I passed St. Mary’s Cathedral and thought of my lifelong friend, Gio, and his wife, Maria. They’d raised seven kids—all of whom were solid people. I couldn’t imagine their worry about their youngest son. I desperately wanted to make things right for them. Maria reminded me of my mom. Hoping the phone wouldn’t ring with bad news. The endless worry. The terror of anticipation.
I thought of my client, Johnny, whose life had changed forever in a post office parking lot on a rainy night. I hoped that I could do something—anything—to help him find a way back to a promising future.
I thought of our daughter, Grace, who was just a couple of years younger than Johnny. I was immensely proud of her—even if she didn’t answer my phone calls. I was also grateful that she had decided to become a film major at USC. She showed no interest in law enforcement, the military, or, heaven forbid, law school.
Let her be happy and safe.
I glanced at the Fillmore Auditorium, which was dark. Two police units were parked in the otherwise-empty intersection, lights flashing. For one night, San Francisco was quiet.
I punched in Pete’s number on my iPhone.
He answered on the first ring. “What do you need, Mick?”
“Hard evidence that Johnny acted in self-defense.”
“Working on it.”
“You want some help?”
“No.”
“Is Gio with you?”
“He went home to be with Maria.” He cleared his throat. “What time does the prelim start?”
“Ten a.m.”
“I’ll call you.”
✽✽✽
The light from the streetlamp outside the window reflected off the cobalt eyes of the Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco. Rosie pulled the sheet over herself and ran her fingers through my hair. She flashed the picture-perfect smile that looked the same as it did when I had first met her almost a quarter of a century earlier.
“You’re getting gray, Mike,” she said. “It makes you look distinguished.”
“I’d rather look young.”
She kissed me. “You’ll always be young to me.”
Beautiful Rosie. I pushed a strand of jet-black hair out of her eyes. She needed a little help from a bottle to hide the gray. “Looks nice.”
“I miss having it longer.”
“So do I.”
“Do you think the shorter hair makes me look older?”
“No. I miss having more to play with.”
This elicited another smile. We were in bed at one-fifteen on Monday morning. I was due in court in less than nine hours, but I wasn’t tired, and I wanted to cherish a moment of quiet with the most beautiful woman I had ever known. Ever since our days as junior public defenders, we had always spent the night before a trial or a big prelim together. I’m not sure if it helped us in court, but it got our adrenaline flowing. Even after our divorce, we kept up our pre-game ritual out of a combination of superstition, habit, and, to be honest, enjoyment. In my prior life as a priest, I didn’t have a huge sample size for comparison, but I was pretty sure that Rosie was extraordinarily good in bed.
She stroked my cheek. “Maria called about Johnny again. Can you fix this?”
“I’m not sure.”
“She’s worried.”
“I don’t blame her. Is she okay to come to court tomorrow?”
“Yes. The boys will be there, too.”
“Good. A show of support.”
“She said that Gio was out with Pete again tonight. You think they’ll find something?”
“I’m not optimistic. Even if they find iron-clad evidence to exonerate Johnny, there will be riots.”
“And if they convict him of first-degree murder, there may be riots. Somebody is going to be unhappy.”
“Maria and Gio will be happy if I get their son off. That’s enough for me.”
“Things will never be the same for any of them.”
“I know.” I looked at her. “It was quiet when I was driving home.”
“The cops and the National Guard are out in force.”
“They can’t keep a lid on this indefinitely.”
“People will get tired of it sooner or later.” She squeezed my hand. “Are you going to be okay, Mike? You seem more troubled than usual.”
“I feel like I can’t control anything.”
“You can control what happens in court.” I could smell her warm breath as she kissed me again. “What’s bothering you?”
How much time do you have? “I’m closer to sixty than fifty. Our daughter is in college. Our son is going to start high school in a couple of years. Your mother is in her eighties. So is Big John. Everybody is counting on us. In the meantime, the cases keep getting harder. The world keeps getting nastier. And I’m getting tired.”
“You’ve dealt with high-profile cases. You know how it goes.”
“I’ve never had one where there are riots, and people are getting shot. There’s a lot riding on this case, Rosie. I’m starting to feel like a grown-up. And I don’t like it.”
She chewed on her lip. It was a rare occasion where she had no answer. To her credit, she didn’t try a cliché. “Maybe you should take a little time off after you finish Johnny’s case.”
“Maybe.” I looked into her eyes. “How much longer do you want to do this?”
“One more election cycle. Can you hang in with me until then?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You always do. You like being the Public Defender, don’t you?
“I do. Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s a good thing. We need people like you.”
“And we need people like you, Mike.”
I pulled her close and kissed her. “We’re going to be okay, Rosie.”
“I know. Are you going to walk the steps with Zvi in the morning?”
“Yeah. The doctor says that it’s good for me.”
“So is sleep.”
“It’s overrated. I need to get up early anyway. Do you want me to go home?”
She smiled seductively. “No, I want you to stay.”
