The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  Ten minutes later, Sloane beat Molia to the glass doors of the Winchester County Sheriff’s Department. Inside, Sloane attempted to explain their circumstances to a female officer seated behind the desk, but the woman stopped him in midsentence. “Did you say Truluck?”

  “Yes,” Sloane said.

  “If they were arrested in Truluck they weren’t brought here. Truluck has its own jail. Did you check with them?”

  Not knowing, they hadn’t. “We were told they’d be brought before Judge Earl?”

  “That would be Judge Earl Boykin.” The woman looked at her watch. “You’re late though. Judge Earl’s an early riser. He likes to get started at eight.”

  “Where?” Molia asked. “Where’s the courthouse?”

  The woman gave them directions. “Court Street,” she said. “It’s in Old Town. You won’t miss it.”

  They didn’t. The courthouse sat atop a hill overlooking Winchester.

  “They wouldn’t have a hearing without us, would they?” Molia asked as he turned into the parking lot.

  Sloane’s only experience with juvenile law had been through Lisa Lynch, but he recalled her telling him that a juvenile in custody was to be given a preliminary appearance to assure the kid’s well-being, to allow the court to obtain preliminary information, and to call parents, but he was no longer certain about anything. He wiped sweat dripping down the side of his face as he and Molia shuffled quickly up steep steps to a columned entrance only to find a wooden sign with an arrow redirecting them back down and around the side of the building.

  Once inside, they were both huffing and puffing as they emptied their pockets onto a conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector. Molia asked the correctional officer operating the machine for directions to Judge Boykin’s courtroom, and the man pointed to an elevator beneath a large clock, the hands of which now indicated it was a quarter to nine. “Third floor. It’ll be on your right.”

  Sloane and Molia raced across the terra-cotta floor. When the elevator doors didn’t immediately open Molia started up the staircase to the right. Sloane followed. Atop the third floor they pulled open tall wooden doors and stepped back in time to a courtroom straight out of the Old West. The judge had risen from his chair and started down from his raised dais. A woman in the well beneath the bench stood talking with a man in a three-piece suit shoving files into a leather satchel. Court had ended.

  “Excuse me!” Sloane and Molia stopped at the wooden railing. “Judge Boykin?”

  The judge considered them.

  Out of breath, Sloane said, “Our sons were arrested last night in Truluck; we were told they would be brought here before you this morning.”

  Boykin walked back up to the bench and put his files on the edge of the railing. “Your sons are Jake and T.J.?”

  “Yes,” Sloane said, relieved to know that, at the very least, they had located them.

  “They got themselves in a lot of trouble last night,” Boykin said. “Serious trouble.”

  “We got here as quickly as we could,” Sloane said.

  Boykin looked at the grandfather clock on the wall. “Not quickly enough. Juvenile proceedings just ended.”

  “We’re sorry; we came as soon as we heard.”

  “Funny, that’s what your sons said this morning.”

  Sloane didn’t understand the comment. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you know the two easiest words to say in the English language and not mean?” When neither Sloane nor Molia answered Boykin finished his own riddle. “‘I’m sorry.’ Well, now I’m sorry, gentlemen. But my courtroom runs on time. We’ve finished that matter and I have a full calendar to attend to this afternoon.”

  “Finished?” Molia asked. “You mean we can bail them out?”

  Boykin, who had again started down the steps, stopped. “I mean finished as in concluded.”

  “Concluded how?” Molia asked. “Where is my son?”

  Boykin glared. “Do not raise your voice in my courtroom, sir.” He paused. “I assume your sons are being processed and awaiting transport.”

  Sloane felt the floor coming out from under his feet. “Transport where?” he and Molia asked almost in unison.

  “To a juvenile detention facility,” Boykin said.

  “What?” Sloane asked, voice rising. Boykin’s eyes narrowed.

