State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  Still, Beverly remained troubled. There was something about Manuel Gonzalez that made her believe he was somehow connected to Rafael Santiago.

  But did that connect him in any way to Judge Crawford’s death? Or to Maxine Crawford’s sexual attack?

  * * *

  Stone and Eagles Landing Police Department Homicide Detective Joe O’Dell sat in on Beverly’s interview with Manuel Gonzalez. “The Assistant D.A. needs to ask you a few questions,” O’Dell told the prisoner in a gruff voice.

  “So let her ask.” Manuel fixed Beverly lewdly.

  She sat at the side of the metal table directly across from the prisoner who was flanked by O’Dell and Stone, almost as if it was Gonzalez who needed to be protected from her. Beverly recalled how her ordeal with him had ended, by ramming her foot into his leg.

  Holding the gaze of Manuel Gonzalez, she asked without sympathy, “How’s the leg?”

  He grinned halfway. “I’m still walkin’,” he said toughly. “Maybe next time you try a little bit harder, huh, Beverly?”

  She sneered at him. “There won’t be a next time! You had your one big chance and you blew it!”

  Manuel leered. “Never say never, Ms. Assistant District Attorney,” he said, as if having some extra insight. “We just might be able to go at it again someday.”

  If they ever did, the next time she would be ready for him. Beverly envisioned aiming her Glock right between his eyes and pulling the trigger.

  But she knew this was no longer about her. It was about him.

  Keeping her voice steady, Beverly asked before she went any further, “Would you like to have an attorney present?”

  “What for?” Manuel asked, as if he hadn’t the faintest idea.

  “For anything you say to me that could be used against you,” she told him clearly.

  Manuel licked his lips. “I don’t need no lawyer tellin’ me what to say. I’ll tell you everything I planned to do to you if they hadn’t come to your rescue. Before I sliced you up, I would’ve made you suck my—”

  O’Dell placed a firm elbow to Gonzalez’s chest, causing him to heave. “You watch what the hell you’re saying when talking to the lady, you son of a bitch! Or I’ll rearrange your face so even you won’t recognize it. No one will ask any questions when I say you ran into a door or two.”

  Manuel smoldered, glaring at the detective.

  “It’s all right,” Beverly said in a level voice, even if she was glad O’Dell had intervened on her behalf. She was used to this type of bullying from inmates who saw this as possibly their last chance to exert some fear and intimidation. Unlike before, this time she was strictly in the driver’s seat. “Do you know a man by the name of Rafael Santiago?”

  Manuel showed no sign of such in his blank stare at her. “Rafael who?”

  “Santiago,” she repeated.

  “No, I don’t know no Rafael Santia—whatever the hell...” He grinned wickedly. “Why? He some Latino gangsta or somethin’? Or just another Latin lover like me?”

  Beverly had the feeling he was mocking her. And giving all Latinos a bad name in the process. But there was no reason to believe he wasn’t telling the truth.

  “Have you ever heard of Judge Sheldon Crawford?”

  Manuel rubbed his chin. “Who hasn’t? Ain’t he the judge who was shot to death a few weeks ago? Heard his old lady got somethin’ for her trouble, too.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  He looked confused. “What the hell does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Beverly was willing to admit. Or perhaps everything.

  Stone was less accommodating, narrowing eyes at him. “Just answer the damned question, Gonzalez!”

  Manuel regained his cool. “I read the papers. I know they arrested some dude for blowing away the judge. So what?”

  “But you’ve never heard of Rafael Santiago?” she inquired again.

  “I already answered that one!” he retorted curtly.

  “You’ll answer it as many times as she asks, asshole!” blared O’Dell.

  Manuel widened his eyes. “Never met the man,” he said simply.

  Either he’d never read about Santiago’s arrest or he was lying, Beverly mused. But why would he lie? What would he gain by lying about not knowing Santiago?

