Judge Roth's Law

by Bill Sage

  The hostess stood behind him, waiting.

  “What a surprise seeing you here,” Linda said.

  Ward shifted in his chair as he warily sized up Lopez, who was wearing a tight black polo shirt. Bicep and chest muscles bulging.

  “I got a meeting close by, so I thought I’d grab something to eat,” Lopez said.

  Linda turned to Ward. “Steve, this is Carlos Lopez.” Turning to Lopez, she said, “Steve is from Congressman Hamilton’s office.”

  “Nice meeting you, Steve.”

  They shook hands.

  “We already finished our business,” Linda said. “So why don’t you join us?” She turned to Ward. “Do you mind, Steve?”

  Ward shrugged. “Why not?”

  Lopez stepped closer to the hostess, discretely slipping her a folded $20 bill. Then she turned and walked away. He went back to the table and flagged a nearby waitress. When she came over, he ordered a French Dip sandwich, fries, and a Bohemia.

  Since Lopez hadn’t tucked his shirt into his pants, when he sat down he had to lift it up to be more comfortable. That’s when Ward caught a glimpse of Lopez’s Bianchi chestnut brown hip holster.

  Linda looked at Ward. “Carlos used to be a cop, LAPD.”

  “Big department,” Ward said.

  “Third largest in the United States.”

  “I know some guys over there.”

  “Who? Maybe I know them.”

  “Lieutenant McErlain, Captain Robitaille.”

  “I know both.”

  “One of those guys was ATF. I can’t remember which one,” Ward quizzed him.

  “Robitaille. San Diego.”

  Ward managed a meager smile. Then he took a drink of iced tea. “How long you been retired?”

  “About ten years. I was a sergeant in the detective bureau for many years. Worked narcotics, bunco, bribery, and investigated quite a few blackmail cases. Put a lot of blackmailers in the joint, where they belong.”

  “Aren’t those classified as white-collar crimes?”

  “Steve, many of those guys are the worst of the worst. I especially liked arresting the ones who blackmailed people who worked in the judicial system, like prosecutors and judges.”

  Ward glanced at Lopez and then turned away. He took another sip of iced tea.

  The waitress brought Lopez’s Bohemia. Staring at Ward, he picked up the bottle and gulped down three swallows.

  When he put the bottle down, he let it hit the table with a thud. “Extortion of judicial officials undermines respect for the rule of law, don’t you agree, Steve?”

  Ward nodded affirmatively, but kept quiet.

  Lopez tightened his jaw, burning his eyes into Ward’s. Ward looked down and then took a bite of bread.

  Lopez said, “Me and the guys in my unit got to hate those scumbags. Know what I mean?”

  Ward looked over at Linda, but she was barely paying attention. Then he nodded at Lopez. “Yeah.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t talk about it now, but sometimes before we’d bring those guys in for booking, we’d take ‘em somewhere and break a few bones, have some fun.”

  Ward loosened his tie and took another look at Linda. This time she was squinting at Lopez with a stunned look on her face. Then she slowly turned to look at Ward.

  “The statute of limitations has passed,” Lopez said, grimacing and then shrugging his shoulders. “It’s all dead history.”

  They sat in silence for a brief time. Every once in while Ward would sneak a glance at Lopez. One time Lopez caught him and stared back at him until Ward was forced to look away.

  “It’s funny how I still feel the same way about those dirtbags,” Lopez said, eyes locked on Ward. “Nothing better than dishing out a little street justice. You know what I mean,” he said, his eyes still boring into Ward.

  Ward nodded then looked down.

  After two or three seconds of dead silence, Ward turned to Linda and switched the conversation to talking about the Reliable Savings and Loan Company. “They’re having a great year. Planning on opening another store in Brea.”

  “I know. Congressman Hamilton was telling me about it.”

  “Their business is growing faster than they ever imagined.”

  Later as they were talking the waitress brought their food. “Here’s your salads and French Dip.” Then she refilled their iced tea glasses.

