Bill Harvey Collection

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “But they weren’t, were they?”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “If you had detectives at the back door to the apartment building, and you were watching the front of the building, where were they?”

  “We later found a third exit to the building—an old, barely used window in the laundry room on the east side of the building. This window led to the parking lot next door. Lewis and López must have left the building via this exit.”

  “Why would they have done that?”

  “I imagine that this was an attempt to avoid—”

  “Objection,” Harvey stated, not looking up from his notepad. “Not factual.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Windsor replied. “Please stick to the facts as you know them, Detective Townsend.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Townsend nodded like a little schoolboy after he had been told off by the headmaster. “In my professional opinion, I would suggest…” He paused and waited for the objection, but when none was forthcoming, he continued, “I would suggest that they were trying to avoid detection; otherwise, they would have left via one of the main exits.”

  “Please, detective, take us through what happened after you made the decision to enter the apartment building.”

  “Once the uniform backup arrived, another four officers, we made the decision to enter the apartment building. As is normal procedure, we went to the apartment door, apartment 214 on the second floor, identified ourselves, waited for an answer, and when we didn’t receive an answer, we entered the apartment, again identifying ourselves as LAPD police officers.”

  “Did anybody answer once you identified yourselves?”

  “No.”

  “And did you use force to enter the apartment?”

  “Yes, we did. When there was no answer, we breached the door using a battering ram. That’s normal procedure for a raid.”

  “And once you entered the apartment that belonged to Juan Lewis, and was rented by Carlos López, what did you find?”

  “Nothing unusual to start off with. We called out as we entered. Nobody responded. We cleared the premises to ensure that nobody was present, and that’s when we began the search.”

  “Were you surprised to find nobody at the premises?”

  “Yes, we were.”

  Chettle paused for a few long moments, letting that fact sink into the minds of the jurors.

  “Is this a layout of the premises?” Chettle presented a diagram to the court.

  “It is.”

  “And are these the photos of the rooms that you took before you began the search?”

  “They are.” Townsend leaned to the left in his chair. “As a team, we searched the kitchen first, and then we each entered one of the other rooms to search on our own. I entered the main bedroom, and that’s where I found the briefcase.”

  “Did you open the briefcase?”

  “Yes. We believed there were drugs present on the property, and we knew we were going to have to perform a thorough search to find them. I thought the briefcase seemed like an obvious way to carry concealed drugs and that’s why I opened it. I placed the briefcase on the bed and popped open the locks. Inside, I found numerous plastic bags of white powder. This white powder later proved to be heroin, and the street value of the heroin was deemed to be $50,000.”

  “And this is the briefcase that you found?” Chettle introduced the briefcase as evidence, presenting it to the jury and the court.

  It was cheap, black, and uncomplicated. The sort of briefcase a detective would buy from Walmart.

  “That’s the briefcase, yes.”

  “Is it normal for drugs to be transported via this type of briefcase?”

  “It’s not unusual, but drugs can be transported in anything. Bags, cars, clothes, postal service envelopes—you can find them stored anywhere. And that means we have to look everywhere. I could spend a whole day telling you about the strange places we have found drugs. So, no, the briefcase certainly wasn’t an unusual place to find drugs.”

  “When did Carlos López return to the apartment?”

  “He returned to the apartment just before 3:00 pm in the afternoon.”

  “And when he returned, what did you do?”

  “We arrested Carlos López for the possession of drugs.”

  “Did you read him his Miranda rights after you made the arrest?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Thank you, detective. No further questions.”

  “Defense, your witness,” Judge Windsor called firmly.

  Testing Townsend’s patience, Harvey took time to review his notes. It was a deliberate ploy; he’s asserting a sense of authority in the courtroom. This was his place, and now Townsend could play by his rules.

  “Thank you for your time, Detective Townsend,” he began after two long minutes of silence. “Did you take video evidence of the raid?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And is this the video?” Harvey introduced the video to the court, pointing at the television screen at the side of the room.

  “Yes, it appears so.”

  For the next six minutes, the court watched the beginning of the raid. Townsend called out for anyone persons present, broke through the door, ensured there were no other people in the apartment, and then he began to conduct the search, leaving the small camera device resting on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s normal procedure to video a drug raid?” Harvey asked as he paused the recording.

  “Where we have the resources to do it, we conduct raids using video recording.”

  “Why did you remove the video recording device from your shoulder and leave it on the kitchen counter?”

  “When the premises had been secured, it’s normal procedure to leave the recording device in a place that covers the greatest area for recording. In this case, it was the kitchen counter. You could see the hallway, part of the kitchen, and the living room.”

  “Is this you in the video?” The video paused on the moment where Townsend was walking down the hallway of the apartment.

  “It appears to be me.”

  “And are you carrying a large gym bag as you walk down the hallway—before you enter the bedroom?”

