by Alex Abella
Reynolds walked down the bench and called me over. He whispered with more than a hint of anger, "You tell your boy to stop trying to bring in irrelevant matters or I'll reverse myself and order him a lawyer, you understand? If he doesn't know how to question, then he shouldn't be doing it."
"I'll tell him, Judge."
"You do that," he said, his robe flying after him. I caught a glimpse of Linda Powell's red hair and bright smile in the Judge's chambers moments before he slammed his door shut. I had a feeling that, even though she was the clerk at Master Calendar Court, they had business other than judicial to transact.
"Judge," hollered Burr, "we have to get back to Department 100 on the Ramsey matter! Shit." He turned to me, frustration digging holes in his skin, "Can't get him to do anything anymore when she's around."
"It'll pass. Courthouse flings don't last."
"Let's hope. He moved in with her, you know."
"That is serious."
As I turned, I saw Pimienta getting off the stand and looking at Ramón with questioning, sad eyes. Ramón smiled before the bailiff led him back into the lockup, ankle chains rattling on the blue carpeting.
The bailiff let me in once he put Ramón away, forcing him to surrender his tie and his shoelaces and his belt, so as to protect him from the singular temptation of suicide. Ramón was smoking a cigarette, sitting alone on the built-in concrete bench lining the wall. An art gallery of graffiti covered the walls, from the simple HELP ME to CUCA TE QUIERO to the stylized curlicues of the Rolling
Thunders 269. The largest message read, in Spanish, I was found guilty but I swear to God I am innocent. I am Pancho.
Ramón seemed downcast. "Chico, I don't like what I have to do," he said in Spanish, stretching the sounds like a child in a playground after he's hit his playmate.
"You have to impeach him, isn't that the strategy?"
"Yeah, but after all we've been through, you know, to put him down like that. I mean, I haven't even started."
"If you don't do it, you might as well start selling tickets to the execution right now."
He grinned, put out his cigarette. "No, that won't do."
He ripped open the plastic wrap of the sandwich the county gave him for lunch-three slices of bologna, with mayo, on white bread.
"What did the judge say?" he asked through a mouthful of food.
"He warned you that if you don't ask better questions, he's going to withdraw the pro per and name you an attorney."
"Bullshit," he said in English, then he reverted to the mother tongue. "That's a bluff. I haven't done anything a lawyer wouldn't. That's just his excuse for whipping me in line. Reversible error and he knows it."
He shrugged, crumpled the plastic wrapping into a ball and tossed it overhead into the sink at the far end of the room.
"Would you believe they never taught me basketball in Cuba? They tried to put me on the boxing team, they said I could be another Stevenson. It's a good sport, basketball. Anyhow, you tell Mr. Georgia Cracker that he'll like what I'm gonna do this afternoon. I mean, I feel sorry for José but, that's how life is."
He grabbed his luncheon apple, weighed it in his hand. "You know you could kill someone with this?"
"How?"
In a quicksilver motion, without a rest or break, he threw the apple like a pitcher does a baseball, so fast it became a red blur in the cell before slamming against the wall and splattering into thousands of tiny pieces.
"That's how. When that strikes you, it's as hard as a bullet."
"I'll remember that the next time they overcharge at the market."
"Oh, no, don't do that, chico, you might wind up here and then, who would defend you?"
I went down to the mall under City Hall, a sorry-looking basement cast in shadows, where grime-encrusted homeless sit on benches drinking syrupy sweet coffee and studying the crowd of clerks, office workers and attorneys passing by. I walked through the center courtyard, where a few plastic tables and chairs had been set on a cobblestoned ring looking out on the smoggy sky above. Raggedy palms and spilling trash cans surrounded the tables. I crossed through the gallery, exited on Main street and made my way down to Japantown. At the Kyoto Cafe I called home, trying to reach Lucinda. On the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up and I heard my voice asking for the message. After the beep, I asked her if she was in to pick up the phone but there was no reply. I hung up and sat at the counter sipping the miso soup.
"Don't look so sad, my friend, it will only give you a head of gray hairs like me." I looked up at Marty Green, the only FBI agent I knew who willingly became a court-appointed investigator upon retirement. His white frizzy hair was a halo around his black face, shiny from perspiration. His thick gold neck medallion glistened in the sun.
"That's OK, it'll just make me more distinguished. Like you. Still investigating?"
"You know, Charlie, people like us never stop," he said, in his native Barbados lilt. "What are we going to do? It's a compulsion, looking into other people's affairs. I've done it now for thirty years and I don't think I'll stop till the Good Lord take me away. Besides, my wife wants to buy a new house so I have to work for the money. You all right?"
"I've been better."
He turned to another man at the door, blue suited, impatient.
"Just a minute. Listen, I hear you have been working for that Valdez character. Let me give you some advice. Drop the case. Drop the case and run like crazy."
