by Michael Nava
I pulled into the driveway at Terry’s house on Noe and parked. I’d no sooner gotten my bag out of the trunk than I heard the door opened and looked up to see Kevin at the top of the stairs, wineglass in hand, still in his suit, but barefoot.
“Howdy, you need a hand?”
I made my way up the stairs, shaking my head. “You just get home?”
“Yep. Terry’s meeting us at the restaurant.” He moved aside to let me pass. I put my bag down in the hall. “You want a Coke or something?”
“Coffee?”
“There’s some left from this morning. Come on up.”
I followed him into the kitchen. A French door led outside to a deck that overlooked China Basin.
“Our reservation’s not till nine,” he explained, pouring me a mug of coffee. “Come outside.”
I followed him out to the patio and watched him roll a joint on the railing. He lit it and inhaled.
“Too bad you’ve given up intoxicants,” he wheezed. “I brought this back from Maui.”
“Does Terry …”
He exhaled. “Nope. She leaves the room when I light up.” He shrugged. “You look like you had a hard day, Henry.”
“I heard a pretty scary story this morning.”
He took another hit and nodded. “Yeah? I like scary stories.”
“My client was raped by his mother.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “That’s what I like about this business. If you stick around long enough, you’ll hear everything.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe what people do to each other.”
“Believe it,” he said. “There’s nothing that hasn’t been done by someone to someone. People settling scores is what keeps us in business.”
I nodded. “Maybe that’s why the cops have fabricated evidence against my client.”
“That only happens on L.A. Law,” he replied, and took another toke from the joint.
“Come on, Kev, it happens every day. You get a cop on the stand in a suppression motion after your client’s just finished telling you they broke down the door and held him at gunpoint and you ask, ‘Now Officer Jones, isn’t it true that you broke down the door’ and what’s he going to do, admit it? No, he’ll say ‘We knocked and the defendant let us in.’ They know who the judge is going to believe.”
“That’s different from making up evidence. Isn’t that what you mean by fabricating?”
“It’s only different in degree.” I watched a brightly lit ship make its way up the bay. “It’s just a matter of what they think they can get away with. In a small town like Los Robles where everyone’s tight, they can get away with a lot.”
“Why did they do it?”
“A few years ago my client was charged with child molest. The case was dismissed because the victim wouldn’t testify. The same cop and the same DA on that case are on the murder case. Maybe they’re trying to administer some rough justice.”
He put out the joint and tossed the roach into the tangled garden below the deck. “I hope you have a fallback position.”
“That’s why I want a look at that file tomorrow.”
“Terry says the case is fifteen years old,” Kevin replied. “What do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good luck, compadre. We better get going.”
We walked down to the restaurant on Twenty-Fourth Street, an Italian place that you could smell a block away. Terry was already at the table, briskly examining a menu when we came in.
“Ten minutes late,” she said, without looking up.
“You know how long it takes guys to get ready to go out,” Kevin said, kissing her cheek.
She said, “I ran down the arresting agency on Thurmond’s rap sheet, Henry.”
“What did you find?”
She dug around in her purse and came up with a computer printout. “There’s four possibilities.”
I took the paper and examined it. West Covina Sheriff’s Office. Westminister Sheriff’s Office. West Valley Sheriff’s Office. All these agencies were in the LA area, but then I saw the final entry—Woodlin County Sheriff’s Office.
“This one,” I said, pointing at it. “Definitely.”
Kevin glanced down. “Where’s Woodlin County?”
“Right next door to Los Robles County,” I replied.
The next morning I drove to my sister’s house. Coming up the winding road, I saw that it had changed since I’d last been there two months earlier. The leaves were turning colors, and the road was dustier. Only a few roses remained along the road, stray petals hanging tenuously from the buds. I crossed the small bridge to Elena’s yard and was surprised to find her car parked there. I’d assumed she’d be teaching.
I went to the door, pushed the bell, listening to the rainy chime within, and waited. After a moment, the door opened and Elena frowned, seeing who it was.
“I have to talk to Ruth,” I said.
“She isn’t here.”
“She is here, Elena,” I replied, wedging my foot in the door. “This is important.”
She looked down at my foot disdainfully. “Don’t make a scene. Just go.”
I played my trump card. “Sara Windsor is dead.”
She jerked her head up. “That’s a vicious thing to say.”
“It’s the truth.”
She looked at me for a long time. Slowly, she opened the door. “Come in.”
I followed her inside. The cool, austere living room was flooded with morning light. On the floor, near the coffee table, were toy trucks. On the couch was an open book, facedown. I glanced at the title, Selected Poems by Elizabeth Bishop. Next to it was a yellow legal tablet, the top sheet filled with small, precise script, and a black enameled pen.
“Sit down,” she said. In the hard light her face was puckered with deep lines and the gray in her hair seemed white. “What happened?”
“I need to talk to Ruth.”
She drew her lips into a line of contempt. “Don’t bargain with me.”
“I don’t see that I have any choice.”
“She’s out, with Joanne. They should be back soon. You can talk to her then. Now tell me about Sara.”
