by JF Freedman
My companions on the range today are the usual variety of men and women you see on any street. They aren’t gangbangers, outlaw bikers, or disenfranchised loners. They are people who like to shoot guns. They love the power of explosion, the feeling of lethal heat in their hands. They want to be able to protect themselves, because they know the established forces of law and order can’t do a very good job of it. Some of them, from time to time, try to right the wrongs that beset modern society, like rude drivers on the freeway, rude civil servants, rude bosses. You worry about those people, and hope they won’t have their hands on their guns when their minds are clouded with temporary rage.
I finish firing and check my targets. Not bad for someone who doesn’t practice enough. I don’t score any bull’s-eyes, but with a weapon that has the stopping power my gun has, you don’t have to hit your target between the eyes. You take a 40-mm hollow point almost anywhere in your body and you are going down—I don’t care if you’re the size of King Kong.
I police my area for the empty shell casings, fold up my targets, put my gun in its case, and lock everything in the trunk of my car. I wish I lived in a society where I didn’t feel I had to have a gun. But I do. My mind-set is an occupational hazard. At home, I keep my weapon handy, but I don’t think much about it. I hope I never have to.
Jeremy doesn’t know I have a gun. He’s against personal firearms; he’s never fired a gun in his life, not even a shotgun at a clay pigeon. He would never stay over in my house if he knew I kept my gun stashed under my mattress springs. He might even break up with me—he’s that much against them. If we ever live together, I’ll get rid of it, because a relationship has to be a two-way street, particularly about trust. But for now, I am a woman living alone, whose job puts evil in her face every day. So I keep it handy.
The shipping warehouse in San Pedro that had the television sets Roberto Salazar is accused of stealing was broken into between nine and eleven o’clock, the night before he was arrested. The prosecution and I have both stipulated that this information is indisputable. So today is a good day for me, because I have just found out that Roberto has an alibi that will knock out the charge of breaking into the warehouse, which is the most serious one against him. He was holding a youth-group meeting at his church. The meeting didn’t end until ten. He could not have left the East Side, driven all the way to San Pedro, and stolen the television sets.
It’s an axiom that rules are made to be broken. Usually, I only meet with clients and others involved in their defense in the jail, the courtroom, or my office. But now I am in a coffee shop a few blocks from my office building with two of the parents, both women, who have kids in the program. They are stepping forward to swear that Salazar was with their children that night.
Both women are about Salazar’s wife’s age. They are friends of hers—they watch one another’s kids, cook in one another’s kitchens. Neither of them speaks English, and they are intimidated by the surroundings. Every time a sheriff’s deputy or city patrolman saunters in from off the street to grab a cup of coffee or snack, they cringe. Even though I have assured them that no one is paying attention to them, they are two Latinas in a sea of brown faces. Fear of la Migra is basic in the Latin community, especially for recent arrivals; where they come from, cops are never your friend.
I didn’t want to meet with them in my office because I want to keep this encounter off the record. I don’t know if these women are legal in this country or not. I could care less; I don’t work for ICE. All I care about is that they tell me the truth. Fortunately (and humanely), the D.A.’s office doesn’t care about their status, either. They don’t hassle people about that. But these women don’t know that, so it took real guts for them to come down here. Guts and love for their minister, who has been wrongly accused of a crime.
Salazar, who brought them to me, hovers nervously as my translator reads their statements back to them in Spanish. Both witnesses agree that everything they said is true, that their testimony was given freely and voluntarily, and they sign the documents. I put them in a manila envelope, seal it, and stuff the envelope in my briefcase. My opponent, Assistant D.A. Dixant, that arrogant asshole, will eventually learn about this, but not yet. For now, the less he knows about my case and my witnesses, the better. I’m not going to show my hand until I absolutely have to.
I can hold back information for a certain amount of time because the rules concerning discovery, particularly witness identification, allow me to. The prosecution has to give me the names and other relevant information about all the witnesses they are going to call at trial. I have to do the same once I decide a witness will be called. That’s where I have wiggle room: once I decide. Will I use these witnesses? Probably. But until I’m absolutely committed to them, I can withhold their information. There’s no reason to show your cards early. Often, once the prosecution gets your witness list, they will send an investigator to interview your witnesses, interview being a politically correct term for hassling them. Sometimes it works; they scare off a witness. So that’s another reason to play it slow. The statute requires me to come clean thirty days before the trial starts. But I can also make the argument that I don’t know if I’ll call a witness until I’ve heard the prosecution’s case at trial. That’s kind of slippery, and the judge can rap your knuckles if they think you’re bullshitting them, so it’s not a ploy to overuse.
I thank Salazar’s witnesses for their help and cooperation, and try to reassure them that they are not in danger. I ask them to wait for a moment, and walk Salazar over to an empty table so we can talk without anyone hearing us. It’s vital that I preserve attorney-client confidentiality.
“This is going to help,” I compliment him. “You did good, bringing them down here. I know they were worried about coming.”
“They were pretty worried,” he admits, “but I promised them they would be safe.”
