Solomonýs Bluff

By Gregory G. Sarno

As a teen, prosecutor Ben Santos fathered a daughter out of wedlock. Hell-bent on a career in law, he lost contact with her. A dozen years later, his failure to embrace fatherhood is his one abiding regret.

Blood money claims the life of a pregnant woman. A jail snitch badgers her husband into implicating himself. Conviction seems a safe bet until the criminal lawyers go to work, bending the rules of evidence so as to profit from the husband's cellblock confidences.

Santos is initially gun-shy about handling the case. His one previous murder trial ended in a hung jury. The rapist-killer, released on bail pending retrial, claimed the life of another victim.

At trial, Santos parries the aggressive ploys of Vietnam Veteran-defense attorney Francisco Duran. Even so, Duran backs him into a corner. At the eleventh hour, Santos devises a strategy worthy of Solomon. Duran counters with a cynical plea-bargain proposal. Momentum turning, Santos insists on submitting the case to the jurors despite risk of another hung jury.

On the home front, Santos and his teacher wife are working on a baby of their own. As trial nears its climax, Santos rushes Carmel to Delivery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 13, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595777259

Gregory G. Sarno

Gregory G. Sarno holds a J.D. degree from U.C. Berkeley. He has written several articles for London-based film journal www.ScriptWriterMagazine.com. Nonfiction books include Contemporizing the Classics: Poe, Shakespeare, Doyle; Threshold: Scripting a Coming-of-Age; Lights! Camera! Action!: Crafting an Action Script; When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again: Three Soldiers, Three Wars .

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The keening of stray cats sliced through the autumn night. She shivered. She saw in mind’s eye the silhouette slinking across the pavement: frozen in diffuse beams, its sleek fur swathed in pitch, its beady eyes crimson embers. Thank her lucky star she’d swerved in time. A sigh escaped her lips as she relived the encounter. Silly superstition. Stupid. Even so, a black cat had crossed the path of her car. What rotten luck. Of all days.

Sherri Clark had risen an hour ago. She dressed in a trance, then downed a mug of tepid cocoa. She drove to a high school football arena, home of Peta-luma’s Casa Grande Gauchos. An empty parking lot greeted her arrival. She pulled into a slot and killed the ignition. It was early yet; she could sit for a song or two.

She awoke with a start. Panic-stricken, she glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch, memento of Disneyland. Barely a minute had passed. Funny. Seemed like she’d been out for hours. Phantom images lingered. She fought to keep them alive. Schoolgirl in white blouse, plaid culottes. Door closing. Figure looming. That motel? The one with all the roaches? Don’t go there. And quit stalling. Sooner you do it, the better.

Turning off the radio, she snatched the furled towel and slid out. She shut the door without locking it. Faint moonlight illumined her features. Five feet four, Sherri had indigo eyes, snub nose, and shoulder-length cherry-blond hair clumped in a ponytail. Gold crescents studded her earlobes. She wore gray sweats, generic sneakers, ankle weights.

Damn. She’d left her CD-player at home. As she made for the arena, she began humming to herself.

Sherri was all hummed out by the time she slipped past the groundskeeper’s shack across from one goalpost. She laid the towel behind nearby bushes. Huddling there, she struggled with sleepy eyes, jumpiness, the cold. Leaves raked by wind, the skittering of raccoons, a quarter moon playing peekaboo with the clouds—these distracted her from whatever misgivings she felt.

Seconds stretched into eons. Why did she have to come so early? She peered at her watch for the twentieth time. Sure taking their sweet time. It was 5:32. Steve and his wife were two minutes late.

Marlene Wilkes catnapped as Steve drove. Seven months pregnant, Marlene wore windbreaker over sweatsuit to keep herself and Baby warm. She’d laughed the first time Steve had suggested these morning jaunts at the track.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Steve wasn’t. He had seen a Dateline clip on the benefits of exercise during pregnancy. As he put it, getting up before dawn three days a week was small price to pay for Marlene’s health. And a smooth delivery.

