Law & Order (1990–2010): Season 6, Episode 10 - Remand - full transcript

NARRATOR:
In the criminal justice system

the people are represented by two
separate yet equally important groups,

the police
who investigate crime

and the district attorneys
who prosecute the offenders.

These are their stories.

First call came in
around 2:00.

By the time units rolled in,
the flames were wall-to-wall.

And it's a lock for arson?

We found a gasoline can
and a box of matches.

Two witnesses saw somebody drive
away just before the bonfire.

Gave us a description.



Louis Johnson, medium rare.

Smoke stains
in his nose and mouth,

he was alive
before the fire started.

Fumes killed him.

Couldn't run out?

The door was locked
from the inside.

Our guess is, he was
spending the night.

Didn't want any visitors.

Did Johnson ever have
any trouble before this?

Some vandalism last week
before he got his trees.

What was it, kids?
No.

A local crew muscling the
businesses for protection.

Nobody, and that includes Johnson,
wanted to talk about it.

And look where it got him.



We're gonna need the names
of that crew, all right?

Two pairs of eyes
put you in the lot.

I was buying my Christmas tree.

At 2:04 a.m.

No, you're cooked, Danny, we got
your prints on the box of matches.

I hate to break it to you, but you're
the stupidest torch I ever met.

Now's your one chance
to do something smart.

I swear, I didn't know Louis was in
the shed when the fire broke out.

Bad break, his wife tossing him
out of the house that night.

The job was about reducing the value
of Louis' inventory. That's all.

I can serve up the guy that paid me.
CURTIS: We know him.

He's being worked on next door.

No, we're shopping for the CEO.

Yeah, but I just know the one guy.
I'm not part of the crew.

That's too bad, 'cause you're gonna
take the weight for all of them, Danny.

The Schwartz deli job
last year,

I can give you
who was behind that.

Too late.
Somebody already beat you to it.

DANNY: All right. Wait, wait.
I got something big.

I know the guy that really did
that Cookie Costello stabbing.

You know the one.
Big mother case. 30 years ago.

Girl got stabbed while the
whole neighborhood watched.

Yeah. Sal Munoz.
He's been in Attica for the last 30 years.

Yeah, that's what you think.

I want somebody
from the D.A.'s in here.

They need a reason
to move, Danny.

Yeah, well, tell them this.

This guy, I'll call him Bobby,

me and him were having
a few pops one night,

he tells me how he stuck the girl with
a knife so she could never have kids.

Hey, see? I got something.
Next time I talk, it's to the D.A.

My first partner in uniform
was on that Costello canvas.

They kept the details of her injuries
out of the papers, too personal.

I remember reading
something about that.

Yeah, young woman
stabbed 14 times

and raped outside her building
in the East Village.

Yeah, while 40 of her
neighbors turned up their TVs

so they couldn't
hear the screams.

So what, they had TVs
but no phones?

Oh, they called the police all
right, about 45 minutes later.

Should've heard the excuses.

Everybody assumed
somebody else called it in.

So if Danny's on the money,

then the wrong guy's been in
jail for the past 30 years.

And Mr. Right's
been on the street.

ADAM: Thirty years ago, I sat in her
hospital room and held her hand.

You prosecuted Sal Munoz?

Ms. Costello sent me Christmas
cards every year since.

This firebug,
he gave you a name?

Bobby Farina.

Career deadbeat. In and out of
State facilities since he was six.

And somewhere along the way, he
must've picked up a crystal ball.

Van Buren says the police never released
the specifics of Costello's injuries.

Munoz confessed.

After how many rounds
with New York's finest?

Cookie Costello
couldn't ID him, Adam.

We should at least talk to her.

Absolutely not.

A building full of her friends
and neighbors watched.

She was stabbed, then raped,
left for dead in an alley.

(EXHALES)

Thirty years isn't time enough
for wounds like that to heal.

Munoz is serving consecutive 25-year terms.
We can't ignore this.

Have the cops find
this Farina character.

Damn.

BOBBY: Today's my birthday,

you know, half a century, I'm
pushing carcasses for a living.

Yeah, I know just
how you feel, Bobby.

Half a century and I'm still
talking to scum like you.

I'm all straightened out now.

Oh, yeah.
We heard from your P.O.

How you got four years for
straightening out your girlfriend.

I'm a gridiron legend.
You know, we can't all beat the rap.

BRISCOE: And what about
Cookie Costello?

You straighten her out, too?

Don't ring no bells.
A bitch with a name like that, I'd remember.

What? You don't
read the papers?

She was carved up in May 1965,

three blocks from where
you parked your sorry ass.

