The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  Sloane looked at the two remaining Styrofoam containers and deduced the rest of the story.

  “You think this guy is dangerous?” Lynch asked, standing now.

  Sloane shook his head, though after what Molia had just told them he was no longer certain. “He’s just testing the waters.” He addressed Molia. “We’re set up here. And remember what Barnes said. Wade has no jurisdiction outside of Truluck.”

  “Yeah, I keep hearing that,” Molia said. “And he keeps ignoring it.” He opened a bag and removed one of the food containers, handing it to Lynch. She didn’t open it. Molia picked up the small stack of papers from the bed and glanced through them. “So what do you think? Should I get my hopes up?”

  Sloane shrugged. “We’re swinging in the dark a little bit without a transcript of the hearing. Without it we can’t be certain exactly what Jake and T.J. said in court.”

  “Can we get it?”

  Lynch handed him a second document. “That’s the next motion, to get a copy of the transcript. The proceedings are supposed to be recorded.”

  “Should we wait to file the motion for a new trial until we do?” Molia asked.

  Sloane shook his head. “Better to file the motion tomorrow and have it heard as soon as possible. Otherwise we’d have to wait until Monday. And if Boykin is going to deny it, the sooner he does the sooner we can file the appeal.”

  Molia sighed, frustrated. “What does it matter what they said? They’re kids. T.J. wouldn’t even know he had rights to waive.”

  “A juvenile can confess and waive his right to counsel just like an adult,” Lynch said, “but it has to be done knowingly and intelligently. We need the transcript to determine if that was the case.”

  “He’s a fourteen-year-old boy; fourteen-year-old boys don’t do anything intelligently.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Lynch said. “I have two, sixteen and eighteen.”

  “So who decides if it was intelligent?”

  Sloane answered. “The judge.”

  Molia dropped the papers. “Oh, that’s just great.”

  Lynch continued, undeterred. “Boykin still has to show he considered the totality of the circumstances: Jake and T.J.’s ages, their intelligence, and the circumstances under which they made their confession and waived counsel. We know they were likely hung over and hadn’t slept much and that they were rushed to court early on the morning of their arrest without counsel, or the chance to speak to either of you. Those are some strong circumstances and no judge wants to be overturned on appeal.”

  Molia shook his head. “It still leaves an awful lot of discretion for a guy we already know plays fast and loose with the rules.”

  “No doubt,” Lynch said. “But in this instance we have a real case of piling on. The failure to accord Jake and T.J. an attorney calls into question the validity of their confessions, especially because Boykin proceeded without a parent or guardian present. It makes it that much more difficult for the prosecution to meet the knowing and intelligent standard.”

  Sloane knew Lynch was doing what any lawyer would, focusing on her strongest legal arguments, trying to be an advocate, but he also knew that too often in the judicial system the law got ignored. So did common sense.

  Molia knew it, too. “Maybe so,” he said. “But I don’t get the impression Boykin lets a little thing like the law get in the way of what he does. He’ll do what he wants and then find a way to justify it.”

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  Jake followed Atkins across the dirt yard to the Administration Building. Atkins had not explained the purpose of this visit, just told him to move, and Jake wasn’t about to ask the guard any questions. He struggled to keep up.

  Entering the building Atkins knocked on a Plexiglas wall to gain the attention of a civilian seated at a desk behind the wall. The lock buzzed. Atkins pushed in the door and escorted Jake down a sterile corridor past two doors with narrow windows. Jake slowed to look in and saw a kid in red coveralls sitting alone on a bunk.

  “Eyes front,” Atkins ordered.

  At the end of the hall Atkins used a key to open another door and led Jake into a room with nothing but two blue plastic chairs. He directed him to sit and exited the opposite side of the room, leaving Jake alone. His imagination provided any number of scenarios as to what awaited him.

  After several minutes the interior door opened and T.J. walked out, tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyes puffy and red. Officer Bradley stepped out after him.

  “Hey,” Jake said, but T.J. turned his shoulder and continued past, not uttering a word.

  “Stand-up!” Atkins motioned Jake inside. He took a tentative step forward. Atkins shoved him the rest of the way in. “Move, I don’t have all night.”

  The room contained a single chair and a metal table. On the table was a black, old-fashioned telephone except it did not have either a number keypad or a rotary dial. A window separated the room from a smaller room, the setup like a recording studio.

