The Gods of Guilt(91)

Once I was back at the lectern, I again asked Fulgoni why Glory Days would plant a gun in Hector Moya’s hotel room.

“Trina Rafferty told me that both she and Glory Days were working for the DEA and they wanted to put Moya away for—”

Forsythe practically became airborne when he jumped up to object.

“Your Honor! Where is the foundation for that? The state strenuously objects to the witness and defense counsel using this trial to wander aimlessly through this valley of innuendo.”

The judge was swift in her response.

“I think Mr. Forsythe is correct this time. Mr. Haller, lay the foundation or move on to another topic with the witness.”

So much for the defense advantage. I took a few seconds to pull back and retool the examination. I then led Fulgoni through a series of questions that established the parameters of Moya’s arrest and conviction, paying careful attention to the federal code that allowed prosecutors to enhance the charges and seek a life sentence because he was found in possession of a firearm and two ounces of cocaine—a quantity deemed by federal code to be more than for personal use.

It took me nearly a half hour but eventually I got back to the question of why Glory Days—who we had now established was Gloria Dayton—would plant a gun in Moya’s room. Forsythe objected again, saying the groundwork I had just covered was insufficient, but finally the judge agreed with me and overruled the objection.

“We believed, based on facts brought forward in our investigation, that Gloria Dayton was a DEA informant and that she planted the gun in Mr. Moya’s room on the orders of her DEA handler.”

There. It was on the record. The cornerstone of the defense. I glanced over at Forsythe. He was writing furiously, even angrily, on a legal pad and not looking up. He probably didn’t even want to see how the jury was reacting to this.

“And who was her DEA handler?” I asked.

“An agent named James Marco,” Fulgoni replied.

I looked down and acted like I was checking notes on my own legal pad for a few moments so the jurors could let that name—James Marco—sink in deep.

“Mr. Haller?” the judge prompted. “Ask your next question.”

I looked at Fulgoni and thought about which way to go, now that I had Marco’s name before the jury.

“Mr. Haller!” the judge prompted again.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said quickly. “Mr. Fulgoni, where did you get the name James Marco as Gloria Dayton’s supposed DEA handler?”

“From Trina Rafferty. She said that both she and Gloria worked for Marco as snitches.”

“Did Trina Rafferty say whether Marco asked her to plant the gun in Mr. Moya’s hotel room?”

Before Fulgoni could answer, Forsythe objected angrily, calling the whole line of questioning hearsay. The judge sustained it without allowing argument from me. I asked for a sidebar, and the judge reluctantly signaled us up to the bench. I got right into it.

“Your Honor, the defense finds itself between a rock and a hard place. The court has sustained the objection against hearsay testimony from the witness. That leaves me no alternative but to at least try to get the testimony directly from Agent Marco. As you know, Marco was on the original witness list submitted nearly four weeks ago to the court. However, we have been unable to make service of a subpoena to Agent Marco or the DEA in general.”

Leggoe shrugged.

“And what is the remedy you want from the court? To allow hearsay evidence? That’s not going to happen, Mr. Haller.”

I started nodding before she was finished.

“I know that, Judge. But I was thinking that a direct order to appear from you and carrying the blessing of the prosecution could go a long way toward getting Agent Marco into this courtroom.”

Leggoe looked at Forsythe and raised her eyebrows. The ball was now Forsythe’s.

“Your Honor, I am happy to give my blessing,” he said. “Whether it works or not, all Agent Marco will do is show up and deny these outlandish accusations. It will be a highly decorated agent’s word against the word of a whore and I’ll—”

“Mr. Forsythe!” the judge broke in, her voice well above a whisper. “You will show a little more decorum and respect in my courtroom.”

“I apologize, Your Honor,” Forsythe said quickly. “Prostitute. What I meant to say is that this will come down to the agent’s word against the prostitute’s, and the state has no worries when it comes to that.”

Prosecutorial arrogance is a deadly sin when it comes to a criminal court trial. It was the first time I had really seen it in Forsythe and I knew that he might end up eating those words before the case was over.