I was doing a stretch
in Dannemora in '65.

For assaulting
a hooker, we heard.

You went in, in September.
Try again.

May '65.
I could've been in New Jersey.

I did a lot of work there.
You know, collecting for the bookies.

Hey, the only ones who knew the
particulars are the victim, her doctors,

and the piece of crap
who did it, and that's you!

All right, look. I got it from this
lawyer, Nick Taradash, all right?

He repped me on a couple beefs.

The guy lays all these gems on me about
this Costello thing. I swear to God.

Nick and I shared office space
after his first coronary,

and after his second last summer,
I took over the whole place.

And that would make him?

Dead. He made me
his executor.

Should've said no.

Sanitation Department
would choke on his files.

Did you know Nick?

No. But we ran into one of his clients, Ms.
Marks. Bobby Farina.

Leg-breaker,
all-around dirt bag.

Don't know the name, but the
description fits Nick's clientele.

All the local hoods used to carry
Nick's card in their wallets.

BRISCOE: And now
they carry yours?

I'm not the household name Nick
was, but I'm getting there.

Okay, Bobby Farina.

Still has a balance.
What's he done now?

CURTIS: We're looking at him
for the Cookie Costello case.

He has knowledge of details
that were withheld.

Claims he got them
from Mr. Taradash.

Possible. Nick was court-appointed
to rep the defendant, Sal Munoz.

He liked to talk it up.
Case got him good press.

So in other words, Taradash
was handed a hot potato.

Not much he could do with it.
Munoz confessed.

Nick tried to plea him
on insanity,

but, apparently, the juries didn't
go for that stuff back then.

Insanity's the defense
of last resort.

Taradash went for it
on first down.

So maybe his heart
wasn't in it.

After all, the vic was the
girl next door, right?

Let me propose
a less noble reason.

Taradash makes his living
repping the local bad boys.

Now, suppose one of them
was the guilty party?

Farina. And Taradash might not want
to bite the hand that feeds him.

I wonder if Bobby's name ever
came up during the investigation.

Let's go see the detectives.

Farina? Dumb muscle.

Yeah, that's him.
You ever look at him for the Costello case?

No. No, Costello
was a sex thing.

We had our guy,
the P.R., Munoz.

The sick son of a bitch followed
her from work in his car.

Picked on her because she
was wearing a white dress.

Figured she was canned goods.

You said she was
coming home from work?

What we got is
she went to a movie.

Oh, no. She was working under
the table at the Franklin Pub.

On account of her probation, she was
supposed to keep out of the place.

Probation for what?

Gambling.

We didn't release that
out of respect for the victim.

What else didn't make it
into your report?

It had nothing to do
with the case.

She gambled, Farina
collected for gamblers.

There's gambling all over the
place except in your report.

Munoz did it! He confessed to it.
And two rapes besides.

Right after a trip
to the West End Grill?

Munoz was a righteous bust.

So the hell with you.

Okay, I'll bite.
What's the West End Grill?

The docks on the West Side.

Back in the '60s, they used to
take guys like Munoz out there

and see how far they could swim, after
they beat the hell out of them.

Or so I heard.

It's time to talk to Cookie.

She lives in Tarrytown.

Oh, I'm sorry. I don't remember
anything after I got out of my car.

After 30 years, nothing.
The doctors said it was the shock.

(INCREASES TV VOLUME)

I say it was God's way
of healing.

Well, that's a good way
of looking at it.

Yeah, well, I've tried
to forget everything.

So why is this all
coming back now?

We have some new information
on a Bobby Farina.

Guy from the old neighborhood.

Dad? Bobby Farina?

A wiseass kid, used to
nick candy from my store.

He grew up to be a bagman for the
bookies in the East Village.

Why do you worry about Farina?

They got the guy
that attacked her.

You had a gambling
arrest back then?

You bastards got crust.

(TURNS TV OFF)

Don't tell them nothing,
Cookie.

Dad, I can handle this.

I was 22,
I liked the excitement.

I used to have a crush
on Sandy Koufax.

I used to bet the Dodgers
when he pitched.

I bet the Giants, but
sometimes I got jammed up,

and so I took bets at the bar for
the bookies, to work it off.

I got caught.

And that's it? You never had
any trouble with Bobby Farina?

You think I brought this on myself?

Look at it.
It's the dress she was wearing.

Every time that animal comes up
for parole, I'm there with this.

He laughs at me in the court,
and you think it's not him?

You're damn fools.

She was up to her elbows
in the action.

She could've pissed off these
mooks any number of ways.

So they have Bobby
send her a message.