  Sloane put up a hand and took a moment to calm. “Your Honor, you can imagine we’ve had quite a shock this morning and we’ve received very little information. We’re concerned about our sons. Why are they being transported to a detention facility before they’ve had a hearing on the merits?”

  “We had a hearing on the merits, this morning, at eight, when my courtroom begins. We had a full hearing. Isn’t that correct, Prosecutor Pike?”

  Boykin addressed his comment to the man in the three-piece suit. Thin and bald with round wire-framed glasses, he stood with a bemused smile. “That’s correct, Judge.”

  “But they were just arrested a couple of hours ago,” Sloane said.

  “Drunk as skunks I might add and having a grand time of it, shooting off a rifle and with enough shells to do some serious harm.”

  “A rifle? Where’d they get a rifle?” Molia asked.

  “They stole it. They broke into another man’s store and they stole his property, along with alcohol. They broke the law, gentlemen. And in Winchester County, if you break the law you go to jail.”

  “Without a trial?” Sloane was unable to keep the anger from creeping back into his voice. The officer approached.

  Boykin’s finger shot out from under the robe. “I am cautioning you for the last time. Watch your tone in my courtroom.”

  “Watch my tone? I just found out my son was arrested, tried, and convicted in a matter of hours and you’re telling me to watch my tone? What type of tone would you expect? What sort of hearing did you conduct? What sort of trial were they given? What sort of legal assistance? What sort of court are you running?”

  The officer pinched the microphone clipped to his shoulder and turned his head to speak into it as Boykin approached the railing. “I’ll tell you exactly what type of courtroom I’m running. My type. Fair, impartial, and efficient. Your sons waived their right to an attorney and to a trial, and they admitted to their crimes. Mr. Pike, did they or did they not waive their rights?”

  “They did, Your Honor.”

  “Officer Langston?”

  “They did, Judge.”

  “They’re kids,” Molia said. “T.J. is fourteen years old. He wouldn’t even know he had rights to waive.”

  “Now I told you where to find your sons. I’d suggest you do just that. I have a courtroom to run and you are delaying me.” Boykin started toward a door.

  “Are you for real?” Sloane asked.

  “Last warning,” Boykin said. “Do not try my patience.”

  “You have the nerve to talk to me about patience.” Sloane could no longer control his anger. “This is blatant misconduct; I’m going to take you up on charges with the judicial board. How could you conduct a trial without a parent or an attorney present?”

  The correctional officer stepped in front of Boykin, but the judge shouted over the top of him.

  “Present? Present!” he roared. “You have the nerve to talk to me about being present? Where were you last night when Truluck police arrested your sons? Where were you when your sons broke into another man’s store and stole his possessions? Where were you when your sons were out drinking themselves unconscious and firing a loaded weapon in the vicinity of a populated area? I spend my day sentencing kids like yours because parents like you are not present. Well let me tell you, you fail your kids, that’s your business; but when they break the laws of this county, my county, it becomes my business. And the good people of Winchester County have decreed it to be so for seventeen years.”

  “Then the good people of Winchester County have gotten it wrong for seventeen years,” Sloane shot back.

  “You’re in contem
pt.”

  “And you’re a clown. I should hold you and this entire circus you run in contempt.”

  Sloane heard footsteps, two additional correctional officers hurrying into the room. The one behind the railing removed a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt.

  “We’ll see who got it wrong,” Boykin said.

  SIX

  HARRY N. MORSE JAIL

  TRULUCK, CALIFORNIA

  They weren’t at the jail long before the same police officer reapplied their handcuffs and belly belts and led Jake and T.J. back out the door, this time with the third kid sentenced that morning, whose name they learned was Aaron. They walked single file, T.J. first, Jake in the middle, Aaron bringing up the rear. T.J. continued to whimper, and nothing Jake could say consoled him. The officer had placed them in separate cells and Jake had heard T.J. throw up twice, but when he tried talking to him T.J. did not answer.

