by JF Freedman
It’s like those old E. F. Hutton commercials. Everyone—judge, jury, spectators—leans in toward the witness chair.
“That him and some other bozos hoisted a bunch of television sets and he got caught with them,” he says. “Plasma Sonys, the fifty-inch model. That they had been running this scam before, but this was the first time he got caught,” he adds. “He was pretty shook up, because he said he had never got caught before.”
Now I’m on my feet. “Objection!” I yell, louder than I want, but I’m steamed. “There has been nothing presented here about any other crimes my client has committed, or attempted.” We’re in water over our heads now, because the precise model and size of the stolen television sets was never made public. Either this douche bag was given that information by the police or Dixant, or he’s telling the truth. Either option is chilling to me.
“Sustained,” Judge Rosen says. “Please stick to the issue at hand, Counselor,” she tells Dixant.
“Yes, Your Honor,” he answers, barely covering his smirk, the little shit. “What else did the accused say about these television sets he stole?”
“That he got stupid and didn’t watch his butt closely enough,” the career convict says. “That he had made a dumb mistake, and that he’d be more careful the next time.”
“More careful the next time,” Dixant repeats the phrase. “In other words, he was saying he was going to do it again?”
“Objection. Calls for speculation,” I call out.
This time, Rosen doesn’t answer immediately. Finally, she sustains me. But I feel that I’m losing her.
“Did you say anything to him about what he should do?” Dixant asks his witness.
“Get a good lawyer,” the scumbag answers, as he looks over at me with a lascivious smile on his cracked lips.
I have been mentally undressed before, but never so rawly. My skin is literally crawling, as if I have been invaded by a horde of bugs.
The witness runs his tongue across those putrid lips. “Looks to me like he picked a winner.”
As I slowly get to my feet to begin a cross-examination that is going to be scattered with land mines, any one of which could blow me up, Judge Rosen throws me a life preserver. “We’ll recess for lunch,” she declares.
Dixant jumps up in dismay. “Judge, can’t we finish the cross-examination before lunch?” he complains. “How long can it take?”
She looks at him archly. “I didn’t have breakfast this morning, and I’m hungry, Mr. Dixant.” She turns to me. “Any objections from the defense?”
As if I’m going to object to a gift that is all wrapped up in a pretty bow. “No, Your Honor. No objections.”
“Cross-examination will begin when we come back, at one-thirty,” she pronounces. “After that, closing arguments, unless someone else decides to pull another rabbit out of a hat. I want to charge the jury so they can begin their deliberations before the end of the day,” she informs Dixant and me. Meaning, keep your summations short, this isn’t the trial of the century. She hoists herself out of her chair and quick-steps through the back door.
I turn to my client. “The truth. Did you ever talk to this man? Anything, one word?” My tone is harsh, but I can’t worry about mollycoddling his ego. Time is flying.
“Never,” he insists, taken aback by my abruptness. “I never talked to him, I never laid eyes on him.” He’s really worked up. “You told me not to talk to anyone, and I didn’t.”
I warned you about that after you were arrested, not the night of, I think. But I have to trust him. I’ve believed him so far; I can’t crap out on him now, or on myself. I have too much invested in this case to let a slimeball like Dixant pull a stunt like this and get away with it.
“I need to get back to my office and do some checking up on this situation,” I inform him. “I’ll see you back here at one-thirty. Don’t be late.”
As I’m leaving, Salazar joins his wife, who is huddled in Amanda Burgess’s protective shadow. Amanda says something encouraging to him, and gives him a reassuring hug. He smiles bravely. The three of them leave the courtroom together. Salazar and Amanda are talking. His dutiful wife follows, half a step behind.
We’re back in court. I stand at the podium and face Dixant’s new star witness. My first question is a grenade thrown right at his head. “How much did they pay you to lie?”
Dixant erupts from his chair. “Objection!” he screams.
“Sustained!” Rosen is livid. “Approach the bench, both of you.”
