by Kenneth Eade
“Certainly. We’ll take a five minute recess.”
And the Oscar goes to….
Albright stepped down and exited the courtroom, a wounded man who had lost his comrade-in-arms.
After the full impact of Albright’s testimony had had the opportunity to ferment and Albright resumed his role, Taylor had him demonstrate the location of the various items on his utility belt, photographs of which were admitted into evidence, and emphasized the point that Albright was right-handed. The Taser and pepper spray were on the left side of the belt, the gun and baton on the right, and two handcuff cases in the middle of the belt; which would have been behind Albright’s back.
He reviewed Albright’s shooting record, which was spotless, as well as his marksmanship, which was expert level. The emphasis, of course, was on the fact that Albright knew how to handle a firearm and it was highly unlikely that he could have botched it, leading to the shooting of his partner or the subsequent misfire.
Taylor’s second act had taken up the whole court day, meaning that the jurors would take home and sleep on Albright’s version of the story over the entire weekend before Brent had the opportunity to point out even one inconsistency.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Melinda had succeeded in getting a late afternoon appointment for Brent with Commander Owen of IAG, who often stayed at work after hours. By the time Brent got to his office, it was already seven o’clock, and Owen was closing up.
“Commander Owen?”
“You Marks? I was just stepping out for a bite to eat. Care to join me?”
Brent followed Owen, who directed them to a small, greasy spoon Mexican diner. The host, a short man with a handlebar moustache, greeted them at the door. They entered to the smell of fajitas and tacos and meat and beans.
“Buenos tardes, Commander Owen.”
“Buenos tardes, Juan.” Then, turning to Brent, “You like Mexican?”
“Yes,” Brent said.
He took the question to be as a courtesy, as it appeared to him that Owen was a creature of habit and probably ate here every night (or at least every Friday night). Owen invited Jack to sit down at what must have been his “regular booth.” The kitchen bustled with the sounds of the cooks slapping their utensils on steamy, sizzling grills and pans in rhythm with the bar and its whirling blenders.
“They’ve got the best guacamole in town here,” said Owen, as the waiter greeted them with a generous bowl of it, as well as the traditional corn chips and salsa. A glance around the dining room at all the brown faces confirmed Owen’s testimony. “You’re of Mexican descent, aren’t you?” he asked Brent.
“Close – Spanish. In fact, my father changed our last name to Marks from Marquez.”
“No kidding. I’ll have the usual, Javier. Marks?”
“I’ll have the chicken fajitas with flour tortillas and a Corona, please.”
“How’s Jack holding up?” Owen asked, reaching for a chip and using it as a spoon to scoop up a hefty blob of avocado.
“He came out of his coma yesterday. That’s the reason I called for this meeting.”
“I’m glad he’s out of the woods. Now, I told him – and I’ll tell you – that I’m not about to help you guys defend a cop killer; but if Jack’s found some kind of evidence to back up his hunch…”
“He has.”
Brent outlined Jack’s reports and the final revelation of his that Metro Unit 15-Robert-7 was involved in a prostitution ring in the San Fernando Valley.
“That’s a very serious accusation,” said Owen, between bites of his beef taco.
“I’ve tried to run down the hookers to see what they know, but so far, only one of them is talking.”
“I suppose she won’t do much for your case, anyway; her being a prostitute?”
“No, but it’s all we’ve got, if I can get her into court.”
“When will you need her?”
“Probably by Wednesday or Thursday. If I can even get her to come.”
“Let me talk to her first. See if she would be willing to come in as a CI.” The thought of a squadron of elite cops running a prostitution ring had Owen both disturbed and titillated.
* * *
“Brent, don’t tell me you’re going to spend Friday night with your prostitutes instead of me,” pleaded Angela over the phone. She sounded a little perturbed.
“Angie, you know I have to keep in shape for you.”
“All kidding aside, Brent, I miss you. When are you coming home?”
“I’ll be home tonight, I promise. I just have to pass on Commander Owen’s offer to…”
“The hookers.”
“Well, yeah, one of them.”
There was an uncomfortable silence on the phone for a moment. Then, “Give me a call when you’re headed home. No matter how late. I’ll be worried.”
Brent was touched by Angela’s concern. Not that he needed an FBI agent looking out for him, but it warmed him just knowing how much she cared.
Brent pulled up alongside the Sepulveda Boulevard hooker motels and waited. After a couple of hours, he had been propositioned by several ladies of the night in various shades of negligees and got rid of them by telling them he was waiting for “someone special.” Knowing how much they cherished their own regulars, they had all smiled and went off to farm the rest of the area. Brent shivered as he thought how cold they must be. I suppose that’s the price you pay for advertising your goods.
After a while, Brent pulled out his doggy bag from the Mexican restaurant and munched on some cold taquillos which he dipped in leftover guacamole that was beginning to turn brown, but still retained its fantastic taste. After the munchies were satisfied, he began to look around for a place to get some coffee to stay awake and help take the chill off, when he noticed Daisy getting out of a late model Chevrolet sedan.
