How Town

by Michael Nava

  “You run?”

  “I lettered in track in high school.”

  I smiled. “Me, too. Before you were born, probably.”

  “You ain’t that old,” he replied, finishing off his doughnut. “What’s your event?”

  “I was a distance runner. You?”

  “Speed,” he replied. “I used to be a lot smaller. Where’d you go to high school?”

  “Right here,” I replied. “Los Robles High. You?”

  “Nueces,” he said, smile broadening. Nueces was a small town about fifteen miles away. “We compete with Los Robles.”

  “Yeah, I know. We used to beat you like clockwork.”

  “Maybe in your day,” he retorted.

  I sipped my coffee, enjoying the first friendly conversation I’d had in Los Robles since returning to the town. Cop or not, Vega was a nice kid. Not a genius, but nice.

  “You still run?” he was asking.

  “Not for a while.”

  “We should go sometime.”

  “In this weather?”

  He shook his head. “It cools off at night. You look like you still got some distance in you.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “Where you staying?”

  “The Hyatt. You’d run me ragged.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Gotta go. See you later, Mr. Rios.” He stood up, brushing crumbs from his uniform. “Maybe I’ll come by sometime, take you running.”

  “See you, Ben,” I said, and watched him walk away, swaggering a little for no better reason than that he was young and healthy. I went back to my reading. A few minutes later I looked up at where he’d sat, thinking perhaps I’d underestimated him. His name appeared in the prosecution’s witness list—he had been one of the officers who searched Paul’s house and it looked like he’d struck gold.

  Paul watched me warily as I sat down across from him. I opened my briefcase and took out a legal pad. His weeks of incarceration had given him a jailhouse pallor and his face seemed a little bloated today.

  “I talked to Mark last night,” I said, uncapping a black felt pen. “He had an interesting theory as to why you may have killed McKay.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you believe him over me.”

  “Let me just run it by you,” I replied. “Mark goes along with the blackmail angle. I didn’t think it was very plausible because, as Sara pointed out to me when I first talked to her, after all the publicity over your first arrest it didn’t seem likely that you could be blackmailed over being a pedophile. What Mark said was that, except for that incident, you don’t have any other record. He suggested that McKay had something on you of—more recent vintage.”

  Paul made a dismissive noise.

  “The reason I bring it up,” I went on, “is that it sounds a whole lot more believable than your story about going off to see McKay to buy a child from him.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “What’s a lie?”

  “What Mark told you is a lie. Look, I don’t know if there was a girl or not, but that’s why I went there.”

  I persisted. “What did McKay have on you?”

  “I just told you …” His face was red.

  “I heard you,” I replied calmly. “I spent most of the morning reviewing documents I got from the cops. One of those documents is a list of evidence taken from their search of your house and your car. One of the things they recovered from the car was a roll of film. What’s on it, Paul?”

  He turned his face from me.

  “Something you got from McKay?”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with McKay,” he said in a subdued voice.

  “Then what is it?”

  He faced me. “Pictures of her.”

  “Who?”

  “Ruth.”

  “Ruth Soto?” I was really surprised. “When did you see her again?”

  “I’ve never stopped thinking about her,” he said, quietly. “I followed her around one day, and took pictures, that’s all. Pictures of her and my son.”

  “She had the baby.”

  He nodded. “A little boy. His name is Carlos, I looked it up in the baptismal registry. Her last name, of course. Carlos Soto.”

  It was dusk when I arrived at Sara’s house. Stone-faced Caridad opened the door.

  “Quiero hablar con la señora,” I told her.

  She let me in. “Esta en la jardin.”

  “Drunk?” I asked.

  “Como siempre,” she replied. As always.

  I made my way through the big rooms, to the back, where I found Sara Windsor sitting beneath a willow tree, glass in hand, looking at nothing in particular. She saw me and said nothing. I lowered myself to the ground beside her.

  “I have to ask you something,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to wait until I’m sober?”

  I was tired of her, and the Windsors generally. “I don’t have that long.”

  “You don’t talk to me that way,” she said, slurring and sibilant. “You may be successful now, but I knew you when you were just a skinny little nothing from the wrong side of town, mooning over Mark like a girl. God, how you embarrassed your sister.”

  This was news to me, but I wasn’t here to reminisce. “The police have a roll of film they removed from Paul’s car the day they searched it. Paul says it contains pictures of Ruth Soto he took the Saturday before McKay was murdered. Did he go out that day?”

  She raised her hands to her mouth and breathed shakily through her fingers.

  “This is important.”

  She reached blindly for her drink, spilling it on the grass. “That bastard.”

  “Was he out that day?”

  She glared at me with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s all a dirty joke now.” The drink seeped through the grass to the edge of her skirt. “A nasty little joke.”

  “Why are you so shocked, Sara? You’re the one who implied that he was still seeing her.”

  “I didn’t know.” She stumbled to her feet. “He can go fuck himself.”

