by JF Freedman
I text message Siobhan about whether there is anything known about DNA manipulation, or the misuse of it, that resulted in a verdict that was later discovered to have been screwed up because of it. She isn’t here today; being our office’s sole expert, she is all over the map. Today she’s at a trial in Downey, one of our satellite offices. When we get to the DNA section of our trial, she will do the cross-examination of the prosecution’s witnesses.
“This is not going to be a long, drawn-out trial,” Loomis says, “because this is not a complicated case. But it is an important one. Four young women in the prime of their lives were brutally and sadistically murdered. For almost a year, hundreds of thousands of women in this city lived in fear that they could be the killer’s next victim. And if it weren’t for the diligent work by the police task force that was set up to catch this killer and, to be perfectly honest, a lucky break, this killer …” he pivots and points to Salazar, who does not look at him, doesn’t even flinch, “… would still be out on the street, and other innocent women might be dead. Probably would be dead. Fortunately, we will never know.”
He continues. “One thing we do know, because we have multiple and credible witnesses to this—the killer knew his victims. He was seen with some of them shortly before they were murdered, and it was clear that the parties were familiar with each other. That solves the mystery of how the killer was able to entice his victims to their death—they knew him, and trusted him. Mr. Salazar is a gardener by trade,” he explains. “He has clients in every one of the neighborhoods where these victims were killed. In most of the cases, on the same block, almost next door. The victims would have seen him around, and would have come to trust him.
“I don’t know if the defense has any real evidence on their side. What I do know, because I’ve been down this road before, is that they will try to bedazzle you with slight of hand, fake you out so you can’t see the truth. It’s what defense lawyers do when they don’t have a case, and these lawyers do not have a case, ladies and gentlemen, they are holding an empty sack. Not their fault—they are good lawyers. Joe Blevins wins cases lesser lawyers couldn’t.” He smiles. “To the chagrin of our side. But when he does win, it’s because he has evidence to back him up. Evidence, facts. The other defense lawyer, Ms. Thompson, is not someone I have yet had the pleasure of sharing a courtroom with, but she has an excellent reputation. I know this because she recently won a case against a good lawyer from my office. So this is going to be a fair fight.”
He leaves the podium and approaches the rail that separates the jury from the rest of the courtroom. “This is a capital case. That means if the people win, which we fully expect to do, the death penalty will be an option. That carries a huge weight, which will be on your shoulders. It’s a great burden to ask of anyone, and I thank you in advance for being willing to take it on. Not everyone has the guts to do that. I admire and applaud each of you for being on this panel.”
He gives them the eye-to-eye treatment, engaging each juror down the row, one at a time. “Having accepted that burden, you have made an agreement with the state—a covenant—that if the facts and evidence convince you that the accused, Roberto Salazar, is guilty of murder, you will find him guilty. That is why we have trials in this country, why we have juries, why we have laws. I am not going to determine innocence or guilt. The other lawyers aren’t going to, the judge isn’t going to. You are.”
Loomis steps back, so he can engage all twelve jurors with a single look. “It’s going to be hard for you to send a man to his death. If you do, that decision is going to be on your consciences for the rest of your lives.” He turns and points at Salazar again, and again Salazar does not look at him, or the jurors. “Tragically, for those four dead women, it was not hard for him to send them to their deaths. He did it with ice water in his veins. Even now, as he sits here before you, there is no remorse on his face.”
He walks back to the podium and grips the sides with both hands. Rocking forward on the balls of his wingtips, he says, “You will have remorse. But you will also show courage. When this trial is over, you will render your verdict. You will not bring forth that verdict lightly; you will have heavy hearts. But you will do it, because you will have no choice. The evidence and your human sense of moral outrage can lead you to only one conclusion. And down the road, when it’s over, that will soothe you, that you did the right thing.”
He rocks back. “If only Roberto Salazar had done the right thing, none of us would be here today. None of us want to be here today, but we have to be, because justice demands that we be. The same justice that will demand a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Joe hoists his bulky frame out of his chair, gives himself a waggle like an Old English sheepdog shaking off the rain from a summer cloudburst, and shambles to the podium. Against Loomis’s polished urbanity he might appear to be cast for Mayberry R.F.D., but that’s a calculated deception. He’s a good, smart lawyer who knows how to connect with a jury.
He jumps right into the deep end. “This trial is a rush to judgment. No murder trial, not one that has the possibility of the death penalty, has gone from arrest to the courtroom this fast in more than twenty years. Not only in Los Angeles, anywhere in California. That’s because this trial is not about whether Roberto Salazar is guilty or not—he isn’t—but because this trial is about politics. The actual guilt or innocence of Mr. Salazar is a means to a greater end.” Quickly: “When I tell you that, I don’t mean it with any disrespect. Four young women were murdered. Whoever killed them should be brought to justice.
“What I mean,” Joe explains, “is that the reason this trial is happening so quickly is because of political pressure, not because of the pursuit of justice. Let me share something with you I learned recently. The average murder trial in California—I know this because I looked it up—takes three years from the time a suspect is arrested until the first day of jury selection. More than five times what this one is taking. Some take even longer.”