53
“ALL RISE”
News vans lined Bryant at nine o’clock on Monday morning as I pushed through the reporters on the steps of the Hall. SFPD had blocked traffic. A thousand protesters stood behind police barricades. They held up signs reading “Justice for JuJu” and sang “We Shall Overcome.” A battalion of cops in riot gear maintained an uneasy truce.
I was already drenched when my umbrella blew inside-out as I approached the door to the Hall. A cameraman accidentally bumped my briefcase, which banged into my knee. To his credit, he apologized. I caught myself before I fell, saving me from injury, preserving my laptop, and avoiding an embarrassing moment on YouTube.
“Mr. Daley, are you still maintaining that your client is innocent?”
“Mr. Daley, are you going to negotiate a plea bargain?”
“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”
I tried to sound forceful as the rain pelted my face. “My client is innocent. I have no further comment.”
I pushed my way into the lobby, where I was met by a stern-faced Luca Bacigalupi. “Gio, Maria, and the boys are upstairs,” he said.
“Let’s roll.”
✽✽✽
“All rise.”
Judge Martellus Ramsey cut an imposing presence as he emerged from the door to the hallway leading to his chambers. His use of an electronic wheelchair did not make the one-time star linebacker at Oakland’s Skyline High School appear less intimidating. The fluorescent light reflected off his shaved head as he glided to the bench between the Stars and Stripes and the California state flag. He turned on his computer, lifted a hand, and addressed his packed courtroom.
“Be seated.”
An overworked fan recirculated air that smelled of mildew. A tense silence enveloped the room as Judge Ramsey pursed his lips and pulled the microphone
toward himself. He scanned the faces of the fortunate souls who had seats in the five rows of the gallery. He stroked his gray beard as his gaze moved to the prosecution table, where Harper was sitting next to Roosevelt. His eyes shifted to the defense side, where Johnny was sitting between Luca and me. Nady sat to my right. Luca was at the defense table as a courtesy. Nady was here to work. As second chair, she would handle the choreography of producing evidence. I had impressed upon her that courtrooms are theaters, where stagecraft, timing, props, and presentation are essential. She had taken on her role with her customary enthusiasm and diligence. Given the opportunity and some practice, she would make a superb trial lawyer.
Johnny’s mother, father, and six brothers sat behind us in the first row of the gallery. Maria’s hands were in her lap, eyes locked onto the judge. Gio was wearing his dress uniform, bearing erect, expression stoic. Three assistant chiefs and a dozen cops sat behind Johnny’s family. I appreciated the show of solidarity. Members of the media and a few courthouse regulars had taken the remaining seats. Rosie was in the back row.
Pete was conspicuously missing. He was still in the Fillmore. I always felt better when he was in court. He had a knack for reading judges.
The prosecution’s side was also filled. Jones’s mother sat behind Harper, hands clasped. Her brother sat to her left. Reverend Tucker was on her right, clutching a Bible. Nicole Ward sat on the aisle. Members of Reverend Tucker’s church took seats in the second row. Reporters sat in the last three rows. The media members who had lost the lottery had been escorted to an even dingier courtroom down the hall, where they would watch on TV.
Judge Ramsey nodded to his bailiff. “Please call our case.”
“The People versus Giovanni Carlo Bacigalupi the Fourth.”
“Counsel will state their names for the record.”
“DeSean Harper for the People.”
“Michael Daley, Lucantonio Bacigalupi, and Nadezhda Nikonova for the defense.”
The judge nodded. “Mr. Bacigalupi, it’s nice to see you. Ms. Nikonova, I trust that Mr. Daley has provided instructions as to how I prefer to conduct business?”
“He has, Your Honor.”
“Then we’ll get along fine.” He pointed at Harper. “I see that Inspector Johnson is with you. I take it that he has been designated as the inspector for this case?”
“He has.”
“Any objection, Mr. Daley?”
“No, Your Honor.” Generally, witnesses aren’t allowed in court prior to their testimony. However, the D.A. is permitted to include the lead homicide inspector at the table.
The judge nodded at Roosevelt. “Good to see you, Inspector.”
“Good to see you, Your Honor.”
Judge Ramsey looked into the TV camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, this matter has generated substantial media attention. Since we have limited seating and the City lacks the resources to rent a larger venue, I have ruled that these proceedings will be televised.”
I stood and invoked a respectful tone. “We renew our objection.”
“Noted and overruled, Mr. Daley.”
I knew that was coming.
The judge gestured with his reading glasses. “In general, I don’t like having cameras in my court. It changes people’s behavior—usually in a bad way. First, I want to address the gallery. I am going to conduct these proceedings as if you aren’t here. I expect you to remain silent. No comments, no whispers, no laughing, no outbursts, no cell phones, no texting, no tweeting, no reactions of any kind. If you disobey these instructions even once, my bailiff will escort you out the door.”
I appreciated the show of control. Then again, I knew that Judge Ramsey ran his courtroom with the precision of a Swiss train.