  She gazed across the table. “Have you ever met a woman named Crystal Lynley?” It was Maxine Crawford’s real name. Admittedly Beverly was grasping at straws here. There was certainly no reason to feel that even in her former life in the sex-for-sale business, Maxine had ever come across Manuel Gonzalez. But it was worth a try, just to be sure.

  “Don’t know. Is she as pretty as you?” Manuel showed his teeth, running a tongue across them lasciviously.

  O’Dell snarled at him, making Gonzalez lose the flippancy and salaciousness in a hurry.

  “I know lots of women,” he bragged. “But I don’t know no Crystal Lynley. Should I?”

  “What about Maxine Crawford?” she pressed.

  Manuel considered the name before responding, “Ain’t that the judge’s wife?”

  “You tell me?” Beverly’s jaw tightened. “Do you know her?”

  Manuel gave her another vulgar look. “I’d sure like to. Maybe you can have her drop by for a visit. I hear that black bitches are the best in bed.”

  Beverly glanced at the detectives, wondering what they were thinking. That she had wasted her time? And theirs?

  She was beginning to feel they might be right.

  “Do you own a handgun?” she asked Gonzalez, mindful that the gun that killed Judge Crawford had yet to be recovered. Who was to say that Santiago didn’t pass it to Gonzalez when finished, or vice versa?

  “Don’t you do your homework, Beverly?” he taunted her. “Guns are dangerous. Some innocent kid might get caught in the crossfire. Knives are more my speed. That way you have more control. You get to pick out a whore and carve her up like a turkey. You know what I’m sayin’, Miss Assistant D.A.?”

  “I think I do,” Beverly said under her breath.

  She was reasonably convinced that Manuel Gonzalez, sick and pathetic individual that he was, was not connected with the murder of Sheldon Crawford and sexual attack on Maxine Crawford.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The People versus Rafael Santiago trial began the first week of January. Seven women and five men sat on the jury. Both sides had carefully screened them, each seeking every edge they could get. Beverly was confident that she had the people she needed to produce a guilty verdict.

  And she had a defendant who, by his very nature, fit the composite of a killer you might find in a college course called Violent Homicide 101.

  Beverly sat at the prosecution’s table alongside Gail Kennedy, stealing a moment or two to go over the case while waiting for the judge to make his entrance.

  An innocent glance at the defense table and Beverly saw K. Conrad Ortega conferring intently with his client. Rafael Santiago looked almost like a different man from the one she had first seen in a lineup. His hair was cut shorter with a part in the side, making him look almost preppy. He wore a sharp blue suit that under other circumstances could easily have given the impression that he was a successful businessman.

  Would the jury buy into this?

  Or would they see through the facade to his true character?

  “It’ll be strange seeing Grant on the bench as a judge,” remarked Gail, wrinkling her nose.

  “Not half as strange as it will be for him seeing us in action as prosecuting attorneys,” laughed Beverly. In fact, she had butterflies fluttering in her stomach, though not sure if they were the normal ones that came at the start of every trial or if they were a direct reflection of this particular trial.

  This defendant.

  This case.

  This courtroom.

  This judge.

  She and Grant had spoken little about the trial, almost as if to do so invited trouble at a time when they were tryi
ng to get past recent tests to their relationship outside the courtroom. For her part, Beverly expected Grant to be a fair judge, if not extra tough on her and himself.

  She accepted the challenge, wanting only to have the chance to present her case and let the jury decide guilt or innocence.

  When the court clerk announced Judge Grant Nunez, everyone rose respectfully. Beverly could tell that Grant was in his element, with his black robe worn over a gray wool suit that she had helped him pick out last week. His head was freshly shaved and seemed to actually give him a more judicial look.

  They exchanged warm glances that only they could read into before he allowed everyone to be seated.

  Beverly’s first witness was Maxine Crawford. The two had remained cordial even after Beverly learned of her shady past and willingness to spy on her husband to try and save her own neck. And collect what was left of his estate after the government took what was theirs.

