The Killing of the Saints

by Alex Abella

  "Objection, Your Honor. It's immaterial what his legal status here is."

  "Overruled. That might affect his testimony."

  "Thank you, Your Honor. Exactly what I think."

  "Uh, I'm indocumented."

  "Indocumented. That's a beautiful word, Mr. Flores. It just means illegal, doesn't it? You're an illegal alien, aren't you?"

  Remigio looked at Moat, a glint of desperation in his eyes.

  "I have to answer that?" he pleaded in anguished English. "You say I no have answer that."

  "Mr. Flores, please answer the question," ordered the judge.

  "Well, are you illegal, yes or no?" repeated Ramón.

  "Yes, I am," snapped Remigio in Spanish, "but I at least do not go around killing people!"

  His accent finally gave him away. I knew we were right.

  "Motion to strike everything after 'Yes, I am,' Your Honor. Not an answer."

  "Granted."

  "I would like the jury to be admonished too."

  Reynolds smiled wryly at Ramón's request.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please disregard the accusations of Mr. Flores against Mr. Valdez. After all, it has yet to be proven that Mr. Valdez goes around killing people, no matter what others may say. Proceed."

  "Thank you. So then, Mr. Flores, now that we know where you're from let's talk a little about you. You ever use the name Francisco Miranda?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Or Carlos Céspedes?"

  "I don't know."

  "Or how about Manuel Ochoa?"

  "I don't know why you ask that. I always use my own name."

  Ramón pulled a computer printout sheet from the file, unfolded so that its full three-page length was visible to the jury.

  "Mr. Flores, I have here before me your rap sheet. It says you are thirty years old, that you have been convicted of burglary, auto tampering and sale of a controlled substance, cocaine, and that you have been in this country for seven years, two of which you spent at Chino Penitentiary. Are you going to deny that?"

  Flores looked down. "No." Then he glanced up. "But I still know what I saw."

  There's life in the boy yet, I thought. I wonder for how long.

  "Yes, so you say, a convicted felon."

  "Irrelevant, Your Honor," countered Phyllis.

  "Overruled, Counsel." Reynolds was emphatic. "Your witness has just admitted his record."

  "Thank you, Your Honor," Ramón said. "Now, Mr. Flores, what is your religion?"

  "Objection, Your Honor. Totally irrelevant."

  "There I agree with you, Ms. Chin. Coun-" The judge corrected himself in time. "Mr. Valdez, unless you show cause-"

  "I have an offer of proof, Your Honor. I will show it to you outside the presence of the jury and the witness."

  The judge glanced up at the clock. "Well, I think it's almost time for a break. Why not?"

  Moat and his surfer buddy escorted Flores out.

  When the last juror had exited, Reynolds turned to Ramón with as little condescension as he could bring himself to show.

  "Mr. Valdez."

  "Your Honor, I have reason to believe that Mr. Flores belongs to a different religion from mine, one which in fact is an enemy of mine. I think that makes prejudice on his part and bias which can color his perceptions."

  "You mean like he's a Muslim and you're a Christian or something like that, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Motion denied. Just because somebody's of a different religion doesn't mean he's going to want to send you to the gas chamber or tell a lie, which here amounts to the same thing."

  "But Your Honor!"

  "No buts, mister! I call the shots. Get back to your cell."

  Phyllis waited for me when I went out into the hallway.

  "How could you?"

  "How could you? You're supposed to give me all the information you have on our witnesses. I had to go out and get it myself."

  "I didn't know. Samuels just told me. He found out last night. How did you find out?"

  "His landlady had his Social Security number. What am I supposed to do, close my eyes and not do my job?"

  "You could have warned me."

  "What are you talking about?" I moved down the hall to the snack bar, Phyllis on my heels, nipping.

  "You know he did it, you know he killed those people. It's unconscionable."

  I whipped around, full of self-hate but still not ready to be called a monster.

  "We went through this already, Phyllis. Everybody has a right to a defense. Even Hitler, even the devil has a right to the best defense, including an investigator. That's our system, that's the law, that's the way we want it to be. That's the way we have to be."

  "You could have warned me," she hammered.

  "And lose my license and my self-respect to make your job easier? It's your fault if those idiotic cops don't know how to conduct an investigation. You're supposed to ride them, you're supposed to keep tabs on them, not me."

  "You listen to me. We're trying to put scum like him away. For once you should try to be on the side of the righteous and not of the dirt. If you had any dignity left you wouldn't be doing what you're doing."

  "I suppose I should join the D.A.'s office to get my soul in working order because you folks are obviously God's hand-picked weapon. Forget it, lady. You want to convict him, prove it in court.

  With evidence that's valid. Don't preach. And don't expect me to do your job for you."