She was heading in a direct line for one of the motel rooms when he called her over.
“Hey, honey, can you give me a minute to powder my… oh,” she said, as she leaned into the window. “I thought we’d covered everything. I don’t want any trouble.”
Brent urged her to come in, and she reluctantly slipped into the car on a cloud of steamy perfume. Brent wasted no time in giving her Commander Owen’s proposition.
“Oh no, no, no! I’m not going up against no cops,” was her initial reaction, until Brent told her that she would be a confidential informant and that nobody would know her identity. He left out the part that she would be served with a subpoena and brought in on a bench warrant unless she came to court to testify.
Finally, after having delivered the message and not knowing whether she would see Owen or not, Brent said good-bye to Daisy and called “home” before he hit the freeway for Santa Barbara. It was 3 a.m.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
The drive home was free of traffic and the crisp, moist blast of air from the window and its salty ocean smell kept Brent alert as he made his way up the coast. The moon blazed in the night sky, rippling off the water, as he entered the sleepy Harbor Hills community, with the expanse of the Santa Barbara Harbor looming beyond.
Brent carefully and quietly opened the front door, crept inside, and went downstairs to shower in one of the guest bedrooms, so as not to wake Angela. At 5 a.m. he finally slipped between the sheets and melted into the feather-soft mattress. Angela stirred and put her head on his shoulder as she slowly slid her calf over his leg. Brent was overwhelmed and overjoyed with comfort as he drifted into sleep.
* * *
As stressful as the trial was, William wished he was in the courtroom today. Anywhere would be better, actually. As he was called to breakfast, the putrid, stale air made him want to gag, much less want to eat. He had enjoyed the daily breaks from the smell, but then it was also harder to get used to when he was sent back to the jail. As he sat down at the cafeteria table, the taunting began again.
“Yo, how yo’ coat goin’ fo’ offin’ dat pig?” asked one bad-mouthed, buck-toothed troublemak
er seated across from him. William simply ignored him.
“I’m talkin’ to you!” said the black mountain, banging his hand on the table and leaning over into William with his lower lip sticking out. “Doncha got no manners?”
Sliding his tray onto the table, Curly sat down on the left side of the offending hulk, with his two lieutenants on the right.
“Put your lip back in your mouth, Ajax. That ain’t no way to behave.”
Ajax looked back in surprise, like he had been hit between the eyes with a stick. He backed off.
“Gotta protect my lawyer,” said Curly, smiling. “How’s my case goin, anyway?”
“We should probably talk about it privately, but it looks like I may have found something to help you. Of course, I could do more if I was out of here.”
“If you get out of here, you won’t forget about ol’ Curly, will ya?”
“No, don’t worry. I gave you my word.”
After breakfast, William made his way back to the law library. He had been spending a lot more time there, and had been appointed as assistant librarian, which gave him more of an opportunity to work instead of wasting away in his cell. He split his time between research on his own case and Curly’s, politely declining any new cases. The requests for new clients were frequent, but William had no time. Plus, the pay was not so good.
* * *
The smell of omelets smothered in cheese and the scent of freshly brewed coffee gently coaxed Brent awake as he lay in bed. Nothing beats late, lazy Saturday mornings, he thought. Except maybe late, lazy Sunday mornings. Saturday was often a day to work, but Brent found out right away that, whatever work he had to do, he would have to sneak around to get to it with Angela there.
He shuffled into the living room, patting down his unruly hair, and into the kitchen where Angela was cooking and Calico was observing, swishing her tail back and forth impatiently.
“Morning,” he said to them. The cat glanced at him quickly, then back at the cook.
“More like afternoon,” said Angela.
“What time is it?”
“12:30.”
Brent shook his head, grabbed a bottle of water, and collapsed into a kitchen chair. At least for now, he would get a little break from the trial.
Toward the end of the day, Brent was able to creep into his home office and turned on his computer, only to regret it, as his email box had overflowed with hundreds of unanswered messages for the week. He began the chore of trashing the irrelevant ones.
* * *
“Thomas, you’ve got a lawyer visit.” The Guard slid open the barred door.
William wondered what Brent could possibly want to discuss on a Saturday. To his surprise, it was Dr. Reading who greeted him with a smile.
“Dr. Reading, what are you doing here on a Saturday?”
“We have to continue your therapy, William. Wasn’t it you who said we shouldn’t waste the time we have?”
“Well, yes, but…”
* * *
Angela stayed over Saturday night, and, the following morning, she made it very clear that the day would be for relaxation only. But there was a catch. She proposed golf at the Sandpiper Golf Club.
The Sandpiper course was like Santa Barbara’s version of Pebble Beach. Buttressed on a plateau right up against the beach, the fairways looked as if they lead right into the ocean. Although it was cold, the sun was shining and the air fresh.
