“Ah, the preliminary hearing for Sammie Sand.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to give you a little coaching?”
“How much sarcasm will it remove from me?”
“Hopefully, all of it.”
“Then no, I’m good.”
“Michael—”
“Kidding. I’ll be my soft, respectful self.”
“What I’m afraid of,” Ira said.
When I got back at the motel I took a beer out to the pool to cool down and figure out who I was going to stalk next.
When I got there a woman was sitting on one of the deck chairs. She had her head in her hands. Obviously weeping. I stood there for a moment considering what to do. People in that condition usually want to be left alone. I didn’t want to embarrass her. But just before I turned she lifted her head and saw me, and went, “Oh!”
Her eyes were red. She was around thirty. Curly blonde hair.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.
She shook her head and waved her arm.
“Is there something I can get you?” I said.
“No.”
“How about some water?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Is there somebody I can contact for you?”
Her face was a confusion between friendliness and caution.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” I said. “I just wondered.”
“I just…” She took a deep breath. “My dad died.”
And the tears flowed again.
I sat in a chair. “I’m sorry. I know what that’s like. I lost my dad, too.”
“It wasn’t a shock,” she said. “He had cancer. But it wasn’t supposed to be for months. And I wasn’t there.”
“We can’t always control that,” I said.
“He told me to come out here,” she said. “He told me to go for my dream.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m an actor,” she said.
I felt even more sorry for her.
“How long have you been here?” I said.
“Three days,” she said.
“Anybody with you?”
Her face changed then, in an understandable way.
“Sorry,” I said. “That’s intrusive and you don’t know me. I’ll leave you now.”
“Wait,” she said. “I’m not afraid or anything, sitting out here. Thank you for saying something. You said you lost your dad?”
“Yes.”
“How did you deal with it?”
By withdrawing into myself. By remaking my body. By finding the man responsible and killing him. By changing my name. By running from ghosts. By keeping my distance from people. Sometimes by erupting and—
“A day at a time,” I said.
“You were close to your father?”
“Very. My mother, too.”
“Is she alive?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s a good and human thing to be sorry,” I said. “When a just man dies, sorrow and joy are one.”
She blinked a couple of times.
“A poet named Auden wrote that,” I said.
“Can I say something?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t look like somebody who recites poetry.”
“I’ve been told as much.”
“Are you a writer or something?”
“I work for a lawyer,” I said.
She paused, looking at the pool as if the water held comforting secrets.
“Does it get any easier?” she asked.
“It gets endurable,” I said.
“I hope so.”
“Do you have someone to help you with funeral, estate, those things?”
“My mom and sister,” she said. “I’ll be going back on Wednesday.”
I gave her one of Ira’s cards. “This is the lawyer I work for. He knows good lawyers all over. If you need help finding someone, give him a call. He’ll hook you up.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“If you need anything else, I’m in 24.”
“This is amazing.”
“Amazing?”
“That you should have come along right at this moment.” She pocketed the card. “May I know your name?”
“Mike.”
“I’m Jenna.”
I heard myself say, “God bless you, Jenna.”
“You, too, Mike.”
I drove over to the Topanga station of the LAPD. I went to the front desk and told the officer I had some illegal drugs to drop off for disposal. I gave him the baggie of dust. His look told me this is not something that happens every day. He asked me how I got it and I said I took it away from an acquaintance, which was true enough. He asked me if I’d like to leave my contact information, and I told him they had enough on their hands these days.
And heard myself say, “God bless you guys.”
That night I slept better than I had in weeks.
A preliminary hearing in California is a special proceeding held before a judge or magistrate. When the D.A. has filed a criminal complaint, it’s their burden to show there’s enough evidence to hold the defendant to answer, meaning go to trial. The prosecutor presents witnesses and evidence, subject to cross-examination by the defense.
This prelim was being held in the courtroom of Judge Latoya Frye. Naturally it was all Plexiglas and mask wearing. I had one on, and my best Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt, a fashion choice Hope Wynn, the Deputy D.A., apparently did not approve of. She looked at me as if I’d smuggled a ukulele into court and was about to play “Tiny Bubbles.” She motioned me to a chair in the gallery and started going through some files at her counsel table.
At the table was the defense lawyer. He looked fresh out of law school but was completely bald, the shaved-head variety. His eyes were close-set, his mouth tight, and his suit off the wrong size rack. He had the look of a Deputy Public Defender.
The public was not allowed in so the courtroom was relatively empty. Detective Coltrane Smith sat on the other side of the gallery. He gave me a nod when we made eye contact.
The door next to the empty jury box opened. A deputy sheriff came in with Sammie Sand, who was wearing jailhouse blues and handcuffs. The deputy seated Sand at the defense table and removed the cuffs. His lawyer leaned over and said something to him. Sand shook his head.
