In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  “How do you do?” she says. Her cultured voice is warm, generous. “I am Amanda Burgess.”

  “Jessica Thompson. Thank you for coming.” I turn to Salazar. “Look who’s here, Roberto,” I say, in the sappy tone of a mother talking to a six-year-old in the presence of special company.

  He jumps up. “Mrs. Burgess,” he says, with genuine surprise. It’s obvious he didn’t know anything about this.

  “Roberto,” she says warmly, but she keeps her distance; she doesn’t try to hug him or make any physical gesture. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess. But everything will be fine.” She smiles at me. “You’re in good hands. Miss Thompson will take good care of you.”

  Thank you for that, I think. I’ve known the woman for five seconds, and she’s already setting me up to fail?

  “All rise.”

  We turn as Judge Rosen comes in from her chambers and takes her seat at the bench. “People versus Salazar, bail hearing,” the bailiff calls out. “Be seated.”

  Dixant, the deputy D.A., has grudgingly lowered yesterday’s bail request. “Twenty-thousand dollars, Your Honor,” he says, when the judge asks him again for his bail recommendation. “Which is generous. The people have no reason to further lower that amount; it’s already a big concession.” He sounds bored, as if this is all a waste of time.

  He sits down. Judge Rosen glances at the probation statement, then nods at me. “Your turn.”

  “Bail in any amount is unnecessary and unwarranted, Your Honor,” I announce as I stand up. “This man should be released on his own recognizance, today. Let me explain why.”

  I tick off my reasons: “Mr. Salazar’s record is clean. Not only has he never been convicted of a crime, he has never even been charged with one. When was the last time a defendant standing in front of you could say that, Your Honor? He is married, with two children. He has his own gardening business, and he also has a delivery business. He is a minister of a church in East Los Angeles. A minister,” I repeat. It never hurts to play the God card. “There is no possibility that this man is a flight risk. Zero. He will show up for his trial.” I place a hand on Salazar’s shoulder. “Let him go home, do his jobs, take care of his wife and small children, administer to his flock.” That’s laying it on a little thick, maybe, but subtlety doesn’t work. I want to help the judge support my position, so I have to give her as much ammunition to defend doing it as I can. “He’s going to show up, Your Honor. You know it, I know it, everybody in this room knows it, including my distinguished colleague sitting across the aisle.”

  Dixant waves a hand in the air. “Don’t speak for me,” he says cheerlessly. “I don’t know it, and neither does anyone else. This guy was caught red-handed with stolen goods, at three in the morning, forty miles from his house. He’s not an angel.” He gets to his feet and points a finger at my client. “In fact, I think the fact that the accused does not have a record is a negative in this case, not a positive.”

  “Because?” the judge asks.

  “Because the accused has too much to lose.” That’s a standard prosecutor’s ploy, to always call a defendant “the accused.” It taints them right from the start. “His jobs, his ministry, his family. Even for a first offense, the guidelines for a case like this are four years, minimum. It’s precisely because he isn’t some bum off the street that he’s a prime flight risk, Your Honor. This man could run in the blink of an eye without taking any consequences into consideration, out of sheer panic.” He shakes his head sternly. “Giving him a get-out-of-jail-free card is not in the people’s interest. Make him pay for it. Better still, keep him where we know he’ll show up. Across the street, in lockup.”

  I look at Rosen. To my dismay, she seems to be taking this dipshit’s arguments seriously. I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Ms. Thompson?” Rosen says.

  “May I have a minute, Your Honor?”

  “All right.”

  I stand and go over to the railing where Amanda Burgess is sitting with Salazar’s wife. I make eye contact with the older woman. She pats Mrs. Salazar’s hand supportively, and gets up. I lean into her, my mouth almost touching her ear. “Are you willing to speak up for Roberto, Ms. Burgess?” I whisper. “Publicly, now?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I am.” She touches my hand lightly. “And please—call me Amanda.”

  I turn back to the judge. “I have a character witness who would like to speak in my client’s behalf. May she?” I ask.