Yeah, unless she wants
a repeat performance,

she doesn't put
the finger on him.

What? 30 years later,
she's still afraid?

Hey, she looks at those scars every night.
Listen, pull her records.

See if she was ever
mixed up with Bobby.

Here we go.

Promoting gambling, second degree.
She got a year probation.

Well, well.
Taradash was her attorney.

Yeah, he was a local guy.

And Munoz wasn't.

Hey, Lennie, look at this.
The bookie she was working for.

Eddie Murrows, I remember him.
He's a KG, Known Gambler.

I know what it is.

He was in Bobby Farina's file
as one of his employers.

MURROWS: Sure, Bobby did
some work for me.

Nudged a few clients to get current on
their delinquencies. Way back when.

Sounds like you had the whole
neighborhood working for you.

Bobby Farina.
Cookie Costello.

I let her work off
what she owed.

Nice girl.
Awful what happened.

P.R. Bastard should have
gotten the chair.

We've got a better candidate.

Yeah. You spent the winter of '65
in Elmira on a gambling rap?

What's that got
to do with Costello?

I ain't got no time for this.

Hey, is that a cell phone
in your shirt pocket?

Yeah. So?

Well, a smart KG like you, you
don't want your calls traced.

You probably use a stolen frequency, right?
An E felony.

It'll take me 30 seconds
to find out.

Now, in 1964, Cookie Costello was
arrested for a gambling offense.

They gave her probation.
That's very generous, right?

Yeah. So a couple of months
later, you get popped.

Did you make
a connection there?

That's nuts.

What she knew about my business
you could put in a gel-tab.

Oh, that's not what we hear.

We hear you gave Bobby
the say-so to carve her up.

No way. Bobby was in East Orange.
May 25th, 1965.

Red-letter day in sports,
Ali took Liston in one.

Bobby visited
a client in Jersey.

A guy in the restaurant trade.

It's possible an unsolved battery
was committed on this person.

The widow said the husband got beat
up at their place about midnight.

Same time as Cookie.

Now she fingered Farina, but the
husband wouldn't make a complaint.

But he stopped gambling
right after that.

The bottom line is,
Bobby's in the clear.

All this because
Taradash opened his mouth.

Small world.

BRISCOE:
Oh, it gets even smaller.

Taradash was handling
Cookie's gambling cases.

Is that a problem?

CLAIRE: Taradash had a prior
relationship with Costello.

Representing Munoz was a
clear conflict of interest.

That's just terrific.

You didn't know?

If we knew that Taradash had the slightest
privileged knowledge of the victim,

we would've had him
conflicted out.

Turns out he didn't use that
knowledge to discredit her.

Could have short-changed Munoz
out of loyalty to her?

Not the Taradash I knew.
There's nothing to this.

He put on a hell of a case.
12 expert witnesses.

Three weeks of testimony.
Munoz got his money's worth.

(PHONE RINGING)

Yes?

Much as we'd like to, we can't
sweep this under the rug.

Munoz has to be notified.

Right.

Okay. Thanks.

We just got run off
the high road by Teri Marks.

Teri Marks.
Somebody I should know?

She shared an office
with Taradash.

She just filed a motion for a new
trial on behalf of Sal Munoz.

MARKS: Mr. Munoz would like
to thank your detectives.

If it weren't for them, I would've
never looked in Nick's files

and found the conflict.

Sixth Amendment violation.
Serious stuff.

Only in your mind, Ms. Marks.
What do you want?

What my client wants,
his freedom.

He's been denied
parole three times.

His next at-bat's
in two weeks.

Support his application,
we'll drop this motion.

Fine. Done. As long as
Ms. Costello agrees.

Come on,

Taradash shouldn't have gone near this
case without a waiver from Mr. Munoz.

Of course, this was all
news to you, Mr. Munoz?

That's right, man.
Taradash never told me.

I'll do one better. Everyone knew
about the conflict except my client.

Now it's a conspiracy.

Against the Puerto Rican man,
baby.

Mr. Munoz,
address yourself to me.

Your client confessed.

They didn't need a
conspiracy to convict him.

This so-called conflict of interest
is nothing but a footnote.

As if your opinion matters.

Come on, Sal, I'll walk
you back to your bus.

We got a call from The New
York Times this morning.

You sent them a press release
about your motion?

It's an important case.

For your career.

MARKS: The canons of ethics
are clear, Your Honor.

A lawyer cannot
represent one client

if he's limited by his
responsibilities to another client.

Unless his client consents. Mr.
Munoz wasn't even aware of the conflict.

Or he conveniently forgot
Taradash notified him.

What's in the case record?

The record is silent
on the subject.