  What would I have done had I been in her shoes?

  The question was impossible to answer, since Beverly could not imagine having ever taken the route that led to Maxine now being in the witness box.

  Maxine sported a new hairstyle, wearing her blonde tinted hair in a flat twist. Beverly thought it gave her an air of sophistication and went well with a khaki suit and white blouse with ruffles. It made her look like a school teacher, which always played well with juries.

  “What happened on the night of October twenty-ninth?” she asked the witness without preface.

  Maxine sat poised and demure. “My husband and I were attacked,” she said pointedly.

  “Your husband was Judge Sheldon Crawford?” asked Beverly with an eye on the jury.

  “Yes.”

  “And where did this attack take place?”

  “In our bedroom.”

  “Please explain to the court the nature of the attack on your husband.”

  Maxine gulped. “My husband was shot to death,” she said painfully.

  “While you were in bed?”

  “Yes.”

  Beverly gazed down at her. “And how many times was Judge Crawford shot?”

  “Three.” Maxine closed her eyes for a moment, as if saying a prayer.

  “Did you see the man who shot your husband?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Is that man in this courtroom?”

  “Yes, he is...”

  “Can you point him out to me and the members of the jury please?” Beverly requested.

  Maxine lifted her finger and pointed it squarely at Rafael Santiago.

  “Thank you,” Beverly told the witness, satisfied that she had held up well thus far. “No further questions.” She would recall her to the stand later.

  Ortega stood, buttoning the jacket of his brown suit. “Mrs. Crawford,” he began, “you testified that you were in bed during the time your husband was shot. Can you tell the court what you were doing?”

  Beverly flew up like a rocket. “Objection! This is totally irrelevant!” she snapped, even if she didn’t entirely agree that it was.

  “Sustained!” Grant peered at Ortega. “I don’t think we need to go there. Keep your questions where they should be, Counselor.”

  Ortega pursed his lips. “How far were you from the person who shot your husband?” he asked the witness.

  Maxine considered this. “About five feet, more or less.”

  “Well, is it more or less?”

  She looked at Beverly. “Five feet.”

  “Was the light on?”

  “No.”

  “So you were able to see this person who fired the shots with the light off from five feet away?” the attorney questioned.

  “It was still light outside,” Maxine responded nervously. “I could see his face...his body—”

  “It was around seven o’clock that your husband was shot,” said Ortega. “Correct?”

  “Yes,” came a tentative reply.

  “Well, as far as I know,” Ortega attacked her, “it’s pretty dark in Eagles Landing after six o’clock in late October. Too dark for most of us to be able to make out anyone clearly in a room with no lights on—”

  “Objection!” Beverly was steaming. “Your Honor, he is not qualified to know what she saw in the room that night. Nor can his speculation on what constitutes pretty dark be presumed to be the gospel insofar as lighting conditions in a house. Besides, our eyes can adjust to even ‘pretty dark’ light, enabling us to see what’s before us.”

  “Sustained,” blurted out Grant. “Mr. Ortega, there has been no indication that inadequate lighting was a factor in this crime. I think the witness had sufficient illumination to be able to see the man she identified as having shot her husband!”

  “He cut the light on...” Maxine blurted out.

  “What?” Ortega fixed her face in a moment of confusion. “But you just told this court there were no lights on. Are you changing your story now?”

  Maxine gulped while holding his gaze. “You asked me if the light was on when he shot my husband. It wasn’t. But then he turned it on before he raped me.”

  Ortega rolled his eyes skeptically. “Now why would he do that, Mrs. Crawford? Especially when you consider that he let you live. Not the type of thing you’d expect from a man who just murdered your husband and wouldn’t want you to identify him.”

  Maxine sighed, turning her eyes at the defendant and back to his attorney. She explained tearfully what only now had come to her, “He said he wanted me to see him and remember what was about to happen for the rest of my life. Then he made me suck on his penis while holding the gun to my head...”