  “Any objections?” Judge Rosen asks Dixant.

  “No, Your Honor.” He’s made his case, and some do-gooder civilian isn’t going to change the judge’s mind. He did what he needed to do: he gave the judge a reason to keep the bail requirement out of Salazar’s reach, which is the same thing as denying it outright. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times, when the prosecutor requests a specific cash bail, the judge agrees—better safe than sorry. So he’s cool.

  “Come forward, please,” the judge instructs Ms. Burgess.

  Deputy Ike pushes the swinging gate open, and Amanda walks through, taking her place in front of the bench. This is an informal situation, so she won’t be sworn in.

  “Please state your name, and your relationship to the defendant,” the bailiff instructs her.

  “Amanda Burgess. Mr. Salazar is my gardener.”

  Dixant doesn’t know who Amanda Burgess is, so nothing registers; but Judge Rosen sure does. Her mouth flops opens like a lipsticked clamshell. Finding her tongue, she says, “Welcome to my courtroom, Mrs. Burgess. I’m honored to have you here.”

  “Thank you for having me,” Amanda replies. “Although I’m sorry I’m here under these circumstances.”

  “Of course.” The judge practically bats her eyelashes. “You wish to speak on the defendant’s behalf?” she coos.

  “I do, Your Honor,” Amanda says, and turning, smiles at Roberto, whose own smile back at her is a combination of embarrassment and gratitude.

  I steal a look at Dixant. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows it isn’t good for him. He sits up, paying attention now.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” the judge says to Ms. Burgess. I’ve been coming up before this judge for more than five years, and I’ve never seen her this deferential.

  Amanda’s bearing is erect and commanding, as if this were her chamber, not Rosen’s. “Thank you, Your Honor. I have known Mr. Salazar for a number of years,” she states. “He has worked for me, and for several friends of mine.”

  She turns to face Dixant. “All of whom live in the vicinity of where Mr. Salazar was arrested.” Her point being that Salazar is no stranger to that area, and could have been there legitimately. She holds his look until he turns away, then she addresses the judge again.

  “Mr. Salazar’s work is exemplary. But more important is who he is as a human being. He is one hundred percent trustworthy. He has never taken advantage of anyone, and has never cheated or fudged or done anything underhanded. Mr. Salazar is an honest and good man. And a good, honest man is hard to find,” she says with conviction, as if she were Mrs. Diogenes.

  “I would certainly agree with that,” Judge Rosen replies.

  Almost gleefully, I watch this lovefest. It’s as if we’re not in a courtroom, but on the set of a woman’s television talk show.

  “That Mr. Salazar would abandon his family, his parishioners, and his obligations is absurd,” Amanda continues. “The idea is not only preposterous, it’s insulting.”

  She turns and looks at Salazar again sympathetically, then locks eyes with the judge. “Mr. Salazar deserves his day in court, which he will have in due time, I assume.”

  Judge Rosen, listening carefully, nods assent.

  “I know that if he is found guilty, he will pay his penalty,” Amanda goes on, “although I cannot imagine that he is. But that’s what trials are for, so I’ve been taught. Until then, however, it would be cruel and wrong to keep him in jail.”

  She takes a step toward Rosen. “Mr. Salazar will show up for
his trial, and every other hearing at which he is required,” she says. “I give you my word on that.”

  Dixant, whose expression has become more and more a study in irritation, scrambles to his feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor,” he calls out. “Some woman off the street waltzes in here and vouches for the accused’s character, and that’s supposed to influence your decision? What is her legal standing? Does she have any?”

  Rosen’s look to him is withering; you could cut glass with that stare. You just shot yourself in a place that’s really going to hurt, pal, I think with delicious pleasure, as I look at him, back to Rosen, then to Amanda, who stands in place, calm and composed.

  Rosen leans over the front of her podium—she must have gotten up on her tiptoes. Her cheeks are flushed, as if she had put her rouge on in a closet. “Amanda Burgess is not some woman off the street, as you have blithely and carelessly characterized her,” she tells the hapless deputy D.A. “If Steve Cooley came in here and testified on someone’s behalf, would you think he knew what he was talking about?”

