or do not trust, and there is a galaxy of suspicion that separates the two of us.
In a world in which one's occupation is interchangeable with his identity, Acosta is now a professional leper. Except for his wife and his liberty, he is a man who has lost it all.
The light on my com-line flashes. A second later the phone rings. I pick up the receiver.
"A gentleman out here to see you." "Who is it?"
"His name is Leo Kerns. An investigator from the D.A.'s office."
"Leo? What does he want?" "Says he needs to talk to you."
"Be right out." I look at Lenore. "I'll be right back." I drop my pen on my notepad, right next to the closing quotation on the Coconut's death threat.
"Don't lose my place." I'm out of my chair, leaving Lenore to cover the bases. Perhaps she'll turn the conversation to something lighter, like Acosta's possible disbarment.
The instant I am through the door, there is a dark sense, one of those premonitions a lizard must get just before becoming roadkill.
Leo has set me up. Standing with him near the reception desk are two other men in suits, hair slicked and neatly cut, well scrubbed, the kind of men who are promoted to be Homicide dicks. I recognize one of them.
"Paul." Leo reaches out to shake my hand, and suddenly I feel like the Judas goat.
One of the other cops steps in front of him.
"Is Armando Acosta in your office? I am informed that he is here in this building," he says. No introduction.
"Who's asking?"
"I have a warrant for the arrest of Armando Acosta." He slaps the
"What?" This is like pulling teeth.
"Maybe ... I don't know. I might have wished her dead," he tells us. "I would think you might remember something like that," I tell him. Acosta shrugs.
"You told somebody you wished she was dead?"
"I might have said something like that. Called her some names," he says, "and wished she were dead."
"Terrific," I say. "Can you remember the exact words?" "Is that important?" he says.
"If the cops have talked to the witness," I tell him.
He puts fingers to forehead, like the Great Karnak summoning all his powers.
"I think I might have said that death was too good for the cunt." The Coconut's loose translation of wishing someone dead. "Wonderful. And this death wish. Who was it made to?" I ask.
"You have to understand," he says. "After the arrest none of them would talk to me. They passed me in the hall as if I were a ghost. People I had worked with for twenty years pretended they didn't know me.
My own clerk called in sick the next morning. Can you believe it? My own clerk. And the others were laughing at me..."
"Who did you make the statement to?" He gives me a large swallow, his Adam's apple doing a half-gainer from the ten-meter platform. "Oscar Nichols," he says.
Nichols gets my vote for "Mr. Congeniality" on the bench, every-man's judge on the superior court. Lawyers all love him because, like the village harlot, he is easy. An African-American in his early sixties, quiet and soft-spoken, he is judicious to a fault, seeing every side of ever)' issue so that he is terminally paralyzed by indecision. Given his way, he would massage every case so that no one loses. I am not surprised that it was Nichols who became Acosta's psychic shoulder to cry on in his time of trouble.
Even so, I am sucking air, breathless. I have a client trained in the law who makes statements to a sitting judge that may now be construed as a death threat against a dead witness.
"He was a friend," says Acosta. The operative word no doubt being the one that puts this in the past tense.
"You don't know any felons?" I ask him.
As soon as I utter these words I regret them. The expression on Acosta's face at this moment is not one of anger or arrogance, but something I have not seen before. It is the lost look of anguish. It is a natural inclination that we hide our vulnerability from those we dislike or do not trust, and there is a galaxy of suspicion that separates the two of us.
In a world in which one's occupation is interchangeable with his identity, Acosta is now a professional leper. Except for his wife and his liberty, he is a man who has lost it all.
The light on my com-line flashes. A second later the phone rings. I pick up the receiver.
"A gentleman out here to see you." "Who is it?"
"His name is Leo Kerns. An investigator from the D.A.'s office."
"Leo? What does he want?" "Says he needs to talk to you."
"Be right out." I look at Lenore. "I'll be right back." I drop my pen on my notepad, right next to the closing quotation on the Coconut's death threat.
"Don't lose my place." I'm out of my chair, leaving Lenore to cover the bases. Perhaps she'll turn the conversation to something lighter, like Acosta's possible disbarment.
The instant I am through the door, there is a dark sense, one of those premonitions a lizard must get just before becoming roadkill.
Leo has set me up. Standing with him near the reception desk are two other men in suits, hair slicked and neatly cut, well scrubbed, the kind of men who are promoted to be Homicide dicks. I recognize one of them.
"Paul." Leo reaches out to shake my hand, and suddenly I feel like the Judas goat.
One of the other cops steps in front of him.
"Is Armando Acosta in your office? I am informed that he is here in this building," he says. No introduction.
"Who's asking?"
"I have a warrant for the arrest of Armando Acosta." He slaps the
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