by Kenneth Eade
“He’s a Boy Scout.”
“You must not be seeing something, Brent. Give me Jack’s reports and let me follow up. Maybe I can find the missing link.”
* * *
Jack followed 15-Robert-7 as the cruiser pulled up alongside some fleabag motels on Sepulveda Blvd. and waited. He found a vantage point, pulled out his night vision binoculars, and focused on the car. Nothing unusual. The two cops were just sitting in the front seat, apparently waiting for something or somebody. They weren’t eating lunch.
After about five minutes, a girl came out of one of the motel cabins and began to turn on Sepulveda. The girl came over to their passenger side window. She was 20-something, with heavy makeup and a cheesy, partially see-through red mini-dress – obviously a working girl. It wouldn’t be the first time for a cop to look the other way for prostitution. For favors? The girl got into the back of the cruiser and it took off. Jack followed suit.
When the police car finally halted on a desolate side street, Jack focused his binoculars on the girl in the back, who handed the officers something – looked like an envelope - and then left. The black and white was off again; this time to another location on Sepulveda, where it repeated the same scene with another hooker. This time, Jack hung back after they left and decided to question the girl. He switched on his digital recorder, pulled up alongside her, moving slowly, and rolled down his window.
“Hi,” he said to the girl. She was red haired, light-eyed and quite young.
“Hi. Want a date?” she asked, batting her doll-like black eyelashes.
“Sure.”
The girl came up to Jack’s car and leaned in the passenger side window.
“What were you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the price.”
“You know how many yards in a football field?” The girl smiled seductively.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’ll run you about three football fields.”
“What about something less than – um, everything?”
“Are you a cop or something?”
“No.”
“Well, you seem like a nice guy. Why don’t we drive around the corner and park? If you want, like a blow job or something, it’s only one football field.”
“Deal, hop in.”
Jack opened the door and the girl got into the passenger side. She smelled like a mixture of soap and strong perfume.
“What’s your name, honey?”
Jack flashed took out his wallet and flashed his private-eye license.
“Jack Ruder, and you’re in big trouble, young lady,” Jack said, in his best cop face. “I’m investigating police corruption, and I’ve been watching you with those two cops back there.”
The girl’s face registered a mixture of panic and fear.
“Please, please, they’ll kill me if they knew I was talking to you. Just let me go,” she begged, like a little girl. “We can make a deal. They get it for free; so can you.”
Jack felt bad for the young prostitute, but kept up the pressure.
“We know what’s going on with those Metro cops, and you’re in it thick enough to do serious prison time for conspiracy.”
“No, I don’t have anything to do with it, I swear. I just collect the money from the girls and give it to them! You have to believe me! Tears pooled in her eyes and cascaded in rivers of melted black mascara down her powdered cheeks.
“You said they’d kill you if they found out. Did they tell you that?”
“There’s one who’s really crazy. He put my girlfriend in the hospital.”
“Is this him?” Jack asked, holding up a picture of Albright.
“Yeah, that’s the guy. There’s something wrong with him.”
“Who did he beat up?”
“My girlfriend, Tiffany. That’s her street name. I don’t know her real one.”
“What did she do to get him so riled up?”
“That’s just it – nothing! He just roughed her up because he could – because she said or did something that pissed him off. He used to call her his favorite nigger. Everyone thought he was a psycho. And one day after he spent a couple hours in her room, he busted her up really bad you know? Told her if she ratted on him, he would kill her.”
“Where can I find her?”
“I don’t know. Can you let me go now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
William looked with frustration at Dr. Reading. She could see in his eyes that he felt that all this therapy was a waste of time.
“William, I can help you; but you have to meet me halfway. You have to try.”
William looked down.
“One thing I learned in here, Doc, is that there’re no happy endings to anything. I’m going to tell Brent to plead me out and just take my chances.”
“William, I don’t think your dream is a repressed memory.”
“Oh yeah? Then tell me something – why do I keep having that same dream, over and over again?”
“It’s nothing more than an expression of your anger toward Officer Albright. You shot him in your dream, right? Not his partner?”
“Yeah, and I keep shooting him. Every time.”
Dr. Reading put on her reading glasses and shifted through the files in her briefcase.
“I did some research on this type of dream. It could indicate not only anger toward Albright, but that you feel you’ve been victimized. I’d like to put you under hypnosis, William; perhaps with the aid of some hypnotic drugs.”
“You can’t do that here.”
“No, but I’m going to ask Brent if he can get a court order to allow this type of therapy, and then we can transfer you to the hospital to do it.”
“Then, wouldn’t they know what was going on with my head? I thought we were going to keep my sessions with you private.”
“That’s right. We don’t want to reveal your therapy at this point, unless you don’t remember anything and they have to call me as a witness. It would be best if your memory recovers and you can tell your story yourself.”
“Then how do we get this court order without blowing our cover, so to speak?”