When they’d begun their routine last summer, the couple had jogged side by side. Steve had quickened his pace after a bout of shinsplints, although a stitch in the side still flared up occasionally. Marlene had peaked a while back. These days, it looked as if she were out for a Sunday stroll.

To herself, Marlene might grouse about having to wake in the dead of night, but she felt heartened by Steve’s newfound concern. It seemed her intuition was paying off: that if she got pregnant, he would act more husbandly. For a while, she feared her hunch had backfired. When she mentioned her missed period, he told her to hurry and see Planned Parenthood. That was out of the question. As her pregnancy progressed, Marlene’s feelings deepened; she wanted to keep Baby, intended to, whether Steve stayed or split. Luckily, he had come around, as witnessed by his insistence on fitness.

Marlene would have preferred delaying the track till sunup, once the November frost had burned off. Steve nixed that option. After a shower, he liked to preview the day’s lessons over a double espresso at Starbucks before tackling his commute. Evenings were out, too, even though twilight in autumn always filled Marlene with nostalgia—this year more than ever. Steve attended the California Highway Patrol Academy. After classes let out, he joined other CHP cadets for a workout at the gym and, later, a Bud or two at The Nightcap. By the time he got home, he felt too beat to make love, let alone think of jogging.

Marlene bowed to Steve’s wishes. She was so thrilled by his change of heart about Baby that she could handle their predawn regimen, especially now that the early months of morning sickness were history.

Steve felt like puking. He couldn’t account for his queasiness. He’d been under a lot of stress lately; maybe that was it. He lowered the window halfway. Gulping the brisk air tempered his nausea somewhat.

Part of Steve’s unease came from last night. At dinner, Marlene had settled on a name: Kirsten Alice or, after his father, Henry Arthur. Naming the kid made everything seem less an abstraction, more real. His father’s was the last name Steve would have chosen, yet he went along to avoid squabbling—over nothing, really.

A bubbly Marlene had called her mother and in-laws. The grandparents-to-be expressed delight over both choices. Steve could scarcely fathom his father’s pride. During childhood, Steve had seldom met Henry Wilkes’s lofty standards: grades typically crying out for improvement; athletic prowess hampered by marginal eye-hand coordination; unpardonable absence of paternal passion for elk hunting and bass fishing.

Mr. Wilkes’s comment about extending the family line came to mind, making Steve’s blood percolate. He noticed his hands were riveted to the steering wheel. He made an effort to relax his grip, which succeeded in calming him a little.

As the Chevy Blazer swung into the lot, Steve checked the digits on the dash: 5:34. A touch behind schedule. No cause for alarm.

Sherri spotted headlights. The misgivings she’d held at bay roared to life. Her acidic stomach belched, and curdled cocoa backflushed up her throat. Sherri wiped her lips on a sleeve. She thought of forgetting the whole thing and bolting in the opposite direction. She tried to stand, but her body rebelled. From huddling so long in the cold, she had stiffened. The least movement of numb legs shot tingles radiating every which way.

The vehicle stopped a few slots from her Beetle. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if it was the Blazer. Concern crept in. Somebody else? At this ungodly hour?

As if in answer, the twin beams went black, then flashed on and off twice. Sherri felt a measure of relief. Letting out a sigh, she watched her breath mist like a plume of smoke.

Marlene had lolled to one side. Her head bobbed like a jack-in-the-box, rekindling Steve’s urge to vomit. He parried it with a buoyant, Honey, we’re here.

Marlene didn’t stir.

Steve nudged her. No response. Touching her cheek with the back of a hand, he clamped his teeth. She felt stone-cold.

Panic coursed through him. Marlene. Wake up.

Her eyes popped open. Lord. How awful.

What? he said, swallowing a giggle at his overreaction.

Marlene cradled her belly with both hands. A dream.

Against his better judgment, Steve said, Oh? What about?

Baby was stillborn. I had a feeling it was H.A.

Steve smiled sourly. He’d just known she would say something like that. Oh, well. Only a dream. He fought to keep venom out of his voice. It came from hearing Marlene use H.A.—his father’s nickname and now, perhaps, his son’s.