The record is incomplete.
Some transcripts are missing.

Then let's fill in the gaps.

Is the presiding judge still
available to give testimony?

Yes, Your Honor. But Taradash's
conflict is hardly new evidence.

With all due respect, it's not
grounds for enlarging the record.

It is if I say it is.

Taradash told me in chambers

that he had represented
Ms. Costello on one occasion.

But he believed that
his representation of Munoz

wouldn't be adversely affected.

And, of course, he showed you a
waiver signed by his client.

No.

I told him to consult with Munoz, and
to report back if there was a problem.

And that's the last
I heard of it.

MARKS: Judge Mallory,
why wasn't your conversation

with Mr. Taradash
on the record?

I'm sure it was. I can't explain
why it's not in the transcripts.

And you didn't insist on a
signed waiver from Mr. Munoz?

I admit I should've followed
through personally.

But Taradash tried
a lot of cases before me.

He was meticulous.
I'm sure it's all in his case files.

Ms. Marks, have you checked?

There is nothing in the
files about a waiver.

Your Honor, much as we trust
Counsel's thoroughness,

we'd like to examine
those files ourselves.

Out of the question,
Your Honor.

We're not waiving
attorney-client privilege.

You put it into issue,
Ms. Marks.

They're entitled to look.

I'll appoint a special master
to search the files.

Jack, I was on the phone
with the special master.

Taradash was a neat freak.
He even saved his phone messages.

But there's no mention
of a waiver.

Even a pack rat like Nixon
was short 18 minutes.

Someone doctored his file?

After Taradash died, the files
were turned over to Munoz, right?

He had them until after Marks called
him to inquire about a waiver.

If there was one, Munoz could've
pulled it from his file.

No way to even prove there was
a waiver in the first place.

I checked our old files.

Some of the return receipts from Taradash
were signed by a Marcella Klein.

Secretary?

Initials don't match
Taradash's correspondence.

Klein could've been
a law clerk.

Maybe she's entered
the profession since then.

I was what nowadays you'd call a paralegal,
secretary's pay, lawyer's duties.

But thanks to Mr. Taradash,
I became an attorney.

To your knowledge,
did he ever inform Mr. Munoz

that he had represented
Ms. Costello?

He specifically told me he did.
He said Mr. Munoz couldn't care less.

Thank you.

You weren't present

when Mr. Taradash
spoke with my client?

KLEIN: No.

In fact, you refused to attend
meetings with my client.

Well, he made me uncomfortable.

Mr. Taradash share your
feelings about Mr. Munoz?

Mr. Taradash kept his feelings
separate from his professional duties.

So we shouldn't read anything into the fact
that he let an all-white jury be impaneled?

All-white juries were
commonplace in 1965.

Or that he never brought up Ms.
Costello's criminal activities?

KLEIN: It was moot.
Mr. Munoz confessed.

Or that he never challenged
that confession?

He believed it supported
an insanity defense.

It was his strategy
to let it stand.

An effective strategy, if he
wanted his client convicted.

That's ridiculous.

He believed Mr.
Munoz belonged in a hospital.

And he fought like hell
to get him there.

His loyalties were split,
Your Honor,

between his former client,
a popular young woman,

and the man accused
of brutally attacking her,

a nuisance client, that the
court dumped into his lap.

No one could expect him
to be impartial.

The trial judge did,
and so did Mr. Munoz.

We heard testimony he was
informed of the conflict.

Mr. McCoy, if he was informed, why did
he wait 30 years to seek a new trial?

Maybe because he didn't realize he
could until Ms. Marks told him.

MARKS: Assume
he did give a waiver.

He has a grade six education, he will
do anything his lawyer tells him to.

The Judge should've looked
out for his interests,

he should've advised
Mr. Taradash to withdraw.

The verdict wouldn't have been any
different with another lawyer.

Everything Mr. Taradash
did was proper.

All right, Mr. McCoy.

The canons compel us to avoid even
the appearance of impropriety.

Since there's no record of any waiver,
I can't assume one was given.

I'm setting aside the verdict and
granting the motion for a new trial.

We had to pull the one judge who
reads the canons with a microscope.

Yeah. Marks is peddling
her offer again.

They'll plead out
if we support parole.

Not in my lifetime.

A new trial, Adam?
30-year-old evidence.

Witnesses gone who knows where.

You have the victim
and the confession.

Do you want me to
gift-wrap it for you?

He's almost 60.
The jury might think he's rehabilitated,

even harmless.

Munoz just crawled halfway out the
hole we dug for him 30 years ago.

You hit him with a shovel before
he crawls all the way out.