  “You get one phone call.”

  Jake sighed in relief. Then he asked, “How do I dial?”

  “You don’t. I place the call. Before I do, let’s get a few things straight. I’ll be sitting in that room listening to every word you say. Understood?”

  Jake nodded.

  “There’s a time delay between the time you speak and when the words are transmitted. The person on the other end won’t know it, and you don’t tell them. I have a button. I press it any time you say something I consider inappropriate. Understood?”

  Another nod.

  “So unless you want to go hunting again in the morning I’d suggest you think real hard about what you intend to say.” He glared. “You get three minutes. At two minutes and forty-five seconds you’ll hear a buzz. That means it’s time to wrap it up. If you go over your allotted time you lose your next phone privilege. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Who do you want to call?”

  “My father.”

  “Give me the number.”

  THE TRISTAN MOTEL

  TRISTAN, CALIFORNIA

  Tom Molia disconnected the call and wiped his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself before he opened the interior door connecting the rooms to rejoin Sloane and Lynch. When he did, Lynch stood.

  “I’ll be in my room if you need me.” She placed a comforting hand on Molia’s shoulder but offered no words before closing the door.

  “He’s okay,” Molia said, still gathering himself. “He’s scared, but he says he’s okay.”

  Sloane knew Molia well enough to know from his restrained tone that he didn’t fully believe that to be the case.

  “I did fine until I had to hang up,” Molia said. He blew out a breath. “That was the hardest part.”

  “Did he mention Jake?” Sloane had still not received a phone call, and given the status of his relationship with Jake he wasn’t sure he would. If, as the parent liaison said, Jake only got one call he might choose to call Frank.

  Molia shook his head. “He said he’s not allowed to talk about anyone else.”

  “What about the confession or the waiver of his right to an attorney?”

  Molia shook his head. “He couldn’t discuss those either.”

  “What could he say?”

  Molia slumped on the edge of the bed, voice soft. “He has a bed in a dorm. They’ve fed him. They’re treating him okay.”

  “You didn’t say anything about us filing a motion for a new trial.”

  Molia shook his head. They had discussed it and decided not to tell either boy and get their hopes up unnecessarily. “They’ve obviously coached them on what they can and can’t talk about, and most jails monitor phone calls and incoming and outgoing mail. I’d suspect this place does the same. There’s a pause. At first I thought T.J. was being hesitant, but it’s too consistent. It’s a time delay to allow someone listening in to edit what’s said a
nd heard. I’d keep anything you don’t want broadcast under your hat.”

  Sloane nodded. “I am sorry, Tom.”

  Molia raised a hand and let it fall. “This isn’t your fault, David. I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier. I was tired and frustrated. I took it out on you. When I talked to Maggie she told me not to come home without T.J. It’s just that… I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to him, but I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost her.”

  “We’re going to get them out.”

  Molia didn’t comment.

  “Jake’s all I got left, Tom. Tina’s gone. I don’t have anyone else. I’m not leaving here without him. I’m going to get them out. And no judge with an overinflated ego or security guard masquerading as a cop is going to keep me from doing so. A day. A month. A year. I don’t care how long it takes. They’re going to get to know me around here. They’re going to get to know me real well.”

  Sloane’s cell phone rang. No numbers appeared on the screen, just the word “Private.”

  “Blocked call,” he said.

  “That’s Jake,” Molia said.

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  David answered before the third ring.

  “Jake?”

  “Dad?”

  “How are you, son?”

  David’s voice had a strange, amplified tone. Jake looked to the glass behind which Atkins sat wearing headphones. Atkins pointed to his wristwatch and smiled.

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “What’s wrong with your voice? It sounds hoarse.”

  “I, uh, I don’t know. I think maybe I caught a cold or something.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake. We tried to get there. Tom and I tried to get to court but—”

  The words stopped. Jake looked to Atkins. He had pressed the button.

  “—anyway for the first thirty days.”

  Jake had no idea what David had just said. “I’m sorry, too, Dad. I guess I deserved this, but I’m real sorry about T.J. I think he’s having a harder time.” Jake looked to the window. Atkins shook his head and pressed the button.

  “Could you tell Mr. Molia I’m sorry?”

  “I’ll tell him. But he doesn’t blame you, Jake. Are they treating you okay?”