I looked it up. Nice homey touch. The old warhorse is pulling out the stops. During our prep days he didn’t show this kind of engagement.
I swivel in my chair and look around. Joe has pulled off his first objective: he has the courtroom’s attention. Judge Suzuki stares down from his platform. The reporters and spectators, including Amanda Burgess and Salazar’s wife, who are in the first row of civilians behind us, are on the edges of their seats. Across the aisle, the prosecutors are paying closer attention than they normally do when the other side delivers their opening remarks. Loomis appears to be calm—he can weather any storm, that is one of the reasons he’s so good—but his associates are visibly aroused. If they expected this to be an easy smackdown, they have now been officially disabused of that notion.
Joe continues. “When Judge Suzuki questioned you to find out if you could serve on this jury fairly and impartially, some of you admitted that you had read or seen some publicity about this case, but had not formed an opinion. That’s all we ask, that you keep an open mind until you’ve heard all the testimony from both sides. The truth is, you would have had to have been living in a cave or on the moon if you had not known about this. It was all over the newspapers and radio and television for months. Everywhere on the Internet. This city was a captive to this case: the Full Moon Murders. Not many crimes rise to the level of notoriety where they get their own names. But this one did.”
He stops and glances at the notes he was taking while Loomis was delivering his opening statement. Running his finger down a page, he looks up and says, “I want to touch on something the prosecutor just told you. That the victims knew their killer. Well, maybe they did and maybe they didn’t. But if they did, this whole notion of a psychopathic killer looming out there, one who only kills during the full moon, goes out the window. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too, which is what the prosecution wants to do. The killer was a crazy nut who only killed during the full moon, because of some compulsion that the moon broug
ht forth in him, but at the same time he was a calculating murderer who knew his victims, set them up, and then killed them. Folks,” he says, swaying back on his heels like a country preacher delivering a sermon, “that doesn’t make sense. And we will demonstrate, by the way, that Mr. Salazar is not a psychopath. He’s a regular guy.
“Let’s return to the theme I was exploring a minute earlier—pressure. The pressure to find a killer. Because of the intense notoriety of these crimes, the pressure to find the killer was tremendous, on everyone. Not just the police. The politicians were under fire, too, because they set themselves up to be. The mayor was on television every week, promising results. Members of the city council and board of supervisors—same thing. There was an extreme pressure to solve this crime, from all quarters.
“When that happens, who feels the pressure the most? The police, because they are on the front line, and finding murderers is their job. The word came down from on high—solve this crime. And solve it fast.”
I sense movement from our opponents across the aisle, and check them out. Loomis is whispering something to one of his subordinates, who scribbles furiously on his notepad. They have to keep their mouths shut during opening remarks, but they will hammer at us about this later. We expect that; we want them to. We want to engage them in battle, not only about facts and evidence, but over ego, and supremacy. Criminal lawyers on both sides of the aisle are rabid alpha animals. They have to be to be successful. Sometimes that hubris can bring them down. From what I have heard about Harry Loomis, he doesn’t succumb to that bait very often. But he is human, and this is a high-stakes trial. We’ll see.
“A special police task force was set up to find the Full Moon Killer,” Joe says. “Over a hundred cops were assigned to it.” He stabs a finger in the air for emphasis. “Over a hundred policemen and women were assigned to solve one case. That’s how important this was to the City and County of Los Angeles. O.J., Robert Blake, Phil Spector may have had more publicity—we are the entertainment capital of the world—but this case was more important, especially to the political elites whose careers depend on producing results.
“So what happened?” Joe asks the air. “Nothing. Zero. Nada. Over a hundred officers work on this for three months, and they come up blank. No arrests, no suspects, not even any leads. They’re getting desperate. The politicians from above, including their own brass, are hounding them day and night. Find the killer! Find a killer! Bring in a killer!
“But they didn’t, because they couldn’t. They couldn’t find him. And so, they were about to be disbanded.” Joe nods his head vigorously. “That’s right, my friends. If one more full moon had gone by without the killer’s being caught, that elite task force was going to be put out to pasture. Thanks for trying, now go away.” He leans forward. “Cops are people, just like you and me. They are not robots, they have feelings. Those feelings can get hurt. If your job is to solve crimes, and you don’t, you don’t feel good about yourself. Why do you think the suicide rate for policemen is one of the highest of any profession in the world? Because they have such incredible pressure on them to produce results, and when they don’t, usually through no fault of their own, they have a profound sense of shame. Being a policeman is emotionally and psychologically brutal, ladies and gentlemen. Unless you have walked in their shoes, you have no idea how traumatic their lives are, every single day.”
I love this approach. Your opponents are now your partners. We are all being manipulated by the system. Everyone can understand that, because everyone hates the man, even the man himself.
“Finally, on the last night of the full moon, with daylight only a few hours away, another victim is found. Another horrible tragedy. And man, if the pressure was intense before, it’s in the stratosphere now. They have to find that killer. No matter what, they have to find that killer.”