“Maybe Brent can do it in confidence, since it involves doctor-patient confidentiality, and, even more, because of attorney-client privilege. You can’t really tell your attorney everything he needs to know unless you’ve recovered from your PTSD.”
“Okay, go ahead: see what you can do.”
* * *
Jack met with Brent and told him of the breakthrough he had in the case. He recounted the interview with Trixy, the young prostitute, and turned over all of her identification information.
“Great job, Jack. We need to get her served with a subpoena for trial before she skips out on us.”
“I’ll serve her tonight.”
“Great. What else will you do with this lead?”
“I’ll take it to Owen over at IAG and see what he wants to do about it, if anything."
“What did she do when she found out you weren’t a cop?”
“Turned from a crying little girl into a harpy. Screamed at me that I would be sorry.”
“In that case, Jack, watch your back.”
“I will.”
* * *
Thanks to the recognition of the psychotherapist-patient privilege in California law, Brent was able to make a motion to allow the transfer of William to County Hospital to undergo psychotherapy without revealing the nature of the therapy. The motion was granted, and William was transferred for an indefinite period, until Dr. Reading released him or until his trial date, whichever came first. This came as a great relief to William, until word got out that he would be leaving the jail. All night the night before, the inmates in his block taunted him with a cacophony of unpleasant sounds. Unable to sleep, he just lay in bed listening to them, afraid if he closed his eyes, someone would sneak up on him and slit his throat. All night long he could hear them taunting him, threatening to kill him and make it look like suicide.
“Cop killer’s goin’ to the Ding Wing!”
“You gonna dance on the blacktop, they’ll think you done the Dutch!”
The threats wound down as the night marched on toward dawn, and William fought to keep his eyes open, which was becoming more and more difficult. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he realized he was suffocating.
Officer Albright sat on William’s chest and pointed his gun in his face. William panicked. He gasped for air, felt the blood draining from his brain. With his final effort, he turned the gun on Albright and fired, hitting him in the chest.
William’s eyes opened wildly, breathing heavily, his heart pounding. The dreams were changing.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Brent spent the precious time leading up to the trial putting together his trial notebooks, which would contain every voir dire outline for jury selection, every direct and cross-examination outline for every witness, and all the evidence. He researched the law on excessive force and crafted jury instructions that he would ask the Judge to read to the jury before their deliberation.
From time to time Jack would check in and give Brent a copy of his reports on the latest lead he was working on, so Brent could stay up to date in his preparation. But there were still gaping holes in the big picture, which was what really happened that night. Jack was working on filling those holes on the outside, and Dr. Reading was working on them from the inside with William.
Under hypnosis, William was able to recall every detail of the night Officer Shermer was shot, up until the point that Albright used bodily force.
“He’s on top of me. What does he want from me?”
“Calm down William, we’re just recalling memories. What’s happening now?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“Try, William, try!”
William moved his head from side to side, violently. He grimaced and coughed.
“I can’t breathe!”
All of a sudden William woke up, sweating profusely. He reached for a glass of water and downed it.
“Do you have any recall?”
“Only bits and pieces. It was like I was living it all over again.”
Unfortunately, even with the use of hypnotic drug therapy, nothing was unlocking the door to the memories which William’s subconscious had shoved into the deepest reaches of his brain.
The nightmares, however, did continue. It seemed to Dr. Reading that William’s brain was trying to tell him something, because the dreams were always about violence and always involved a gun in William’s hands.
“Memories are not like recordings on a computer. That’s why, when you have flashbacks about that night, it seems like it’s real to you; like a real memory. We have to help your brain reprocess the memory, so it sees it as something in the past and not something happening right now. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’d like to try something else. It may seem kind of simple or silly to you, but I think it may help. It’s called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.”
“Okay; anything you think may help.”
“Just lie back and let your body go limp. I want you to think about that night, and only that night.”
William lay back and tried to relax. He put his arms to his sides.
“Now, I’m going to pass my hand back and forth across your face. Follow the movements with your eyes, but don’t stop thinking about what happened that night. It should help your brain to reprocess the event.”
The session continued for about half an hour.
“It’s no use, doctor. I’m not remembering anything.”
“Don’t worry. This is going to take some time.”
“I think we’ve ran out of that, Doc.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
It was the day before trial, and it seemed to Brent that nothing was in place. His client had undergone intensive therapy with Dr. Reading at the hospital, but still had no memory of the incident and still believed himself to be guilty. Now William was ushered back to the main jail, where he was put into the general population, contrary to Brent’s requests. Jack had located a witness who might help run down leads on Albright, but she was a hooker who could easily leave town on the next Greyhound. Still, Brent had to be ready for any contingency, and he stayed late at the office preparing his voir dire and cross-examination.