The bailiff told us all to stand as he announced the judge. Judge Frye looked around forty. Young to be a judge. But that was probably a good thing. She hadn’t had time to morph into one of those tired, cynical judges who just take up space on the bench. There was an energetic intelligence in her eyes, meaning there was a possibility to get that rarest of things—actual justice.
She called the case and the two lawyers announced their appearances.
“Hope Wynn for the People,” Hope Wynn said.
The other lawyer said, “Seth Pound for the defendant, Mr. Sand.”
Hope Wynn called Detective Coltrane Smith to the stand.
He gave a summary of the police report, and the arrest and questioning of the defendant. He said that Sammie Sand did not waive his Miranda rights and insisted on having a lawyer appointed.
Wynn then showed Smith the knife that Sand had wielded at the bookstore. He identified it, and Wynn had it marked as an exhibit.
Seth Pound took a few shots at Detective Smith.
“When you got to the scene, where was Mr. Sand?”
“He was in the police vehicle,” Smith said.
“Was he in handcuffs?”
“Yes.”
“And he was in handcuffs because the chief witness against him had brutally attacked him.”
“Objection,” Hope Wynn said.
“Sustained,” said Judge Frye. “You want to rephrase that, Mr. Pound?”
“Detective Smith,” said Seth Pound, “was it reported to you that Michael Romeo, the prosecution’s chief witness, caused Mr. Sand
’s head to make contact with the ground, on at least three occasions?”
Even with his mask on, I could tell Smith was fighting hard not to smile. “That is correct.”
Pound strutted for a moment behind the podium, as if he were thinking of his next earth-shattering question.
“Where was the knife when you first saw it?”
“It was on the bookstore counter.”
“Do you know how it got there?”
“I believe Mr. Romeo put it there.”
“Ah, Mr. Romeo again.”
Hope Wynn stood. “Is there a question, or is this a speech?”
Judge Frye was having none of it. “Mr. Pound, you know better than that. You’re not on TV.”
“I’m just laying a foundation,” Pound said.
“Then do it the right way,” Judge Frye said.
“Detective Smith, you never saw the knife in the possession of Mr. Sand, did you?”
“I did not.”
“You only saw it after it had been handled by Mr. Romeo, is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“For all you know, that knife could belong to Mr. Romeo, couldn’t it?”
There was a moment there when everybody seemed stunned. Like they’d heard a distant explosion, not close enough to dive under a table, but enough to command attention.
That’s when I was called. The clerk swore me in and said, “Please state your name and spell your last name for the record, please.”
“Mike Romeo. R-O-M-E-O.”
Hope Wynn began her questioning. “Mr. Romeo, how are you employed?”
“I work as an investigator for a lawyer, Ira Rosen.”
“And were you working in that capacity on the morning of March 1?”
“No.”
“Tell the court what you were doing at around ten o’clock that morning.”
“I was at a bookstore, the Odyssey, downtown. Browsing and reading.”
“And just before the knife attack, what—”
“Objection,” defense lawyer Seth Pound said. “Assumes a fact not in evidence.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “Re-characterize, Ms. Wynn.”
Hope Wynn said, “Just before the incident which is the subject of this hearing, Mr. Romeo, where were you situated?”
“I was outside the front door, sitting in a chair, perusing a copy of Harold Bloom’s Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human.”
“During your reading, did something happen that caused you to look up from your book?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell us what that was.”
“It was the defendant walking into the store with criminal intent.”
“Objection,” Seth Pound said. “The witness is offering an opinion.”
Hope Wynn said, “I’ll lay the foundation.”
“Then I’ll overrule the objection,” Judge Frye said. “But let’s get some facts.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said. “Was there something you saw that caused you to form the opinion that the defendant had what you call criminal intent?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that?”
“He had a knife.”
“Can you describe the knife?”
“It was a knife with about a six-inch blade.”
Hope Wynn stepped from the podium to her counsel table and picked something up. “Your Honor, I have what has been previously marked as People’s Exhibit One. May I approach the witness?”
“You may,” said the judge.
Hope Wynn came up to the witness box and showed me the exhibit.
“Mr. Romeo, is this the knife that you saw in the defendant’s hand?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Romeo, does this look like the knife you saw in the defendant’s hand?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else that caused you to form the opinion of criminal intent?”
“It was the way he was holding the knife,” I said. “Up against his forearm, so it was hidden.”
“Can you show the court?”
“Objection,” Seth Pound said.
“Overruled,” the judge said.
Hope Wynn handed me the knife. I stood so the judge could see my arm. I showed her the knife position I’d observed.
Judge Frye said, “The record will reflect that the witness is holding the knife in his left hand, with the blade against his forearm, facing up toward the elbow.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Hope Wynn took the knife from me and put it back on the counsel table.
Back at the podium she said, “What did you do next, Mr. Romeo?”