There you go again. I try to tell you something, and you write it off. ‘Only this, only that.’

Don’t make a federal case out of it. Sorry. Just trying to put a positive spin on things. Steve raised the window. C’mon. Let’s do it.

Marlene shook off her annoyance and edged open the door. The overhead light kicked in. Marlene seemed taller than Steve. She had green eyes, feline features, brunette pageboy. Steve had hazel irises and a moon face framed by wavy brown hair. (To date, he’d resisted the Marines buzz favored by the run of cadets.) Marlene’s thin lips were plastered together, whereas Steve’s full lips were perpetually parted. He had a boyish gap-toothed smile—not that he was smiling now.

Steve bounded out of the Blazer, shaking his nausea in the process. He hustled around and helped Marlene alight. Her hand felt clammy. Or maybe it was his own. Hard to tell.

They walked briskly, Steve setting the tempo, Marlene letting him. She kept pace even as she wriggled her hand free and dug out soft leather gloves: a recent gift from Steve. No special occasion. Token of my love. The cashmere lining spawned goose bumps as it caressed her bare flesh.

From Sherri’s vantage point, the pair resembled stick figures. She felt oddly flat as they skirted the home team’s bleachers—no jealousy, none of her earlier skittishness.

The couple reached the track that rimmed the football field. They did some stretching, then split up.

Sherri ran through a warm-up drill. She flexed both legs, biting her lower lip to drown the flood of tingles. She rotated her neck, exorcising the cricks. She rolled her shoulders, twirled her wrists, flicked fingers in and out. The activity relieved the chill and kept her mind off things.

Steve jogged past the towering eucalyptus grove near the first bend in the track. He heard rustling. He shot a sidewise glance and thought he saw something move. His eyes narrowed. Perceiving nothing amiss, he wrote it off as a gustof wind. Or perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, duped by the eerie shadows that cloaked the arena.

Passing the goalpost, Steve drew parallel to the bushes. He stopped, knelt, fiddled with a shoelace. As he went through the motions, a sense of regret stole in. He sprang up and broke into a run.

Sherri adjusted the Velcro fasteners on her ankle weights. She eyed the stainless steel blade glinting on the towel. Why not a gun? she had asked—as if she’d ever handled one.

The verdict had left little room for debate: No freakin’ way! Casa Grande bordered a residential tract, and a gunshot would invite trouble. It might pass for a car misfiring; then again, it might not. And what if she fired wide or only grazed the target?

She’d persisted. "Then Mace. Or a stun gun. Anything but a knife." As a child, she had slit her thumb grating hash browns. The blood swirling in the sink had made her swoon. Ever since, a gush of scarlet made her stomach tumble and roll.

Steve, too, had persisted. Chill out, girl. What you do is, do it commando-style. His bantering tone had rung false at the time; it rang no truer in retrospect. Sneak up from behind. Grab a hank of hair and jerk the head back, exposing the throat. One quick thrust ‘cross the carotid artery, and you’re home free. He’d shown how, using her as the dummy. Not exactly painting by the numbers, but it did look easy enough. And not too messy.

The shard of steel brought her back.

Sherri watched her hand lift the knife with an air of detachment, as if the understudy in a stage drama. She stood up. As she bore down on the track, she continued to feel detached. She held the hilt by her hip, blade slanted downward and back as she’d been coached.

Marlene’s head inclined toward the ground. She strolled on automatic pilot, barely aware of her surroundings. She basked in the exhilarating glow that made her tingle whenever Baby roused and probed her innards. Privately, she hoped it was Kirsten Alice, but she would be content with a boy. Marlene’s OB-GYN had offered a sonogram to determine gender. She’d declined. That seemed unnatural and, besides, she preferred being surprised.

Marlene sensed a presence. Whirling, she gasped. She sheltered her suddenly leaden belly. Her green eyes glowed like a cat’s; sweeping over the intruder’s face, they locked on the blade.

Sherri noticed she had raised the hilt to her bosom. She shuffled forward as Marlene pirouetted to shield Baby and search out Steve.