Dixant and I walk to the side of her platform that is opposite the jury box. Judge Rosen stares daggers at me. “Ms. Thompson …” she hisses.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” I jump in quickly, before she can really lay one on me. “I got carried away. I won’t do that again.”
“See that you don’t.” She has been trying to help me ever since Amanda Burgess made her regal entrance into this courtroom, but she’s making it clear that I’ve exhausted my chits now. “Don’t make me hold you in contempt,” she warns me.
I don’t have to look at Dixant to know he’s lapping up my smackdown. “I won’t, Your Honor,” I promise, sounding properly chastised.
“All right. Resume.”
I take my place at the podium again. “I’ll rephrase my question,” I say to the prisoner in the dock. “Did the District Attorney’s office offer you anything in exchange for your testimony?”
Calderon tries to look puzzled, but his performance won’t win him any Oscars. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, fumbling for a tolerable answer. “They ain’t paying me a dime, if that’s what you’re asking. Not one thin dime,” he repeats himself.
“That’s not what I’m asking,” I correct him. “Did they offer you anything in exchange for coming in here and telling us about your so-called conversation with Mr. Salazar in the county jail on the night he was arrested? It doesn’t have to be money.”
He starts to answer, then hesitates. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, casting an eye at Dixant, looking for cover. Dixant, stone-faced, turns away.
“Let me help you out,” I volunteer, almost gleefully. I walk back to the defense table, pick up a sheet of paper, and return to the podium. “You are days away from being sent to Soledad. For aggravated assault, isn’t that correct? It’s your second strike, which means one more and you’re down for the count. And the only reason you are still here in the county jail is because there isn’t a space available for you up there, and the court won’t allow any more transfers until there is one, which apparently …” I glance at the paper in my hand “… is imminent. That’s true, isn’t it?”
Behind me, I hear Dixant exhale. It sounds like he’s choking. He had me on the ropes, and I slipped away.
“I don’t know what imminent means,” Calderon stalls.
“It means very soon,” I school him. “You are going to Soledad very soon. Unless …” I pause, hoping he’ll bite.
He doesn’t take the bait, so I set the hook myself. “Unless you can cut a deal.”
Dixant objects without getting out of his chair. Judge Rosen shoots him down. “Overruled,” she says. A blind man can see where this is going, and she has excellent vision. “Continue, Counselor,” she says to me encouragingly. It’s nice to be in her good graces again.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I respond. I turn back to the witness. “Did the District Attorney’s office offer you a deal for testifying against my client? A lesser charge, so that second strike wouldn’t be on your record? A reduction in your sentence? Anything?”
The snitch isn’t so cocky all of a sudden. He looks at Dixant again, who grouses, “Your Honor …”
“Overruled,” Rosen snaps, before he can finish his sentence. She stares at Calderon from her perch on high. “Answer the question,” she orders him. “And answer it truthfully.”
“They …” He gives up all pretense. “Yes.”
SEVENTEEN
“GOOD AFTERNOON, LADIES AND
gentlemen. I know that I speak for everyone in this courtroom in commending you for serving on this jury. Our legal system, which is the best in the world, only works because of citizens like you, who sacrifice their time to do this.”
It’s a few minutes after four. Most of the witnesses and other spectators who were here earlier are gone. They did their duty; it’s up to me now. Salazar’s wife is still present, of course, and so is Amanda Burgess. It seems wacky to me that this rich woman would spend all this time here. None of the jurors know who she is, so her presence won’t affect the outcome. She is comforting to Salazar’s wife, but so what, really? They aren’t friends; I don’t think they’d ever met until this trial. When it’s over, regardless of the outcome, they may never see each other again. I can’t help but wonder, what is her motive? She is good-hearted, obviously, but enough is enough. She actually freaks me out a bit. Her presence in the row behind me is like water dripping from a faucet—it’s maddeningly relentless in a passive-aggressive way. And I can’t help but feel as if I’m still auditioning for her, that I still have to prove I’m a good-enough lawyer to get Salazar off.