"C'mon, Marty, you know I can't do that. Anyhow, it's almost over."
"No, it is not. You know he tried to hire me before you? He originally was asking for a P.I. from the islands. He wanted a white man from Cuba or Puerto Rico. He said only a white man would understand. When you came on the case he asked me about you and wanted me to investigate you. Wanted to know all about you."
"That's normal."
"Not when he wants to know about your family and everything. I understand he got Kelly to check you out. Beware, my friend, he is no good."
"Marty, I've never seen an angel accused of murder."
"Listen to me, he wants to control you, Charlie. He wants to own you. Give it up, go back to being a lawyer. I got to go now. Call me for lunch sometime, OK?"
Pimienta did not relish the question. He shook his head sideways, like a toy winding down on its battery.
"What do you mean?" he asked, casting an anguished look at Phyllis.
"I mean just what I said," said Ramón. "What is our relationship?"
Pimienta silently queried the interpreter, who shrugged her shoulders. "You know very well. We're friends. I mean we were friends. "
Ramón took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I could see the lenses were clear glass, another trick for effect.
"Could you be more specific. Where did we meet?"
"Chico, you know where we met, at the Peruvian Embassy. We were there with thousands of people, camping out."
That was an out-and-out lie. José had told me they met at a santería initiation rite. Or had they? When were they lying and when were they telling the truth? Did they know the difference? I said nothing.
"OK, who introduced us?"
Phyllis finally spoke up. "Objection, irrelevant."
Reynolds looked at Ramón. "It certainly appears that way. Is there an offer of proof?"
"Your Honor," said Ramón, "if the court please, the aim of my questioning will become apparent very soon. I am trying to delve into our relationship."
"Mr. Valdez, I gathered that much. No matter how much contempt you may have for this court, I am not stupid."
"Your Honor, it is not my intention to insult the court."
"All right, all right, just proceed. Let's get this moving."
"Yes, Your Honor."
Ramón put on his glasses again, then, as though it pained him, asked, "Who introduced us?"
Pimienta hesitated. "Pepita Ramirez."
"Pepita Ramirez. Is that a man or a woman?"
"A man."
"A man," repeated Ramón. But before he could go on, the interpreter interrupted again. "Excuse me, Your Honor. I would like to correct myself. The name is Pepito with an 0."
But Ramón interjected. "Objection, Your Honor. The interpreter had it right the first time."
"Oh, who cares, Mr. Valdez? Whether it's with an 0 or an A. Just go on."
Ramón raised his hands as though to press the point but waved it away. "OK. Was Pepito a former prisoner?"
"Pepita. Yes, she was."
"José, why do you call her 'she' if Pepita was a man?"
Pimienta whispered something that I could not hear but that made the interpreter turn with a quizzical expression and ask, in rapid-fire Spanish, "What was that?" Pimienta repeated his answer and then the interpreter said, "Because she was a bird."
Chuckles in the courtroom. Ramón smiled. "Yes, a bird. Does that mean she could fly, she had wings and a tail and claws and flew, like a falcon or like a hawk?"
"No, I mean that he was a maricón."
"Maricón? How do you spell that?" asked the reporter, turning away from her machine.
"Standard spelling is M-A-R-I-C-O-N," said the interpreter.
"What does that mean, maricón?" pressed Ramón.
"He was, he liked men, he was a pervert."
"I see. That's very interesting. Is that why Pepita had been in jail?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"Well, for prostitution."
"I see. Well, how did you know that?"
I would have sworn that Pimienta was about to cry. "Because I knew her."
"How well did you know her?"
Pimienta put his head down and covered his face in shame. "I loved her, all right. She was my girl."
"Hold it, hold it. But you said she was a he. Does that mean you're homosexual, José?"
Phyllis again stood up. "Your Honor, this is totally irrelevant. What the witness's sexual inclinations have to do with the crime for which the defendant is charged is beyond my understanding."
"Your Honor, this goes to show his bias and how that affects his testimony."
"Mr. Valdez, unless you can show me in two more questions how this relates to bias, I will prevent you from conducting your own defense on the grounds of incompetency."
"Thank you, Your Honor," said Ramón.
"Do you like men, José? Are you homosexual?"
"I don't like to but I can't help it."
"Weren't you jealous of my relationships with women?"
"I don't know."
"Isn't it a fact that you have been tested HIV positive, that you have AIDS and that you blame me for giving it to you?"
"Objection, lack of foundation, Mr. Valdez is testifying!"
"Sustained," said the judge. "The jury will disregard that last question, which will be stricken from the record."
"OK, OK," clamored Ramón. "José, were we lovers, yes or no, just answer that, yes or no?"
Pimienta turned and his red eyes were a supplication for pity, for compassion, for consideration, for all the things that Ramón had long forgotten.
"Yes, we were."
"When did we stop?"
"When you married that girl, Lucy. You said I was ugly."