CLERK: "Case number 23049 of '65, People v.
Salvatore Munoz

"One count attempted murder
in the second degree.

"One count rape
in the first degree."

Mr. Morean, remind me to check the
warranty on my hearing aid, will you?

I heard you say '65.

It is a 1965 case, Your Honor.
Remanded for a new trial.

After 30 years?
Hats off, Mr. Munoz.

Let's see. You originally pleaded not guilty
by reason of mental disease or defect.

You sticking with that plea?

My client's amending it
to not guilty.

Your Honor,
we ask bail be denied.

Mr. Munoz confessed
to the crime.

He already served 30 years.
He's earned a little R&R.

Ms. Marks, I don't really care

how much cigarette money he may
have saved over the years,

he's staying put.
Bail is denied. Next.

CLERK: "Case number 93564..."

Bail for a confessed rapist?

You must've had a double dose
of Wheaties this morning.

I skipped breakfast so I could file this early.
Motion for suppression.

My client wasn't given his
rights before he was questioned.

You kiss that confession
goodbye, Ms. Kincaid.

Mr. Costello...

I had to see it for myself.

My daughter's scared out of her mind
that monster will show up at our door.

We'll make sure
that never happens.

They swore the only way
he'd get out is in a box.

How could you let this happen?

MARKS: My client was grilled for
six hours without an attorney

before signing a confession.

He was never given any warnings
about his right to counsel

nor his right to remain silent.

In 1965 he wasn't entitled
to any warnings.

The Supreme Court didn't decide
Miranda until 1966.

Miranda landed on the court's
desk in the fall of 1965.

Any competent attorney in the
country would've known about it.

Any competent attorney

would've delayed my client's proceedings
long enough to see how the court ruled.

Mr. Taradash filed 27 pretrial motions
attacking the State's evidence.

His competency is
not in question.

Besides, it's irrelevant.
Miranda isn't retroactive.

It's not grounds for appeal for
every felon convicted before then.

I'm not talking about
every felon.

I'm talking about a case

where there is the possibility
of a conflict of interest.

The confession
was never challenged.

Then challenge it under the
laws as they existed in 1965.

I've read them, Your Honor.

I bet even Clarence Darrow couldn't
get this confession suppressed.

Mr. McCoy, I don't know what a
judge would've done in 1965,

but in 1995, there is an
irrebuttable presumption

that any confession taken
without Miranda warnings

is involuntary
and therefore inadmissible.

I'm granting the motion.
The confession is out.

I'm supposed to waste two
detectives on a 30-year-old case?

We're already behind
on last month.

The judge kicked
the confession.

McCoy's counting on you guys to turn
this sludge back into chicken salad.

This guy's already served twice
what the Chambers kid got

for killing that girl
in Central Park.

Munoz gets out, Detective,
he can sleep on your couch.

Now, we'll need the witness
who ID'd Munoz in a line-up.

One of Cookie's neighbors.
She only saw the guy in the area.

The evidence is very thin.

What about the knife
they found on Munoz?

Lost in the department's
Bermuda Triangle.

Zip on forensics,
no hairs, fibers or prints.

Tell me they did a rape kit.

They blood-typed the semen.
A-negative, same as Munoz.

Along with three million
other New Yorkers.

This is what they went
to court with?

Cookie's father kept her dress.

Maybe the lab can do
something with that.

Get it to Forensics,

and make a list of everyone who had
an apartment facing that alley.

I said everything I had to say
to the police 30 years ago.

We know what you said to your neighbor, Mrs.
Baker, three years later.

We just talked to her.

Yeah, you told her you saw the whole
thing from your bedroom window.

That old bat doesn't know
what she's talking about.

I was asleep
in the living room.

Mrs. Santoro, I don't know what they
did with people like you 30 years ago.

Procedure now is, they throw
you in jail for contempt.

But I didn't see anything.

This guy Munoz still knows
how to swing a knife.

You want him out there on the
same streets as your daughter?

I swear, I couldn't tell
he was stabbing her.

What did you think
he was doing?

Just hitting her.

I heard next morning...

Anyway, they caught the guy.

Well, how much did you see?

Not much.

Must've been at the window maybe 10 seconds.
Saw his face.

I thought Cookie was just fighting with
one of her sleazy boyfriends again.

Yeah? Why's that?

Cookie's what
we used to call easy.

Every month,
different low-life.

So she had it coming, huh?

I'm not saying that.

But the papers made her out
to be this sweet young girl

with the bad neighbors.

She's the one that didn't
belong in a family building.

HOECK: Nice piece
of workmanship.

Too bad it wasn't
made of armor.