That’s not a promise you should make, I think, but I don’t tell him so. “They are safe, at least for now,” I say. “But let me ask you this, Roberto. Will they testify for you at your trial?”
He blinks nervously. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. “Do they have to?” he asks with anxiety. “Isn’t this enough?”
I hate giving bad news, but pussyfooting around doesn’t do anyone any good. “No, it isn’t.” I explain: “If they’re not willing to take the witness stand and swear that these statements are true, we can’t use them.”
His eyes crinkle shut with worry. He sighs, a deep worried breath, opens his eyes, looks at me. “They will testify.”
“For sure?”
“Yes.”
He’s saying that because he has to, but he can’t know with certainty that they will. Even if they say they will do it, they may chicken out on the day of reckoning. I’ve had that happen to me, many times.
“It’s on you to make sure of that,” I caution him.
We both turn and look at the women. They are huddled together, talking quietly, looking like old photographs of refugees coming off the boat at Ellis Island a century ago. Scared, bewildered, but in some unfathomable way, hopeful.
“They will come,” he promises me. “For their children.”
I feel a pang of envy. I wish I had friends who have my back the way his friends have his. Except for Jeremy, I can’t think of one.
“Is there anything else?” he asks. “I have to bring them back. They are missing work from their jobs.”
The women work at motels, as maids. If they don’t show up, they don’t get paid. They have not only stuck their necks out on the line for him, they’ve also given up money. They must really believe in this man. Knowing that strengthens my resolve to get him off.
“There is one thing,” I say. “Armando. We need to find him.”
He shakes his head in anger. “I have been trying. Everyone is looking for him. He has vanished.” He stares at me, his face a stone mask. “But he will be found. Unless he is no longer alive.”
I react visce
rally: that worries me, it sounds so confrontational. “Why do you say that?” I ask him. “Have you heard something about him being dead? Are there other people out there he’s screwed over, people who would kill him?”
Salazar puts up a hand like a cop stopping traffic. “No, no,” he says quickly. “It is a figure of speech.”
I hope that’s all it is. “We need to find him,” I admonish him. “If you hear anything, be sure to let me know.”
He nods. His eyes are hooded. “Of course I will.”
As we get up to rejoin his friends, I warn him again: “If you find this Armando dude, call me. Don’t take matters into your own hands.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he promises me, sounding annoyed that I’m distrustful of him. “I am nonviolent.”
A regular Martin Luther King Jr., my client. I need to cut him more slack. He really is a good guy.
I walk him and his friends to the door, but before they leave, I pull him aside again. “One thing I forgot to say,” I tell him, lowering my voice so the others don’t hear me.
He’s anxious to leave. “What?” he asks impatiently.
I stage-whisper: “I don’t want to say this, but I have to.” I feel as if I’m condescending to him, but this is important. “I know you have to be on the Westside to take care of your clients’ lawns and gardens. But I don’t want you in that part of town at night.”
He gives me a queer look.
“We’re going to kick their behinds, and they’re not going to like that,” I try to explain. “The cops don’t like being made to look bad. You getting out on bail like you did is a thumb in their eye. They’re going to be looking for an excuse to mess with you, Roberto.”
He gives me an understanding look; he knows exactly what I’m talking about. He might be part saint, but his head isn’t in the clouds. “Like frame me for something?”
“I’m not saying that. But it will be better if you aren’t there to give them any reason to hassle you.”
He nods. “I hear you. Stay where I belong.”
“Roberto …”
“I’m not mad at you, Ms. Thompson,” he says. “I’m not mad at anyone. I just wish things were different.” He gives me a sad smile. “I’ll stay away from there, don’t worry. I don’t like being on that side of town at night anyway. There’s no place to get menudo with your scrambled eggs.”
“Good.” Thank God he still has a sense of humor.
“You think they’d bust the mayor if they caught him on Barrington Avenue after midnight?” he asks, more serious than playful.
A good question. “If they didn’t know who he was, they might.”
Dixant calls me, wanting to talk. He’s a jerk, but he’s no dummy. “I’ve been authorized to make you a deal,” he says. “It’s sweet. Better than your boy deserves.”
Now we’re sitting in the back row of one of the courtrooms on the eleventh floor. It’s slow at the moment; there’s a lull while the next prisoner is brought up from the jail for a prelim hearing. Not my client, or Dixant’s case either, so we have time to palaver.
I can guess where this is going. I sit back, crossing one leg over the other. I’m wearing a skirt today, so he gets a flash of thigh. He pretends he isn’t looking, but he can’t help himself. “I’m listening,” I tell him.
The aging frat boy forces himself to look me in the face. “There’s a new syndicate operating down at the harbor. It isn’t the usual Mexicans and Colombians, something new. Maybe Chinese, Russian, Arabs.” He grimaces. “Homeland Security’s a sieve, a joke. Us, the FBI, DEA, ATF, the other alphabet agencies—we’re all digging at this. We’ve come close to breaking through a few times, but so far, no cigar.”
“Sounds like exciting work,” I say. “Better than beating up on deadbeat dads and flashers.”
“For the cops, maybe. I’m a paper pusher. All the exciting stuff happens out in the field.”
