by Lara Bazelon
Abby looks at Luz in surprise. “What?”
“He called me,” Luz says, “after Will came to see him to get my file. He asked me some questions about my case. I told him about the manslaughter deal, that I wasn’t taking it. He explained to me about the law of self-defense.”
Abby holds up her hand, trying to ignore the whining of the breast pump. “What does Mr. Estrada telling you about the law have to do with—”
“He asked me about you,” Luz says, speaking over her. “I guess he knows who you are. That you had a big case once and—” she shrugs “—I don’t know. I told him you came back early for me. To try my case.”
Abby swallows. “What did he say?”
“That you are a holy terror.” Luz takes in Abby’s shocked expression and smiles slightly. “He said that you would fight like hell for me.”
“That’s right,” Abby says, angry all over again, “and you are making that very difficult by lying to me. Is it because—is it because you think—” she breaks off. “Will told me you disapprove of me. Of—” she gestures to the tubes and cones and cloth velcroed to her upper body “—my choices.”
Luz stares at her blankly. “Why would I disapprove?”
Because you think I’m a bad mother. Abby opens her mouth to say the words and closes it as Luz says, “You came back for me, right?”
Abby feels her throat close up and swallows again, hard, against the sudden ache in her throat.
“Mr. Estrada told me that there are certain things about my case that wouldn’t help you in the fight,” Luz goes on. “Some things that would be better off with just him and me knowing.” She looks down at Cristina, smoothing the dark hair on her head. “I trust him,” she says. “But, he said in the end you would see what is best. That you would understand the situation. He told me to trust you. So if you want to know those things now, I will tell you. Do you want to know?”
What Abby wouldn’t give right now for ten more minutes. Fifteen. To think. To digest. To plan. But no, Luz is waiting for her and the clocking is ticking. Slowly, Abby shakes her head. “Just answer the questions I ask you.”
* * *
Now back in front of the jury, Abby makes sure to smile and exude calm.
“Good morning, Captain Aronson.”
“Good morning, counsel.”
“You told the jury that when you asked my client if there was someone you could call for her—a friend—that she said no?”
“That’s correct.”
“But there was someone—there had been someone she was calling all along, right?”
Abby sees a flash of fear in Aronson’s eyes, but he inclines his head politely. “I’m not understanding your question.”
“Mrs. Rivera Hollis had been calling you to confide the problems she was having with her husband.”
Shauna stands, and without looking at her, Abby holds out her hand, five fingers spread. “I haven’t asked my question.” She turns back to Aronson. “Would records from your cell phone show calls between you and Mrs. Rivera Hollis in the months leading up to the night of Sergeant Hollis’s death?”
Shauna is speaking now, objections flying every which way. Assumes facts not in evidence, badgering, speculation.
“Overruled.” Dars, leaning forward in his leather chair, is clearly keen to get the story himself. “Did you talk to the defendant on the phone about her husband on other occasions?”
“I—Yes.” Aronson has paled visibly and his hands, which had been resting on his lap, now grip each other.
“How many times?” Dars has now apparently decided to take over the questioning.
“I’m not—I’m not sure.”
“Alright, ballpark then. More than ten?”
“I—Yes.”
Dars raises his eyebrows and nods at Abby, her signal to resume. The courtroom has gone very quiet, the row of reporters leaning forward like greyhounds at the starting line; the jurors, to a person, staring fixedly at Aronson.
Abby picks up Luz’s note. “You also met with my client, alone, on several occasions?”
“Sidebar, Your Honor.” Shauna isn’t yelling, but in the stillness of the courtroom her voice clangs.
Dars beckons them forward as he steps down, joining Abby, Will, and Shauna in a tight circle around the court reporter.
“This is trial by ambush,” Shauna says, visibly struggling to keep her voice at a whisper. “Those cell phone records and witness statements should have been turned over weeks ago.”
“We don’t have cell phone records or witness statements,” Abby says.
“I imagine not.” Dars crosses his arms, the sleeves of his black robe closing like drapes. “No need, is there, Ms. Rosenberg, when you can bluff, knowing your client has already told you everything.”
More like a client who tells me nothing until the last possible moment on instructions from yet another lawyer trying to seize control of this case. And had she known, Abby damn sure would have gotten those records as corroboration knowing she would never have to turn them over on a hostile witness. She can’t help but look over at Will, who is determinedly not meeting her gaze.
Shauna isn’t giving up. “She can’t hide behind the attorney-client privilege to make baseless insinuations of some kind of—of improper sexual relationship.”
Dars looks at Abby like she’s delivered an unexpected present. “Is that what you’re doing?”
Abby keeps her eyes on Dars. “I’m not insinuating anything. What matters are the communications between my client and Captain Aronson about Sergeant Hollis.”
“And that’s hearsay,” Shauna says.
“I’m not offering it for the truth. It goes to my client’s state of mind.”
