State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  The issue of bail was now raised.

  Beverly tugged on the ruffled cuff of her teak jacket as part of the silk suit she wore, along with matching mules.

  “Your Honor,” she began, “in light of the serious nature of the charges against the defendant and the fact that he has already served time for similar crimes, there should be no consideration of bail whatsoever!” She knew that the issue itself was a mere formality to which each defendant was entitled, no matter how heinous the charges. She also realized the importance of making it clear from the start just how strongly the prosecution felt against such.

  Judge Ireland seemed determined to show no favoritism as she faced defense attorney Ortega. “Counselor, what do you have to say regarding bail?”

  Stepping slightly away from his client, Ortega glanced at Beverly and back to the judge. “Your Honor, we realize that Mr. Santiago has been in hot water before,” he said lamentably. “And he paid the price for it. But that was then, and this is now! All my client wants is to have a fair bail set and then be given a chance to prove his innocence of the charges.”

  Judge Ireland glared at Santiago. “He’ll get his chance to do just that,” she said forcefully. “But not in this court. Bail is denied!” She slammed the gavel down and court was adjourned.

  Beverly turned to Grant who gave her a thumbs up. A tiny smile crossed her lips.

  She looked at the defendant as he was being led from the court by bailiffs. He seemed to make a point of giving her the dirty eye all the way out. Or was she only imagining it? Wouldn’t she be just a little pissed off, too, if someone stood between her and freedom?

  Perhaps Santiago should have thought about that when he decided to enact his vengeance on the judge and his wife. But that was what separated vicious criminals from law-abiding citizens. Often the former did not think about the consequences of their actions—not until it was too late.

  And someone was dead and another sexually assaulted.

  Well if I have it my way, you’ll never have the chance to harm another living soul, Santiago. Beverly was determined to see that justice prevailed in this case.

  * * *

  Grant watched the arraignment come to an end, pleased to see that Rafael Santiago would be headed back to jail, just where he belonged. He wished the asshole hadn’t killed Judge Crawford and sexually assaulted Maxine Crawford. No one wanted to see the judge dead and his wife traumatized.

  But it had happened and now they had to deal with it, even if things could get ugly along the way.

  I would have preferred to take Judge Crawford’s spot on the bench another way, but it wasn’t my call. I just have to make sure I keep my eye on the ball and not mess things up any more than what’s already gone down.

  Grant smiled brightly as he watched Beverly approach. She looked as stunning as ever. Being with her was enough to make him believe that good things really could happen even when things went bad.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Manuel smoked the crack, intensely savoring the high that penetrated every fiber of his body. It made him feel alive again. There was no feeling like it. Not even sex.

  Murdering somebody was a high all its own. But that could only come when the time was right. The circumstances were conducive to killing. And the trap was laid out precisely so the predator backed the prey into a corner with no chance of escape.

  With crack cocaine, the thrill could come anytime, anywhere. And its potent effects always left him feeling like he was on Cloud Nine. Manuel emptied the pipe of its contents, allowing the stuff to filter into his system, before leaving the bathroom.

  Downstairs he warmed some leftover chicken to go with red beans. By the time his old lady walked in the door from another day and half dollar on the job, he was feeling horny, hungry, and mellow.

  “How was work?” he asked routinely, not really caring, as long as she kept a roof over their heads.

  “Okay,” she said unenthusiastically, looking worn out.

  Manuel wrapped his arms around her from behind. They were back on speaking terms after their last fight. At least he had forgotten about it. There were more important things on his mind.

  “I missed you, baby,” he said, pouring it on a bit thick.

  “Since when?” Her voice echoed with skepticism.

  “Since every time you go away,” he lied.

  She turned around, still in his arms. Her gaze explored his face, as if looking for something hidden. “You’re high, aren’t you?”

  “A little,” he was willing to admit. “Ain’t no big deal.”

  “You promised me you were gonna get off the crack, Manuel.”

  “I am off it,” he lied again. “Just smoked a little weed. That’s all.” He kissed her chapped lips.

  “I’m not really in the mood right now,” she muttered.

  He grabbed one of her breasts through her dress. “I’ll get you in the mood.” He kissed her again while he cupped her breasts and squeezed them like pillows. “I need you now, baby.”

  He could feel her beginning to warm up to the idea. Her nipples had turned hard and her breathing had quickened.

  “Oh...” she purred.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he told her. “I’ll give you what you need...and a lot more.”

  She did not protest.

  Upstairs in bed, he orally stimulated her till she came in waves. Then she returned the favor and he squeezed his eyes shut. The dual stimulation of the crack and her active tongue had him pumped up and trembling till he relieved himself in her mouth.

  Afterwards he put himself inside her body and slammed against her repeatedly until he ran out of steam.

  All the while Manuel was thinking about that whore he had killed.

  And the whore before her.

  Even the next whore who would meet his blade made Manuel’s blood boil and his imagination run wild.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Conrad Ortega sidestepped used hypodermic needles and other drug paraphernalia scattered across the pavement and patches of brown grass at the apartment complex like ants. It was home to mostly poor Hispanics and African-Americans. He had also once lived in such a drug-infested community, but through hard work and determination had left that life behind.

  Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Rafael Santiago. Ortega entered the dark hallway that reeked of marijuana and urine. Like most felons, Santiago had been sent back to the very environment that put him in prison in the first place and had landed him back in jail.

  Stopping in front of apartment 314, Ortega listened in for a moment. There was shouting, but he determined that it was from the apartment across the hall.

  He knocked on the door. This was where Isabel Santiago lived. And where her son, Rafael, was placed after his release from prison. According to Santiago, at the time Sheldon Crawford was being shot to death and his wife raped and sodomized, he was at home and had been all night. His mother was his witness and alibi.

  Ortega’s visit was routine as Santiago’s attorney. The police had obviously dismissed his client’s claims. He had his own doubts about the alibi, all things considered. But at this point, if he was to present a credible case at all, he had to give Santiago the benefit of the doubt.

  And his mother.

  The door opened slowly with a squeak, stopping because of the chain lock being fully extended. An elderly and frail Hispanic woman peered out cautiously.

  “Ms. Santiago?” asked Ortega.

  “What do you want?” she responded suspiciously.

  He detected fear in her umber eyes that had heavy bags beneath them.

  “My name is Conrad Ortega. I’m representing your son, Rafael Santiago.”

  Her gaze widened, almost in disbelief. “You mean you’re his lawyer?”

  “Yes.” Ortega flashed a weak smile. “I need to talk to you.”

  She stared at him for another moment or two before closing the door and removing the chain. The door opened again and he was invited in.


  Ortega found the small living room cluttered, but in an orderly way. A television was on and a cat scurried across the floor, jumping over his shoes and onto a tattered couch.

  “You want somethin’ to eat or drink?” Isabel asked hesitantly.

  “No thanks.”

  Ortega studied her. He guessed she was at least seventy with thinning hair white as snow and a face with more than a few wrinkles. She wore an ill-fitted floral print dress that looked as if it had long since seen its better days.

  Walking with a slight limp, Isabel sat down next to the cat and put it in her lap. “Is Rafael in big trouble again?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he is, Ma’am.” Ortega sat on a chair, facing her.

  “Ever since coming here from Cuba, the boy’s been in trouble.”

  “Well it’s his current situation I need to discuss with you,” Ortega told her. “I’m sure you’re aware that Rafael’s been charged with murdering a judge and sexually assaulting his wife.”

  “Judge Crawford,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know all about the judge. He put Rafael away twelve years ago—”

  “For murdering his pregnant girlfriend,” emphasized Ortega.

  Isabel nodded reluctantly. “He did his time. Lost a good chunk of his life,” she said almost bitterly. “Now all Rafael wants to do is try and make a new life for himself. Then they try to blame him for this—” She rolled her eyes.

  “Your son says he was here all night when the Crawfords were being attacked.” Ortega favored her keenly. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” she said without blinking. “Rafael never left the apartment that day.”

  “Did you?” he questioned curiously. If so, it would mean she couldn’t account for his whereabouts every minute of the day, besides the time in his presence.

  “No. I hardly ever leave this apartment,” Isabel responded swiftly. “Can’t get around that much these days. Also, it ain’t safe when the sun goes down. Too many gang fights and drug dealing happening in the neighborhood for an old lady to venture out very often. That day me and Rafael sat in here watching TV and talking.”

  “Are you telling me Rafael didn’t go out at all?” Ortega asked skeptically. Santiago didn’t strike him as a man who could say holed up in a tiny apartment for any length of time. Not after being confined in a tiny cell for a dozen years.

  “The police already asked me,” she replied bitterly. “I tell them the same thing. Rafael was here all day and night. But they don’t believe me. They think I’m just trying to protect my son.”

  “Are you?” Ortega raised his chin skeptically.

  “No!” Isabel’s voice rose. “I’ll do anything for Rafael, but I won’t lie for him.”

  Maybe not.

  Or maybe you’re lying right now, mused Ortega, uncertain.

  “If this goes to trial,” he told her, “we’ll need you to testify in court, under oath. Can you do that?”

  Isabel considered this. She nodded. “I’ll do what you want to help my son.”

  “Good.” Truthfully, Ortega knew she would be raked over the coals by the prosecution, probably rendering her testimony useless. But right now she could be the most important thing standing between her son and a death sentence.

  He stood, noting the boarded windows that seemed to blend in, as if they came with the territory.

  Isabel tossed the cat to the floor, watching it sprint out of the room yowling like it had stepped on a piece of glass. “Thank you for taking Rafael’s case,” she said sincerely. “He has no one else to stand up for him.”

  Except for you. Unfortunately the two of them might not be enough. Not when the State had Maxine Crawford as their star witness and sympathetic victim.

  And the ghost of her slain judge husband on their side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Beverly helped Jaime put his tie on, against the backdrop of a pale pink shirt and a navy suit. It was one of the few times he had worn the suit she had bought for him last Easter. And, even then, he had worn it under protest.

