78

Tate walked to the middle of the courtroom and stroked his chin, eyeing the witness. Rafael shifted in his seat and changed the position of his legs, right over left.

“Good morning, Mr. Rivera,” Tate said. Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

“’Sup,” Rivera shot back.

“You understand that because you’re testifying against me today, the attorney-client privilege no longer covers our communications, don’t you?”

Rivera shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“And that I can ask you questions about things you asked me to do while I represented you?”

“If you say so.”

“It’s not me saying so; it’s the rules of ethics.”

“Whatever.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Rivera, that you asked me to approach Judge Cynthia Snowden and bribe her to dismiss this drug charge against you?”

I glanced at Masterson, who appeared too relaxed for my liking. I decided that, even though it would break every rule of courtroom etiquette, I needed to be ready to object myself if Tate mentioned my dad.

For his part, Rivera scoffed at the question as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “Maybe in your dreams. In reality, nothing like that happened.”

“Do you deny telling me that some of your gang members had bribed Judge Snowden in the past?”

“Wait!” Judge Brown said. He glared at Tate, then shot an equally perturbed glance at Masterson. “Approach!”

I joined Tate and Masterson at Judge Brown’s bench.

“What’s this all about?” the judge hissed. “A three-time convicted felon trashing the integrity of a well-respected member of the bench?” Before Tate could answer, he turned to Masterson. “And why aren’t you objecting?”

Caleb Tate quickly explained his reasons for asking the question. I could tell Judge Brown didn’t like it, but there was no way he could prevent Tate from asking. It went straight to Rivera’s bias. Once Brown figured it out, Masterson didn’t need to explain why he wasn’t objecting.

“You’re on a very short leash here, Mr. Tate,” Brown said. “I don’t like unfounded accusations like this against another member of the judiciary.”

“I understand that,” Tate said. “But I’m not the one who put this guy on the stand.”

“A very short leash, Mr. Tate.”

After our conference, Tate returned to the well of the courtroom and asked the question again.

“I never said that,” Rivera claimed.

“Do you deny threatening me when I told you that I wouldn’t do such a thing and that you should never suggest it again?”

“Another ridiculous question. None of this happened.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Rivera, that you threatened to go to the prosecutors and testify against me in this case because I wouldn’t approach Judge Snowden?” Caleb Tate was raising his voice now, the first showing of real emotion and anger in this case. He jabbed his finger in the air, and I couldn’t understand why Masterson didn’t object. “Isn’t it true that you said you had something the prosecutors would have to believe? That you would watch them put a needle in my arm someday?”

“Mr. Tate!” Judge Brown interjected. “That’s three questions. Let him answer the first one.”

Masterson cast me a glance. See, it’s better if you let the judge intervene.

“Those are three lies,” Rivera said. “Not questions.”

Caleb Tate just stood there for a moment, nodding. He went back to his conference table and grabbed a handheld digital recorder. He gave Bill Masterson a transcript and handed one to the clerk so the court could follow along.

I felt my stomach drop to my feet. He had a tape?

This time it was Caleb Tate who was smiling. “You called me back after that first threat to give me one more chance. Do you remember that?”

Rivera eyed him warily. In all our conversations, in all my endless questioning about these events, Rivera had never mentioned a telephone call. But I could tell that his mind was reeling now, trying to recall exactly what he had said.

“You do recall that, don’t you?” Caleb Tate taunted. “Or do you need to be reminded?”

I could tell by Rivera’s body language that he remembered the call. The only question left was how stupid he had been—how much he had said and how much he had left unsaid.

“Judge, it appears that the witness may need his recollection refreshed,” Tate said.

Finally Masterson was on his feet. “We object, Your Honor. The defense hasn’t authenticated this tape yet. We’ve never heard it. We don’t even know if it’s Mr. Rivera’s voice.”

Judge Brown was studying the transcript and looked at Masterson over the top of his glasses. “Let’s take a short recess,” he said.

A few minutes later, with the jury out of the box, Judge Brown asked Caleb Tate to play the tape. I followed along on Masterson’s copy of the transcript, my heart sinking lower with each word.

Rivera: You’ve got twenty-four hours; then I’m talking.

Tate: Be my guest, Rafael. Then you can have a drug charge and a charge for lying to the prosecutors. They’ll never believe a three-time convicted thug like you.

Rivera: People talk. I know things I’m not supposed to know. They’ll believe me.

Tate: Like what?

Rivera: You’ve got twenty-four hours.

Tate: If you go to the DA, I’m no longer your lawyer. I’m free to tell them everything you’ve ever told me. Maybe they can add a charge for attempted bribery.

Rivera: [Laughter] What makes you think they’d believe a thug like you?

[End of call]

After the recording was played, Masterson rose slowly to his feet. Like me, he was trying to process this at warp speed. It seemed to confirm what Tate was saying. But there was nothing on the tape that could explicitly give us grounds to renege on Rafael’s deal. The tape was too ambiguous to support a charge of lying to us.

“Judge, you can’t let him introduce something like this without even authenticating the voices.”

“I’m entitled to play the tape and ask the witness whether that’s his voice,” Tate shot back. “That’s how you authenticate these things.”

Judge Brown turned to Rivera. “Is that your voice?”

Rivera glanced at me, and I glared back. He looked to the judge. “Sounds like it.”

Brown took off his glasses, rubbed his temple, and turned to Masterson. “I don’t have any choice in the matter. The tape’s coming in.”

After the jury settled back in the box, Caleb Tate played the tape. I couldn’t bear to watch the jurors’ reactions. Tate then asked Rivera again whether it was his voice on the tape.

“Sounds like it,” Rivera repeated.

“Does that refresh your memory about threatening me?” Tate asked.

Maybe Rivera would be smart enough to talk his way around this. Maybe he would make up something that would sound innocuous. But the guy was obviously dumb enough to threaten his lawyer in a phone call, so I tried to keep my hopes in check.

“That had nothing to do with Judge Snowden,” Rivera said. “I was talking about something else you were supposed to do. Filing some kind of pleading or something. I was just messin’ with ya.”

“So let me get this straight,” Tate said, his voice mocking. “You were saying I had twenty-four hours to file some kind of pleading or you were going to go to the prosecutors to cut a deal based on some information that somebody told you about my case?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Tate motioned to the jurors. “And you expect these people to believe that?”

Masterson was on his feet. “Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“In that tape, you said that you knew things you weren’t supposed to know. That ‘people talk.’ Were you referring to knowledge about the trace amounts of morphine found in the fingernail testing?”

“All I know is that I had given you morphine just like you asked. That’s who talked. You talked.”

Tate smiled broadly, and I could tell it was making Rivera mad. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re saying that in this telephone call with me, when you said that ‘people talk,’ you really meant that I talk?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I see. Well, let me ask you this—when you decided to talk to the DA, whom did you approach first?”

“The lead detective on the case.”

“Would that have been Detective Tyler Finnegan?” Tate asked.

Rivera shrugged. “If you say so.”

“And after you met with Detective Finnegan, then the two of you together met with Ms. Brock—isn’t that right?”

“Yeah. I already said that when Mr. Masterson was asking me questions.”

“Are you saying under oath, at the risk of your sterling reputation, that Detective Finnegan didn’t feed you a little information about the case before that meeting with Ms. Brock?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about giving you information about the morphine and about a six-month time frame for supplying the drugs.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“So when you said on that phone call that ‘people talk,’ you were not referring to Detective Finnegan?”

“No. I wasn’t talking about him.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“One hundred percent.”