  A handful of jurors stared as I stole away down the staircase. I couldn't care less if I prejudiced them or not with my outburst- that was her problem. What was I supposed to do? But I had to stop at the landing and catch my breath. I felt my heart spinning and the building twirling. All my defenses could not stop this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, this infusion of dread running through my veins. I was adrift in a sea of loathing with only the feeble raft of duty to brave the waves of guilt that threatened to drown me.

  Remigio had regained his composure when we returned after the break. He sat self-confidently, adjusted his microphone, then inhaled, clearing his nose into his throat.

  "Colombian courage," I said to Ramón.

  "Really? I just thought he had a bad cold, pobrecito." Then, raising his voice, "Mr. Flores, before the break you told us you are a convicted felon. Your last conviction was for drugs. Are you on drugs now?"

  Everyone turned to examine Remigio at that moment. His veneer of self-confidence became transparent and the fear in his eyes returned.

  "Objection."

  "Overruled."

  "No," muttered Remigio.

  "You didn't go to the bathroom during the break to snort cocaine to give you the valor to come back?"

  "No! I am a man. I don't need that to do what I have to do."

  Again the interpreter gave his most benign smile, as if by reflex or total cynicism.

  "Good. So then you can tell us why you claim to be Guatemalan when your arrest papers show you are a Cuban refugee."

  "Objection, Your Honor," clamored Phyllis. "Assumes facts not in evidence. Is Mr. Valdez going to testify of his own knowledge?"

  Ramón held up the papers for the bailiff to take to the judge. Reynolds glanced quickly at the document.

  "May I see that?" asked Phyllis.

  "Of course." The bailiff took it to the D.A.'s side of the table.

  "I'd like that to be marked defendant's Exhibit A, Your Honor," said Ramón, "the certified copy of the arrest report."

  "So be it marked."

  Ramón held up another paper.

  "Your Honor, this is a Rand McNally map of the city of Guatemala City. Please have it marked Exhibit B."

  "It's so marked."

  The bailiff came back again and took this document with a not too happy expression.

  "I would like the court to take judicial notice that the Reformer's Tower is not in Zone Seven but in Zone Nine, which is all the way on the other side oftown. "

  Ramón tu
rned his chair and smiled broadly at Remigio. "Well, then, Mr. Flores, are you or are you not Cuban? That's what you told the officer who arrested you. Of course, that was back in 1984, when they weren't putting Cubans up in Atlanta awaiting deportation. Because you see, if you're Guatemalan, you can't tell me you lived where you lived. Zone Seven is nowhere near the Reformer's Tower. Why are you lying to us?"

  "I am not lying."

  "Then what is it? Were you lying then to the officer because you were afraid of being deported back to Guatemala?"

  Remigio looked around desperately, searching for a way out.

  "Yes," he answered, almost inaudibly.

  "So you were lying to the officer then."

  "Yes."

  "But you're not lying now."

  "No. I know what I saw."

  "OK, let's talk about that. How long have you been working at the parking lot, six months?"

  "Yes."

  Ramón turned to me, motioned at the leather briefcase. I handed it to him.

  He took out another document, a pink sheet with a stamp certifying it to be a true copy. He glanced at it, set it down on the table for a moment.

  "So during this time you noticed delivery trucks coming into the parking lot, is that not right?"

  "Yes."

  Ramón pointed at the diagram of the parking lot next to the Jewelry Mart still on the easel where Phyllis had set it up.

  "For obvious reasons I cannot get up from the table, so Mr. Flores, por favor, could you please get close to the drawing?"

  Flores approached the easel. For a second time we went over the distances, places to park, entries into the building. Remigio reluctantly told the jury how deliveries were made through the double steel-plated doors on the south side, facing the booth, at a particular spot marked just for that purpose.

  "Such a truck would have blocked your view, no?"

  "Maybe. I saw what I saw."

  "But on the day of the incident, you say you had a clear view of the inside. Is that not true?"

  "Yes."

  "Now, the incident happened at 11:07 A.M. You told us you knew the time exactly because you looked at the clock when our parking ticket was obtained, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you telling us the truth? Is there something you forgot?"

  Remigio again looked at Moat and Phyllis for support, but found none. "No."

  "No, you're not telling us the truth or no, you have not forgotten something?"

  "No, I haven't forgotten anything."

  Ramón sighed, then lifted up the pink paper.

  "Your Honor, I have here a certified copy of a bill of lading from Abelson Express, certifying that a delivery was made to the mart at exactly 10:59 A.M. Their drivers have to punch in their loading documents when they arrive at the mart for security purposes."

  Reynolds snatched the paper out of the bailiff's hands and examined it.

  "Your Honor, I don't think I have been shown that."

  Reynolds gave it to the bailiff, who passed it to Phyllis.

  "As you can see," said Ramón, "this shows departure time of 3:16 P.M., after the entire incident was over. That means the truck was parked in the delivery spot blocking your view, isn't it true, Mr. Flores?"

  "That's not true, I saw you!"