  Ortega grimaced and for a moment was speechless before saying tonelessly, “No further questions, Your Honor—”

  Grant nodded and eyed Maxine sorrowfully. “The witness may step down.”

  Beverly watched Maxine walk away. The two exchanged glances and Beverly silently applauded her for standing up to Ortega and helping their case at the same time with an important piece of information they had not previously discussed, but was powerful for the prosecution in going after Rafael Santiago.

  * * *

  Beverly next called the Medical Examiner for Wilameta County to the stand.

  Doctor Julia Duval was a middle-aged woman with platinum blonde hair swept up in a chignon. Silver glasses hung low over blue eyes.

  “Dr. Duval, can you tell us the results of the postmortem examination on Judge Crawford?”

  “Certainly,” she said evenly. “Sheldon Crawford died from a gunshot wound to his face, just above the right cheek. It caused a massive rupture in his brain.”

  “And what other injuries did he sustain?” Beverly asked.

  “Aside from his face being shattered, Judge Crawford was shot once in the lower back, fracturing his spine,” explained the witness, “and another time in the upper back. This one caused extensive internal damage, including a punctured lung and several cracked ribs.”

  Beverly winced, though she managed a smile at the doctor and thanked her.

  “Just a couple of quick questions, Dr. Duval,” said Ortega, approaching her. “What was the approximate time of death?”

  “I’d say between seven and seven-thirty.”

  “That’s P.M.?”

  “Yes,” she responded with a straight face.

  Ortega paused, giving the jury the benefit of a sweeping glance. “Were you able to learn anything else about Judge Crawford’s condition that could have contributed to his death?”

  Beverly voiced an objection. “The witness has already testified as to the cause of death, Your Honor!”

  “Overruled,” Judge Nunez said weakly. “You may answer the question.”

  Julia Duval looked uneasy as she wrinkled her forehead. “Judge Crawford had advanced liver disease,” she informed the attorney. “This would likely have killed him in six months to a year. But there’s no reason to believe that—”

  “No further questions,” Ortega cut her off expertly.

 
* * *

  “Maybe it would have been better if you had gotten Dr. Duval to talk about the liver disease,” Grant told Beverly after court had been adjourned for the day. “It was a head’s up counter strike by Ortega.”

  Beverly fumed. “It was dirty ball,” she insisted, dismissing Crawford’s prior medical condition, in spite of the irony. “What killed the judge, plain and simple, were the three bullets fired into him by Ortega’s client at point blank range.”

  “And I’m sure the jury will see that,” Grant said coolly. “Give them some credit for having brains, Beverly.” He put his hand on her breast.

  “Don’t,” Beverly said harshly, pushing his hand away from the front of her blouse, despite feeling a tingling in her nipple. “Now is not the time.”

  “Lighten up, baby.” Grant looked annoyed. “This isn’t the end of the world, either way. And short of a smoking gun, there certainly isn’t any reason I can see that you won’t get a conviction here. Not unless you find a means to self-destruct and allow Ortega to jump all over it.”

  “I have no intention of self-destructing.” She pouted.

  “That’s good to hear.” He grinned unevenly.

  Why am I acting like a first year prosecutor? Beverly chided herself. Ortega was only fighting tooth and nail for his client as any good attorney—or even a bad one—should do. But that hardly meant she had a major fight on her hands in winning this case.

  Not when virtually everything pointed to Rafael Santiago as the perpetrator of the crimes in which he was charged.

  Any competent jury would weigh the facts above the innuendoes in rendering a just verdict.

  Beverly sucked in a breath and offered Grant a genuine smile. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “Just continue to kick ass in the courtroom. You’re doing fine.”

  She kissed him softly on the mouth, and then used a finger to wipe the lip gloss from his lips. “Can you come to dinner tonight?” she asked anxiously.

  Grant licked his lips appetizingly. “Try and stop me.”