  Lopez immediately dove into his sandwich. Linda and Ward took a break from talking and concentrated on eating their salads. It was quiet while they ate, except when Linda, said, “My salad’s good. Lots of avocado and arugula.”

  Lopez looked at her and smiled. She looked at him, crinkling her eyes, smiling back.

  It wasn’t long before Lopez had devoured his sandwich and drank all his beer. He folded his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Sorry, Linda, but I have to get going.” Then he rose and threw $20 bill on the table.

  “Carlos, I got it,” Linda said.

  “No, no, Linda. But thanks.”

  Linda smiled and extended her hand to him.

  Holding her hand in his, Lopez said, “Bye, Linda. It was nice of you to allow me to join you.”

  Then he turned to Ward. “Maybe we’ll see each other again. Who knows, it could be soon.”

  Ward smiled. Then he sat still while he watched Lopez walk toward the door. When he was out of sight, he looked at Linda, who quickly looked away.

  The waitress brought the check and Linda gave her one of her credit cards. Then she pulled Al’s letter out of her purse. “Al wanted me to hand you his legal opinion.”

  “What?”

  “The legal opinion, the one you asked him about.”

  Ward swallowed and took the envelope. He slid it closer to him. Held his hand on top of it.

  Linda signed the credit slip and put it with the $20 bill. Then said she had to go. Ward said he’d sit there for a few more minutes and shook her hand goodbye.

  Ward waited until Linda left the room. Then he opened the envelope. Removed the letter, read it, and put it on the table. Leaning back, he sat there stone-faced.

  It was a typewritten copy of the Penal Code section specifying the prison terms for blackmail.

  Under the text it said, “Wishing you a very healthy life, Sgt. Lopez, LAPD.”

  Lopez scared the crap out of Steve Ward. Arresting guys and breaking their bones made him shudder. Then he brags about it.

  Ward had one of his staff make some calls to check out Lopez and find out what his connection was with Roth. It was easy for them to verify that Lopez had been with LAPD and that he was a good friend of Al Roth’s.

  Ward understood that Roth was using Lopez to send him a message about his implied threat to interfere with Linda’s chances of getting the contract. He now knew that was off limits. But that wouldn’t deter him from trying to blackmail Roth. He was more determined now than ever.

  The next day he called Linda and apologized. Said there’d been some confusion with the paperwork and a few pages of another contractor’s proposal got in with hers. When they finally straightened it out, they saw that her bid was still very much in the running.

  He wanted her to know that she shouldn’t worry; there wouldn’t be any more mix-ups. He said he ordered that her bid be kept in a separate location, so that kind of mishap wouldn’t happen again.

  34

  NEXT MORNING, AFTER THE JURORS took their seats, Robert Madden was called back to the witness stand.

  This time Goldman remained seated. “Yesterday, Mr. Madden, you said you had no problem seeing the shooter. You were only 30 feet away.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And that gave you a clear view?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Yes, there was no problem. I could see what he did.”

  “But maybe you didn’t have the great view you want the jury to believe, Mr. Madden,” Goldman said, standing up.

  Then he pushed in his chair and stood behi
nd it. “My client has a broken nose but you didn’t say the shooter had a broken nose. Maybe you’re not telling us the truth about the supposedly clear view you say you had?”

  Roth knew this was coming; he’d read the crime report. He wondered how Wilcox prepared the Maddens for it. Now he’d find out.

  “There was nothing wrong with my view,” Madden started. “I was seeing a man being murdered. I probably did notice the defendant’s broken nose, but later when I had to dig into my memory and recollect all the details, I didn’t recall seeing it. I said what I remembered, but I very well could have noticed it at the time.”

  His answer stunned Goldman, who was shooting Wilcox a dirty look. It forced him to abandon his attempt to imply Madden didn’t have clear view.

  Boiling, Goldman walked near the jury box, and in a hostile voice barked, “Look at Mr. Mangano's nose. It's broken, isn't it?”