  “Ah.” Townsend didn’t expect that question. He thought he kept that bag out of view. “Yes. In that bag is the equipment that I needed to conduct the search.”

  “Such as?”

  “Things needed to check the apartment.”

  “Is that bag large enough to fit a briefcase in it?”

  “Objection!” Chettle called out. “What the defense is suggesting here has no evidence.”

  “Do you have any evidence that may support making that claim, Mr. Harvey?” Judge Windsor leaned forward and asked.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then the objection is sustained. Strike that question from the record. Move on, Mr. Harvey.”

  Chettle marked it down as a win for her, but the damage was already done—the jurors were already questioning whether the bag was large enough to have held the briefcase.

  “And you entered the apartment with this bag? Is it usual procedure to enter an apartment with that bag at the time of a raid?”

  “Listen.” Townsend paused for a few moments. “It’s not usual procedure, and it’s what I needed for that day.”

  “And this is the usual procedure, right?”

  “No, but it’s not unusual.”

  “Hmm…” Harvey paused again; not because he needed the time to think, but because he wanted to provide the jury a few moments to process the information. “Was anyone else in the bedroom when you found the briefcase?”

  “No, not when I found the briefcase.”

  “Just you and this bag?”

  Townsend hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  “And, of course, you left the video camera in the kitchen, so there’s no video of you in the bedroom before you opened the briefcase?”

  “In the time before video recording
, it was normal procedure to search a room without someone recording everything.” His sarcasm was clear.

  “You found the drugs when you were in the room by yourself, with the bag?”

  “Yes.” Townsend glared hard at the defense table.

  “Nobody else saw the briefcase before you opened it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Just you?”

  “Objection,” Chettle called out. “Asked and answered. The witness has clearly answered this question already.”

  “Withdrawn.” Harvey looked back down at his notes. “And tell me, who made the tip-off that there were drugs in the apartment?”

  “It was an anonymous tip. It came through on our tip line.”

  “And is it usual procedure to raid every house mentioned in a tip via a telephone line?”

  “No, but this tip gave quite detailed information of the drugs, the whereabouts, and given the criminal history of the resident, we made a decision to follow up on the tip-off. It proved correct.”

  “Did the tip provide details of who owned the drugs?”

  “No, it didn’t. It stated that the drugs would be at that location during that time. That’s all we knew.”

  “Detective Townsend, did you make the arrest of Carlos López?”

  “Yes.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Did you read him his Miranda rights when you arrested him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he say anything when you arrested him?”

  “He did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He was innocent.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was that?”

  Townsend paused and sighed, adjusting his tie again. “He said that it was a setup. He said that the briefcase didn’t belong to him.”

  “And who did he claim the bag belonged to?”

  Townsend stared at Harvey and drew a long breath. “He claimed that the police planted the bag.”

  “Did he? Why would he say that?”

  “Most criminals say that. It’s their first reaction. They claim they have been set up and they don’t own the goods. It’s not true though.”

  “Did Carlos López say that he didn’t own the drugs, and it was a setup?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he stated that the police planted the bag?”

  “That’s what he stated.”

  “That’s very interesting, Detective Townsend.” Harvey wrote notes on his pad, prompting two of the jurors to do the same. “No further questions.”

  Chapter 19

  For the rest of the afternoon, like a tedious fashion show for the courtroom, Chettle paraded the other cops that were present during the raid. She asked the same questions, time and time again, solidifying the facts in the jurors’ minds.

  By the time Judge Windsor had called an end to day one of the trial, most of the jurors felt like they were present at the time of the raid. They knew more about the raid than they did their own children.

  After the jurors filed out of the courtroom, Chettle let her guard down and smiled. She was winning. She knew that. And what a win it would be—to take on the formidable Bill Harvey and walk away with success in court. She would be celebrated in the District Attorney’s office like a hunter returning with a winter’s kill. Her win would show them all that he was beatable.

  But she knew that she shouldn’t be celebrating yet. This was Bill Harvey, after all.

  Glancing across at his desk, she noticed that he wasn’t packing up. He wasn’t making notes. He wasn’t even talking to his client.

  Bill Harvey was sitting stoically, pen in hand, staring into nothingness.

  “Given up, Bill?” Chettle remarked.

  The question snapped him out of his thoughts.

  “No.” He smiled. “Quite the contrary. I’m working hard.”

  “I’m not sure your client would agree.” She gestured towards a nervous Carlos López talking to his supporters in the courtroom seats behind them. “It certainly doesn’t look like you’re working hard.”

  “Not all work happens on a piece of paper. Not all work can be defined in a new document.”

  “Most of it can,” she retorted as she placed another heavy file in her bag.

  “Once, a writer used to sit at his desk every day and stare out the window. His wife would walk past every morning and say the same thing, ‘Not working today?’ And he would always reply, ‘I am. I’m doing the most important work there is.’”

