‘I would point out that Mr. Vega is the state’s witness. We did not call him. These convictions go to his qualifications to testify. If he chose not to disclose this disability to the state, that’s their problem. They should take it up with him.’
‘But, your honor,’ says Cassidy.
‘He’s got a point,’ says Woodruff. ‘You called the witness.’
‘But the conviction wasn’t public record.’
‘First maybe we should find out if there was a conviction.’ Woodruff motions for the papers, to examine them.
I hand a set of the documents up to the bench, and Woodruff scans them. Another goes to Cassidy, who quickly sits and pores over them with Lama, a lot of grim looks.
All the while Jack sits in the box, turning various shades of gray. A couple of times Woodruff consults with him quietly over the edge of the bench and receives sober nods from Jack.
‘It appears these are authentic,’ says Woodruff. ‘Certified copies,’ he says. ‘Subject to a later motion to strike, I will allow counsel to explore the question,’ he says.
Cassidy’s still protesting. ‘Unfair surprise,’ she says. ‘We’ve been sandbagged by federal authorities,’ she tells Woodruff. At one point she actually mentions Dana by name, in the same way one might spit out another four-letter word.
It is all to no avail. Woodruff says her objections are noted and tells her to sit down.
I hand a set of the documents to Jack, the only player who hasn’t seen them, and I ask him if in fact they do not accurately reflect the convictions entered in his name in the federal court.
He starts to whine about his deal. ‘They weren’t supposed to release any of this until the end of the trial,’ he says. ‘We had an arrangement,’ he tells Woodruff. He’s ignoring me like I’m not here, making his appeal to the black robes.
‘Take it up with the federal court,’ says Woodruff. Jack is pitched back into the dark pit with me.
‘Mr. Vega, I ask you one more time. Do these documents accurately reflect your convictions under various pleas of guilty to felony charges in the federal court?’
‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘I’m not a lawyer.’ Like the iron statues of Lenin, you can hear the thud, the sick leaden sound. Jack the upright legislator has just toppled.
With this there’s a swell of murmuring in the front rows. Pencils worked to a dull point. A couple of the electronic folks head out to strike postures and make news in front of their cameras.
The final blow. I reach into the packet of documents and pull out a sheaf of stapled pages, four in all. It is a sentencing brief prepared by Jack’s lawyers. I call the court’s attention to the document, and a minute later we are all singing from the same sheet. I ask Jack to read it. When he is finished I wade in.
‘Did your lawyers prepare this?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you advanced this argument to the federal court. That because your wife was murdered you made a hardship appeal for straight probation on the federal charges. No prison time,’ I say. ‘Is that right?’
‘The kids needed a father,’ he says. ‘She was in jail.’ He’s pointing to Laurel.
‘Yes, based almost entirely on your allegations,’ I say. ‘There are some who might suggest that you should have been there instead.’ I’m talking about jail.
‘I didn’t commit murder,’ he says.
‘And neither did my client. And you know it,’ I tell him.
He doesn’t respond to this. The best answer I could have hoped for.
‘The fact remains,’ I say, ‘that while your wife was dead and your former wife was in jail awaiting trial on charges of murder, that the only one who actually seems to have benefited from this sorry state of affairs was you. Isn’t that so?’
‘How did I benefit?’ he asks.
‘Your wife has a lover. You were jealous. She got pregnant. So you killed her, framed your former spouse, and used the tragedy to ease your own sentence on criminal charges. Masterful,’ I tell him. ‘Brilliant. It almost worked.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ he says.
‘What one could expect from a man who has survived by his wits in the Legislature for two decades.’ I speak like this is some den of thieves, a rabbit warren for breeding organized crime, which Jack has now confirmed by his own conduct. What the public suspect, what we both know, that there is a litany of further indictments in the offing. With any luck these will be breaking during our case-in-chief.
He repeats the denial, Jack’s stock-in-trade: ‘Bullshit. This is bullshit.’
Woodruff seems to give him license here, realizing that the witness is at a loss for words, that in defense he should be allowed his best form of expression. It has its effect on the jury, and Jack slowly realizes this.
‘I lost my wife.’ He sits up straight in the chair, finds the last scrap of dignity, and stares me in the eye.
‘And you found the silver lining in that adversity, didn’t you?’ I wave the sentencing brief in my hand for him to see.
It is a question that requires no response. The answer lies in Vega’s weary eyes as he surveys the media, knowing what is in store. It is a classic case, Jack digging himself a hole by his convenient memory. It started with the gun, a throwaway issue in this case, that he could easily have disclosed to the cops. But to Jack there was more intrigue in concealment. The adventure of deception has made up the better part of his life. This first slipup tainted him as to the second, the rug and its true ownership. If Jack had been a standup guy on the pistol and told the cops about it, his word might have carried more weight as against the black-and-white terms of the settlement agreement.
As it is, this all now devolves in a common theme about Jack’s neck, that nothing he says can be believed, that here sits a man who is a stranger to the truth. It is a portrait now stretched and displayed in the chipped and frayed frame of political corruption, an image that could be properly hung only in a rogues’ gallery.
Chapter 28
This morning I’m in the office going over some last-minute details before heading for court when the com-line on my phone buzzes.
‘Yes’.
‘Your nephew is here to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘Danny Vega,’ she says.
‘Here?’
‘Yes. Shall I send him in?’
The shock of my life. ‘Go ahead,’ I say.
A minute later shadows on the translucent glass of the door, and Danny ambles into my office. He’s lost some weight and looks like he hasn’t shaved the light peach fuzz from his chin in a few days. His clothes have the look of travel, a wrinkled shirt and jeans with tailored fraying around the knees that could use a washing, dark athletic shoes like combat boots, and no socks.
‘Uncle Paul,’ he says. It’s always the same with Danny. He will be calling me Uncle Paul when he is thirty-five and I am walking with a crutch. A shy grin. He holds out his hand for me to shake.
‘What are you doing here?’ I’m standing over my desk, gripping his hand. I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but Danny’s timing has always left something to be desired. He was safely ensconced a half continent away for the duration, and neither I nor his mother need this distraction at the moment.
‘I was worried about Mom,’ he says. ‘Thought maybe she could use some support.’
‘Where’s Julie?’ I ask.
‘She’s fine. She’s back there,’ he tells me. We are still playing cryptic games as to where precisely this is. ‘I came out on the bus,’ he says. ‘Maggie knows. I just couldn’t stay there anymore. I had to see how Mom was doing.
‘She’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘I have a feeling she’s going to be pretty upset when she finds out you’re back here.’
‘Yeah. Well …’ He shrugs a little, like maybe she asked for too much.
‘I saw the morning paper,’ he says. ‘The news about Dad.’
He could not miss this. Every paper in the state is carrying it on the front page: LONGTIME LEGISLATOR CONVICTED OF CORRUPTION.