Marlene’s heart thumped, and she glistened with perspiration. Her eyes flitted back and forth until she spotted Steve retreating toward the far bend.

Sherri inched closer and reached for a clutch of hair. The thought of physical contact made her cringe. She reflexively drew the hilt above her shoulder. Poised to strike, her hand remained suspended in air until Marlene’s broken Ste— triggered a downward thrust.

Stainless steel struck shoulder blade. Waves of searing heat, splintering pain. Marlene tottered, shook it off, pivoted. She grasped the assailant’s wrist and threw her off balance. The two jostled briefly before Marlene, in the grip of adrenaline, tripped the shorter woman. Sherri fell backward, dragging Marlene on top of her. Sherri’s head whacked the surface; she saw stars and blacked out for an instant. Marlene pinned her wrists. Baby squirmed within its cocoon as Marlene panted convulsively, saliva coagulating on her lips.

Steve had warmed to his jog: the crisp breeze, the easing of taut muscles, the need to breathe rhythmically to stave off that stitch in the side. Marlene’s cry shattered his reveries. He abandoned the track and sprinted across the dewy grass. Running full tilt, he hardly noticed the stabbing pain in his torso.

He flew past the goalpost, gained the track, ground to a halt. Taking inventory, he cursed to himself with the shrillness of a scream.

Marlene glanced up, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Her sense of deliverance took a hit as she caught the sheen in Steve’s eyes. He crumpled her with a kick to the ribs. Rolling off Sherri, she fell to one side with an Oomph.

Stunned by his own violence, its sheer intensity, Steve grazed Sherri with a scowl. Get your ass in gear, he growled. Finish the damn job.

Sherri blinked wildly. She let go of the knife, covered her face with both hands, whimpered like a motherless pup.

The enormity of it all hit home. Steve looked heavenward. The quarter moon was just ducking behind a papier-máché cloud. A moment’s reprieve came from imagining he might wake beside Marlene and wipe the slate clean.

Two prostrate bodies rendered judgment: he would not awaken, there was no turning back.

P A R T I

FORTY THIEVES

CHAPTER 1

Ben Santos lurched awake. He heard scuffles, then another scream. Rrri-aaaaauohh. The sound, feline yet vaguely human, suggested an infant awaking hungry to suckle. Santos could never hear a baby sob without recalling Nisa. Nisa? he thought bitterly. Ana Lisa would be twelve soon; surely, she’d have dropped Nisa long before now. He wondered what she looked like. Santos seldom beheld her photos; ten years out of date, they only bled the wounds. His one abiding regret was not having embraced fatherhood. At nineteen, he’d been hell-bent on a career in law. Nisa’s first words, her groping first steps—he had taken these miracles for granted. And then her mother had walked out, taking Nisa with her and denying Santos opportunity to redeem himself.

He broke off reflecting as Carmel shifted beside him. They had been trying for months, without success. Santos glanced at the luminous hands. Nearly half an hour till the alarm went off: plenty of time. He thought of waking Carmel. No, better not. Shepherding high school students took a toll on her.

Santos nestled closer. Carmel’s warmth soothed him. Regrets and might-have-beens receded. Sleep stole over Santos. His muscles twitched, his eyelids grew heavy, bedroom shadows kaleidoscoped into hazy dream images. He slept as easy as a newborn. The workday began like any other. Shower and shave. Bagel and mug of black coffee. Then Santos kissed Carmel good-bye, got in the car, engaged the freeway.

Santos had an intent demeanor as he drove his restored ‘56 Bel Air. An even six feet tall, he’d gained few pounds since high school. His most winning feature was a broad smile that showed off the ivory enamel of picture-perfect teeth. He had dark brown hair, conservatively clipped and styled, and even darker eyes. Sculpted nose complemented firm jaw. Santos tanned easily but, rarely seeing sunlight nowadays, he sported a pallid complexion. Even his workouts took place indoors—at Ray’s Gym—whenever he could squeeze them in.

