ELENA
The pre-trial hearing was successful.
In fact, it was almost ridiculous how easy it was to suppress Mason Matlock’s testimony. Judge Hartford wore a furious scowl on his thick brow during the entire proceeding, but there was no denying that Mason Matlock was an unreliable witness, and without him present to cross-examine, it was impossible to validate his testimony the night of the shooting.
It was brilliant to watch Yara Ghourbani at work. The legal profession was all about puzzles. Researching and cross-examining until you found the right piece to fit with the overall picture of what you were trying to present. It was finding the right words and the right tone, about knowing how different laws interacted with each other and how you might use one to cancel out the other. Yara, clearly, was a master dissectologist.
She parried everything US Attorney O’Malley said with calm clarity, used his own need to posture against him, and never for a moment forgot who her audience of one was and what he stood for.
“Your Honor,” she’d finished, hands folded before her, eyes locked on Judge Hartford’s even though her expression was deferential. “Without Mason Matlock present as a witness, it is impossible to determine where his loyalty to his uncle Giuseppe di Carlo ends and the truth begins. As we have presented to the court, Mason accepted an apartment on the Upper West Side from his uncle only a few years prior and used his connection to Mr. Stewart Sidney on Wall Street to get his first job in the market. If he was so willing to accept his uncle’s favors, it stands to reason that he would have no qualms about lying for his uncle and their family to the police and this court. Without his presence in your courtroom and your judgment on his testimony and cross-examination, his statement should be suppressed.”
I smiled slightly at her subtle manipulative flattery. Even though I’d compiled all the research for the trial, it was like seeing it for the first time through the lens of such a powerful female lawyer.
Dennis sat at the opposite table with his lips pinched and hands crossed, unable to say anything because everything had already been said.
Judge Hartford too, seemed irritated by his lack of options. He shot USA O’Malley a quick look, then sighed. “I have read and listened to the motion to suppress objections, and the defense does have an…extensive argument for striking Mr. Matlock’s statement from evidence. Mr. Matlock is a problematic and prejudice witness due to his familial association with the deceased Giuseppe di Carlo. As Matlock has failed to appear, I have no choice but to rule in favor of the defense.”
The truth was, we had been sure going into the pre-trial hearing that we would secure a victory, but that wasn’t the only reason we had pushed to disallow Matlock’s statement. Going to court before trial allowed us to gain insight into how the prosecution was structuring their case and, potentially, what it hinged upon.
Even something as little as Dennis’s flatlined mouth gave away too much. It was obvious he was unhappy about the outcome, but he wasn’t fighting as hard as he could have to keep it. Which meant, probably, that he had something different up his sleeve to pin on Dante.
Yara thought it was another important witness.
I didn’t know why she was so certain, only that she’d emerged from a phone call with Dante in the office a few days ago and appeared in the doorway of the conference room I usually worked in to tell me so.
I didn’t pry. I was learning that the Camorra had their own ways of gathering evidence.
Which was why I wasn’t immediately on guard when Yara and I were leaving the courthouse, and Yara stopped me from getting into a cab back to the office.
“Have a coffee with me,” she suggested mildly as if we did such things all the time.
We did not.
And as far as I could tell, Yara didn’t have a friendly coffee with anyone at the firm ever. She was a lone pillar of strength. It was one of the reasons I was so drawn to her.
Even though suspicion spiked through me, I agreed because I would have been foolish not to. We walked together a few blocks from the courthouse to a little Italian place that served espresso through a window at the front of the small storefront. Yara ordered without asking me what I wanted, paid for our two double espressos, and then left me to carry the small white cups and saucers to the table she picked on the sidewalk farthest away from the door.
With every second she was silent, my pulse raced harder. She and Dante both had a similar predatory quality, their gazes too watchful, too hungry and calculating.