“Two nights ago she drowned in her swimming pool. The police think she was drunk and fell in.” I paused to let her take it in.
“Go on.” Her face was unreadable.
“That’s it,” I said.
“That’s it? What about a funeral?”
“I suppose Mark’s seeing to that, or does she still have family?”
“It’s like you not to know,” she said, sourly, “or to care. Yes, she has family. Her mother, some brothers. My God,” she said, abruptly.
“I’m sorry, Elena. I know she was a friend.”
“Why didn’t you call me before?”
“I left messages.”
“You didn’t say anything about Sara.”
“It’s not the kind of message you leave on an answering machine.”
Grudgingly, she nodded. After a moment, she said, “What do you want with Ruth?”
“I want to know why she came here.”
“To get away from you,” she said. “To keep you from making her relive something that she’s trying to put behind her.”
“Whose idea was it for her to come here? Not hers.”
“I know what you can be like when you get an idea in your head to do something,” she said. “Ruth’s just a girl. No match for you.”
“But you are,” I said sharply, irritated by her hostility and self-righteousness. “You knew Ruth might get dragged into the case, so you suggested to Sara that she hire me to be Paul’s lawyer, to give yourself some strings to pull.”
She reached for her cigarettes. “What strings? We’ve hardly spoken in ten years.”
“We grew up together, remember? Alcoholic father, crazy mother? You knew I’d feel sorry for Ruth. You hoped I’d protect her. But you couldn’t quite trust me, could you? So you brought her here.”
&n
bsp; From behind a veil of smoke, she said, “You wanted her to testify. I’m not about to let anyone hurt her.”
“But it’s all right if Paul goes to jail for something he didn’t do.”
“Paul’s done quite enough to deserve jail.”
“There’s not much scope to your compassion.”
She jabbed out the cigarette. “It doesn’t encompass child molesters, if that’s what you mean.”
“Or male homosexuals.”
She slapped me, hard, jerking my head back. “You contemptible son-of-a-bitch.”
I grabbed her wrist. “Do you think I care whether you’re a lesbian?”
She yanked her hand free. “So you pry out of disinterested cruelty?” she demanded. “Does that make it all right?”
“Elena, I’m here because you brought me into this case. Why?”
She massaged her wrist. “I was curious about you,” she said. “I wanted to know what kind of man you’ve grown up to be.”
“You didn’t give me much of a chance to show you.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I also wanted you to find out about me, Henry.”
“I have,” I said. “You’re a decent human being. The rest is unimportant.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for saying that.”
“Now let me show you that I am, too.”
Just then, the door opened, and Carlos ran into the room, shrieking, “Grandma, look what I have.”
He saw me and froze. Ruth came in behind him and, behind her, a heavy middle-aged black woman. Joanne, the famous roommate.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Joanne, this is my brother, Henry.”
I stood up. “Hello.”
“Hello,” she said, ignoring my outstretched hand. To Elena she said, “What is he doing here?”
“He came to tell me that Sara Windsor is dead,” she replied.
Moving swiftly to Elena she said, “I’m so sorry, honey. What happened?”
Elena reached up and took Joanne’s hand. “I’ll tell you later. Henry wants to speak to Ruth now.”
Ruth had sat down in a chair, and was staring at me. Carlos went over to her and clutched her knee.
“Mrs. Windsor’s dead?” she asked.
I nodded. “Ruth, why did you leave town?”
She looked at me for a moment, then said. “The detective told me I had to leave.”
“Who? Morrow?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Until the trial was over, he said. He said if I left you couldn’t make me testify.”
“Did you tell him I’d talked to you?”
“No, he already knew.”
Vega, I thought. Vega. He must have told Morrow that I had a surprise witness and Morrow had figured it out.
Ruth demanded, “What does this mean, Henry?”
“It means the police are trying to convict Paul for a murder he didn’t commit.”
22
PROMPTLY AT ONE-THIRTY, Kevin Reilly and I presented ourselves in the courtroom of Judge Frances Flynn just in time to hear her sentence to state prison, for the highest term possible, a man convicted of robbery who had no prior record.
I leaned over to Kevin and said, “Does she always sentence like that?”
He whispered back, “The public defenders call her Frying Flynn.”
“People versus Thurmond,” she said, then with a baffled look turned to her clerk. “What’s this here for, Luis?”
“A motion to unseal the record, Your Honor,” the little Latino answered. “Mr. Reilly is the attorney.”
“Oh, is that why Mr. Reilly is here,” she said with a relenting smile.
Kevin got up and grabbed me. “Come on,” he said. We went through the railing to counsel table and Kevin said, “Good morning, Your Honor. Kevin Reilly on the motion, and my associate, Henry Rios.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, warmly, “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Rios, but I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of having you in my court before.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
“So, let me see what we have here.” She glanced down, occasionally making a comment. “ ‘Material evidence’ … ‘related prosecution’ … ‘possible alibi.’ ” She looked up. “I don’t see any opposition by the district attorney.”
