by Michael Nava
Pisano: That’s all, Ms. Lew. Thank you.
The Court: Cross-examination, Mrs. Hart.
Hart: I have no questions of this witness.
The bloody images of Brian Fox’s murder remained with me even after I set the transcripts aside and made myself another cup of tea. Coming back to my desk, I picked a loose-leaf binder out of the folder Larry had given me and opened it up. Inside were press accounts of the Pears case from the day Jim was arrested to the day after he’d been held to answer. I flipped the pages until I came to a story that had a picture.
The headline proclaimed “The Tragic Death of Brian Fox.” Beneath the headline was a black-and-white of Brian that startled me for no better reason than his youth. I had cast someone older and sleazier for the role of the boy who tormented Jim Pears. Instead, I found myself looking at a handsome boy with light hair whose features had not yet set on his slightly fleshy face. His half-smile revealed either shyness or surprise. There was a caption beneath the picture: “His mother called him golden boy.”
I read the story. It consisted of lachrymose interviews with Brian’s mother, teachers, and fellow students. You’d have thought he was in line for sainthood, at least. I looked back at the face. No hint of sainthood there. Maybe the twist of the smile was neither shyness nor surprise. Maybe it was sadism. I wondered, would a jury buy that? Probably not.
I went back and read the stories in chronological order. Jim had not fared nearly as well as Brian. The only picture of him showed him lifting his handcuffed wrists to his face as he was led into court for arraignment. The first spate of stories were more or less straightforward accounts of what had occurred at the Yellowtail that night. They tallied with the cocktail waitress’s testimony.
Subsequent stories, ignoring the possibility of Jim’s innocence, dwelt on his motive for killing Brian. Much was written about what were termed Brian’s “teasing” remarks about Jim’s homosexuality. There were inaccurate reports of the parking lot incident. According to one paper, it was Brian himself to whom Jim offered sex. Another paper got most of the details right but the reporter termed Brian’s activities a “prank.” The upshot was that Jim was a psycho closet case with a short fuse that Brian accidentally ignited.
The last batch of stories was the worst. Oddly enough — or perhaps not — Jim’s father, Walter Pears, was responsible for these stories. Jim’s parents had resisted the media until just before the prelim. Then his father had talked. Walter Pears’s explanation for Jim’s crime was “demonic possession.” He announced that since Jim was apparently in the thrall of Satan, the best that could be done was, as the elder Pears said repeatedly, to “put him away for everyone’s good.”
The press took up the notion of satanism. There were rumors about the alleged disfigurement of Brian Fox’s body. A priest made the connection between homosexuality — an abomination before God — and worship of the devil by whom, presumably, such practices were tolerated. At length, the coverage grew so outrageous that the chief of police himself felt constrained to deny that any evidence of devil-worship or demonic possession existed in the case.
I reached the end of the binder. A first-year law student could predict the result of this case. Jim’s trial would merely be a way station on the road to prison. Keeping him off death row would be as much victory as anyone could reasonably expect. It was nearly three in the morning. I finished my tea and got ready for bed.
4
The storm that passed through San Francisco on Friday had worked its way through Los Angeles by the time I stepped off the plane on Monday. It was a distinctly tropical eighty degrees that last morning of September. I threw my overcoat into the back of my rented car and made my way downtown to the Criminal Courts Building.
The vast city was just awakening as I sped eastward on the Santa Monica Freeway. I had spent a lot of time in Los Angeles when I worked with Larry on the sodomy lawsuit two years earlier. I knew the city as well as anyone who didn’t live there could, and I liked the place. Between the freeway and the Hollywood Hills the feathery light of early morning poured into the basin and it truly did seem, at that moment, to be the habitation of angels. The great palms lifted their shaggy heads like a race of ancient, benevolent animals. Along the broad boulevards that ran from downtown to the sea, skyscrapers rose abruptly as if by geologic accident but were dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the plain.
I parked in the lot behind the Criminal Courts Building across from City Hall and walked around to the courthouse entrance on Temple. In the space between the entrance platform and the ground lay the charred remains of a campfire, with people sleeping in rags and old blankets. Inside, the walls of the foyer were covered with gang graffiti. After an interminable wait, an elevator picked me up and ascended, creaking its way to the floor where the Public Defender had his offices. I walked into a small reception room, announced myself to the receptionist and sat down to wait. The room was crowded with restless children and adults sitting nervously on plastic chairs. A little boy came up and stared at me with wide, black eyes.
“Are you my mama’s P.D.?” he asked.
I smiled at him. “No.”
“Then how come you wear a suit?”
A stout woman called from across the room, “Leave the man alone, Willie.”
“I’m waiting for my P.D., Willie,” I said.
“Nah,” he replied, and went back to his mother.
The door beside the receptionist’s desk opened. A short, heavy gray-haired woman in a bright floral dress said, “Henry Rios.”
I stood up.
“I’m Sharon Hart,” she said. “You want to come into my office?”
I followed her through the door and we picked our way down a hallway lined with metal file cabinets into a small office. There was a calendar on one wall and framed degrees on the other. Sharon Hart sat down behind her government-issue desk and motioned me to sit on one of the two chairs in front of it. She pulled an ashtray out of her desk and lit a cigarette.