It’s stupid for me to think that, but I can’t help it. I’ve done my best, and my work has been good, no one can say otherwise. My one big regret is that we never located Armando Gonzalez, whoever and wherever he might be. A good private detective with an open checkbook from an expensive law firm probably would have found him, assuming he exists (which I have to, because if he doesn’t, my client is a liar and a con man, and I’m the real dupe). The more money you have, the better the results. Our funds are limited. So be it. You learn early on in my office to play the hand you’re dealt. Bitching and moaning won’t get you anything but an ulcer and a negative comment in your file.
“Roberto Salazar has led an exemplary life. I’m not the only one who is telling you that. Everyone in the community is. His friends, his neighbors, his customers. He is a devoted husband and father. His resume is spotless. Not only has he never been convicted of a crime, even a minor misdemeanor, but he’s never been arrested for one. His record is absolutely clean. Cleaner, I would wager, than most of us in this room.
“He did, what we now see in hindsight, a stupid thing. He agreed to deliver some stolen television sets. He got caught with them. He was arrested, and now he’s here in court, pleading his case before you.
“But … and this is what’s important, ladies and gentlemen. He didn’t know they were stolen. At the time, he didn’t think what he was doing was stupid. He thought he was doing the right thing. He was helping a friend in need.”
I take a moment to let that sink in and gauge how I’m doing with the jurors. Their expressions tell me I’m doing okay. They’re waiting for me to convince them, if I can, of Salazar’s innocence.
That’s the best you can expect: a jury whose mind isn’t already made up.
“How many of us would do that?” I continue. “Get out of bed in the middle of the night and drive all the way across town to help a friend who was in a desperate situation? Honestly, I don’t know if I would.” I smile apologetically. “I probably wouldn’t. Maybe some of you wouldn’t either.”
A few sympathetic nods tell me I’m right. Most of us aren’t that self-sacrificing.
“When you judge someone’s guilt or innocence, which is a very heavy burden, you consider motive, you consider opportunity, you consider timing. But you also consider character. If character did not count in helping you come to your decision, I would not have been allowed to bring in all those witnesses who have spoken about Mr. Salazar’s integrity. But it does count, because it tells us about a person’s history. And your history tells us about who you are today.
“All of us live our lives in predictable patterns. Good people don’t all of a sudden become evil, nor do bad people suddenly become good. We may remember that Saint Paul was converted from evil to good on the road to Damascus; but unless you are a saint, such an immediate and powerful personality change doesn’t happen. We are who we are. If and when we do change, it is a long, slow process. People simply do not change their core beliefs, philosophies, and ways of living overnight.”
The Saint Paul allusion does not come from my own beliefs, but it is an apt one, and there are always some jury members who are churchgoers. That is an analogy they understand and empathize with. Not only is it about change, it speaks of forgiveness, a concept I want to plant in their minds.
“Roberto Salazar made a mistake. But he did not commit a crime. The prosecution did not bring forth any witnesses who testified that Mr. Salazar stole those television sets. They couldn’t, because there aren’t any. They did not offer any witnesses who testified that Mr. Salazar was involved in any burglary ring, because again, there aren’t any. They did not connect Mr. Salazar to any other crime of any kind, because there aren’t any. Zero. Mr. Salazar has never committed a crime. His record is spotless.”
I take a quick glance at my notes. I know where I’m going, but I don’t like to forget anything. I haven’t, so I plunge ahead.
“There are two main witnesses against Mr. Salazar in this trial. The officer who arrested him, and the jailhouse informant who squealed on him.”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Dixant half rising out of his chair, as if to make an objection to that last remark. But Judge Rosen immediately shakes her head no, so he sits back down. He can rebut me in his own closing argument. Examining witnesses has to be as factual and truthful as possible, but opening and closing summations are appeals to both the facts and the heart. If the glove does not fit, you must acquit was only tangentially about a marginal fact; it was really an appeal to feelings—about how the system prematurely assumes guilt about certain people, especially, as in that infamous case, a member of a historically oppressed minority. More subtly, that’s where I’m going now. Not because I want to exploit the race card, but because in this situation, it’s appropriate.