"So are you testifying here today because you hate me for leaving you?"
Pimienta gave a sigh, shook his head, and for once there was a certain kind of sad, haunted beauty to him, the beauty of dignity and hurt feelings.
"No, Ramón. You know I could never hate you. I am just here to tell the truth, that's all."
"And you say the truth is that I killed all those people?"
"Oh, yes, but you didn't mean it. I know that."
"Stop." Pimienta was about to continue talking but at seeing Ramón's hand go up, he halted in midbreath. That should have told me something, but at that moment, the significance of such obedience escaped me. "So why are you testifying here?"
Pimienta paused, looked at Phyllis dubiously. She gave a barely noticeable nod.
"Because I was promised a deal."
"A deal, you say. What kind of deal?"
"That I'll get six years if I talk about what happened."
"Six years. But you say you were involved in everything we did, right?"
"Yes, I said that."
"You were there when we made the plans, right?"
"Yes."
"You helped load the guns, carry them in the car, you drove, you went into the store with me. Correct?"
"Yes, that's true."
"But you're getting six years. Do you know what I'm facing?"
Pimienta shifted his eyes, like a puppy caught nibbling at the family roast.
"Yes, you told me."
"You know the law says you're as responsible as I am?"
"I don't know, I don't know what to do!" He put his head down briefly, then he glanced up. "You want me to take it back, you want me to say it isn't so?"
"No, José. I want you to tell me the truth. That's all. Did I do it? Did I, Ramón Valdez, shoot those people?"
"Yes, but it wasn't you."
"I don't understand. Was it me or wasn't it me?"
"Yes it was you but it was Oggún, you couldn't help it!"
Ramón took a deep breath, set down his pen. "No more questions."
Phyllis stood up, then walked over to Pimienta. She stood in front of him, her body almost trembling from her concentration.
"Tell me, Mr. Pimienta, did I ever tell you to say anything that wasn't the truth?"
"No, you didn't."
"Is everything that you've told us here today and for the last three days the truth?"
"I swear, the truth."
"You wouldn't be lying just because Ramón is not your lover anymore?"
Pimienta touched his heart and turned to face Ramón. "I still love him but I have to tell the truth, I can't live with myself otherwise."
"Thank you."
Phyllis walked back to her chair, sat down, then leaned over to the investigating officer. They exchanged a few words, then she glanced back at the judge.
"Your Honor, the prosecution rests."
Reynolds, who had been watching the entire questioning with his head in his hands, sat up with a jolt. I glanced at the jury and saw that at least half of them had also been leaning over, but now, caught by surprise, returned to their distanced posture.
"Well!" said the judge, and everyone laughed, out of embarrassment in being caught up in this strange melodrama. Reynolds looked at the clock.
"It's three o'clock. Mr. Valdez, are you ready to proceed?"
"Your Honor, I would request a recess until Monday. I am expecting a witness to contact me shortly."
"I'll do better than that. I'm going to give you a week, how's that? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, because of scheduling problems (I looked at Ramón with surprise, he shrugged) this court will be dark for the next week. So this being Thursday, and since we don't hold trials on Fridays, I will see y'all a week from Monday. Have a good week!"
With that he dashed off the bench to his chambers. I walked over to Phyllis.
"What was that all about?"
"I thought he'd told you guys," said Phyllis. "His wife got put into the hospital, she OD'd on Seconal. He's going to stay with her and try to work things out."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"You shouldn't be. That will give Valdez a little more time to prepare. He's going to need it."
"Who are you saving for rebuttal?"
"C'mon, Charlie, you know I can't tell you that," said Phyllis, stuffing her papers in her black Mark Cross briefcase. "No, excuse me, I misspoke, I still haven't decided. I'll give you a list when I do."
"When, the day we start?"
She smiled maliciously. "I still haven't decided."
She picked up her case and walked out, the IO opening the doors for her.
In the audience, Pimienta was sitting next to Clay, blowing his nose with Clay's embroidered handkerchief. Cla
y nodded at me. I came up, offered my hand.
"Sorry about the other night."
He looked at my hand, then at me, smiling. "I'm not. You're still hired help. Cheap, too."
"That's a relative term, Clay. Every whore's got her price."
"I suppose that's right. You won't be needing my client anymore, will you?"
I looked at Ramón, being conducted into the lockup at that moment.
"I'll check but I don't think so. Just tell me one thing, is he really HIV positive?"
Clay gave me the poor-schmuck look. "You believe that? Good thing he's pro per. He's a better lawyer than you." He stood up, tapped Pimienta on one of his massive arms. "Let's go, Joe."
Pimienta got up, then asked me in Spanish, "You tell him I'm sorry, OK? That I didn't have any bad intentions but that's the way he wanted it."
"I'll tell him that."
"And if you can, give him this."
Pimienta took off a massive gold and iron key dangling from his neck on a leather strap. I raised my hands, stepped back.