The judge’s eyes moved from the gallery to the prosecution table, and then to me. “I want to address the attorneys. My rules are simple. If you grandstand, you will spend a night in one of our fine jail cells upstairs. Understood?”
Harper and I responded in unison. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good. I want to remind you that I have imposed a complete ban on speaking to the media or engaging in other forms of communication outside this courtroom. If I see you on TV, Twitter, Facebook, or social media of any type, I will hold you in contempt.”
The judge didn’t wait for a response before he continued. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a preliminary hearing to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over for trial on the charge of murder in the first degree. It is a serious matter, and I expect you to respect its gravity.
“For those who are unfamiliar with these proceedings, a preliminary hearing is different from a trial. First, there is no jury, so I am responsible for making all decisions.”
True. It’s all on you.
“Second, instead of proving each element beyond a reasonable doubt, the prosecution must simply show that there is sufficient evidence to justify a belief that the defendant committed a crime.”
Also true. It’s a relatively low standard.
“Third, by law, I am obligated to give the benefit of the doubt to the prosecution on evidentiary matters.”
He’ll lean over backwards to believe Harper.
The judge spoke to Johnny. “Mr. Bacigalupi, did you understand everything that I said?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He turned to the prosecution. “Mr. Harper, while an opening statement is not customary at a prelim, I am prepared to listen if you’d like to make a few opening remarks.”
“I would, Your Honor.”
54
“IT WAS A COLD-BLOODED MURDER”
Harper stood at the lectern and adjusted the sleeve of his suit jacket. “It was a cold-blooded murder,” he said.
Johnny gripped the armrests of his chair tightly.
Harper worked without notes. “I am here to discuss a murder committed by a San Francisco police officer. As a member of law enforcement, it is painful for me.”
It’s even more so for Johnny and me. It’s bad form to interrupt during an opening, but I wanted to let Harper know that I would challenge him. “Objection. Alleged murder.”
Harper didn’t look my way. “Alleged murder,” he repeated. He pointed at a poster-size photo of a smiling Jones positioned in view of the judge, the gallery, and the TV cameras. “Juwon Jones was just eighteen when he was shot and killed by the defendant. JuJu had graduated from Gateway High School. He was taking classes at City College and studying for his associate’s degree. He had a job and was saving to attend State. He was a loving son.”
He was also a convicted criminal and an alleged drug mule. And the cops found a dozen AK-47s in the trunk of his car. Just saying.
Harper was playing to an audience of one: Judge Ramsey. “Your Honor, like most teenagers, JuJu wasn’t perfect. He was arrested a couple of times and convicted once of stealing a car. He did community service and was placed on probation. Regardless of these youthful indiscretions, he did not deserve to die, leaving a grieving mother. And he certainly didn’t deserve to die in the manner that he did—unarmed and begging for his life.”
Last time. “Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence.”
“Please, Mr. Harper.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Harper put a hand on the lectern. “JuJu was stopped for a broken tail light. When the defendant ordered him out of his vehicle, JuJu got scared and ran. The defendant gave chase and cornered him in a parking lot. In response to the defendant’s command, JuJu raised his hands and surrendered. He repeatedly said that he was unarmed. He pleaded with the defendant not to shoot.” He turned to face Johnny. “But that’s exactly what he did.”
Johnny glanced at me, panic in his eyes. I raised my hand slightly. Stay the course.
Harper turned back to the judge. “We will introduce police video showing exactly what happened. The defendant shot JuJu four times at point blank range. It was a horrible overreaction to a situation that should have been resolved peacefully by de-escalation.
JuJu died on the spot.”
Harper lowered his voice. “I wish that it hadn’t happened. I wish that JuJu’s mother didn’t have to bury her son. I wish that I could make things right for her. But we take the facts as they are. I will provide sufficient evidence that the defendant committed first-degree murder.”
Harper looked at Jones’s mother, whose hands were clutched in front of her face, eyes closed, tears streaming. He turned back to Judge Ramsey. “JuJu cannot speak for himself, so it’s my job to speak for him. We cannot bring him back, but we will find justice for JuJu.”
Harper took his seat.
Judge Ramsey’s eyes shifted to me. “Did you wish to make some brief opening remarks, Mr. Daley?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I stood, buttoned my jacket, walked to the lectern, and placed a single notecard next to the microphone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rosie, eyes focused on the judge. I could hear her voice in my head imploring me to keep it short and clear.
I invoked my confession voice. “Your Honor, Johnny Bacigalupi is a fine police officer and an exemplary young man. He feels terrible about the death of Juwon Jones, and so do I. We extend our deepest sympathies to his mother, relatives, and friends.”
That was enough. There’s a fine line between respectful and smarmy.
“Johnny Bacigalupi has been charged with first-degree murder in connection with a traffic stop and the ensuing foot chase, even though he acted in compliance with police procedure and, more important, in self-defense. We will not dispute the fact that Johnny shot and killed Juwon Jones. It is unfortunate that he had to do so, but he had no choice. He had to protect himself. First-degree murder requires a premeditated intent to kill. Johnny had none.”
Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3 Page 45