  “Why do I have to wear a suit just to go to dinner with him?” he whined.

  “Because Grant is a judge now,” Beverly told him respectfully. “And he’s invited us both to a fancy restaurant that has a dress code.”

  “I don’t wanna go,” Jaime whined. “I’d rather play on my computer or watch TV.”

  “You have to go,” she insisted. “I promised Grant you would. Besides, he’s been really good to me and I want you two to get to know each other.”

  But at what cost? Beverly wondered. Would Jaime forever resent her involvement with a man? Any man?

  This man?

  Could Grant ever see Jaime as more than her son? Beverly pondered if the day might come when Jaime could be their son.

  Was that what she wanted? A substitute father for Jaime, whose real father was missing in action?

  Or am I really looking for a husband with a man who may no longer be the marrying type?

  Beverly feared that both would be an uphill battle. Especially since she wasn’t sure if marriage was something she truly desired again in her own future after successfully separating romance and independence for so long.

  “There...” She smiled at Jaime in the mirror. “You look very handsome this evening, Mr. Mendoza.”

  Jaime blushed, admiring himself in the suit. “You really think so?”

  “Of course I do.” Beverly beamed. “You’ll have to wear your suit more often.”

  “You look nice, too,” Jaime said approvingly.

  Beverly looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had chosen a halter dress for the occasion that flattered her figure while not overdoing it. She put her hair up in a chignon and wore only enough makeup to add a bit of color to her sallow skin.

  She laughed. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Did you think Dad was handsome?” asked Jaime, a brow raised curiously.

  Beverly hesitated, knowing he considered the question important. “Yes, I did. Your father was one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met. It wasn’t Diego’s looks that was the problem. It was his character and selfishness that were unattractive.”

  “Why did he have to be such a bastard?” Jaime snorted.

  Beverly widened her eyes in surprise. Till now she had never heard him say a bad thing about his father. Or use profanity. Jaime had always managed to keep Diego alive in his head by believing him to be a better person than he ever was.

  Now it was time for Jaime to take Diego off the pedestal. Beverly gave her son a frank stare. “I asked myself the same question time and time again,” she admitted. “And never came up with the answer.” She doubted she ever would.

  “I’ll never leave you,” promised Jaime.

  Beverly hugged him and kissed the side of his head. “And I’ll never leave you, sweetheart.” It was a promise she knew only one of them would be able to keep. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t extend being together for as long as possible.

  Even if a third party should join them for the ride.

  * * *

  The Creekside restaurant sat on the banks of Eagles Lake. Grant was already there when they arrived. Beverly thought it was better that they break Jaime in slowly to the idea that they were a couple. She ventured a half wave to Grant at the table and he waved back.

  He stood to greet them, wearing a tan sport coat with a yellow shirt over dark brown trousers. Beverly couldn’t help but admire what she saw. Turned on was more like it, though this was hardly the time or place.

  “Hello, Beverly,” Grant said in an almost businesslike fashion. He gave her a friendly peck on the cheek and thought she looked gorgeous this evening. He felt like the luckiest man around.

  “Grant,” she responded, wondering if he was overdoing it a bit in his attempt to appear the perfect gentleman.

  “Nice to see you, Jaime.” Grant stuck out his hand. Maybe you’ll let me get to know you a little better.

  Jaime seemed s
urprised, maybe even suspicious, but put his hand forward. “Hi,” he said meekly.

  After an awkward moment or two they sat down and the waiter brought over menus.

  “I’d recommend the roast duck,” Grant said as an authority. “Along with a stuffed baked potato.”

  “Sounds good to me,” seconded Beverly. “How about you, Jaime?”

  He frowned over his menu. “I’d rather have the grilled steak and fries,” he answered defiantly.

  “That’s a good choice, too.” Grant glanced at Beverly with a smile. “Then it’s settled. Three grilled steak and fries dinners coming up.”

  They ordered. Beverly and Grant had coffee, while Jaime sipped lemonade through a straw.

  “Your mother tells me you’re doing very well in school these days.” Grant looked at the boy across the table. He wondered if Jaime resembled his father, though he definitely had characteristics that reminded Grant of his mother.

  Jaime looked at Beverly through narrowed eyes, as if embarrassed or resentful that she had shared information about him with Grant. “I’m doing okay.”

  Beverly seized the moment, deciding this was a good subject to build on. “Jaime is getting all A’s and B’s right now,” she said, mindful that his last science test had produced a B.

  “What do want to be when you grow up?” Grant asked. “A lawyer like your Mom?”

  Jaime sneered. “What do you care?”

  Beverly glared. “Jaime!”

  “That’s all right,” Grant told her, prepared for such resistance. It was up to him to see if he could melt the boy’s icy resolve to keep him at arm’s length. “It’s a good question. What do I care? Actually, Jaime, I care a lot. I’ve grown to care for your mother very much. That means I also care about you and what you choose to do with your life now and in the future.”

  Jaime weighed this, sipping more lemonade. Beverly knew that he was intimidated by Grant, as well as uncertain about his role in their lives. She hoped this might allay some of his fears.