Most days Santos put the morning commute to good use. Driving north on 101 toward Santa Rosa, he didn’t have to hassle with rush-hour traffic, which snaked southerly toward everyone’s favorite postcard bridge. His dose of caffeine eased the transition to lawyerly mindset. En route to work, he might preview the day’s schedule, or replay a court session from the day before. Or, as a trial neared its climax, he would rehearse his speech to the jury. Sometimes, while he spoke feelingly to phantom jurors, Santos looked out the window and noticed passing motorists eyeing him curiously.

The return trip was another story. Not simply useful: imperative. Santos needed the time to put the workday—be it ten hours or sixteen—behind him. He didn’t believe in bringing work home, neither paperwork nor emotional fallout. That wasn’t healthy for him, or his relationship with Carmel. Homeward bound, Santos would turn on the radio and listen to sports talk. The diversion helped him unwind. Whatever business remained unfinished could keep till the next day.

When Santos had joined the Sonoma County DA’s Office four years ago, he had drawn the arraignment detail—an assembly-line initiation endured by all rookies. Later, he drew cases from the general pool of defendants. Dean Lovel-lette, cigar-chawing district attorney, withdrew from the pool politically sensitive or monster-media cases whenever it suited his fancy. The DA either handled those cases himself, if conviction seemed a lock, or lateraled to some Deputy DA—to advance a budding career or nip it in the bud.

Today’s schedule promised nothing exceptional. First came a DUI hearing: driving under the influence. After checking with his secretary for messages, Santos got the casefile and strode to Department D of Municipal Court, conveniently located on the same floor of the civic center as his own office.

In the corridor, Santos spotted Milton Foxx, conferring in hush tones with client Al Chacon.

Quite a character, the Foxx. Though nationally renowned and self-made millionaire twice over, he was notorious for rumpled beige suits. In his plush law suites, Foxx greeted clients in tailored three-piece woolen navy pinstripes and handwoven silk ties; the dangling gold fob bespoke of a 24-karat pocket watch, and the diamond on one pinkie would have put a Super Bowl ring to shame. During trial, that finger was bare as a babe, and Foxx wore the same mixed-blend beige suit to court day after day until the fabric frayed, at which time he replaced it with a clone. To see him posture in front of a jury for weeks on end, you might think he owned but one scuffed pair of tasseled tan loafers. Foxx stood shorter than average and lugged a stuffed-goose belly. Shunning a belt, he’d worn red suspenders before, during, and after the suspenders craze of the ‘90s—and the ‘60s. A wispy fringe of white hair outlined a bald pate. Had he donned a monk’s habit, he would have reminded old-timers of Friar Tuck in the Errol Flynn rendition of Robin Hood. The farsightedness of his youth had deepened with age, sparing Foxx the need to wear spectacles in court—except when he created suspense over the contents of Defense Exhibit A by removing horn-rims from cowhide case, gingerly wiping both lenses with blue velvet cloth, and mock scanning the document as he pretended to freshen his memory. He had a knack for winning over juries with his grandfatherly manner, a style he unconsciously affected after having practiced criminal law for some forty years.

Santos nodded hello and opened the courtroom door. He paused as Foxx hailed. Mr. Deputy? A word or two, if you don’t mind humoring an elderly gent?

Foxx called all prosecutors Mr./Ms. Deputy, in a self-effacing tone suggesting they could hardly expect the old geezer to remember individual names. (Mr. Deputy also underscored Santos’s status as Deputy DA, answerable to the district attorney, whereas Foxx was answerable alone to God, gravity, and the IRS.) Few were taken in by the affectation. Foxx knew the name—the strengths and weaknesses—of every prosecutor he dealt with.

Any time, Counsel, Santos said, with some deference. There was a limit to that deference. Santos could never bring himself to say the Foxx, even though defense counsel encouraged all comers to use his trademarked moniker. What can I do for you?

That recalls JFK’s memorable exhortation. ‘Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask rather, what you can do for the scalawags that bleed it dry.’

When Santos kept still, Foxx added, "You ought, perhaps, inquire what I can do for you?"

I’ll bite, Santos said good-humoredly. He enjoyed sparring with Foxx. How can you help me? This time? His tone implied that, if any help were forthcoming this time, it would be the first time Foxx had given comfort to the enemy.

