CHAPTER 38

“Please state your name for the record.”

Ironic, because now that I know it, I’m unlikely to ever forget it.

“Sherry Beagan. B-E-A-G-A-N.”

“Thank you, Miss Beagan.” I take a sip of water from the defense table, then spin back around to face the witness. “I’m sorry. It’s Missus, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re married.”

“Yes.”

Flan served the subpoena on her two days ago and nearly got his head knocked off by her husband. Fortunately, big ol’ Bruce isn’t in the courtroom today for this, the hearing on Luke Maddox’s motion to have me disqualified as counsel for Erin Simms.

“Mrs. Beagan, allow me to direct your attention to Tuesday, July thirteenth of this year. Do you recall that day?”

Sherry’s cheeks turn cherry. She’s not nearly as sweat-free as she was the day she questioned me outside police headquarters. “I do.”

I hurriedly walk Sherry through the events of that morning, establishing that she was here in Hawaii gathering information for a feature article she was assigned by a medium-size travel magazine called The Modern Globetrotter. Eventually, I place her at Kanaloa’s Bar and Grill at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort in Ko Olina.

“Do you recall what time you arrived at Kanaloa’s Bar and Grill on that day?”

“It was in the afternoon. Sometime between three and four o’clock.”

“Do you recall seeing me at the bar when you arrived?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you recall what I was wearing that afternoon?”

“A beige linen suit with a red silk tie.”

“Thank you.” I open an orange folder at the podium and thumb through some unrelated photocopies, as though I’m ready to pounce on her if she begins lying. “Mrs. Beagan, did you consume alcohol at Kanaloa’s on that day?”

“I did.”

“Do you recall what you were drinking?”

“Something called a Tropical Itch.”

“An alcoholic beverage?”

“Yes.”

“And do you remember approximately how many of these alcoholic beverages you consumed at Kanaloa’s?”

“Several.”

“More than four?”

“Yes.”

“More than six?”

“Probably.”

“During that time you were at Kanaloa’s, did you and I engage in any conversation?”

“Yes, we talked for several hours.”

“Several hours?” I say as though surprised. “I see. Do you recall whether I was also consuming alcoholic beverages during that time?”

“You were.”

“Do you recall what was I drinking?”

“Mostly mai tais, but I saw you throw back a few shots of Patrón for good measure.”

“Interesting.” It is interesting, since I have no recollection of doing shots that afternoon, but what the hell; it only helps bolster my argument. “During the first hour or so of our conversation, do you recall what topics we discussed?”

“You told me you were a lawyer.” She pauses. “Well, actually, the bartender told me, and you took it from there. I told you I was a freelance writer here on assignment for The Modern Globetrotter. I talked about my family, my mother, my father, my brother. You refused to talk about yours.”

“At any point in that first hour of our conversation, did you tell me your name?”

“I did.”

“As the evening progressed, from all outward appearances, how would you describe my state of intoxication?”

“You went from being slightly inebriated to repulsively drunk.”

Ouch. “And upon what specifically do you base this determination?”

“Well, for one, you asked me my name at least a half dozen times over the hours we were together, yet you were never once able to use it. You kept calling me ‘baby,’ despite my requests that you call me Sherry. Toward the end of the evening, you were slurring your words a great deal, but you seemed utterly oblivious to it. Once or twice you said, ‘I’m your huckleberry,’ the meaning of which continues to elude me.”

“Anything else?”

“You were also rather unsteady on your feet, though you didn’t seem to realize it at the time.”

“All right. Did there come a time when you and I left Kanaloa’s together?”

“Yes, it was around a quarter after eleven P.M.”

“Did one or both of us pay a bar tab?”

“You did. You told the bartender within a few minutes of meeting me to put my drinks on your tab.”

“Your Honor, at this time, I’d like show the witness what has previously been marked as Defendant’s Exhibit A.”

Judge Maxa motions me forward. I hand Sherry the bar tab and ask whether she recalls seeing it. Once she authenticates the receipt, I ask her to read the date and times, the list of drinks purchased and their prices, the subtotal and total.

I then enter it into evidence. My alcoholism is now officially part of the court record.

*   *   *

After taking Sherry Beagan through the night, from fornication to the fire, I tender the witness to Luke Maddox, who asks a series of innocuous questions, attempting apparently to prove that I remained alert and coherent throughout the night.

Finally Judge Maxa releases the witness from the stand.

“All right,” the judge says. “That was very unusual, to say the least.”