  She blundered her way back into the house. I got up to follow, but then thought better of it. She wasn’t any use to me drunk, and I still felt the barb about my sister. I could imagine them together, giggling about me and Mark. No, giggles weren’t Elena’s style—pursed lips and perdition were more in keeping with her character. Around me, the heavy fragrance of the roses spilled into the dusky air, absurdly romantic. I walked to the edge of the garden to a sundial, a circle of brass set into a marble pedestal. In the center of the dial were inscribed six lines:

  Come near, come near, come near—Ah, leave me still

  A little space for the rose-breath to fill!

  Lest I no more hear common things that crave;

  The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,

  The field mouse running by me in the grass,

  And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass …

  9

  “ALL RISE. DEPARTMENT Three of the Los Robles Municipal Court is now in session, the Honorable Richard Lanyon presiding.”

  A fiercely red-haired man about my own age passed behind the clerk and ascended the couple of steps to the bench, arranged himself in the high-back wooden chair and reached into his robe for his reading glasses. As he busied himself with the file in front of him, I looked around the courtroom.

  The courthouse had been built in the thirties by the WPA and the room reflected the populism of the times. On the walls was a mural depicting, as far as I could tell, great moments in legal history—if that wasn’t an oxymoron—including scenes from the Constitutional Convention, Chief Justice Marshall delivering the Marbury v. Madison opinion and Daniel Webster arguing the Dartmouth case. Directly above Judge Lanyon’s head, Lincoln was signing the Emancipation Proclamation.

  I sat at counsel table with Paul beside me, in a suit instead of his jail jumper. Dom Rossi sat at the other end, mopping up sweat from his forehead. Behind us in the gallery were the prosecution’s witnesses and the press. We
were there for the preliminary hearing to determine whether there was enough evidence to warrant putting Paul on trial. Normally, the proceeding was a formality and its main usefulness to the defense was to preview the prosecution’s evidence, and it didn’t make much difference which judge presided. However, the penal code prohibited a judge who had issued a search warrant from hearing the prelim. Lanyon had issued the search warrant and so I’d filed a routine motion asking him to disqualify himself.

  Judge Lanyon glanced down at us. “People versus Windsor. State your appearances.”

  “Henry Rios for the defendant, Your Honor.”

  “Dominic Rossi for the People.”

  “Let the record reflect that the defendant is present,” Lanyon said, directing his comments at the reporter, a pale, middle-aged man who recorded the proceedings on a stenographer’s machine.

  “Today is the day set for the preliminary hearing, however, I understand the defense wishes to make a motion.”

  I got to my feet. “Your Honor, as you know the penal code prohibits a judge who has issued a search warrant in a case from presiding over the preliminary hearing in the same case. Since you did issue the warrant in this case, I think we should be sent out to another department for today’s proceeding.”

  Without looking up, he said, “Your motion is denied.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  He now looked at me. “Your motion is denied, Counsel.”

  “Judge Lanyon,” I said, “the words of the statute are mandatory.”

  “I can read, Mr. Rios,” he replied. “And I don’t care what the Legislature says. There are only four municipal court departments in this judicial district and each of those judges has a full docket. I’m not going to disrupt some other judge’s schedule.”

  His expression dared me to challenge him. I had run into other Judge Lanyons in my time, tin-pot judicial despots, and there was only one way to deal with them.

  “Your Honor, the statute requires you to disqualify yourself. Putting that aside, it’s our position that you should disqualify yourself anyway, for bias.”

  He drew himself up rigidly. “Based on what?”

  “The defense believes that the search warrant you authorized was based on an inadequate showing of probable cause. Given that, we question whether you can fairly evaluate the evidence in this hearing much of which was obtained from that search.”

  “Counsel,” he said, coldly, “I see no motion to quash the warrant or to suppress evidence.”

  “It’s our intention to make those motions after the prelim, if this case gets that far. And I don’t think it would—in another court.”

  “I really take exception to that, Mr. Rios.”

  “Judge, I take exception to the fact that this court is prepared to disregard a mandatory statutory directive.”

  Although we’d both kept our tone conversational, there was no mistaking the belligerence in the air. I glanced over at Paul who looked puzzled and alarmed, and smiled reassuringly. Rossi, at the other end of counsel table, was watching me with an expression that hovered between admiration and pity.

  Lanyon spoke. “Anything more, Mr. Rios?”

  “No, Judge. I submit.” I sat down.

  Rossi stood up. “If I may …”

  Lanyon thundered, “Sit down, Mr. Rossi. The court doesn’t need to hear from you on this matter.”

  Rossi sat down, bewildered by Lanyon’s ire, but I was delighted. It had been my intention to provoke Lanyon by accusing him of bias so that any response he made other than granting my motion would lend substance to the charge. It helped that in this case I had the law on my side, although for this tactic it was not indispensable. All one needed was a choleric judge and the willingness to spend the night in jail on contempt charges.

  “The court will grant the motion—” Lanyon began. Rossi sputtered. In a slightly louder voice, Lanyon continued, “—if the defendant agrees to continue the preliminary hearing for eight weeks—”

  Paul grabbed my arm, but I waved him off. “Let me hear this.”