The theory of the case was simple. If Brent could discredit Albright, and he was the only one who would testify that William shot his partner, then it would be impossible for the D.A. to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that William was the shooter. That all depended on Jack. The alternative argument, which was the most difficult one, was that William shot back in self-defense, intending only to shoot Albright, and the bullet sought an unintended victim. That was only a good defense if the jury believed that the force Albright used was excessive.
The jury would be composed of 12 people from the area surrounding the Van Nuys branch of the Los Angeles Superior Court. This bothered Brent the most. The demographic of that area consisted of industrial workers, hospital workers, and employees of large companies, such as the telephone company; and Brent didn’t expect the jury to be very colorful. Taylor would exercise every peremptory challenge he had to kick any person of color off the jury. After the O.J. Simpson case, it was standard modus operandi for prosecutors.
Brent had the trial organized into notebooks, which contained all of his outlines and every piece of evidence at the flip of a tab. However, even though he had prepared thoroughly, he knew to always expect surprises.
* * *
Jack waited for Trixy’s john to leave, then knocked on the door of cabin 7 at the Starlight Motel on Sepulveda Blvd. Trixy opened the door, realized who it was, then attempted to close it against Jack’s protruding foot.
“Charlotte Rutherford, this is for you,” Jack said, as he handed her the subpoena.”
The girl threw the subpoena back at him and said, “You’ve made enough trouble for me. What if I just don’t remember anything?”
“That’s the funny thing about memory. Technology has a way of making us never forget things.”
Jack switched on his digital recorder, and played back her words. Everyone thought he was a psycho. And one day he busted her up really bad you know? Told her if she ratted on him, he would kill her.
Jack turned and left. Their primary witness at this point was a young prostitute whom nobody knew by her real name. She could disappear in a few hours easier than William’s memory had left him.
When Jack went back to his car, he noticed that his right rear tire had gone flat.
“Shit,” he said to himself, as he pondered whether to call Triple-A and wait for an hour for them to come or to get a can of fixit and blow it up himself until he could get to a gas station. He opted for the second choice and began to walk to a nearby 7-Eleven store, which was just a couple of blocks away.
As Jack passed a dimly lit cross street, he heard something down the street that sounded like someone was hurt, or in trouble. He turned away from his path to investigate. In the bushes, about 100 yards away, he heard a woman’s voice, calling “Help me! Help me!”
Jack followed the sound of the voice to the entrance of a small alley and there, among the trash cans, was a girl, sprawled out among the garbage cans. It looked as if she had been beaten. Jack bent over to check on the girl.
“Thank God you came. They beat me up. Be careful, they might still be…”
Jack never had the chance to pick up the girl to take her to safety because, all of a sudden, he was kicked off balance. He stood up to defend himself and came face to face with four men wearing dark clothing and ski masks. Jack withdrew his gun, but one of the men kicked it out of his hand and the gun discharged. They surrounded him, each punching and kicking as Jack attempted to ward off every blow. They slammed him against a trash can and he fell to the ground.
“So you want to play with guns, huh?” asked one of the men
, taking out his own handgun and pointing it at Jack’s face.
The man was panting hard like a big dog, and his hands were shaking.
“Put it away!” said another. We have to go!”
The man with the gun wouldn’t budge. One of his buddies put his hand on this shoulder and said, “Don’t do it. It’ll fuck everything up.”
Jack heard a ringing in his ears, but through the ringing, he also heard the sound of an approaching helicopter in the distance.
“Hurry! Now!” said one of the men. The one with the gun pocketed it and said, “This isn’t over.”, and he kicked Jack repeatedly until the lights went out in his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The Van Nuys Courthouse West was a modern building that had been erected in the 90s to replace the old facility, which was a small, rundown 60s-era building whose population had outgrown it. As a consequence, it had expanded into a series of bungalows all around the property, which had acted as temporary courtrooms for years. In those days Brent’s mentor, Charles Stinson, had a “mobile office” parked outside the old courthouse where he saw clients in between hearings. Before the rules for attorney advertising had been revised (allowing lawyers to advertise on television), Charles had gotten into trouble with a local judge who felt that having “Law Office of Charles Stinson” printed on the back of the van was in violation of the solicitation rules. The judge filed a complaint with the California Bar, which Charles resolved by painting over his name and offering to send the Judge a picture of his “bare rear end.” Charles was never afraid to go up against any type of adversary, no matter what. It had been several years since he died of cancer at the young age of 83, but Brent remembered him every time he went into a big trial. Charles was bigger than life and a great inspiration for any trial lawyer; but especially for Brent, who had started practicing law under his wing.
The new building had come just in time to serve the public’s needs, only to be followed by an economic crisis that had forced the County to cut court staff and reduce working hours. Department N was identical to all the other courtrooms. It was small, modern, and had a clean, almost antiseptic look which contrasted with the corridors which were a cross-section of human misery, whether it be from poverty, drugs, alcohol, or a combination of any or all of them. Judge Adam Schwartz ran a tight ship and did not tolerate tardiness, so Brent arrived well before the doors opened.