Today’s hearing is a done deal, Foxx said. I stake my reputation, for what it’s worth, on guaranteeing that Harlan will grant my motion. Harlan meant Municipal Court Judge Harlan Banks III; the motion sought to suppress certain blood-alcohol test results.

You’ve got the fix in?

No need. Merit will out.

I may have some points to make on that score.

I’ll deal with that inside if need be, said Foxx, tossing a confident nod at Department D. Here’s my offer. Reduce the DUI to reckless driving, and my client will cop a nolo. A nolo would avoid wasting taxpayers’ money on a protracted trial.

Don’t give me that bull, said Santos, aware of Foxx’s penchant for draining government coffers. Pique led Santos to voice a peripheral concern. And since when do you handle routine DUIs? You wouldn’t be defending Chacon as a favor to some honcho in the drug trade, would you?

Foxx maintained a discreet silence.

Moot point. Mr. Lovellette sets office policy, and he doesn’t permit any exceptions. No plea bargaining on DUIs—especially where the blood-alcohol results show extreme intoxication. People v. Chacon did exceed the norm: 0.23%, nearly triple the legal limit.

Politics! scoffed Foxx. Pure political grandstanding! From his indignant tone, one would never guess that Foxx and Lovellette formed two hands of a regular Thursday night poker quartet. Judge Banks comprised a third hand.

Grandstanding?

Playing to the MADD crowd. Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Speaking of the fair sex, there’s someone you should meet. Foxx gestured to a Latina cradling an infant on a lacquered bench. Two boys in their Sunday best played shadow soccer nearby, eliciting reprimands in Spanish every few seconds.

Santos grimaced, as if to say That’s hitting below the belt.

Foxx held eye contact, tantamount to: Maybe so. She’s still part of the equation.

No one’s doing her any favors, letting a DUI off light. Next time he might sail off a cliff. With her and the kids aboard.

There’s always AA.

Be that as it may Santos’s words trailed off as he pivoted and entered the courtroom.

Remain seated! croaked a whiskey-and-tobacco voice. Municipal Court Department D now in session, Honorable Harlan Banks the Third presiding.

As the judge whisked in, ebony gown billowing, everyone remained at ease. Besides the bailiff and Santos, there were court clerk and court reporter; Foxx and Chacon; Ramona and her brood; twelve jumpsuited inmates and lone public defender; mugging victim, arm in sling, who sought to witness justice firsthand; handful of court groupies who hopscotched from one department to another the day long; and threadbare first-timer whose footwear—pastiche of plastic bags and fermented newspapers—conjured up guilty thoughts of the homeless.

Judge Banks settled in on the dais. He had a patrician nose, capillaried cheeks, cleft chin. His leonine bearing and full head of gilt-white hair coiffed like a mane conveyed a stately aura.

Court clerk called the first case on the 9:00 calendar: People v. Chacon.

Ben Santos, ready for the People. The People resounded with conviction.

Foxx rose with arthritic care. Milton Foxx, appearing for the defense. My client, Señor Alberto Chacon, is present.

Señor Chacon stood upon being nudged. An ever-ready smile made his wary eyes, shrouded by thick brows, somewhat less off-putting. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his callus-ridden hands, which slipped in and out of trouser pockets, clasped in a lazily prayerful attitude, plucked at a scab.

I’ve examined your motion—Banks unto Foxx—as well as the prosecution’s rebuttal. Have you anything to add, Counsel?

A rhetorical question if Santos had ever heard one, as Foxx confirmed.

Indeed, I do. Will the bailiff kindly summon Deputy Sheriff Pat Winters?

As the bailiff accessed the corridor, Foxx added, A few brief words, if I may?

Santos rolled his eyes. Foxx’s few brief words could run an hour or more.

Go ahead, Milton, but I’ll hold you to ‘brief.’ You can save your sermon for the jury.

Foxx got the message. If he had to keep his remarks brief, he’d make sure they packed some punch. Spiked punch, at that.