We got punctures in the fabric
from a single-edged knife.

Blood stains typed
and matched to the victim.

Small quantity of dried semen.

After 30 years,
you can ID the owner?

Drying actually preserves the DNA.
Ran a PCR on it.

Matches the blood sample
we got from Mr. Munoz.

Oh, lucky us.
Nowadays he'd be packing latex.

Here's the problem. I picked up more
DNA on the lower part of the dress.

Doesn't match the vic or Munoz.

What's it from? Blood or semen?
Can't tell yet.

It's mixed in with the other fluids.
I'll keep you posted.

All right, thanks.
A third party?

You think Munoz had
an accomplice?

Or Cookie had a quick one
on the way home from work.

Either way, we better find out
before Munoz and his lawyer do.

What'd you want to do, ask her
priest what she said at confession?

Better, her bartender.
She was working at the Franklin Pub.

Yeah, assuming
it's still in business.

I'm here to tell you it is.

Started here 32 years ago.
Finally bought the place in '73.

(TECHNO MUSIC PLAYING)

Now I'm looking to cash in. You interested?
Hey, cops and bars, made in heaven.

Excuse me. I always did
want to own a bar.

Place is a goldmine, Lennie.
Ten guys to every guy.

Yeah, when I used to come in
here, it was all guys, too,

except we had
the Giants game on.

So why the interest
in Cookie Costello?

Sal Munoz is up
for a new trial.

How'd that happen?

It's a technicality.

Anyway, we need some
background on Cookie.

Now, we heard she had
a lot of boyfriends.

Hey, that's a crime?

She was 22, had a nice figure, might
as well put some miles on it, huh?

Was there anyone special she might've
been intimate with that night?

No, no, no.
She was here the whole time.

Look, the girl liked
to have fun.

But the last week she was here,

she was getting
her act together.

She stopped smoking,
stopped drinking, gambling.

Hey, maybe she caught Billy Graham on TV.
Excuse me.

My experience, there's only two reasons
why a woman drops her bad habits:

One, a new man...

Or a baby.

She was stabbed in the
lower abdomen, right?

The other DNA could've come
from a baby she was carrying.

Now, the question is, why didn't the
doctors who patched her up catch it?

Maybe they did.

Maybe it was filed in the police report
right next to her gambling conviction.

Every time one of you people shows
up at my door, it's bad news.

I had only found out about it
a week before. Nobody knew.

I was scared. I was single.
My parents were very traditional.

Back then, girls in my situation didn't
have the choices they have today.

You asked the police to leave
it out of their report?

No. They didn't know.

But the doctors said that...

My father was there
when they brought me in.

The doctors told him
about the baby.

He asked them if they could
keep it secret, for my sake.

Never even told my mother.

People will have to know
about it now, won't they?

Well, that's possible.

What about the baby's father?

I never told him.
He was married.

We might need his name.

Bobby Farina.

She was having
an affair with him.

It lasted less than two weeks.

She was ashamed.
That's why she never said anything.

Issue is, how much does
the other side know.

JACK: She's been very good
about keeping her secret.

Have to assume Taradash didn't know.
And neither does Marks.

CLAIRE: You're thinking
of not telling Marks?

Well, we have to release the
forensics report on the dress.

So then they'll know
she was pregnant.

Who the father was
is none of their business.

Ms. Kincaid, do you think
we ought to tell them?

We're required to
under Rosario.

Only if we put her on the stand.
And we're not going to.

Even so, it's exculpatory.

It points to a credible
alternative theory of the crime.

I see. Farina was furious
that she was pregnant.

He attacked her. Killed her unborn baby.
Left her for dead.

CLAIRE: It might sound
credible to a jury.

And Munoz comes along and rapes her.
Still credible?

Maybe not, but I'd err on the side of
caution and turn over what we know.

And give this three-time rapist
a chance to bluff a jury?

That can't be a consideration.

ADAM: Oh, it sure as hell can.

At the risk of committing
reversible error?

How many times do we
want to retry Munoz?

As many times as it takes.

We're legally, morally and ethically
entitled to keep this information from him.

And that's exactly
what we're gonna do.

HOECK: The substance was made up
of blood plasma, lipids and cells,

a mixture consistent
with amniotic fluid.

This led me to conclude
Ms. Costello was pregnant.

What can you tell us about the DNA
from the semen you found on the dress?

HOECK: I did a PCR test.

The DNA matched the defendant's
on all 21 combination

of genetic markers.

And what are the odds
that the semen on the dress

came from someone
other than Mr. Munoz?

About one in 200.

JACK: Thank you.