  Chettle shook her head, slightly confused. “And what was the most important work there is?”

  “Thinking.” Harvey smiled. “Nothing is more important than taking some time out to think.”

  “You’re lucky you have the time to do that. I don’t have the capacity to take some time out to think. I’ve got too much to do. I have to think on my feet.”

  “And that’s why you’ll lose this case.”

  Chettle stopped.

  His confidence struck fear in her heart. Only moments earlier, she felt like she was going to be popping open the champagne bottles soon, but suddenly, she felt like she was being beaten.

  She didn’t say another word to Harvey; instead, she snapped at her team to pack up quickly and follow her out the door.

  “Bill, how’d we do?” Carlos questioned once the prosecution team had exited the courtroom. His supporters weren’t far behind them, but he had stayed to talk about the next steps with the head of his defense. “I thought you did well out there, and I can tell that juror of Mexican descent isn’t going to say I’m guilty. There’s something in his eyes that says that he has my back. The man that was sitting on the back left of the jury box is proud of his heritage. I can sense these things.”

  “We’re doing okay.” Harvey was cold in his answer as he tidied his desk.

  “But what does that mean? Are we in front?” Carlos tugged on Harvey’s arm.

  Harvey turned slowly and looked at Carlos. “Carlos, I don’t think that today is going to matter much.”

  “I don’t understand, Bill. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.” His voice was frantic. “All this courtroom stuff is over my head. It’s all about the law, not about whether I’m actually innocent. You people are more worried with the way something is written in a book than whether or not that briefcase was mine.”

  “When we return to the courtroom tomorrow, we’re going to make a play,” Harvey stated slowly. “That play is going to change the entire course of this trial. If it works, nobody will remember what happened today.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then I hope you’re right about your Mexican friend sitting in the jury box.”

  “That doesn’t fill me with confidence, Bill.” Carlos looked at the table in front of him. “I don’t want to go back to prison. That’s not where I belong.”

  “Carlos—”

  “I help people out here. It’s my life’s purpose. I can make a difference in many people’s lives. I can save people. But in prison, back behind bars, I’m just another drug dealer, and I don’t know if I can make it through prison this time. I only just barely made it out with my life last time.”

  Harvey nodded. “Then let’s hope our play works.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You should focus on getting some rest.” Harvey sighed. “I’ve got work to do to prepare for tomorrow.”

  Harvey looked down at his notes and studied them for a while before closing his briefcase. Carlos didn’t leave. He couldn’t. He needed more information.

  “Where are you going?” The fear in Carlos’ eyes was clear.

  “I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Roberto Miles.”

  “Miles? No. You can’t do that. That’s too dangerous. You shouldn’t talk to him. Lewis didn’t appreciate your chat, and Miles will like it even less. Leave him alone; he’s got nothing to do with this case.”

  “We need him in court.�
�

  “What for?”

  “For the play that I’m talking about.”

  “I really don’t understand. Why would you need Miles? He has nothing to do with this case.”

  “Lewis is due on the stand tomorrow, Carlos. The prosecution has subpoenaed him to testify that the two of you were together at the time of the raid. I think that’s what they want. They want him on the stand to send a message that they’re after him and they’re getting closer by the minute. They want him making statements under oath. That’s going to be our opportunity to blow this case wide open.”

  “So why do you need Miles?”

  “Because they’re all connected.”

  “He’s dangerous. He’s not the man you want to cross. He’s not the type of man you want to make mad.”

  “Nor am I, Carlos.”

  Chapter 20

  “Mr. Roberto Miles.” Bill Harvey held out his weathered hand as a welcoming greeting.

  Roberto Miles stared down at the hand, slowly raising his eyes to meet Harvey’s. “And who are you?”

  “I’m criminal defense attorney, Bill Harvey. I’m representing Carlos López in the current drug trial.”

  “The drugs weren’t his. The cops planted it.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  Roberto Miles stood eye to eye with Bill Harvey, two tall men standing on the steps of a pleasant house in Montebello, ten miles east of Downtown L.A. If it weren’t for the two Bentleys, the Dodge Challenger, and the Chevy Impala parked on the lawn, this house could be mistaken for a picture of suburban middle-class bliss.

  That, and the strong smell of marijuana pouring out the front door.

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be writing reports about how the police planted drugs at my friend’s apartment? Isn’t that what you lawyers do? Or are they paying you off as well?”

  “My job isn’t to write reports about the police on the take. My job is to investigate. And my investigations have led me here.”

  Roberto Miles stood on his front step thinking; thinking so hard that Harvey could almost see the thoughts clunk through his head. Dressed in a short sleeved black shirt, with the buttons done all the way to the top, Roberto didn’t look like he’s going to the opera. With the smell of marijuana almost soaked into his clothes, it was clear how Roberto was planning to spend the rest of his evening.