  When the door to the building slammed shut behind them a flock of birds burst from the trees, black arrowheads against a pale blue sky. Jake squinted into a bright sun, watching the birds bank and turn in military precision before disappearing again into the safety of the shimmering leaves. As the morning progressed so had Jake’s headache, now pounding a steady beat, and without any food or water to help settle his stomach he felt nauseated. As Jake watched the last of the birds flitter back to the trees, he nearly walked up the back of T.J.’s heels.

  T.J. had come to a stop, eyes fixed on a yellow bus parked at the back of the dirt and gravel lot. Spotted with patches of rust, cages covered the windows above black, block letters stenciled on the side.

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  Two men dressed in multipocket khaki shirts, shorts cut above the knees, boots laced up their ankles, and eyes hidden behind reflector sunglasses waited outside the open bus door.

  T.J. burst out crying, shoulders shuddering. The police officer encouraged him forward with a shove. The sight of the bus also hit Jake in the gut, but he would not cry. That’s what they wanted; they wanted him to cry, to be scared. He wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. He continued telling himself they would not be there long, wherever they were going. David would get them both out.

  As they approached, the bigger of the two guards held out his hand for the clipboard, and scribbled the pen across the paperwork without removing his sunglasses or looking down, a mere formality.

  “All yours,” the police officer said, taking back the paperwork. “Happy trails, boys.”

  As the officer left, the guard stepped forward, hands on hips. Huge pectoral muscles flattened and widened the pockets of his shirt. Bulging veins traversed his biceps and forearms. “You will proceed onto the bus one at a time,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm and soft. “You will sit one to a seat. You will not talk to me. You will not talk to Officer Bradley. You will not talk to each other. Is that clear?” Getting no response, he turned his head and cupped a hand behind his ear. “I asked, is that clear?”

  The three mumbled an acknowledgment.

  “You will address me as Officer Atkins—”

  “I thought you said not to talk to you,” Jake said.

  Atkins paused. Jake noticed a grin before the guard turned and spoke to the guard by the bus door. “That didn’t take long, did it?”

  Turning back, Atkins stepped so close Jake’s face reflected in the man’s sunglasses. “Did you just interrupt me while I was speaking?” He was taller by an inch or two, but he outweighed Jake by a significant amount.

  Realizing his error, Jake did not respond.

  Now Atkins barked, “I said, do not ask me any questions; you will, however, answer my questions. Did you just interrupt me while I was speaking?”

  When Jake still did not answer, Atkins grinned. “I can wait all day, son. I love the sunshine.”

  “Yes,” Jake said. Atkins inched both eyebrows above the silver rims of his sunglasses but did not otherwise move. His voice softened again. “Did I or did I not just tell you to address me as Officer Atkins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you will address me as Officer Atkins.”

  “Yes, Officer Atkins,” Jake said.

  Atkins smiled. “Are we now clear?”

  “Yes, Officer Atkins.”

  Atkins repositioned himself beside the bus door. Bradley climbed on board, waiting at the top step. T.J. entered first. Since he could not use his hands to grab a railing with them handcuffed to the belt Atkins put a hand under his elbow to steady him. Jake lifted his leg to follow, but Atkins blocked the doorway with his arm. “Wait behind the yellow line until you’re told to proceed,” he said.

  When Atkins removed his arm Jake stepped up three steps and waited behind a yellow line painted on the bus floor while Bradley directed T.J. to sit on the bench seat third from the front.

  “Wrists on the bar,” Bradley instructed.

  T.J. placed his wrists atop a bar running across the back of the seat in front of him, and Bradley slid a chain through the center of the cuffs and locked it to the bar. It had just enough slack for T.J. to sit back with his hands in his lap. Bradley then directed Jake to the bench seat two behind T.J. and repeated the process. After situating Aaron on the right side, Bradley slid behind the wheel. Atkins did not immediately board.

  Jake leaned forward, speaking in a hushed voice. “T.J.? T.J.?”

  T.J. glanced over his shoulder. “Just shut up before you get me in more trouble.”