Maddox stands. “Your Honor, I’d now like to put Mr. Corvelli on the stand to determine whether, in fact, he has personal knowledge and recollection of any material facts in this case.”

“No, Mr. Maddox,” she replies. “I think we’ve wasted enough of the Court’s time with this matter already.”

“But, Your Honor…” Maddox isn’t giving up. He’s already around the podium and approaching the bench. “Mr. Corvelli has merely established that he was drinking heavily on the night in question. He has not established that he was, as Mr. Harper states in his papers, ‘blacked out.’ In fact, I think it’s a very clever ruse on Mr. Corvelli’s part that he had his partner Jake Harper sign the supporting affidavit in his response papers. This way, Mr. Corvelli never admits he was blacked out, never denies under oath that he has personal knowledge and recollection relating to the facts in this case. Effectively, this strategy allows Mr. Corvelli to lie to this Court with impunity.”

Judge Maxa looks at me. “Your response, Mr. Corvelli?”

I stand in front of the defense table, my body slouched as though I’ve been punched in the gut. “Your Honor, I’m appalled at Mr. Maddox’s accusations. Frankly, the actions taken by Mr. Maddox in this case, coupled with the statements he just now made to Your Honor, cause me to wonder whether Mr. Maddox suffers from some paranoid delusion.”

Maddox spins, an ugly smirk on his face. “Oh, you son of a—”

“Mr. Maddox!” the judge shouts. “You’ll address your arguments to me, not to one another. Now, do you have any other witnesses or evidence you’d like to present?”

“Your Honor,” Maddox says, “included in my papers are copies of notes taken by a fire investigator named Darren Watts at the scene. Those notes expressly show that Mr. Corvelli has a clear memory of the events of that evening—”

“Had a clear memory of that evening,” I interrupt. “Your Honor, as Mr. Harper notes in his response papers, a potential witness may not testify if he lacks personal knowledge. And ‘personal knowledge,’ for purposes of this rule, means not only that the witness perceived the events about which he is to testify, but that he has a present recollection of that perception.” I sweep my hand like a magician. “Clearly, based on the evidence introduced today, I do not.”

“Your Honor,” Maddox barks, “I am certain that I can refresh Mr. Corvelli’s present recollection using the notes Mr. Watts took at the scene.”

Judge Sonya Maxa shrugs. “What do you say, Mr. Corvelli? Want to give it a shot?”

“No skin off my teeth, Your Honor. But allow me to remind the Court what is really at stake here. The Sixth Amendment of the Constitution guarantees every criminal defendant the right to effective assistance of counsel. That guarantee includes the right to representation by counsel of one’s choice. If the Court makes the wrong determination on an attorney disqualification motion, erroneously depriving a criminal defendant of her right to counsel of choice, reversal of any conviction is mandated.”

I point to Maddox and glance over to see the steam rising from his ears. “That may be fine for this prosecutor, Your Honor, because Mr. Maddox may very well be the chief prosecutor or maybe even governor by the time this appeal reaches the high court, but it is wholeheartedly unfair to my client.”

Not to mention to Your Honor, who certainly does not wish her rulings to be overturned or her convictions to be reversed.

“Your Honor—” Maddox starts. But that’s as far as he’s getting today.

“Enough, Mr. Maddox,” the judge says, raising her right hand. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Mr. Corvelli is playing a bit fast and loose with the rules of the Court. But let me tell you what Mr. Corvelli has also succeeded in doing. Mr. Corvelli has, by putting Mrs. Beagan on the stand and being so thorough as to walk her through the entire afternoon and evening, established something else, besides his own morbid drunkenness—namely, that he and Mrs. Beagan were together the entire time, and therefore, witnessed the same events. Therefore, if the State wants a witness to testify as to what Mr. Corvelli personally observed, the State has one in Miss Sherry Beagan.”

“Missus,” I correct Her Honor.

“Your Honor,” Maddox tries again.

“A lack of personal knowledge,” the judge states for the record, “is an exception to the competency rule as it pertains to witnesses. ‘Personal knowledge,’ for the purposes of this rule, means that the witness perceived the event about which he is to testify and that he has a present recollection of that perception. There is insufficient evidence before this Court that Mr. Corvelli has a present recollection of the night in question. I, therefore, see no reason to deny the defendant the attorney of her choice, and I am accordingly denying the prosecution’s motion to have Mr. Corvelli disqualified as counsel in this case.”

A single rap of the gavel and Erin and I are in this together.

For better or for worse.