“Her state of mind weeks or months before she killed her husband—how is that relevant—”
“You’ve made it relevant,” Abby snaps. “You’ve argued from the beginning that this was premeditated—”
But Dars has heard enough. “The government’s objection is overruled.”
“Your Honor—” Shauna starts.
Dars wags a stubby finger in Shauna’s face. Bad girl. “This is your mess, counsel. How in God’s name you failed to ask your own witness these questions yourself is beyond my comprehension. Now step back.”
When everyone has resumed their places, Dars says, “Ms. Rosenberg, please continue.”
“Did you meet with Mrs. Rivera Hollis alone?”
“Yes.” Aronson looks like someone who has just been told he has brain cancer after complaining of a mild headache: his eyes are glazed with shock and his voice is flat. From now on, Abby hopes, he will go blindly wherever she leads him.
“Captain, you described Sergeant Hollis to the jury as a quote ‘gentle giant’?”
Aronson blinks. “I—Yes.”
“That’s not how Mrs. Rivera Hollis described him to you, was it?”
“No.”
“She told you when he got drunk she became afraid of him?”
“It wasn’t a lot of times.”
“That’s not my question,” Abby says, keeping her voice polite. Oh, look, you spilled your milk. “Do you need me to repeat it?”
“I—No. I mean, yes, that’s what she said.”
“My client was afraid because when Sergeant Hollis became drunk he hit her and kicked her?”
“Yes.”
“My client was afraid because when Sergeant Hollis became drunk he would get on top of her and the only way she could get him off her was by submitting to have sex with him?”
“Yes.”
“She asked for your help?”
Aronson’s voice is low, so low Abby can see the jurors leaning forward as they strain to hear. “She told me not to talk to him about it. That it would make it worse.”
Abby ignores this. “You told h
er you would get Sergeant Hollis counseling.”
“I did get him counseling. Anger management.”
“It didn’t work, did it?”
“Objection, calls for an expert opinion.”
“Sustained. Next question.”
“When my client called you in the early morning hours of October 14, asking you to remove Travis Hollis from their home, that was a highly unusual event, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“At the same time, given what you knew, you weren’t entirely surprised, were you?”
Aronson passes a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t think it would come to that.”
“Within two minutes, you were in your car, headed over to the Hollises’ house, within six minutes, you were inside the house itself because you sped and ran red lights to get there. That’s eight minutes, total, from getting the call to getting inside the house.”
“Yes.”
“You were concerned,” Abby repeats and lightly stresses the last word, “not just by what Mrs. Rivera Hollis told you, but by the nasty names Travis Hollis called his wife before he took the phone out of her hand and smashed it?”
Aronson holds her gaze. “Yes.”
“You did not make a call to any law enforcement officer under your command, though, until you arrived at the scene, did you?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t think to call 911 until you were inside the house, did you?”
“No.”
“You were hoping you could handle the situation yourself, weren’t you?”
Aronson clenches his jaw. “Listen, I have dealt with more than fifty domestic disturbance calls over my career. Never did I call in any help until I assessed the situation myself. Not one ended up like this. If I had known—”
Abby cuts him off, “You let eight minutes go by before you called anyone for backup. A lot can happen in eight minutes, can’t it, Captain?”
“Objection, vague.”
“A domestic confrontation, that you knew was escalating, it can turn dangerous, even deadly, in eight minutes?”
“I didn’t know she was going to kill him,” Aronson says. His eyes are hard now, glittering.
“What you knew,” Abby responds pleasantly, “was that my teenage client and her infant daughter were alone in a house with an angry drunk more than twice her size who had just called her a stupid cunt and smashed the phone.”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“I was concerned, like I said, counselor.”
“Concerned,” Abby repeats. She smiles. “Mrs. Rivera Hollis was so fortunate to have the benefit of your judgment and advice.”
“Your Honor—”
“Withdrawn.” Abby nods at Dars. “I’m done.”
“Redirect?” Dars inquires.
Shauna, not answering, strides to the podium. She has started talking before Abby has managed to sit down.
“I’ll keep this brief,” she says. “Did the defendant ever discuss with you the possibility of getting a restraining order, or leaving her husband, or filing for divorce?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Objection,” Abby says, “she’s asking the witness to speculate.”
“Do you know?” Dars asks Aronson.
Aronson turns to Dars. “I asked her that myself, so yes.”
“Overruled.”
“When you asked the defendant why, if she was so afraid, she wasn’t pursuing any of these remedies, what did she say?”
“She said Sergeant Hollis would never let her go. That he would never let the baby go. That it was till death do us part, like in their marriage vows.”
“What else did the defendant tell you?”
Abby feels an acrid taste in her mouth and a growing sense of dread. While she had her twenty minutes with Luz, Shauna had her twenty minutes with Aronson. There is a danger coming at her from this witness that she won’t be able to control because she hasn’t had enough time to figure out what it is. What terrible thing had Luz not told her because Abby had not thought to draw it out? Just answer the questions I ask you.
She stands, wobbling slightly. “The question is vague, Your Honor.”