“So,” she said. “You’re the famous Henry Rios.”
There was nothing particularly hostile in her tone so I ventured a smile.
“I hope you can walk on water, Mr. Rios, because that’s the kind of skill you’re going to need on this case.”
“Is that why you’re getting out?”
She looked at me sharply. “I’m not afraid of tough cases.”
“Then why withdraw?”
“This case is indefensible on a straight not-guilty plea.”
“There are alternatives.”
She shook her head. “Not with this client. He won’t agree to any defense that admits he did it.”
“Any chance he didn’t do it?”
Her look answered my question.
“Then that could be a problem,” I said.
“He’s also going to make a lousy witness,” she said offhandedly. “Not that there’s much for him to say. He doesn’t remember what happened.”
“So I was told. Retrograde amnesia, is that it?”
She nodded. “I had the court appoint a shrink to talk to him. You’ll find his name in the files.” She gestured to two bulky folders lying at a comer of her desk. “The doctor says it’s legitimate. Jim doesn’t remember anything between opening the cellar door and when that girl — the waitress — came down and found him with Brian Fox.”
“Is he crazy?”
She smiled slightly, showing a crooked tooth. “My shrink will say that he was at the time of the murder.”
“Not quite the question I asked,” I murmured.
“Is he crazy now? Let’s say the pressure’s getting to him.”
“Where’s he being held?”
“County jail,” she said.
“You’ve told him what’s going to happen this morning?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’ll agree to it.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “We don’t get along,” she added. “Call it ineffective empathy of counsel. But I do feel sorry for t
he kid. I really do.” She stood up. “Take the files. You’ll find my investigator’s card in them. He can fill you in. We better get downstairs. Pat Ryan runs a tight ship.”
“The judge.”
“Patricia Ryan.”
“Irish.”
Sharon smiled. “Black Irish, you might say.”
Television cameras were set up in the jury box and the gallery was packed with reporters. To avoid the press, we had come in through the corridor that ran behind the courtrooms. As soon as we reached counsel’s table, though, the cameras started rolling. At the other end of the table a short, dark-haired man was unpacking his briefcase.
“The D.A.,” Sharon whispered. “Pisano.”
“What’s he like?” I asked.
She shrugged. “He’s decent enough until you get him in front of the cameras.”
“A headline grabber?” I asked.
“The worst.”
As if he’d heard, the D.A. smiled at us, then turned his attention to a sheaf of papers that he was marking with a red pen.
“Where’s Jim?” I asked.
“In the holding cell, I guess,” she said. “They won’t bring him out until she takes the bench.”
I looked over my shoulder at the reporters. “This is quite a circus,” I said.
“Better get used to it.”
A middle-aged woman with stiffly coiffed hair and dressed in black stared at Sharon Hart and me with intense hostility from the gallery.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Sharon glanced over. “Brian Fox’s mother. She comes to every hearing. You’ll like her.”
“What about Jim’s parents?”
“Oh, them,” she said venomously. “They’re just as nice as Mrs. Fox.”
In a seat across the aisle from Brian’s mother sat a young man in a blue suit, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. My eye caught his for a moment, then he looked away.
“That’s Josh Mandel,” Sharon said.
“Oh,” I replied, glancing at him once again.
She looked at me. “Do you know him?”
“No,” I said, and yet he seemed somehow familiar.
The bailiff broke the silence of the courtroom with his announcement. “Please rise. Department Nine is now in session, the Honorable Patricia Ryan presiding.”
The judge came out from behind the clerk’s desk through the same door by which we had entered. Patricia Ryan was a tall black woman whose handsome face was set in a faintly amused expression.
In a pleasant, light voice she said, “Good morning, counsel. Please be seated.” She looked down at her desk. “People versus Pears. Is the defendant in court?”
A blond court reporter clicked away at her machine taking down every word.
“He’s coming,” the bailiff said.
The door to the holding cell opened and the tv cameras swung away from the judge over to the two marshals who escorted Jim Pears into the courtroom. I had just enough time to glance at him before the judge started talking again. They sat Jim down beside Sharon Hart at the end of the table.
“We were to begin the trial of this matter today,” the judge said. “However, ten days ago the Public Defender’s office filed a motion to withdraw from the case. Is that correct Mrs. Hart?”
“Yes.”
The judge looked at me quizzically and said, “Who are you, sir?”
“Henry Rios, Your Honor. I’ve been asked to substitute in should the Public Defender’s motion be granted.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rios. All right. The defendant is now present and represented. The People are represented and are opposing this motion.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” Pisano said.
“Mrs. Hart, you go first.”
Sharon Hart stood up. “The People complain about delay,” she began, “without showing that their case would be prejudiced by the delay. They don’t say either that witnesses or evidence would become unavailable to them if the trial is postponed. My client, on the other hand, has a constitutional right to effective representation. My office can’t provide that at this point. So it seems to me, Your Honor, that if you weigh his rights against the prosecution’s pro forma objection, it’s clear the motion should be granted.”
The judge said, “Mr. Pisano.”