“And I’m a grade-three public defender, even lower down the totem pole than you. I only know about that stuff from what I see on the news.”
“Well, here’s a chance to get a taste of the major leagues.” He leans in toward me, gives me a friendly smile. For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to put a hand on my leg, strictly as a friendly gesture, of course. I manage not to flinch, and he refrains from making actual physical contact. Even a chauvinist like Dixant knows that the most innocent touch could put him in boiling water on sexual harassment charges.
“Your client, Salazar,” he says. “We’ve got him dead to rights; I know that and you know that.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Not the actual theft,” he concedes, “but the transport. Come on, Jessica, smell the French roast. He’s gonna get convicted.”
He called me. Let him do the talking. Now he says, “He’s a minnow. We’re trolling for whales.”
The picture is beginning to come into focus. “What are you offering?” I ask. “What does my client get out of this?”
Dixant smiles. He thinks he’s hooked me. Now he begins to reel me in. “Clean and simple. He gives us some names. Players higher up the food chain. In exchange, we knock everything down to one count of receiving stolen goods. No jail time, minimum probation.” He sits back, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. “Win-win, baby. It’s a sweet deal.”
I shake my head in disagreement. “For you, maybe. Not for us. This man has no record. He’d be tarnished for life. That’s not a win for us.”
The smile turns. “Jessica …”
“And he’s already given you a name,” I remind him. “Armando Gonzalez. It’s in the filing, you’ve seen it.”
“That’s not a name that means anything to us.”
We are at an impasse. “Sorry. It’s the only one we have.”
At the front of the courtroom, a fresh prisoner has been brought in and seated at the defense table. He’s a young black man, big and mean-looking, shackled hand and foot, a bona fide menace to society. This prisoner has a private lawyer, Glen Adkins. Glen is a sharp attorney; he bills out at four hundred dollars an hour, which means that this defendant has money, from drugs or something else that isn’t legal, unless he’s an entertainer, in which case he wouldn’t be in jailhouse clothes. Whoever he is, he’ll be able to make his bail, even if it’s set for a million dollars. There’s something intrinsically wrong in a world when a smalltime minister can’t make the most meager bail payment, but a thug like this one can buy and sell anything, even justice.
“Not necessarily,” Dixant says, jerking me back into my own world. He takes an eight-by-ten folder out of his briefcase and hands it to me. “Open it. See what’s inside.” He glances around the room. “For your eyes only, please.”
I open the envelope and pull out a handful of photographs: mug shots of Middle Eastern men. They look brutish, cousins of the 9/11 suicide bombers, or Iraqi insurgents.
After staring with incomprehension at each picture for a few seconds, I slide them back into the folder and hand it to Dixant. “Who are they?”
“Subjects of interest.”
This feels smarmy. “Whose interest?”
“Yours.”
“You’re talking over my head.” I tap the folder, which is lying on the bench between us. “What in the world could these men have to do with my client?”
“They’re whales.”
“So?”
“So I want to harpoon them. At least one of them.”
I can be slow on the uptake, but I’m not comatose. My stomach starts to knot up. “In plain English,” I say, putting more space between us by sliding away from him along the smooth bench.
If Dixant is offended by my show of repulsion, he doesn’t let on. “Your man identifies one of these mutts as his contact. I’d like two, but I’ll settle for one.” He taps his fingers on the folder. His nails are polished; he must get manicures. Vain twerp. He must actually think women find him attractive.
“Someone he doesn’t know, has never met.”
<
br /> His look at me doesn’t waver. “The sum is greater than the parts, Jessica. You know that, you’re realistic—that’s one of the things I admire about you.” He drums the folder more quickly, a nervous tick. “Tell you what. He gives me two of them, any two, and I’ll drop all the charges. He flies home free.” He sits back, looking as satisfied as if he had just polished off the twenty-four-ounce porterhouse at the Pacific Dining Car.
I find the idea that this toad admires anything about me repulsive. “Just like that,” I say.
“Just like that.”
I pretend that I’m considering his offer. “Does he have to testify in open court, or will an affidavit be good enough?”
Dixant hesitates before answering, which tells me he’s going to lie. “An affidavit might be good enough. I’ll have to check with my higher-ups. But I have to know, now, that we have a deal, Jessica. Do we?”
My head is spinning, so I stall. “What about protection?”
“That can be arranged.”
“For how long?”
He hesitates. “That would depend …”
“Because for however long, it wouldn’t be long enough,” I spit at him, stopping whatever lame excuse he’s going to concoct. I have to be careful to keep my voice down—we’re in a courtroom. I wish we weren’t, because I feel like screaming. “You are setting my client up to be murdered, you bastard!” I hiss at him. “He’s not some gangbanger, he’s a stand-up citizen who doesn’t have a blemish on his record! You think men like those …” I jab a finger at the folder, which to my incensed eye looks as if it’s shimmering with radioactivity, “… would let that go? They would pursue him to the ends of the earth.” I can’t get away from this slime fast enough. “I’m going to tell my boss about this. You can’t pull this kind of crap.”