“Rephrase, Ms. Gooden.”
Shauna says, “What else did the defendant tell you about Sergeant Hollis?”
“She said that the only way to get away from him would be to kill him.”
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
9:07 p.m.
Office of the Federal Public Defender
Los Angeles, California
“Hello, Abby.”
The voice comes out of the dark, and it is all she can do not to scream. Files fly from her hands and hit the floor in the seconds it takes before the motion sensor flicks on, washing her office in fluorescence.
Jonathan is seated in her office chair, rocking back slightly, his fingers steepled under his chin.
“Jesus Christ.” Abby sags against the wall for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain from her body. She stares at her best friend, trying to summon up anger, but she’s too exhausted and her voice comes out flat. “Get out of my chair.”
Jonathan comes over to her side of the room as she bends down to pick up the files.
“I’d offer to help but—”
“You’ll make it worse.”
He smiles. “I figured you’d say that.”
The piles reassembled, she moves ostentatiously around him to drop them on her desk, which is its usual disorganized mess. Stacks of other files in no particular order, unopened mail toppling the inbox that Cherise, Abby’s secretary, insists on keeping there in the hopes that Abby will one day be shamed by it. Abby sits down in her faux leather chair, heart still hammering, and stares at Jonathan across the desk.
“Sorry to startle you,” Jonathan says. “But, no returned calls or texts for two days now? I needed some way to get your attention. Are you holding a grudge from—” He waves a hand.
“No, you were right. It was a horrible idea.” She leans back in her chair for a moment and closes her eyes. “But I’m in trial, remember?”
“Yes,” he says, “about that.”
“What about it?”
“Come on, now, Abby. It’s me.”
She opens her eyes, stares back at him blankly, not a muscle twitching in her face.
He smiles. “Your lawyer.”
“Ah, so this is a privileged conversation.” Abby is careful to keep her tone neutral. The last thing she wants to do is talk to anyone about what is happening in Luz’s case. About what is happening between Abby and Will, the two of them like drunk drivers fighting for control of the wheel as the car swerves on a switchback. If she tells Jonathan, it will be real.
“Yes, it is.” Jonathan has stopped smiling. He leans forward, elbows on her desk. “Now why don’t you tell me what the fuck is going on. I was in court this morning before I left to go to your house for my mannying duties.”
“Your what?”
“My male nanny duties. With your son. Who is fine by the way, thank you for asking.”
“That’s good, and I—I am so appreciative,” Abby says, trying to make the words sound meaningful. At the mention of Cal, she feels a familiar ache in her breasts, wants nothing more than to be alone with him in the bathtub. “I was on my way home, you know, before you ambushed me.”
Jonathan shakes his head. “As I was saying. Based on what I saw in court, there is no way that either you or Shauna saw what was coming with Aronson.”
“That was a speed bump,” Abby says, her mind sticking with the car metaphor. “But everything’s okay now. Everything is fine.”
“God, you are a crap liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Really? Then why ever would it be,�
�� Jonathan asks, lifting an eyebrow, “that you were doing internet searches earlier this afternoon for a California state bar rule about what happens when attorneys have sex with their clients?”
Abby looks at her desktop screen, which has gone black. She hits the return key but there’s nothing to see except the screen-saved picture of Cal in a striped onesie, eyes open wide as saucers, a turquoise seen only in the most faraway and uncorrupted of oceans. She looks back at Jonathan. “You went on my computer—”
“I searched your browser history,” he says. “You should make a habit of erasing that, by the way. Easy to do and prevents, well, snooping. The government says they are going to give us password-protected desktops any day now, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Until then—” he lifts his shoulders “—I suggest you be more careful.”
“You motherfucker,” she says, but she can’t help the admiring tone that creeps into her voice.
“What are you going to do?”
“Do about?” She opens her eyes as wide as Cal’s.
“You know what.”
“Nothing,” she says. “I am going to do nothing.” She pauses. “And I don’t know. Not for sure.”
“You are such a bad liar it is almost comical. Do you have any idea how many tells you have? You’re like a little kid.” Jonathan shakes his head.
“I’m not lying,” she insists, knowing that she is only proving his point. She can feel the heat spreading from her face to her neck and she can’t meet his eyes.
“You need to disclose this to Paul. He’ll pull Will off the case. Probably, he’ll have to report him, which is unfortunate, but not your problem. Will made his bed, so to speak.”
“No. Dars will have to declare a mistrial.”
“And you think this case is trying so well? After today?”
What she thinks is that the case is completely out of control. But that is just as true for Shauna as it is for Abby, and as a general rule, defense attorneys cope far better than prosecutors with chaos. Because of whom they represent and under what circumstances—outgunned, out-resourced, and on the wrong side of the facts—people like Abby have to have plans B, C, and D through Z. Whereas prosecutors like Shauna have only one plan, and more often than not, they cannot cope when forced to deviate. Shauna is more unflappable than most, but Abby doesn’t doubt that she nearly shat her pantsuit today in court.