“Let’s take each of these witnesses one at a time,” I say. “First, the police officer who arrested Mr. Salazar. Did he stop Mr. Salazar because he had reason to believe there were stolen television sets in Mr. Salazar’s truck? He testified he did not. Then why did he stop him? According to his sworn testimony …” I pluck the appropriate page of transcript from my pile of notes and read: “One of Mr. Salazar’s tail-lights was flickering, and he had run a stop sign.”
I pause for a moment to let the flimsiness of those accusations sink in. “It was three in the morning. Maybe Mr. Salazar made a rolling stop through that sign instead of coming to a full stop. You stop someone for that, when there isn’t another car on the road for blocks around? Over a thousand murders occur in Los Angeles county every year, but people are being pulled over for not coming to a complete stop on a deserted street in the dead of night? What kind of misguided priorities are those? Either this officer is an overzealous martinet, or he was looking for an excuse to pull Mr. Salazar over. You saw him testify. Did he look like he was over the top? He didn’t to me. He looked like a calm, cool, in-control peace officer. Which leaves us with the other possibility: that he was looking for an excuse—any excuse, no matter how flimsy—to pull over Mr. Salazar.”
I glance at my notes again. “Oh, I forgot. The flickering tail-light. He wanted to make sure Mr. Salazar’s truck wasn’t going to have an electrical short. What if there were people inside that truck? People who had been smuggled into this country illegally. What if a fire broke out in the back of that truck because of faulty wiring, and they burned to death? That officer didn’t want to search Mr. Salazar’s truck, without due cause and without a proper warrant, because of an actual infraction of the law. He was performing a humanitarian act. He was an angel of mercy, if you will.”
I shake my head in bemused disbelief. “Unfortunately, there weren’t any human beings in the back of Mr. Salazar’s truck. Only a bunch of television sets. That officer must have been pretty disappointed. But he recovered and did his duty. He arrested Mr. Salazar.”
I smile in mock chagrin. “Okay,” I admit. “They were stolen. Not by Mr. Salazar—we all agree to that, including my opponent, Mr. Dixant. But he had them, so he’s guilty by association.”
I leave the podium and walk toward the jury box. “I want to give you folks a premise you can all relate to. Your daughter is a teenager, a junior in high school, seventeen. She’s a good girl, stays out of trouble, gets good grades. She has this new boyfriend. He’s older than her, a little wild. Maybe he’s in college, working, in the army. You disapprove of the relationship but you’re not going to stop it, because she has to learn to make her own decisions, and because if you do, she’ll resent you, and probably keep seeing him behind your back. And the boy isn’t a bad guy, he’s just a young man sowing his oats, as guys do.
“One night, they’re out at a party. She doesn’t drink, but he has a couple of beers. On the way home a cop stops him, because he’s driving erratically. When they pull him over, they think, or claim, that they smell marijuana smoke, so they search the car. They don’t find any marijuana in the car, but they do find a vial of crack cocaine. They don’t just arrest the boy, they arrest your daughter too, because she was there. That’s the law.”
I take a long pause, because I really want the jurors to absorb this. From their expressions and fidgeting, they are. I wait long enough so that they’re uncomfortable with this malignant seed I’ve just planted, then I start up again.
“Your daughter didn’t know the crack was in the car. She’s never done drugs in her life, she doesn’t even drink beer with her friends. But the law is the law. She was in a car in which there was an illegal substance, so she is guilty by association.
“If you and she are lucky, the District Attorney will make the sensible decision, and not charge her with a crime. If you are unlucky, he will, and her life and yours will be hell to pay for a long time, even if she doesn’t get convicted. And if he does not charge her,” I continue, “what will the reason be? It will be because he researched her history and learned that she is a good person. A person of character.”