Prime Witness by Steve Martini Read Free Book Online Page B

is not my concern. I am seething out to the tips of my ears. That Acosta should pack his arrogance across the river to poison my well on this side has me wondering if I have grounds to lay complaint to the Commission on Judicial Performance, the agency that dogs judges for misconduct in this state. No doubt my temporary role as public official swathes his slander in the protections of the First Amendment.
    When I protest, Ingel tells me there’s a reason for all of this. He means the Coconut’s involvement in a case outside his own county.
    “One of the victims,” he says, “the coed Sharon Collins, was his niece.”
    I sit slack-jawed.
    “His younger sister’s daughter,” says Ingel. He’s giving me a lecture on the Coconut’s family tree. Poor Mexican immigrants who made good, though his sister is not so well connected as the judge, so he is taking the lead on her behalf, according to Ingel, looking for a little extra justice no doubt.
    Sonofabitch, I think, of all the people on this planet.
    “From what I understand, Judge Acosta was like a father to the girl. Mother was divorced,” he says. “He is pretty broken up over the whole thing,” he tells me.
    Ingel looks at me like I’m supposed to do something about all this.
    “Sorry to hear it,” I say. “He probably has a lot of company.”
    Ingel stares at me.
    “The parents of the other victims, the other kids,” I tell him. The message is clear. Tell the judge to get in line.
    He gives me steely eyes.
    “We need to get something straight,” he says. “While you may have slipped through the cracks in getting here, you have a contract, and you will fulfill it, or I will see to it that you answer to the State Bar.”
    “On what charge?” I say.
    “Abandoning a client,” he says. “Unless I am wrong, that is still grounds for legal discipline. And don’t think about dumping the Putah Creek cases, rolling over on some early motions, allowing the cases to be dismissed so somebody else can refile them later. If I smell any collusion or negligence, I will have your ticket. You’ll be writing briefs by mail order for lawyers in other states. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Perfectly. I take it the county has no intention of retaining a permanent prosecutor for these cases?”
    He makes a face, like if he knows, he’s not saying. He picks up his watch. “If I can ever do anything more for you,” he says, “feel free to ask.” He looks at me stone cold, something from Rushmore. I get up, out of the chair.
    “One last word of advice,” he says. “There will be a lot of people watching you.”
    “Because of Judge Acosta?” I say.
    “He does have a personal stake in all this.”
    Sure he does, and he’s driving it into my ass.

Chapter Four
     
    T he state crime lab is an immense, low-lying block of a building, a modern concrete fortress. It is set back the length of a football field from the street, behind a verdant lawn bisected by a ten-foot-high iron fence that surrounds the entire facility.
    The largest of its kind outside of the FBI’s lab in Quantico, Virginia, this place is the province of the state attorney general.
    Claude Dusalt has set up this meeting. He wants to familiarize me with the evidence early, in case his investigators need a quick search warrant. The Putah Creek killer is drawing increased press attention and Claude wants to be ready to move on a moment’s notice with the first break.
    Derek Ingel, Davenport’s answer to Roy Bean, has been looking over my shoulder on every move, wanting to know the state of our evidence. No doubt so that he can pass it back to the Coconut. So far I’ve been able to keep him in the dark, because that is where I am. Ignorance is bliss.
    I fill out a form and get a security badge from a guard in a kiosk inside the main entrance to the crime lab.
    A few minutes later I hear the click of heels on concrete. A woman is approaching down a long corridor. I can see her through the slotted glass