One in 200 in a city
of eight million?

Doesn't sound that impressive.
Isn't there a more exact DNA test?

The RFLP, but there wasn't enough
semen on the dress to do that test.

You testified that this dress

wasn't kept in the police evidence room
over the last 30 years, is that correct?

HOECK: Yes.
It was returned to the victim.

So you can't be sure

this is the dress Ms. Costello
was attacked in, can you?

We have a photograph of the dress
taken right after the attack.

This appears to be
the same dress.

Would you bet
your reputation on it?

No.

I saw him from the back, moving
his arms and then he looked up.

Is the man you saw here today?

Yes. That's him
sitting right there.

Let the record show that the
witness pointed at the defendant.

Thank you, Mrs. Santoro.
No more questions.

I just want to make sure
I have this right.

After 30 years your conscience
suddenly drove you to call the police?

MRS. SANTORO:
No. They came to me.

MARKS: You just volunteered
what you knew?

They said I could be charged
with contempt if I didn't.

Over the years, you'd read
newspaper accounts of the crime,

you'd seen pictures
of my client?

MRS. SANTORO:
Yeah, I suppose so.

MARKS: Then isn't it possible,
under pressure from the police,

that you confused those photos with
the man that you glimpsed in 1965?

Oh, I don't know.
I don't think so.

I'm just trying to do
the right thing here.

My client should rot in jail
just so you can sleep at night?

No more questions.

Mr. Munoz was picked up on a traffic
stop for a broken tail light.

When I searched his car, I found
a switchblade in the glove box.

I saw what looked like
dried blood on the handle.

Without revealing the contents
of the interrogation,

tell us what opinion you formed as to Mr.
Munoz's guilt.

I was convinced he was our guy.

What convinced you, Detective?
The fact that he was Puerto Rican?

He fit the description we had.

Hispanic male driving
a beige car.

How many people fit
that very unique profile?

I wouldn't know. But a witness
picked Munoz out of a line-up.

A line-up consisting of my client and
five Irish cops, isn't that right?

I didn't ask
their ethnic origins.

But we followed procedure
right down the line.

Wouldn't proper procedure
have led you to investigate

Ms. Costello's
gambling associates?

LANDIS: No.

How about the fact that she was
pregnant when she was attacked?

We didn't know she was pregnant.
She didn't tell us.

Now that you know, do the six
stab wounds to her lower abdomen

acquire a new
significance to you?

They might.

MARKS: You're thinking
whoever attacked her

did so with the intention of ending
her pregnancy, isn't that right?

There's no facts
to support that.

Detective, the only reason we have no facts
is that you never bothered to collect any.

Withdrawn. No more questions.

Marks is killing us.

Yeah.

We've got to put her on, Adam.
The jury needs to hear her.

We'll have to disclose
that Farina's the father.

No choice.
Marks is vilifying her.

If we don't call her
as a witness,

the jury will assume
we've got something to hide.

Put her on the witness list.
Those the old files?

Yeah.

It won't be pretty.
Marks'll have a field day with Costello.

Unless we inoculate the jury.

We do it to her
before Marks does?

Ask the L.A. Prosecutors,

don't they wish they'd pulled
the pin on the Fuhrman grenade?

COOKIE: I mean,
just before I parked,

I noticed this beige car
in my rear view

and then I got out.

The rest is just a blank.
I woke up in the hospital.

Please describe your injuries.

The doctors told me
I had 14 stab wounds,

in my throat, my chest,
arms and stomach.

I can't have
children of my own.

They told me I was raped.

JACK: Could you describe your
social life before this attack?

I had a lot of boyfriends.
I liked the attention.

I was young, I was pretty.

I wasn't worried
about the future.

Sometimes, I made mistakes.

Please explain that.

I got pregnant

from this man, Bobby Farina.

He was married.

I never told him
because I didn't know

if I was gonna keep the baby
or give it up for adoption.

JACK: And you never
told the police?

No. I was ashamed.

After all the other
stupid things I'd done.

You mean your arrest?

Yes. For bookmaking.

I gambled.

And sometimes, I worked for my
bookie to pay off my debts.

It was very foolish.

I wasn't a career woman.

The way I grew up,
family is everything.

That's impossible now,
because of him.

JACK: Thank you.

I'm very sorry about your injuries, Ms.
Costello.

I just have a few questions.

The father of your child, Bobby
Farina, what did he do for a living?

He worked for my bookie.
He collected debts.

Were you aware that he'd been
convicted of violent felonies?

I knew he'd got into trouble
because of his temper.

And you knew that he wouldn't be
overjoyed by the news of your pregnancy?