  Steve Cooley is the Los Angeles District Attorney, Dixant’s boss.

  “Well, yeah, of course,” Dixant mumbles. He’s in deepwater and he knows it, although he still doesn’t understand how his boat capsized.

  “What about Mayor Villaraigosa?” the judge asks. “Governor Schwarzenegger? President Bush?”

  Sigh of annoyance: “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe not Bush,” the judge says, deadpan.

  The sparsely occupied room bursts into laughter, Dixant and the Salazars excepted.

  “Only kidding,” Rosen says. “Don’t anybody tell on me to the Justice Department. So, Mr. Dixant. The well-established concept of a credible person, a person who carries weight in our community, is one that you accept and understand. That there are people whose word speaks truth to power, which the community pays attention to.”

  I stuff my papers into my briefcase. This hearing is over.

  “Yes,” Dixant answers. He can barely keep his head up now.

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Judge Rosen says to him. “So do I. Which means we are on the same page.” She preens a moment for her special guest. “Defendant is released on his own recognizance, pending the outcome of his preliminary hearing, which we will schedule for …” She looks to her clerk, who is scrolling through the court’s schedule on her computer. But before she can announce a date, I make a snap decision. Quickly, I raise my hand.

  “What is it, Ms. Thompson?” the judge asks.

  “We’ll waive prelim, Your Honor, and go straight to trial.”

  Rosen mulls over my request. “Have you discussed this with your client?”

  I glance back at Salazar, who doesn’t understand what’s happening, which is good. “Yes,” I answer. “We have.”

  That’s a lie, but only technically. Salazar wants out; not just for a week, but until he goes to trial. Although I won’t get a preview of the state’s case against him, I already know the basic parameters. I also know that Dixant will again request that bail be revoked, and his office might come up with a better reason to do it, one that will change the judge’s mind, regardless of how star-struck she is at the moment over Amanda Burgess.

  Rosen looks to Dixant. “Any objections from the people?”

  My worthy opponent shakes his head. He wants out of here so he can lick his wounds and return to fight another day. “No, Your Honor,” he acquiesces.

  The judge is brisk. “Set trial for sixty days from today,” she instructs her clerk. “Good for both of you?” she asks Dixant and me.

  The marathon is in eighty-two days; I know the date to the hour. This trial will be all wrapped up long before then. If I run into a problem, I’ll ask for a continuance.

  “I’m good,” I announce.

  “Also me,” Dixant tells her.

  “The defendant will sign the required documents, then will be free to go,” Rosen pronounces. She reminds me: “Make sure your client knows all of his obligations and responsibilities, Counselor.”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor,” I assure her.

  Rosen makes a note in her calendar, then smiles at Amanda, who has come over to stand next to Salazar. “Thank you for your participation, Mrs. Burgess,” she says. “It was a privilege to have you in my courtroom.”

  “The privilege was mine, Your Honor,” Amanda responds with a generous smile. “And it’s Ms., not Mrs.”

  SEVEN

  “WHY AREN’T YOU WEARING a skirt?” Reggie Morton confronts me.

  Idiot. As if my attire in any way matters. “It’s at the cleaners,” I answer tartly.

  But to him, obviously, apparel is critical. He’s like the student who writes a crummy term paper but presents it in a fancy binder from Kinko’s. In his mind, that warrants a passing grade—sizzle without steak. “Can’t you get nothing right?” he mutters under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” I bark. I’m not in a forgiving mood this morning. Knowing that I’m going to get my butt kicked always puts me in a sour frame of mind.

  “Nothing,” he says, taken aback by my abruptness.

  We’re in the prisoner’s holding room adjacent to the courtroom. In a few minutes, Reggie’s trial will begin. He spurned my last attempt at pleading out, so now we are going into the pit.

  For the record, I am dressed in a navy-blue blazer and slacks, one of my sharpest outfits. I will probably be the best-dressed person in the courtroom. But all Reggie cares about is what is covering my lower body. He has never gotten his priorities straight, and never will. Which is why he will go down.