“Your Honor,” he said, “the D.A.’s office is not a lynch mob. We want Mr. Pears to get a fair trial. Our objection is that the P.D.’s office has completely failed to tell anyone why it can’t handle this case. Now,” he said, stepping back from the table and coming up behind Sharon Hart, “we saw how well Mrs. Hart conducted the defense during the prelim-”
“Thanks,” Sharon whispered mockingly.
“ — so what’s the problem now? They say they have a conflict. What conflict?” He shrugged eloquently. “Surely we all want to see that justice is done as expeditiously as possible.”
“I’m sure,” Judge Ryan replied with a faint smile. She was clearly aware that Pisano was playing to the press.
Undeterred, he continued. “We don’t know what the conflict is and I would hate to suspect that this motion is only to delay things, but…” He left the end of the sentence dangling, with another shrug of his shoulders. “And what about our friend, Mr. Rios,” Pisano continued. “He’s not going to be ready to start trying the case today. No, he’ll be asking for time. Maybe a lot of time. Maybe, considering the People’s evidence, forever.”
Sharon Hart seethed. I composed my face into the mask I reserved for such occasions.
“Or maybe,” Pisano said, “there’s another reason for this motion. Mr. Rios here is not unknown. He was one of the lawyers who knocked the sodomy initiative off the ballot a couple of years ago. He represents a powerful constituency.”
“I hardly see-” the judge began.
“Your Honor, if I may finish,” Pisano cut in, his voice darkening theatrically. “Let me suggest that this motion is the result of political pressure on the P.D.’s office by the gay community to let Mr. Rios try the case…” Again Pisano let the end of his sentence trail off suggestively.
I heard the rustling of papers in the gallery as the reporters scribbled their notes. Pisano would make the news tonight.
“I really must object,” Sharon Hart said. “That remark is completely improper.”
The judge glowered at the D.A. “Mr. Pisano, that comment is not well taken.”
“My apologies,” the D.A. said smoothly. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn. But the court must understand the People’s frustration. This motion is so mysterious, Your Honor. I’m completely at a loss as to why a perfectly competent lawyer like Mrs. Hart wants off this case.”
“Mrs. Hart.”
“Your Honor, it took me a minute but I finally understand what the D.A. is up to. He wants me to put on the record why my office can’t represent Mr. Pears. We obviously can’t do that without compromising the defense. This court will simply have to accept my representation that an irreconcilable conflict exists between me and Mr. Pears.”
The judge’s eyebrows darted up. Judges do not appreciate being told what they must accept.
“Nonetheless,” the judge observed, “the motion is discretionary with me.”
Seeing her mistake, Sharon said, “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, Judge. I’m just saying the prosecution wants a sneak preview of the defense. They’re not entitled to that.”
Pisano broke in. “Your Honor, as you point out, granting or denying this motion is your choice. I just don’t see how you can make a fair decision based on some vague representation of irreconcilable conflicts. We’re not talking no-fault divorce here.”
“Anything else?” Judge Ryan asked, looking at Hart and Pisano.
“Submitted,” both lawyers said in unison.
The judge stared uneasily into space.
“What’s she thinking?” I whispered.
“She’s thinking that if she grants the motion she’d better have a good reason because the D.A. will file a writ petition in th
e Court of Appeal before the ink is dry on her order,” Sharon whispered back.
I heard the clink of metal and remembered that Jim Pears, who had been ignored during the hearing, was still sitting at the end of the table.
“What does Jim-” I began.
“Shush,” Sharon snapped. The judge had begun to speak.
“… concerned, Mrs. Hart, that I don’t have enough of a basis to rule intelligently on your motion. Now I can appreciate you not wanting to tip your hand to the prosecution. So what I think I’ll do is take Mr. Rios, you and the reporter into chambers and have you put the conflict on the record. I will then order that portion of the transcript sealed. Is that acceptable?”
I watched the struggle in Sharon’s face. She clearly thought her word that a conflict existed should be enough, but she also wanted to win.
“Yes, Judge,” she said.
“What about the People?” the D.A. asked.
“What about the People?” the judge repeated with exasperation.
“Well, I thought-”
“Nice try, Mr. Pisano,” the judge said. “Court’s in recess. Mrs. Hart, Mr. Rios.”
We followed her back across a corridor into her chambers and sat down while she took off her robe and hung it up. There was a framed law degree on the wall from Stanford and, next to it, a picture of the judge shaking hands with the Democratic governor who had appointed her to the bench. The windows of her office overlooked City Hall and the Times-Mirror Building. She sat down behind a vast rosewood desk.
“All right,” she began briskly. “We’re in chambers on People versus Pears. Mrs. Hart, tell me about this conflict.” The reporter’s fingers flew across the keyboard of her machine as the judge spoke.
“My client refuses to cooperate in preparing a defense,” she said.
“He wants to plead guilty?” the judge asked.
“No, he insists he’s not guilty.”
Judge Ryan grinned. “Most defendants do, Mrs. Hart.”
“That’s not a tenable defense,” Sharon insisted.
The judge nodded, thoughtfully. “Unless you have a secret weapon, the evidence presented at the prelim seems pretty conclusive.”