  “What? I’m the one who told you not to say anything in court; I told you to ask for an attorney. You got six months; he gave me a freaking year.”

  The bus shook. Jake looked up to see Atkins coming fast down the aisle. The guard cracked a baton across the bar to which Jake had been chained and a heavy metallic ting rang out, causing Jake to jump back against the seat. “Am I going to have a problem with you following rules?”

  “No, Officer Atkins.”

  “You got two strikes. Don’t make it three. Three strikes and…”

  When Atkins didn’t finish, Jake said, “I’m out, Officer Atkins.”

  “Wrong. We aren’t playing baseball, boy. Three strikes and you’re mine.”

  WINCHESTER COUNTY JAIL

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Sloane and Molia sat on bunks in adjacent cells, bars between them. The sheriff’s deputy who processed them did a double take when he flipped open Molia’s wallet and saw his police identification. “You’re a police officer?” he asked.

  “I’m a detective, son. If you had spoken to your compadre, Wade, you would have known that.”

  The deputy called over the female deputy who Sloane had spoken with earlier that morning and the two had a brief conversation before he left. Forty-five minutes later a uniformed sheriff’s officer with more gray in his hair hustled in, stopping to give the deputy at the desk a look. The woman pointed to where Tom Molia sat.

  “Detective Molia?” Molia stood and came to the bars. “I’m Sheriff Matt Barnes.” Barnes looked to be early to midfifties, hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, and darkened with some gel product. Molia hoped the additional worry lines on a well-tanned face and the few more pounds on Barnes’s frame meant he had more experience and common sense than his deputies. Maybe even someone to reason with. “One of my deputies called and told me about your circumstances. I took the morning off to get in a little fishing with my son.”

  “I’m sorry if you had to cut short your fishing trip,” Molia said, hoping it meant Barnes was sympathetic to their plight. “And any assistance you might be able to provide would be appreciated.”

  “Well, the fish weren’t biting all that much this morning anyway.” He looked to Sloane, who had come to the bars and introduced himself. “First thing we can do is get you both something to eat while I walk over to the courthouse and find out the lay of the land.”

  “I can tell you the lay of the land,” Molia said. “They arrested, tried, and convicted our sons, and when we questioned it, Jud
ge Earl held us in contempt. What kind of judicial system are you running around here, Matt? I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.”

  Barnes scratched an itch at the back of his neck and grimaced. “Yeah, Judge Earl has a short fuse.”

  “Judge Earl is a megalomaniac,” Molia said.

  “What about our sons?” Sloane asked. “Boykin said he sentenced them to some juvenile facility.”

  “That would be Fresh Start,” Barnes said.

  “Fresh what?” Molia asked.

  “Fresh Start. It’s a juvenile detention camp about an hour from here up in the mountains.”

  “You mean a boot camp?” Molia asked, familiar with the facilities that used drill sergeants and scared-straight tactics on juvenile offenders.

  Barnes seemed to be considering his answer. “Fresh Start has certain military-style elements to it, but it also has year-round educational programs and counseling; it’s for teens convicted of nonviolent offenses or referred by their parents.”

  “Voluntarily?” Sloane asked.

  Barnes nodded. “Parents can’t control their sons; they pay to have them sent to Fresh Start to get straightened out. I know it’s not much consolation, but as far as these kinds of places go, it’s not a bad situation for your boys.”

  “Not a bad situation? They had to be in and out of there in less than twenty minutes. That’s not justice.”

  “Yeah, Earl doesn’t like to waste time.”

  Sloane scoffed. “God forbid someone should slow him down with minor inconveniences like constitutional rights.”

  “I hope you didn’t make that suggestion to Judge Earl.”

  “He said they waived their right to a trial and to an attorney,” Molia said, giving Sloane a look intended to convey that they needed Barnes as an ally.

  “And you don’t think so?”

  “Whether we think they did or not is irrelevant, Matt. These are boys.”

  “Pretty serious crimes though.”