That's why I didn't tell him.

Well, you just said it was because you
weren't sure about keeping the baby.

COOKIE: Well, it was
for both reasons.

When the police questioned you
recently about Mr. Farina,

you denied knowing him,
isn't that so?

Yes. But I'm not lying now.

I never told him
about the baby.

Because you were afraid
of what he might do to you?

Yes.

But, in fact, Ms. Costello,
you did tell him, didn't you?

No. You threatened
to tell his wife

unless he gave you
money for an abortion.

That's not true.
I am a good Catholic.

I would never do
a thing like that!

You mean the kind of good Catholic
who gets arrested for bookmaking,

who commits adultery
with felons?

Objection.
Sustained.

Tone it down, Ms. Marks.

I am not a bad person!

But Bobby Farina is.

He stabbed you in the stomach and
killed your unborn child, didn't he?

He is the one
who tried to kill me.

MARKS: How would you know?

You never saw your attacker.

When you came to
in the hospital,

the police told you
Sal Munoz was the one.

And you went along with it because
you knew if you accused Bobby

that he would come back and
finish the job, wouldn't he?

Please stop it.

The police framed my client

and you kept your mouth
shut for 30 years.

Please stop.
Even when the police told you

that Mr. Farina was a suspect, you
still denied knowing him, didn't you?

(WHIMPERS) Yes.
MARKS: Even though you knew

the only man with the motive to
do this horrible thing to you

was Bobby Farina,
isn't that the truth?

(SOBBING) I don't...
I don't know. I don't know.

(COOKIE WEEPING)

No more questions.

Marks knows her audience.

You could've heard hair grow
in that jury box.

People slow down for traffic accidents,
that doesn't mean they approve.

Wishful thinking.
She even created doubt in Cookie's mind.

Thirty years ago, no judge
would've let Ms. Teri Marks

get away with that
kind of muck-raking.

Thirty years ago,
you had a confession.

Yeah. And we had
an insanity plea.

You know, Munoz had a girlfriend.
A Dominican girl.

She was supposed to testify at
the first trial on his behalf.

In support of his
insanity plea.

I read her statement.
There's no red flag there.

The girl disappeared
before she took the stand.

Defense accused us of threatening
to pull her visa if she testified.

And?

And nonsense.

CLAIRE: Well, then
why'd she disappear?

Find her and ask her.

Sal wanted me to lie for him,
to say that he was crazy,

that he heard voices

and that's why I ran away
to Santo Domingo.

But he's not crazy.
He's just evil.

Mr. McCoy, I hope this isn't
why you want her to testify.

No, Your Honor.

Ms. Valerio, tell the judge
about the times Sal hurt you.

OLIVIA: Sometimes, he'd want to have
sex with me and I didn't feel like it.

If I said no, he'd hit
me and force me to.

If I tried to get away,
he would hit me harder.

Your Honor.

Go on, Ms. Valerio.

One time I went to the
police and Sal found out.

He got very angry.

He got this small knife from the
kitchen and he pressed it against me

and he said that if I ever
opened up my mouth again,

that he would cut me up inside so
that I could never have babies.

All right. Thank you, Ms.
Valerio. You can leave now.

Your Honor, I can't believe Mr.
McCoy has asked you to allow this testimony.

It's prejudicial. It's prior bad acts.
It's inadmissible.

It establishes a common pattern.
Same weapon, same MO.

MARKS: A paring knife
versus a switchblade,

a girlfriend versus
a complete stranger?

There's no pattern here.

He threatened to
injure his girlfriend

in the exactly the same manner
he injured Cookie Costello.

And who knows how many others.

That's the problem.
There are no others.

Two vaguely similar acts
do not add up to a pattern.

No, they don't, Ms. Marks.

Mr. McCoy, this is outside the
Molineux exception. I can't allow it.

Ms. Valerio will not testify.

Have you reached a verdict?

FOREMAN: We have.

JUDGE ROCKWELL: On the first
count of the indictment,

rape in the first degree,
how do you find?

We find the defendant,
Sal Munoz, not guilty.

JUDGE ROCKWELL: On the second
count of the indictment,

attempt to commit murder
in the second degree,

how do you find?

FOREMAN: We find the
defendant not guilty.

Yes!

Marks just had
a press conference.

She actually thinks she
righted a 30-year-old wrong.

And probably hopes to be the centerfold
in next month's Bar Journal.

Yeah. Well, she did her job.
We didn't do ours.

Bad evidence. Bad memories.
Bad rulings.

We did everything we could.

Yeah.

Didn't you tell me you never
make this job personal?

I lied.
Second time in 30 years.