“I got up and went into the store. I saw him—the defendant—walking quickly toward the front counter. There was an employee there, named Wanda.”
“Did you know Wanda?”
“From the bookstore, yes. Back when it was open before the lockdown.”
“What did you do next?”
“I prevented the defendant from killing Wanda.”
“Objection!” Seth Pound said.
“Sustained,” said the judge. “Mr. Romeo, just tell the court what action you took.”
“I threw the book at him, Your Honor.”
“You did what?”
“Well, it was the Harold Bloom book. I threw it at his head. It did the trick.”
“Let me understand,” the judge said. “You threw a book at Mr. Sand’s head?”
“It’s a thick book,” I said. “Perfect for a thick head.”
No one laughed. Hope Wynn winced. Sammie Sand gave me the hard-eye of the prison yard.
“This isn’t a comedy, Mr. Romeo,” Judge Frye said.
“I apologize, Your Honor,” I said.
“Go ahead, Ms. Wynn.”
“What effect did your book have on the defendant?” Hope Wynn said.
“It dropped him,” I said.
“And what did you do next?”
“I put a knee on his back and removed the knife from his hand.”
“How did you do that?”
“By slamming his wrist on the ground. Then I held him down until the police arrived.”
Hope Wynn picked up her yellow pad and flipped to a new page. “Now, Mr. Romeo, while you had the defendant on the ground, did you do something to his head?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Tell the court what you did.”
I looked at the judge. “Your Honor, he was cursing a blue streak, as my grandfather used to put it. So I tweaked him with my middle finger and told him to be quiet.”
Hope Wynn said, “Did he cease cursing?”
“No,” I said. “He screamed something else.”
“What did he scream?”
“You want his exact words?”
“Yes.”
I gave them. And considered it a subtle victory that the judge’s eyebrows went up.
Hope Wynn said, “What did you do in response to those words?”
“I grabbed his hair and tapped the floor with his head.”
“Tapped?” said the judge.
“It may have been a little more than a tap, Your Honor. I just wanted to get his attention and stop the cursing.”
Judge Frye frowned, and nodded at Hope Wynn to continue.
“Did he stop cursing?”
“No.”
“What, if anything, did you do then?”
“I gave the floor another tap with his head, harder this time. That’s when he stopped talking.”
“Did you knock him out?”
“I dazed him. He got the message.”
“Mr. Romeo, do you have any previous association with the defendant?”
“No.”
“Do you have any personal animosity toward the defendant?”
“Only the general animosity I have toward social miscreants.”
The stenographer said, “I’m sorry, what was that last word?”
“Misc
reants,” I said.
“Would you mind spelling that?”
“M-I-S-C-R-E-A-N-T-S.”
Honestly, I thought it the right word for the sentiment.
But Hope Wynn was not amused. She wanted this thing wrapped up. “So your answer is that you do not have any personal—”
“Objection,” said Seth Pound. “Leading.”
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Frye said, “as I think it may be Ms. Wynn’s last question.”
“That’s entirely correct, Your Honor,” Hope Wynn said.
“Nothing personal against the defendant,” I said.
Hope Wynn sat down.
Seth Pound stood up.
He buttoned his coat like a suit of armor, ready for battle.
He stepped to the podium with his legal pad and said, “Michael Romeo. Is that your real name?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I mean, is that the name you were born with?”
“Objection,” I said.
Pound looked at me like I’d licked his microphone.
The judge seemed equally stunned. “Mr. Romeo, you can’t object.”
“Why not, Your Honor?” I said.
“Because that’s the lawyer’s job.”
I glanced at Hope Wynn. She shook her head.
Call me Mr. Persistent. “I don’t know if that’s the law, Your Honor.”
“In my courtroom it is,” Judge Frye said.
“I’ve read the Evidence Code,” I said. “And Mr. Pound’s question is irrelevant to any material fact.”
The momentary silence in the courtroom I counted as a minor victory. Judge Frye tapped the eraser end of a pencil on her desk.
Finally, the judge said, “Mr. Pound, what is the relevance of your question?”
Seth Pound said, “The credibility of the witness, Your Honor. If he is hiding something, we have a right to know it.”
“Not without an offer of proof,” I said.
Judge Frye said, “Did you go to law school, Mr. Romeo?”
“I just read a lot.”
“That can get you into trouble. However, in this instance you are correct. Mr. Pound, what is your offer of proof?”
“Your Honor, the witness has asserted that his name is Michael Romeo. We have evidence that this is not his birth name. We also have evidence of his recent past, which presents troubling incidents of random violence. Under Ms. Wynn’s questioning, the witness has admitted to pummeling my client’s head into the floor, for no other reason than his malformed opinion that he didn’t like the way my client looked. Whatever that word was he used—”
Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6) Page 15