  "Oh, yes, you saw me. You saw me walking in. But you never saw anything else, Mr. Flores. You invented everything because you are being supported by the Police Department while you testify, isn't that so?"

  "Objection, irrelevant, Your Honor," said Phyllis.

  But Ramón wasn't going to let up.

  "Is it not true that the LAPD is paying for your apartment, your living expenses, even promised you a green card if you testify?"

  "Yes, but ... "

  Then it all followed in rapid-fire succession: "So it's a yes, then. So you have been lying, no? After all, you're a follower of Shangó, no? You want the servants of Oggún to die, no?"

  "Your Honor, objection, irrelevant, this has nothing to do with these proceedings!"

  "Mr. Valdez, I urge you-"

  "Listen, Flores, I know you're Cuban and santero so let me tell you this, Oggún areré, alawó, kokóro yigüé yigüé."

  "Your Honor!"

  "Bailiff, remove Mr. Valdez ... "

  But before the bailiff could react, Remigio pushed the interpreter aside and jumped out of the witness stand, bolting over the barrier into the audience and out the door. Ramón grinned at me as Moat took off after Remigio.

  "Thanks for the tip."

  "Don't mention it. I'm only doing my job."

  Lucinda was waiting for me when I got home. As a special treat she had fixed me paella, redolent of saffron and iodine.

  "No, no, I don't want any, it's all for you," she said when I noticed there was only one place setting on the table. She set the clay vessel on the tile trivet and scooped the mounds of glistening rice and shellfish onto one of the white Villeroy and Boch plates she'd bought at Bullock's-"on special and they're so pretty with the flower border and all," she'd said when turning in the bill for fifteen hundred dollars for six place settings.

  "How's the trial going?" she asked.

  I finished chewing, took a swig of my Watney's.

  "You are a great cook."

  "Gracias."

  "The trial is going fine so far, but the heavy guns haven't been wheeled out yet. There was nothing we could do about the coroner but Ramón really gave it to the parking lot guy. Had him so scared the guy took off running. He's still missing."

  "I know. I saw it on TV."

  She poured the rest of the beer, stroked my forearm.

  "So you think Ramón will win."

  I looked up at her and scanned her features looking for, what? Surprise? Desire? Expectation?

  "Why? You want him out?"

  She played with her hair, shrugged.

  "I don't know. I mean, he deserves everything he gets but still, I keep thinking it wasn't him, you understand? I guess I'm just looking for an excuse."

  "Too bad you're not on the jury. He'd love to have you there."

  "Yes, I know. Isn't it too bad."

  We made perfunctory love that night, a quick in and out more out of duty than lust. Afterward she ran to the bathroom and came out wearing a red flannel nightgown and daubing cleansing lotion on her neck.

  "Enzo came to see you this afternoon," she said, tossing the used cotton balls in the toilet bowl. I grabbed a copy of a travel magazine, seeking an escape, a dream of canopied beds and sugarcane plantations by a crystal shore where tree frogs sing.

  "What did he want?"

  She climbed in next to me in bed, smelling of disinfectant and toothpaste, the death of bacteria and love.

  "He said he was wondering if you knew someone who could be his maître d'. He had to fire the last one, he was stealing from him."

  "He told me he was having problems. Too bad. No, I don't know anyone."

  "Yes, you do." She snuggled close for a moment.

  "Who?"

  "Me. I told him I was out of a job and I didn't have anything else to do and that I'd done it before. Of course I lied. But he said he'd try me out. I'm supposed to start tomorrow night, the night shift, six to midnight. You don't mind, corazón, now do you?"

  Of course I minded, of course I didn't want her out of my sight, of course I wanted to control her completely.

  "No, of course I don't mind. I'm happy for you."

  She kissed me on the cheek. "I knew I could count on you, my life. Thank you. Good night."

  "Good night."

  She turned over, put out the light and went to sleep. I felt all the anchors of reality in my life drifting away in a current of orange blossom darkness.

  "The People call VIad Lobera to the stand."

  Enters a short, heavy man on the borderline of obesity, with a ghastly white complexion, full lips and a beard so dark it becomes a veil over his features, the kind of beard no Schick can eradicate, only a straight razor wielded car
efully by a barber. He wears a thick wool pinstripe suit, a white shirt and no tie, a figure out of an Eastern European social realist canvas.

  Vlad, his expression suggesting his Impaler namesake, strides purposely to the witness stand, spells his name, sits, looks forlornly at Phyllis.

  "I happen to know that Fatso there deals in excess of ten million dollars in jewels every month," whispers Ramón.

  "How do you know?"

  "Sources, Charlie. I may be in jail but I have ears everywhere."

  "Could you tell us your occupation?" asks Phyllis.

  "I'm a jewelry salesman. High volume. Best aquas in town."

  Chuckles from the courtroom at the brazen pitch.

  "Thank you for the information, Mr. Lobera," says Reynolds, "but please answer only the question asked."