“Sounds about right to me,” says Tuchio.
Quinn is nodding. “I’m not going to allow you to talk about the video, Mr. Madriani. So stay away from that line of questioning,” he says. “However, I think it is fair to inform the jury that you were in Curacao on legitimate business. The witness can confirm that you were on the island searching for a witness. But that is all. There is to be no disclosure as to the identity of that witness. Do you understand?” He looks at me.
I nod.
“No, better yet,” he says, “I’ll take care of this myself, from the bench.”
The judge waves us away. What Quinn is worried about is that Jennifer and I will get our signals mixed and that before anyone can stop her, she’ll blurt out the name Arthur Ginnis.
Quinn wheels around and sits upright in his chair.
By the time I get back to the witness stand, Jennifer is sitting there on needles. I can tell she knows where I’m trying to go, and she’s itching to answer the question.
The judge clears his throat and intones, “The jury may take notice of the fact that Mr. Madriani and Mr. Hinds were on legitimate business and that during the period in question they were searching for a witness on the island of Kureasaw.” He murders the name. “The record will so reflect.”
He looks down at me. “Now move on, Mr. Madriani.”
Jennifer gives me a slight shrug and an innocent smile as if to say, All we can do is try.
I draw her attention to Monday morning and the envelope on my desk.
For the next forty minutes, through questions and answers, she describes to the jury what she saw when I opened the envelope in my office that morning-the folded pages with the spots of blood-and then later when Harry picked up the envelope and the tiny plastic bag with the strands of hair fell out. We include testimony describing the awkward copying of the Jefferson Letter that went on in the office and the photographs that were taken.
The state will waste no time stirring the toxin of cynicism with innuendos and inferences, if not outright assertions that we planted the letter in our own office and that we choreographed all this for the benefit of the jury.
When Jennifer is finished describing what happened in the office, I retreat to the evidence cart.
First I show her the outer envelope with my name and the words “Personal & Confidential” typed on the address label. This is now encased in a clear plastic evidence bag from the police crime lab.
She identifies it as the envelope found on the office floor Thursday morning.
Next is Scarborough’s copy of the Jefferson Letter, the folded document with the rust-colored blood on one side. For the moment the letter is sealed in a clear plastic bag, though this will be removed later to better preserve the blood evidence on the paper.
Jennifer identifies this as one of the items extracted from the envelope that morning. She still does not know the contents of the letter, nor do any of the other members of our office staff or expert witnesses, who have been instructed not to read it. The reason for this is the need to carefully control the timing of this evidence before the jury. If we slip up and open the door for Tuchio to get into this in his cross-examination of one of our witnesses, it could destroy the entire strategy of our defense.
She then identifies the other item, the small plastic bag, though the hairs that it once contained have now been removed for preservation.
“Now let me ask you, do you have any idea, any information at all, as to who might have placed this envelope under the door to our law office on Coronado?”
“No. I have no idea at all.”
“So the only thing you can tell the jury is that the envelope was not there Wednesday night when you left the office at approximately eleven o’clock and that it was there at approximately seven the following morning when you arrived for work?”
“That’s correct.”
I turn to Tuchio. “Your witness.”
He wastes no time. He goes right for the jugular.
“Lemme get this straight, Ms. Sanchez. You expect this jury to believe that you never saw those items, the bloody letter,” he calls it, “and the little baggie of hair before they magically appeared on your office floor last Thursday morning, is that right?”
“I don’t know what the jury wants to believe. All I can do is tell them the truth.”
Good girl.
“Come. Come now,” he says. “Are you telling us that Mr. Madriani didn’t instruct you on what to say here this morning, that he didn’t dictate it to you line by line so that you would get it straight?”
To Jennifer these are fighting words. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” She looks at the jury now and ignores him. “What I am telling you is what I saw, everyth-”
“You’re telling us you never saw those items-”
“Your Honor, he’s cutting the witness off. If he wants to ask a question, he should allow the witness to answer.”
Tuchio turns to look at me. “I thought she was finished.”
“She wasn’t,” I tell him.
“Gentlemen, direct your comments here, to me, not to one another,” says Quinn. “The witness will be allowed to complete her answers.” The judge gives Jennifer a courtly smile and tells her to go ahead and finish.
She looks directly at the jury once more. “What I’m telling you is what I saw, all of it, everything, nothing added and nothing taken away. It is the truth.” She says this with an earnestness and a fire in her eyes.
When she turns back to him, Tuchio just stands there. For at least six or seven seconds, there is nothing but silence. Then he asks, “Are you finished?”
“Yes.” She looks at him, one of those drop-dead expressions that only a woman can give you.
“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “Let me ask you another question,” he says. “Did Mr. Madriani prepare you for your testimony here today? Did you spend any time talking with him about it, discussing it?”
“We did.”
“How much time?” he says.
“An hour, maybe a little more.”
“And Mr. Hinds, let’s not leave out Mr. Hinds. Did you spend any time with him preparing for your appearance here in court?”
“Some,” she says.
“How much?”
“About two hours.”
“Was that together with Mr. Madriani or separate?” he says.
“Part of it was together with both of them. Part of it was separate.”
“And where and when did this take place, this preparation?” Tuchio makes it sound like a four-letter word.
“In the office, last night and the night before.”
“So it was all very recent?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” he says. “After all, there wasn’t much time to prepare this whole thing, the mystery missive, and the little hairs being dropped on everyone so late and so suddenly,” he says.
“Is there a question in any of that?” says Quinn.
“I was about to frame one, Your Honor.”
“Then get on with it.”
“When this envelope was opened by Mr. Madriani in his office that day, Monday, I believe you testified that there were four people present in the room, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds, yourself, and Mr. Diggs, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Now, I can understand why Mr. Madriani can’t take the stand to testify. He is counsel in the case, as well as is Mr. Hinds. But did they tell you why you were selected to come here and tell us this story?” Tuchio would use the
