CHAPTER 47
I am standing at the podium completely frozen for the moment and I can’t think of a time in my career as a trial lawyer or even as a law student taking part in mock trials when I stared at a witness this long and couldn’t conjure a single question to ask him.
“Mr. Corvelli,” Judge Maxa prods.
I stare at Koa and he at me and neither of us can speak for entirely different reasons and I realize then that I have lost that fire in my belly. I wonder briefly if I will ever be able to participate in another trial of any kind, whether this is once and for all the last stand for Kevin Corvelli.
“I have no questions for the witness at this time,” I say in a voice that is not my own. “But I would like to reserve the right to recall this witness during the defense’s case-in-chief.”
“Very well,” Maxa says, and Koa is excused, released from the witness stand, and as he passes me he whispers something that sounds like an apology, but he has no reason to apologize because he told the truth.
Koa told the jury on direct examination about Erin and Trevor Simms and their actions at Kanaloa’s on the night of the fire. He answered yes when asked whether there had been an argument between the newlyweds, whether the argument had been heated, whether the argument became physical at any point during the evening.
“Yes,” Koa said. “At one point, the defendant slapped the victim hard across the face.”
Koa testified about his own dispute with Erin Simms, how she refused to obey the bar’s no-smoking policy, how she then attempted to take her alcoholic beverage beyond the black iron gate. He described what she was wearing at the time—the red dress already burned into my memory—and I saw her clear as I had that very night. Finally, Koa described in sufficient detail the Zippo lighter Erin used to light her cigarette at the bar.
“Silver,” Koa said. “And I believe it was engraved, though with what words or letters I couldn’t tell you.”
Slowly I make my way back toward the defense table and my right leg sends an urgent message of pain to my brain and I hobble, glance out the window at the continuing rain, and wish that I was somewhere else.
“Please call your next witness, Mr. Maddox,” says Her Honor, and he does.
* * *
Izzy Dufu is a large man but not by Samoan standards. On direct he testifies about his position as assistant security chief at the Kupulupulu Beach Resort, where he has toiled for the past seven and a half years. His obvious courtroom jitters clearly endear him to the jury but they put me on high alert. Because I have seen Izzy around the resort, I’ve witnessed him introduce performers in front of crowds that would overflow this courtroom. Suffice it to say, Izzy Dufu is not ordinarily what you would describe as the shy type.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dufu,” I say once the witness is proferred to me. “Or may I call you Izzy?”
I want to calm those jitters, get him comfortable speaking with me, so that when I hammer him to hell and back the jury will notice the difference in his demeanor.
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Izzy’s fine.”
To accomplish this, I throw a few softballs to start, allow him to rehash his work history and the duties of his current job. Then I take him suddenly and without preamble to the night of the fire.
“The second time you visited Mr. and Mrs. Simms’s honeymoon suite,” I say, “that’s when you tell us you first observed the canisters of charcoal lighter fluid, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right, sir.”
“That second visit, that is also when you tell us you first observed a small leather Fendi handbag, is it not?”
“That’s when I first and last saw the handbag, that’s correct, sir.”
“Izzy, would you kindly remind the jury where the handbag was situated when you observed it during that second visit to the honeymoon suite?”
“The handbag was sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, sir. On the right-hand side.”
“I see. And would you also remind the jury where the canisters of charcoal starter fluid were situated when you observed them during that second visit to the honeymoon suite?”
“The canisters were on the floor in front of the minifridge in the corner of the kitchenette.”
“That would be the far right corner of the suite, correct?”
Izzy thinks about this. “Yes, that’s correct, sir.”
“How many canisters did you see?”
“Three.”
“You’re sure there were three?”
“Certain.”
“And remind us, Izzy, what was the brand name of the charcoal lighter fluid you say you saw in the room?”
“Kingsford.”
“Kingsford? And you’re certain of that, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You read the labels?”
“I recognized the containers. A lot of barbecuing goes down at the resort, so I’ve seen that brand hundreds of times.”
“And you are certain, Izzy, that the handbag you observed on the nightstand was a Fendi?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It couldn’t have been a Gucci?”
“No, sir.”
“Couldn’t have been Prada?”
“No, sir.”
“Could it have been Coach?”
“No, sir.”
“How about a Burberry?”
“No, sir.”
“Definitely a Fendi?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How was the handbag positioned when you observed it?”
“Standing straight up on the nightstand.”
“And this handbag was about five or six inches tall, you testified? About nine or ten inches wide?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the handbag read Fendi across the front of it?”
Izzy hesitates. “No, sir. I don’t believe I said that.”
“All right, but you did testify that you were certain this handbag was a Fendi. How did you identify the manufacturer of the handbag if the handbag didn’t read F-E-N-D-I across the front of it?”
“By the markings,” he says.
“The markings?”
“You know, the logo.” He clicks his fingers as he searches for the right word. “The insignia.”
“The insignia?”
“Yeah, the two capital F’s performing sixty-nine on each other.”
Even Judge Maxa smiles but she quickly puts an end to the chuckles by slapping her gavel. She was once a trial lawyer; she understands the importance of momentum.
Grinning, I say, “I won’t ask you to draw us a picture, Izzy.” When the new round of chuckles dies off, I add, “But I will ask you to describe for us the Burberry insignia.”
Izzy shakes his head, still smiling. “That I can’t do.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “Then please describe for us the Coach insignia.”
Izzy’s smile begins to fade. “Sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”
“Prada?”
“No, sir.”
“No problem, Izzy. I’ll give you an easier one. Describe the Gucci insignia for us.”
The smile has vanished, the nervous tics returned.
“No?” I say. “Not even Gucci? Even I can describe the Gucci insignia.”
“Then you’d better go ahead and do it,” Izzy says before Maddox can rise with his objection.
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Strike Mr. Corvelli’s last comment.”
I fold my hands together at the podium and watch Izzy squirm a bit on the stand. “How is it then, Izzy, that you came to recognize the Fendi insignia?”
There are plenty of acceptable answers Izzy can provide that will help to resurrect his credibility as a witness, at least half a dozen answers I can think of off the top of my head that will stop me dead in my tracks. Izzy is reaching for one of them, I can see that. But I can also see that each of those answers remains safely out of his grasp.
“The two F’s,” he says, nearly mumbling now. “They just, you know, came to me as I was looking at the handbag on the nightstand.”
“So right away, you recognized the bag as a Fendi?” I say.
“Not right away…”
“But as you were still looking at the bag?”
“Yes, sir. I took a long, hard look at it.”
Gotcha. “You testified earlier, didn’t you, Izzy, that on your second visit to the Simms’s honeymoon suite, you stood at the door for a grand total of under a minute while Erin Simms hurled expletives at you?”
A hesitation. “Yes, sir.”
“And you testified that during the entire exchange Erin Simms stood in the doorway in what you perceived as an effort to block your entrance into the suite?”
A visible swallow. “Yes, sir.”
“And you testified that Erin Simms refused to open the door all the way, that in fact, Erin Simms opened the door no more than quote ‘the size of my fist’ at any time during the exchange?”
A slow nod. “Correct, sir.”
“But in that time, in under a minute, with a woman blocking your view and hurling expletives at you, with the door open no more than five or six inches, you were able to not only observe but to identify three canisters of Kingsford charcoal lighter fluid and a small leather Fendi handbag that were situated, by your own admission, no less than twelve to fifteen feet apart from one another?”
Izzy stares at me with moist eyes, his lips visibly trembling. “What can I say, I have exceptional observation skills.”
“That you do, Izzy. Either that or one hell of a fertile imagination.”