  “It looks like it's broken, but I don’t know if it is for sure.”

  “What do you mean, it looks like it? Is it or isn't it?” Goldman’s blotch was getting redder.

  “All I can say is that it looks broken to me. And I’m not saying I didn’t see it when he shot the man. I’m saying I didn’t recall seeing it when I gave his description to the sheriffs…”

  “But that’s when it counts, isn’t it?” Goldman asked.

  Judge Roth raised his hand to stop Wilcox from objecting and directed Madden not to answer. Then he glared at Goldman. “You’re badgering the witness, Mr. Goldman. You know that’s attorney misconduct. Stop it and show more respect for the witnesses.” Roth should have let him answer, but instead he was sticking it to Goldman, goading him even more.

  Goldman gawked at Roth, shook his head, then went back grilling Madden. He cross-examined him endlessly about the lineup, whether he’d had something to drink before he came to the restaurant, if he’d ever wanted to be a cop, and even whether he’d ever cheated on any of his engineering exams.

  Robert Madden got a temporary respite when they broke for lunch. He and Joyce went to Carl’s Jr. for hamburgers. She asked him what questions Goldman asked, but he refused to say because Judge Roth had instructed all witnesses not to discuss their testimony with other witnesses.

  When they were walking back to the courthouse, Madden did say, “The defense attorney is the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet.”

  “I’ll be glad when all this is over,” Joyce said.

  When they resumed the trial, Goldman went right back to his merciless interrogation of Madden, sometimes going over the same subject again and again. Roth had to stop him, telling him to go on to other topics.

  Late in the afternoon, Goldman launched another one of his manufactured claims against Madden. This time it was that he’d changed his description of Mangano.

  Standing behind his chair and taking his time running his fingers across his beard in way that made it look like he was about to ask a very profound question, he took a deep breath and said, “I want to get into something else, Mr. Madden.”

  Then he paused for such a long time that Roth was getting ready to instruct him to get on with it.

  But finally Goldman asked, “After looking over the photos and picking out Mr. Mangano, didn’t you tell the sheriff’s department you wanted to change the description you gave them of the shooter?”

  “Absolutely not. That’s not true.”

  Goldman flashed the jury a disbelieving look. Shaking his head, he asked, “You didn’t try to make it fit Mangano’s photo?”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting this from. Why would I want to change my description? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Oh, that’s good. The more I hear you testify, the more you sound like an advocate for the sheriff’s department instead of a neutral witness.”

  Wilcox motioned with his hand to stop Madden from answering. Then scowling at Goldman, he said, “Nobody cares what your opinion is, Mr. Goldman.”

  “I want to cite the prosecutor for misconduct, Your Honor,” Goldman demanded. “He’s making personal attacks.”

  Judge Roth said, “You’re complaining about him? Is that a joke?” He paused to drive his statement home. “Ask your next question,” he said curtly.

  Goldman looked up at the ceiling, pursing his lips. Then after pausing a few seconds, he asked, “Would you admit it if you had changed your description?”

  “That never happened. What are you talking about?”

  “Just one last question, Mr. Madden. Did anyone from the DA’s office or the sheriff’s office coach you or tell you what to say?”

  “Your Honor,” Wilcox began.

  “It’s okay. He can answer,” Roth said.

  “That’s absurd. The answer is no.”

  Goldman shook his head and said, “I give up. I’m not going to get a straight answer out of this witness.” Then he sat down.

  Wilcox stood and said, “Your Honor, may I ask a few questions on re-direct?”

  “You may, Mr. Wilcox.”

  Wilcox smiled as he came closer to Madden. “Mr. Madden, when you looked at the photos, you saw the one of Mr. Mangano, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You studied it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could see he had a slightly broken nose in the photo? That was clearly visible?”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “But even Mr. Goldman agrees you never said that the shooter had a broken nose. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you were going to change your description as defense counsel alleges, that’s the best place to start, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, if that’s what I wanted to do.”