Joe turns away from the jury box and looks at our table. Salazar sits at attention like a marine guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but I’m uncomfortable being restricted to one position. I want to squirm around to alleviate the pressure my added weight has put on my ass and hips and bones. I would like to slip my shoes off too, because my feet are swelling in them; another side effect of being pregnant. I’m even wearing pantyhose, to keep the swelling down; and I’m a woman who hates stockings. I almost never wear them, unless I’m trying to look sexy. I feel about as sexy now as an elephant on roller skates. But I force myself to sit still and keep my shoes on. If the jurors see me fidgeting, they’ll start fidgeting too, and Joe will lose their concentration.
Joe points at Salazar. “They found him. A man on his way to work. Not a blemish on his record, a solid citizen. The police had a vague description of someone who might have been with one of the earlier victims, so they rousted him. And they found a so-called piece of evidence that connected him to the crime. Later, we’ll break that down to show you how flimsy it was. For now, that’s all they had. And from that one piece of uncorroborated evidence, they arrested him and charged him with murder. And six months later, here we are.”
A pause to slacken his thirst, and give his audience—twelve men and women—time to breathe, because he’s moving fast.
“We do not have to prove that Roberto Salazar did not commit the crime he’s charged with. It’s the prosecution’s obligation to prove that he did, and they must reach a high standard to do that—a very high standard. Which they are not going to be able to do. Furthermore, we are going to be able to demonstrate why he could not have committed this crime, or the others that he may not be on trial for, but has been accused of by innuendo and association. We all understand that the same person committed all the Full Moon Murders. If Mr. Salazar didn’t do every one of them, he didn’t do any of them.
“As I told you in my opening, this trial is a viper with two heads, both lethal. One is about whether a man committed murder. The other is about a city sweeping its fears under the rug. If this city thinks that convicting my client will solve their problem, they are wrong. All they will do is put an innocent man in jail, but they will not kill that snake, because it will be out there, still alive and able to attack again.” He puts his hands together in a vaguely prayerful gesture and raises them to his lips, as if in contemplation. Subliminal, or calculated? I wonder. He may not know himself.
“Hopefully, that snake won’t strike again. The real killer, if he is as diabolical, clever, and elusive as he has proved to be, could seize upon Mr. Salazar’s conviction as an opportunity to steal away into the night and never be heard from again. There was a lull in the killings before, so we know his attacks can be random. If that were to happen, the city’s temperature would be lowered, at least temporarily, but justice will not have been served.”
He steps back. He has scored his points. It’s time to exit on a high note.
“That’s where you come in. Not to help this city get over their fright—that’s not your job. Our elected and paid officials will do that, we hope and trust. You twelve ladies and gentlemen are on this panel for one specific and important reason—to serve justice. The way you will do that will be to listen to all the witnesses and weigh their testimony. And when you do, you will come to the only conclusion that is right: that Roberto Salazar is not the Full Moon Killer, and must walk out of this courtroom a free man.”
THIRTY-TWO
RARELY DID I COOK, even in the days when I was a lean, mean, marathon-training machine. Now, swollen all over, not just my belly but my ankles, feet, ass, even my earlobes, I can barely roust the energy to boil an egg, let alone grill a steak or roast a chicken. Except for salads, which I throw together with a slapdash randomness, chopping and mincing lettuce and other innocent raw vegetables and dousing them with store-bought dressing, I eat takeout. There is a Greek deli two blocks from my house that makes the kinds of food I crave now: stuffed grape leaves, noodle pudding with raisins, chicken tamales, hummus, tiramisu. It’s all good.
Amanda comes over to practice our birthing skills. Selecting
her as my birth coach was a shot out of the blue. Actually, I didn’t choose her; she chose herself. When I told her I was pregnant, she lost her normal composure. She broke down, literally crying for joy. What could she do for me? Name it, and it’s yours. Cribs, clothes, hospital expenses, whatever. She was referring to material things, but there was an underlying desire, an emotional need to be part of this, that initially went unspoken; but when I told her I was fine, she gave up all pretense of detachment and spelled it out. “I will never be a grandmother, I will never have a grandchild. I never really had a child. I’ve missed all that. If you would let me be part of your birth and baby it would give me incredible joy, and I would support you any way you want. I know this is a huge favor to ask, and I’ll understand if you turn me down. But I want you to know that I would like to be there for you, any way I can.”
Talk about needy! It was as if she had opened a vein and was bleeding right in front of me. I stood there in shock, not knowing how to respond. “Thanks,” I finally said. “That’s incredibly gracious of you. But I don’t want to be beholden to you.” What I really meant was that I didn’t want to be under her control. She is a powerful force, much stronger than I am. I didn’t want to give up any autonomy, I’ve paid too much in dues to earn it.
Her answer to that was that I wouldn’t be beholden, that she would do as much or as little as I asked, and that she would butt out immediately if our bond, in whatever shape it turned out, wasn’t working.
I’m alone. I’m scared of the future. And she really seems to care about me. My mother fucked me over, and now Jeremy has. That’s two big rejections. Here was a chance for the opposite, a chance to be cared for, accepted, and loved.
“Okay,” I told her. “Let’s give it a try.”