“My name is Jane Smith,” I say. “I am the attorney for the defendant, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Hi,” he says again.
“Could you state your name for the court?”
“What?”
“Your name, sir.”
“Sonny,” he says.
“Your full name, please.”
“Sanford Blum. But my friends call me Sonny.”
“And what is your occupation, Mr. Blum?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you do for a living?”
The question seems to confuse him. At least he wants to act as if it has. But then this is all an act.
“I’m retired,” he says after a long pause. Then he smiles and turns back to the jury. “But you know what they say about being retired. You can never take a day off.”
“Good one, Mr. Blum. But would you mind telling the jury what your occupation was before retirement became your everyday job?”
“Waste management,” he says.
“Waste management,” I say, my voice in a lilt, as if I’ve found that information fascinating.
I nod at him and smile.
“But that’s not your occupation according to the federal government, isn’t that correct?”
“The government?” he asks, looking even more confused now, almost as if wondering where he is. I find myself wondering how much he has practiced this routine at home, in front of his lawyer and his boys.
“Yes, sir, the United States government,” I say. “Because it is their studied opinion that your life’s calling involved loan-sharking, racketeering, and bookmaking. And, honestly, Mr. Blum, that’s the short list.”
I leave him to ponder that as I walk back to my table, pull a thick sheaf of papers out of my bag, and hold them up for Sonny and the jury and everybody else in the room to see.
“Mr. Blum, I am holding in my hands just some of the documents involving court cases against you over the years, which I would be happy to submit into evidence,” I continue.
Another smile, this one smaller than before, plays across Blum’s face.
“Am I on trial?” he says.
“Oh, my, no,” I tell him. “I’m not here to convict you of past crimes, real or imagined. Just to establish that you’re a career hoodlum.”
“Objection!” Katherine Welsh says, up on her feet now. “Isthere a point to all this, Your Honor, other than Ms. Smith insulting her own witness?”
“Sustained,” Judge Horton says. “Ms. Smith, you have established the witness’s bona fides, shall we say. Now we need to work on the relevance of this line of questioning.”
“Of course,” I say. “Totally understood.”
I theatrically toss the papers on my table.
“Let’s move on, Mr. Blum,” I say. “Did you know the deceased, Hank Carson?”
