“How long have you been friends with Willie Miller?”
“We just met … we sit there all day and we talk some.”
“Do most people consider you a good listener? Do they have a tendency to confide in you?”
He nods; this is something he can agree with. “I guess so. Sure. I'm a pretty good listener.”
“Do you have any experience in the ministry?” This draws a laugh from the gallery and jury, and an objection from Wallace.
“Your Honor, this is ludicrous.”
“Sustained.”
“Did anyone promise you anything at all in return for your testimony today?”
“No.”
“No talk of a lighter sentence, or of the authorities treating you more favorably in the future?”
Sacich looks toward Wallace, worried about what he is supposed to say. I jump on this. “Do you want to consult with Mr. Wallace? We can take a few moments, and you can get further coaching if that will help you.”
“Objection! This witness has not been coached, and I resent the implication that he has.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Sacich,” I continue, “what did the authorities say would result from your testimony today?”
“They told me it would look good on my record.”
“Who reviews that record?”
“The parole board,” he says grudgingly.
It's time to wrap this up. “Okay, Mr. Sacich,” I say, “let's forget about logic and your lack of credibility for a moment, and let's assume this happened the way you said, that Willie Miller told you he had done this crime. Do you believe everything you hear in prison?”
“Depends,” he allows.
“Do you think people ever lie, maybe to make themselves look tougher in the eyes of other inmates, distinguished innocent citizens like yourself? Or do you think that everyone in maximum security prisons is scrupulously honest?”
“Look, I just know what he told me, and he didn't seem to be lying.”
I shake my head sadly. “I'm surprised, Mr. Sacich, because you of all people should know lying when you hear it.”
I dismiss Sacich, and Wallace has only a few follow-up questions for him. Kevin's slight nod to me indicates that he believes we have effectively neutralized Sacich's testimony, and I agree.
Wallace calls Diana Martez, another name I am not familiar with. I am about to stand and object, when Kevin points to her name on the list. It says that she works at Cranford Labs, a company that does work in DNA and more conventional blood testing. We never bothered to interview her because we had planned our strategy in this area, which was to argue about the collection techniques and possible contamination of the samples, rather than about the science itself.
I'm surprised that Wallace is calling Martez at this point in the case, but I'm not worried about it. That changes the moment she walks into the room and I see Willie Miller's face. All he says, very softly, is “Ooohhh, shit.”
All I can do is sit there and brace myself for what is sure to be a disaster, and it is just that. Martez is a twenty-six-year-old Hispanic woman, whose connection to the case has nothing whatsoever to do with the laboratory at which she works. That is a coincidence, and one which Wallace knew he could rely on to minimize the likelihood of our checking her out in advance.
Wallace leads her through her story, which takes place on a June night nine years ago, almost three years before the McGregor murder. Speaking with a heavy Spanish accent, she relates meeting Willie Miller at a bar. He was drinking heavily, but she agreed to go outside with him. He walked her into an alley behind the bar, where he became verbally abusive. When she tried to leave and reenter the bar, he punched and kicked her.
“I screamed. I begged him to stop, but it was like he couldn't even hear me. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“What happened next?” asks Wallace.
“His friends came out and pulled him off of me.”
“Was that easy for them to do?”
“No, it took four people. He was completely out of control. Kicking and screaming profanities.”
“Did you speak to any of them afterward?”
She nods. “Yes, they said he had done this before, that he had a drinking problem he couldn't control.”
Wallace draws out of her the fact that she was treated at a hospital for her injuries, and produces the emergency room record to substantiate her account. He then turns her over to me to cross-examine. I have no idea what the hell to ask her.
“Ms. Martez, did you report this alleged incident to the police?” I ask.
“No, I was not a citizen then, and-”
“You were here illegally?”
“Yes, but now I am an American. I became a citizen two years ago,” she says proudly. Great, next I'll get her to show the flag she's knitted to hang over the courthouse.
She tells the court that she was afraid to report the incident, because she did not want to risk deportation. And she didn't see any coverage of the first trial, because she was in another city living with her sister. It was only when she saw the current media blitz that she recognized Willie and came forward, which she considered her duty as a citizen of America, the country she loves, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
I end my cross, before I do any more damage to my client's case. I do this even though I would very much like to kill my client for not telling me anything about this.
Kevin, Laurie, and I arrange to meet with Willie in an anteroom after the court session, and we sit there talking, waiting for his arrival. Kevin is distraught that he blew it by not following up on Martez's name, but I don't blame him. I blame myself.
“I didn't lay a glove on her.”
“How could you?” Kevin asks.
I ignore that; it doesn't fit in with my self-flagellation. “I'm a lawyer defending somebody on trial for his life. I'm supposed to be prepared.”
Laurie tries to change the subject to the defense's case, which is coming up rapidly. She asks who my first witnesses are going to be.
“Witnesses?” I ask. “You mean I'm supposed to have witnesses that can help my client?”
“Andy-”
I cut her off. “I must have been out the day they went over that in law school. Because I don't have a goddamn thing, and-”
I could go on like this for hours, but I'm interrupted by Willie being led into the room. Thank goodness, the one person I'd rather beat up than myself.
Willie, in an uncharacteristically contrite manner, tells us that the story Diana Martez told is true. He had a drinking problem for over three years, but he became sober at least six months before Denise McGregor was killed.
“You told us you never had a problem with alcohol before,” I say.
“I was embarrassed, okay?”
This man who has been on death row for murder for most of the past decade was embarrassed to reveal that he had a drinking problem, which he subsequently conquered. The mind boggles.
“Are there any more little incidents out there like this that you're too embarrassed to talk about? Were you involved with the Kennedy assassination? Or maybe the Lindbergh kidnapping?”
“Come on, man. There's nothing else.”
“How did you become sober?”
“I joined a program. It wasn't easy, man, but I did it,” he says with some restored pride. He gives us the name of someone in management at the program, and then we let the guard take him away.
Before he leaves, he says, “I'm sorry if I screwed things up.”
My anger has been defused, and I tell him that it's okay, that we'll deal with it, even though we won't.