Brent was glad that they were not keeping score when Angela’s drive on the first tee was about 250 yards. She flashed a devilish smile at Brent as he sliced his first drive out of bounds.
“You didn’t tell me you played on a semi-professional level,” he said, after he thwacked the ball with his driver the second time.
“Just a few tournaments, with the guys.”
By the ninth hole, it was obvious that Angela had beaten Brent’s score, but he didn’t care.
“Don’t bother adding it up,” he said, as he popped open a bottle of water and watched her going over the score card.
“Don’t you want to know who’s winning?” she asked, smiling.
“I think I know who’s winning.”
As they walked the course, Brent finally felt free. Being in nature and breathing the fresh air was exhilarating, and playing with Angela made it even better. It was just the rejuvenation Brent needed before going back into battle.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Officer Albright resumed his place as a witness first thing Monday morning. He looked ahead at the jury with wide-open eyes of a rich amber, with hues of true blue and comforting forest green that professed that he could be trusted.
“Mr. Marks, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Officer Albright, when you stopped behind Mr. Thomas’ car that night, you originally thought he had been drinking, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But you never saw him driving that car, did you?”
“No, but it was obvious that he had been driving. The car was still running and he was in the driver’s seat.”
“But you never saw him driving the car, did you?”
“No.”
“And you examined Mr. Thomas’ eyes with your flashlight, correct?”
“Yes, I did.”
“They didn’t appear to be watery, did they?”
“No.”
“And they didn’t appear to be bloodshot either, did they?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Aren’t watery eyes a symptom of alcohol consumption?”
“Yes, but not the only one. I needed to perform field tests to determine if he was under the influence of alcohol.”
“Isn’t one of the factors you consider in the decision to perform field tests whether the suspect exhibits any symptoms of alcohol use?”
Brent thought he could trigger a response from the police training that had been washed into Albright’s brain.
“Yes.”
“Besides watery and bloodshot eyes, isn’t the smell of an alcoholic beverage on the breath also a symptom of alcohol use?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t smell an alcoholic beverage on Mr. Thomas’ breath, did you?”
“There was a smell of alcohol in the car.”
“Move to strike as non-responsive.”
“Granted.”
“You were close enough to Mr. Thomas to smell his breath, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t notice a smell of alcohol on his breath, did you?”
“No.”
“The smell of alcohol was from the other two occupants of the car, who were drunk, wasn’t it?”
“Objection: calls for speculation.”
“Overruled. Answer the question.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Mr. Thomas complied when you asked him to perform the finger to nose test, didn’t he?”
“He resisted.”
“His only resistance was to tell you he wasn’t under the influence of alcohol.”
“That was how it manifested itself at that point, yes.”
“But he performed the test, correct?”
“Yes, but then he failed to perform the walk and turn test.”
Brent paused; then he went for Albright’s buttons.
“Was that before or after you called him a nigger?”
“I never called him that.”
“Was it before or after you shoved him with your baton?”
“I did no such thing.”
“Didn’t you push apart Mr. Thomas’ legs with your baton during his performance of the finger to nose test?”
“I did not.”
“You had your baton in your hand, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I had it out to protect myself. The suspect was becoming belligerent and refused to follow instructions. I felt his behavior was escalating to possible violence.”
“During the walk and turn test, you pushed him with your baton, didn’t y
ou?”
“No.”
“Your baton made contact with Mr. Thomas’ body, didn’t it?”
“No.”
Brent kept pushing. If Albright didn’t crack, at least he would give a preview of William’s testimony if he regained his memory.
“Mr. Thomas pushed your baton away from him, didn’t he?”
“No, he grabbed it.”
“He pushed it away because you shoved it into his back.”
“I did not.”
“Mr. Thomas questioned your treatment of him, didn’t he?”
“No, he refused to follow instructions. He put my life in danger.”
“Move to strike after ‘instructions’ Your Honor.”
“Granted. The jury will disregard everything after ‘instructions.’”
“You didn’t like his resistance, did you Officer Albright?”
“I believed he compromised my safety.”
“You didn’t like his resistance, so you broke his knee.”
“It was for my safety.”
“He didn’t attack you, but you broke his knee; isn’t that what happened, Officer Albright?”
“No.”
“And then you beat him with your baton.”
“He refused to submit to arrest. He was threatening my safety.”
“Move to strike as non-responsive.”
“Granted. Answer the question.”
“I struck him, yes. He was violent and resisting arrest.”
“But you didn’t suffer any injuries, did you?”
“He was violent!”
“Move to strike – non-responsive, Your Honor.”
“Granted.”
“You didn’t have any injuries, did you, Officer Albright?”
“I was bruised up.”
“Do you have any photos of your bruises?”
“No.”
“Did you go to the hospital?”
“I was in emergency, you know, to get checked out.”
“Did you have any broken bones?”
“No.”
“Concussion?”
“No.”