By rights, Foxx said, I should never be permitted to address the jury. If Your Honor sees fit to suppress the blood-alcohol results, Mr. Deputy’s whole case goes belly-up. And that would be just, because this case stinks worse than a Sicilian fishmonger. Oh, yes! On the surface, it might seem to implicate a petty vehicular event…

Santos frowned. From his mother he’d inherited impatience for affected usage. Accident fit. Why use an obfuscatory term like vehicular event? That, he realized, was the point: to obfuscate.

.whereas, in fact, it entails a serious encroachment on the Bill of Rights.

Judge Banks took advantage of Winters’s entry to intervene. Your witness, Counsel.

Santos glanced up as Winters negotiated the swinging gate. They had collaborated on more than one prosecution. Today, she looked taut and peaked. The flu? Or side effect of the anemic fluorescent lighting?

CHAPTER 2

Pat Winters was sworn in. She identified herself as a deputy sheriff, a fact attested to by her spit-shined badge and olive-green uniform. Capless, she wore her hair in a tightly wound bun. Inside, she was equally wound up following certain events earlier that day. Winters would have missed court altogether if partner Don Lange hadn’t reminded her.

Foxx opened direct examination. Calling your attention to Halloween, were you on duty at approximately 11:54 P.M.?

Yes, sir.

At that time, did you have occasion to make the acquaintance of Mr. Chacon? Foxx never dehumanized a client by saying defendant.

Affirmative.

Winters described the close encounter. She and Lange had pulled to a stop at an intersection. They proceeded forward and, too late, realized that a barreling TransAm had no intention of heeding the STOP sign. The driver belatedly pumped the brake pedal, mitigating the impact. At the helm was Al Chacon.

Did you conduct a field-sobriety test?

No.

How about your partner?

What about him? Churning inside, Winters felt disinclined to cut Foxx any slack.

Not missing a beat, Foxx said, Did Officer Lange administer a field-sobriety test?

Yes.

In your presence?

Roger.

Winters elaborated in response to ensuing questions. When told to close his eyes and touch nose with index finger, Chacon brushed his Pancho Villa mustache. When told to lean backward, Chacon nearly plopped on his derriere. When told to walk forward heel to toe, he veered toward a drainage ditch.

Did you observe any additional signs of intoxication?

As Winters cited Chacon’s slurred speech, dilated pupils, red eyes, and Corona breath, Santos marveled at the ironic use of any.

Did you arrest my client on suspicion of drunken driving? Foxx italicized suspicion—not that Winters’s account left room for reasonable doubt.

Yes.

"Prior to arresting him, did you recite his Miranda rights?"

Santos started to object since Miranda v. Arizona was irrelevant to admissibil-ity of the blood-alcohol results. Reconsidering, he kept his seat. So much the better if Foxx strayed afield, muddled the testimony, and taxed the judge’s patience.

Apparently Foxx had rethought the Miranda line of attack. Or perhaps his question had been a blind. In any event, he didn’t pursue the issue after Winters admitted not having warned Chacon of his rights.

Did you transport him to the station for booking?

We took him to Memorial.

County hospital? Why was that? The 2nd Cardinal Rule for questioning a hostile witness is Never ask why—why? being virtual invitation to yank the rug from beneath a helpful response, or embroider a harmful one. Here Foxx could safely honor the rule in the breach. He knew Winters’s answer and knew, too, how to capitalize on it.

For an X-ray. He was moaning and groaning about a busted wrist. Also, to test for intoxication.

I gather you didn’t administer a breathalyzer test at the arrest scene.

Santos rose. That’s not a question, Your Honor.

Judge Banks looked peeved at the interruption. "And that isn’t an objection. Having made his point, he added, If you were to object, I would sustain. Banks glanced at Foxx. Next question."

Did you offer Mr. Chacon the option of a breathalyzer?

No. Anticipating the follow-up, Winters volunteered, Our device had malfunctioned. Dead battery or something.

When you got to Memorial, did you ask if they had a breathalyzer?

No.

Did you ask my client if he preferred a urine test?

No.

Let’s get this crucial point straight. You mean to say—

Spare the editorializing, Counsel.