“This is an ex parte application, Your Honor,” Kevin said.
She frowned. “You didn’t serve this on the People?”
“We did, Your Honor. If you’ll look at my declaration you’ll see that I talked to the attorney who prosecuted the case and he indicated that he would not oppose the motion.”
Judge Flynn read along, muttering to herself. “Well, I don’t really like these ex parte matters but since the People aren’t opposing it, I’ll grant the motion.”
“Your Honor, could that order be forthwith so that we could take it down to the clerk’s office?”
“Yes, all right.” She wrote something and then handed the sheet of paper to her clerk. “How is Mrs. Reilly?”
“She sends her regards, Your Honor,” Kevin said, his voice mysteriously acquiring an Irish lilt.
“Yes, tell her I said hello, will you?”
“Thank you very much, Your Honor,” Kevin said.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Reilly, and you, too, Mr. Rios.”
When her clerk finished writing up the order, I grabbed it and we went down to the court’s records office where Kevin and I parted company. I went in and laid the order on the counter, explaining to the young, indifferent woman what it was. She stared at it as if it were a Dead Sea scroll, then took it and wandered off into a room behind the counter.
A few minutes later, she returned. “You want the file, right?”
“That’s right.”
“That file’s sealed.”
I smiled, tightly. “Yes, I know that. That’s why I got this order from Judge Flynn, to unseal the record.”
“I never heard of nothin’ like that.”
I was about to educate her as crudely as possible when her supervisor appeared. “What’s the problem?” he asked.
I tapped the order. “I would like to see this file.”
He read it. “So, what’s the problem?”
“There won’t be one if you’ll bring it to me,” I snapped.
He bunched his eyebrows together ominously. “Greta, get the file.”
She again retreated into the bureaucratic tundra, emerging with a surprisingly slim file sealed with a piece of tape that read, “Not to be opened except upon order of the court.” Her supervisor took it and, with great ceremony, cut the seal.
“Satisfied?” he asked, handing it across the counter.
“Thank you.”
I opened it up to the complaint. It was in eight counts. Five alleged a violation of penal code section 288, lewd and lascivious conduct with a child under the age of sixteen. The remaining three alleged sodomy and oral copulation. The child-victim was identified simply as “B, a child under the age of 16.” The last two counts identified the victim as “D., a minor.”
Digging further, I found two minute orders from the Woodlin County Superior Court. The first recorded that the defendant, Thurmond, was held to answer on all charges and bound over for trial. The second recorded the transfer of the action to San Francisco following the granting of a motion to change venue. I searched the file for either the preliminary transcript or the motion to learn the identity of the victims but neither was to be found. I mentioned this to the clerk.
“Geez, I don’t know why they didn’t send it,” she said.
“Maybe there’s more to the file.”
She shook her head. “That was it. They probably just kept that stuff at the other court.”
“Well, could you just check to see if there’s another file?”
Grudgingly, she wandered off while I went through what remained of the San Francisco file. There were various form motions, discovery, suppression of evidence, which I recognized as the work of the San Franci
sco public defender’s office, but none of these mentioned the victim’s name. Finally, there was a minute order recording that the defendant pled to three counts of the complaint and was sentenced to five years in state prison and ordered to register as a sex offender upon his release.
The clerk came back. “That’s it.”
I made copies of the complaint and the Woodlin court minute orders and went out to a pay phone. I asked the Woodlin court clerk’s office whether they had a file for the case. The clerk went off to look, and when he came back on the line he told me the file had been sealed by order of the court.
I went downstairs to the court cafeteria for a cup of coffee and to think. I was stymied. It seemed unlikely that I would prevail in a motion to unseal the Woodlin court file as easily as I had here. I flipped through the complaint and read, “B., a child under the age of 16,” and “D., a minor.” The distinction was that D. could have been as old as 17 while B. was under 16.
B. D. Woodlin County. Fifteen years ago.
And then I got it.
The county seat of Woodlin was the little town of Nueces. It had a main street called Main Street. There was a cemetery at one end of the street, and a grammar school at the other. I parked my car near the school and got out. There wasn’t anything Norman Rockwellesque about Nueces. The small businesses that lined Main Street traded more in nostalgia than chattels; behind fly specked storefronts many were vacant, violated, fixtures torn from the walls, empty shelves gathering dust, linoleum floors cracked and faded. The only place that seemed to be doing any business was a bar called La Cabana. Mexican ballads drifted out from behind its doors. Down the street was a restaurant called El Faisan. I pushed open the door, setting off a tinkling bell. The place had a couple of booths upholstered in orange vinyl, some tables and a counter that looked into the kitchen. A plump-faced Mexican woman standing at the counter smiled at me.
“Any place,” she said.
I went over to her. “I’m looking for the high school.”
She came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a flowered apron. A thin greasy smell hung in the air, familiar to me from my mother’s kitchen, refried beans, stewed meat, onions.
“Es that way,” she said flapping her hand behind me. She looked at me, and added, “Detras del cemetario, en la calle Walnut. Acercita.”