  “So tell me, since you never did that, doesn’t it look like Mr. Goldman is deliberately saying something that’s false when he stands here and accuses you of changing your description of the shooter?”

  Goldman immediately objected. “Unfair question, Your Honor. How does he know what information I have, and besides, the question improperly asks for his opinion.”

  Judge Roth should have sustained the objection, but he didn’t. “Overruled, Mr. Goldman. This is your issue, you brought it up.” He turned to Madden. “You may answer Mr. Madden.”

  This was Madden’s chance to get even with Goldman, and he took it. “No one wants to believe an attorney would deliberately say something about a witness that he knows is not true, but that’s what he’s done. What he said is a total lie and he knows it.” Shaking his head, he said, “It makes you wonder.”

  Wilcox wisely dropped it right there and returned to his place at the counsel table.

  When Judge Roth asked Goldman if he wanted to take Madden on cross-examination again, Goldman shook his head. “No, Your Honor,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t see any need for that.” Then flaunting a smug smile, he sat down, shaking his head again.

  Roth was thinking, That bullshit tactic won’t work.

  As Judge Roth glanced at the clock he noticed Jon looking at him. “I think this is a good time for us to adjourn,” Roth said. “It’s almost 5:00 and it’s been a long day and the jury could be a little tired.”

  Goldman nodded his agreement.

  Wilcox said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “We’ll start at 10:00 tomorrow morning,” Judge Roth ordered.

  35

  THAT AFTERNOON JAKE WENT TO the Los Angeles garment district with Hack, who’d put together a clothing hijack scheme and was meeting with his accomplices to nail down the final details. Under Hack’s plan, his team would hijack delivery trucks and ship the merchandise to Detroit, where it would be sold to stores or on the black market.

  But the whole thing was a con. All the parties were in on it, including the drivers.

  Hack wanted Jake to be there with him to make sure no one tried to jam him up for a larger share of the take.

  With Jake glowering at everyone, there were no complaints and Hack’s deal went through without any problems.


  After wrapping up their business, Jake and Hack headed over to a small coffee shop on Los Angeles Street. As they neared the door, Hack chuckled and said, “It was a little tense in there. You staring everybody down. Even I was getting a little nervous.”

  “But I was trying so hard to be nice,” Jake said, flashing a wide smile.

  Hack laughed as he opened the door. They sat at a small table against the wall, ordering chicken salad sandwiches and cokes.

  After eating, they talked for a while.

  Hack wanted to find out how the Mangano trial was going and if Jake felt good about what Al was doing.

  “Al thinks it’s going good. So we’ll have to see what happens,” Jake said.

  A few minutes later they left the restaurant and walked to the parking lot.

  Crossing the street, Jake said, “You know, I’m half way to Goldman’s. I think I’ll pay him a friendly social visit. You know, surprise him.”

  Hack looked at him and smiled.

  “See how he’s doing. Show I still care about him,” Jake said with a sardonic smile.

  “You can’t stay away from that schmuck, can you? Don’t let him get to you. You don’t need shit like that.”

  “Fuck ‘im. He’s an asshole. Needs someone to show him he’s not as smart as he thinks.”

  “I thought people were supposed to mellow out when they got older.”

  Jake stopped dead in his tracks and turned toward Hack. “Oh, you on his side, Dave?”

  Hack took a quick look at Jake then looked away. “We need to get outta here. Beat the traffic.”

  Meanwhile, after leaving the courthouse, Goldman drove home to his two-story Brentwood Lane condo in Beverly Hills. After getting his mail and taking off his shoes, he ate some leftover pepperoni pizza and a bowl of strawberry ice cream.

  Then he poured a glass of white wine and sat on the couch watching TV. An episode of Dynasty.

  A half-hour later, when the show was really getting good, Goldman heard a bang on his door. He looked outside and saw Jake standing there, wearing a dark blue windbreaker and a black ball cap.

  Oh, shit. Goldman reluctantly opened the door and let him in.