  Lanyon was saying, “—because I find that the condition of the court’s calendar is such that another judge will not be available to conduct hearing until then.” He looked at me, smiling almost imperceptibly. “Well?”

  I had to give him points for being smart, but I was by no means done.

  “Your Honor,” I said, rising from my chair, “in that case I would ask the court to set reasonable bail.”

  His bland expression was momentarily ruffled. “Well, Counsel, if I grant the motion and disqualify myself it will be for all purposes, including whether bail should be set.”

  “In that case,” I replied, “I’d ask that the case be transferred to another department immediately for the limited purpose of a ruling on bail.”

  He frowned. “As I just indicated to you, Mr. Rios, there’s no court available …”

  “To conduct the prelim,” I said, jumping in to keep him off balance, “but a bail application wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  He glanced around the court, as if for inspiration. It came in the rotund form of the DA, who now rose to his feet.

  “Your Honor,” he said, “the People consider Mr. Windsor a definite threat to public safety. That’s why we opposed bail when he was first arrested, and that’s why bail was denied. If he wants to renew the request, we’ll want a full-scale evidentiary hearing, and that’s going to take time.”

  “I don’t think—” I began.

  Lanyon cut me off. “The People have the right to call witnesses in a bail hearing.”

  “Be that as it may, this is nothing more than a delaying tactic.”

  Lanyon said, sternly, “Your client is charged with murder, Mr. Rios. There’s almost a presumption that he poses a threat to public safety.”

  “Accused murderers are let out on bail all the time.”

  “Not in this county,” Lanyon replied, sharply. In the same tone he said, “I’m giving you what you want, Counsel. You can take it or leave it, but let’s not waste any more time.”

  I fired my last, feeble volley. “The court’s condition of an eight-week delay violates my client’s right to a speedy trial.”

  “You can take that up with the Court of Appeal,” he said, coldly, “after you give me an answer.”

  “I’d like five minutes to discuss this with my client.”

  “Court is in recess for five minutes. You can talk to your client in the tank,” he said, adding acerbically, “We’ll wait for you here.”

  The bailiff led Paul and me to the holding cell off the courtroom. As soon as he left, Paul asked, “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  “I think I may have offended the judge’s pride,” I said, and explained the choice that Lanyon had given us. “The bottom line is that we can do the prelim today in front of a very angry judge, or wait eight weeks for another court to open up.”

  Paul paced the cell. “What difference does it make?”

  “It could make a lot of difference on how he conducts the hearing, how he rules on my objections, what he lets Rossi get away with, and I can promise you that you will be held to answer.”

  He stopped pacing. “They’re going to hold me to answer no matter where we go. They’re not going to dismiss the complaint.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed, “though with a case this thin, we’d have a fighting chance in another court.”

  Paul balled his hands into fists. “I’m not sitting in that fucking cell for another eight weeks. Why won’t he give me bail?”

  “You’re too unpopular to get bail.”

  He glared at me. “It couldn’t be any worse if I had killed the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “We’ve got to go back in, Paul. What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s just do it.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  “Well?” Lanyon asked, when Paul and I had resumed our seats
at counsel table.

  “The defense withdraws its motion, Your Honor,” I said. “We would like to proceed with the hearing.”

  “Fine,” he said, with the narrowest and briefest of smiles. “People call their first witness.”

  “The People call Robert Doyle.”

  Doyle was the medical examiner with the literary flair. As he made his way to the witness stand, I watched Lanyon, who glanced back at me once as if I were a fleck of dust on his robe, and I settled in for what promised to be a long day.

  On the stand, Doyle, without much prodding from Rossi, essentially repeated what he’d put in his report.

  McKay had been killed between midnight and three in the morning. He’d been bound to a chair and gagged. The cause of death was blunt force trauma—a series of blows to the head by an instrument unknown. The same instrument had also been used to crush his testicles. Offhandedly, Doyle remarked that McKay had also suffered partial asphyxiation.

  Rossi asked, “What caused that?”

  “He swallowed his gag,” Doyle said.

  “Do you have an opinion on why he might have done that?” Rossi asked.

  “Objection, relevance. Asphyxiation was not the cause of death.”

  Lanyon brushed my objection aside with a curt, “Overruled.”

  Doyle said, “It was a fear reflex.”

  “He suffered?” Rossi asked solicitously.

  “Yes. This wasn’t a quick or painless death.”

  “Nothing further,” Rossi said.

  Lanyon looked at me. “Mr. Rios?”

  I got up. There had been some murmuring in the gallery as Doyle sketched the gruesome details of the murder, but now there was silence as if everyone was wondering how I could turn his testimony to the defense’s advantage. Sitting up late the night before, going over Doyle’s report and examining the autopsy pictures, I’d wondered the same thing myself. The key lay in the passionate nature of the killing: this death made a statement.

  “Mr. Doyle,” I said, making my way to the podium at the end of counsel table. “Do you have any idea of what kind of object was used to kill Mr. McKay?”

  He smiled. “Well, it was bigger than a swizzle stick.”

  I smiled back, as if this was nothing more than an exchange of pleasantries. “More on the order of a baseball bat?”