Sorry, Your Honor. Foxx gave a passable imitation of contriteness. Did you inform him he could take a urine test if he so desired?

Same answer.

No?

Yes, said Winters. No.

Yes? No? You can’t have it both ways, Officer.

Winters refused to be baited. She said evenly, We didn’t offer a urine test.

So? You forced him to take a blood test. It comprised one part inquiry, nine parts accusation.

We didn’t get physical, if that’s what you’re implying.

Did you threaten to ‘get physical,’ as you so delicately put it? The defense motion claimed that the deputies had threatened to restrain Chacon while the nurse assaulted him with the syringe.

No. To preempt the next question, Winters offered, I might’ve said he had to take a blood test.

’Had to’? Foxx’s eyes twinkled at the admission. And if he didn’t?

He might’ve got the idea we’d make him. No telling how perps—

Foxx butted in. You’ve answered, thank you.

Santos stood. Objection. Cutting off the witness.

Disagreeing, the judge ruled that Winters had fully answered the narrow question posed to her. Banks threw the ball back in Foxx’s lap. Proceed, Counsel.

You admit—do you not?—that my client expressed a fear of needles. A pervasive fear dating twenty-odd years to childhood?

I’m not too hot about needles myself.

That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘yes,’ I take it.

When Winters didn’t respond, Foxx let the matter lie. No further questions. He started for his seat, then stopped and swiveled. One last question. You didn’t get a search warrant before drawing his blood?

Obviously not.

"Nor after drawing it?"

No.

Again Foxx said No further questions. He confirmed as much by taking his seat.

Your witness, Mr. Prosecutor.

Only a couple questions, Your Honor.

His Honor smiled gratefully.

Santos began his rehabilitation of the witness. Officer, at any time did you intend to carry out physical force?

Foxx rose laboriously and trumpeted Objection! It came too late to drown out Winters’s ’Course not.

How on earth could my client know what the officers intended? Unless, that is, Mr. Deputy is suggesting he’s clairvoyant? Strike that. Telepathic. Foxx cast a glance at Santos, who met it unflinchingly. I thought not. In which case, Mr. Chacon was entitled to take the officers’ statements—their threats—at face value.

Calm down before you have a stroke, Milton, Banks said. Objection sustained. He struck ’Course not from the record.

Santos probed from another angle. Did you or your partner use physical force?

No.

Or make any gesture of threatened force?

Negative.

Did either of you brandish a weapon?

Same answer.

You testified you didn’t get a search warrant. Why not?

At that hour? It was well past midnight. By the time we could’ve collared a judge, the defendant’s blood-alcohol content would have dropped dramatically.

The evidence of intoxication would have been impaired, or lost altogether?

Affirmative.

Pass the witness. Santos felt satisfied. With a short cross-examination, he had blunted the thrust of Foxx’s direct. Any inference of a coerced blood test had seemingly withered on the vine.

On re-direct, Foxx sought to graft life into his motion. You deny having brandished a weapon. And yet, you and Officer Lange did wield regulation-issue flashlights, did you not?

Roger.

"Heavy-duty flashlights, I should say."

Winters held her tongue.

Made of anodized steel, yes?

Whatever you say, Counselor.

Judge Banks shot Winters a don’t get cute look. She shrugged it off.

Why, ventured Foxx, I daresay you could crush the skull of a charging rhino with one of those non-weapons.

Objection.

Sustained.

A wail rose in the pews. "Lo siento," murmured Ramona Chacon, uttering endearments as she fled with infant to the corridor.

People v. Chacon proceeded to argument. Foxx amplified his few brief words. With impassioned rhetoric and extravagant gestures, he sang the praises of the Fourth Amendment ban on warrantless searches and seizures.

"Mind you, Your Honor, we’re not dealing with seizure of contraband during a routine vehicular stop. Nor does this case involve invasion of a man’s home, his inviolate castle. No, what we’ve got here is something far more sacred. This case implicates the government’s violation of the sanctity of a human body.

"The violation—desecration—was completely unnecessary given the evidence of intoxication. Overwhelming evidence, I might add.