  “See you inside,” I tell him as I stand up. Usually, at this juncture, I throw the client a bromide, like “It’s going to be fine” or “We’ll get through this,” but with him I can’t fake it.

  He nods, but doesn’t speak; he’s freezing up from tension. I leave him and enter the courtroom.

  Lorraine Tong, my District Attorney counterpart, an old hand about a decade my senior, is sitting at the prosecution’s desk going over some last-minute notes. She gives me a professional smile of greeting as I place my briefcase on the defense table and take out a sheaf of papers, which I thumb through to make sure they are in the proper order.

  “How’s the running going?” Lorraine asks me.

  “Fine,” I answer. It seems as if everyone in the building knows about my quest.

  “Good luck. With your training,” she adds. She turns away and speaks to another D.A., a young lawyer on their staff who is sitting second chair for the experience. Lorraine has this case wired, and she knows it. And she knows I know it. The wheels of justice are going to grind to the only conclusion they can. Part of being a good lawyer is doing your best for your client. The best I could have done for Reggie was to get him to take the D.A.’s plea bargain. But he wouldn’t, so for the next couple of days we’re going to be stuck in a leaking boat that’s heading straight over a waterfall.

  This is your basic off-the-rack trial, so there are almost no spectators. Judge Hodgkins, who is finishing his last term on the bench, will run a brisk trial, which is fine by me. I want to take my medicine as quickly and cleanly as possible. By lunchtime, the jury has been selected. It’s a Los Angeles mosaic—some young, some older, various ethnic groups, including blacks, Latinos, Asians (Taiwanese, Thai, Filipina), whites.

  After the lunch break, Lorraine delivers her opening statement, and I follow with mine. I don’t pull any rabbits out of the hat; there aren’t any in there. Reggie, who had psyched himself up to expect a miracle, shows his dismay with obnoxious body language, which is noticed by everyone in the courtroom, including the judge, who is displeased, and the jury, who will be, once the prosecutor finishes presenting the damning evidence against Reggie. I’ve never bailed on a client, but if I could today, I would.

  The state’s principal witness is the cop who arrested Reggie. A veteran narcotics detective who ran the operation from start to finish, he looks like he could have been sent over from central
casting—Samuel L. Jackson or Richard Roundtree (without the retro Afro). Lorraine walks him through the whole enterprise, step by step, from the initial encounter to the actual arrest. We’ve been through all this during discovery, so there won’t be any last-minute surprises. He is well rehearsed—he would be a tough nut on cross-examination even if I had a hammer to crack open his shell, which I don’t.

  The motel room where Reggie’s drugs and the state’s money changed hands, after which he was promptly and forcefully arrested, had been rigged for video, and now it’s showtime. Lorraine cues the operator to run the tape. The courtroom lights are darkened and we all turn our attention to the monitor, which has been placed so everyone can see it: judge, jury, Reggie and me, and the prosecutors.

  Unfortunately for Reggie, lightning doesn’t strike twice. The bust unfolds on the screen exactly as it has been described. I watch the jurors watching the screen. They are riveted. I swivel in my chair to see how my client is reacting.

  Reggie, too, is staring at the television set, but there is no acknowledgment that he’s seeing his life wash away like water going down a drain. It is as if he is disassociating from reality, and has found a portal into another world.

  Maybe that’s good. Because this video has ruined him in this one.

  The tape is over, the lights come on. “I have nothing further from this witness, Your Honor,” Lorraine tells the judge. She steps down, and I replace her at the podium.

  “Who initiated this transaction?” I ask the detective.

  Calmly, he answers, “I did.” He knows what I’m trying to infer: entrapment. And he’s not going to get caught up in my snare. “It was all done by the book. No shortcuts.” He looks away from me, at Reggie. His eyes remain fixed on my hapless client as he adds, “There was no need to. He made it easy for us.”

  “Just answer the questions, please,” I tell him, barely concealing my irritation.