  Atkins held up his finger to indicate he would depress the button. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re treating me real good, Dad. This is a real nice place. It’s like a camp, you know? Remember that soccer camp I went to that I loved so much?” Jake had not liked the camp and hoped David recalled as much. “They have basketball courts and a lake and one of those outdoor theaters. What are they called?”

  “An amphitheater?”

  “I think maybe they put on plays or something. I don’t know yet. And we get to go on hikes.” Jake looked to Atkins. “I went on a hike this afternoon.”

  “How was that?”

  Atkins sat poised to depress the button. “It was hard, but I think this place is going to help me do better, you know?”

  Jake heard three beeps. He looked to Atkins, who made a slashing gesture across his throat. “I have to go now, Dad.”

  “I love you, Jake. You take care of yourself.”

  Jake spoke more quickly. “Could you do me a favor, Dad?”

  “Anything.”

  Jake looked to the glass. Another three beeps. “Could you tell Mom I love her? And tell her I miss her, and I hope she comes to visit.” Atkins tapped on the glass.

  Time was up.

  Jake hung up the phone and stood from his chair as Atkins reentered the room. “You did real good, Stand-up. I was sure you’d screw up again, but you actually stuck to the rules. Maybe there’s hope for your sorry ass.”

  “Maybe,” Jake said, “I just needed the right motivation.”

  THE TRISTAN MOTEL

  TRISTAN, CALIFORNIA

  When Tom Molia reentered the room Sloane had his head down, eyes closed.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Molia asked.

  Sloane couldn’t get his jaw to work, couldn’t speak. His mind continued to go over Jake’s request. “He asked me to tell his mother he loved her. He asked me to bring her for a visit.”

  Molia stood mute.

  Sloane stood. “He also talked about a soccer camp he attended and how much he loved it. He said Fresh Start was like that camp.”

  Sloane looked to Molia. “Jake hated that camp. He hated the bunkhouse and the food and said the older boys bullied the younger ones. He wanted to come home after a day. He was sending me a message. They’re in trouble, Tom. They’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Big Baby lay on his lower bunk, a hand down the front of his white boxers, nursing a boner as if he were the only person in the room. Jake had removed his mattress from the top bunk and shoved it against the far wall, as far from the man-child as he could get. At just minutes before “lights out” some in the dorm were screwing around, hurling insults at one another. Others were rushing to get things into their plastic bins. A guard stood at the front of the room watching.

  When the first bell rang everyone dutifully climbed into their beds. A minute later the clock on the wall buzzed and the lights shut off, plunging the room into darkness but for elongated rectangles of light on the floor, moonlight streaming through the overhead windows. Jake heard the guard leave, the door shutting. His eyes adjusted quickly. He noted a green blinking light atop the camera in the corner of the room and three red lights, evenly spaced across the ceiling, marking the locations of the smoke alarms. Though exhausted, he fought to stay awake, alternately counting to himself or singing the words to songs in his head, but his body could not hold out. His eyes fluttered open and shut and he felt himself drifting off.

  The sound of metal springs creaking woke him. Big Baby rose from his bed, a huge black shape. He seemed to hover for a moment, staring down at Jake. Fear pulsed through him, and he clenched his fists, determined to fight if Big Baby came for him, but Big Baby turned and walked down the aisle, toward the door, likely headed to the bathroom to relieve his boner.

  Halfway down the aisle, however, Big Baby stopped.

  Jake sat up and looked to the corner of the room. The light above the camera no longer blinked, and it was no longer green. It was solid red.

  He looked back to the center aisle and watched Big Baby move to one of the bunks. He heard another bed creak, then a muffled protest followed by a frightening silence that seemed eternal. The ensuing sounds, however, were even more horrifying: whimpers of pain, the rhythmic creaking of the metal bed, and Big Baby’s escalating, hedonistic grunts.

  ELEVEN

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  The spray hit him in the face, startling him awake.

  Jake jerked to a sitting position and instinctively raised a hand to deflect the stream. Big Baby stood over him, urinating.

  Jake jumped to his feet but with the block wall at his back he had no place to escape. The yellow stream became an arc, and Big Baby laughed as he redirected his aim, finishing with a shot to Jake’s mattress.

  “Time to wake up,” he said. “You don’t follow the rules, we all get punished.”

  Big Baby gave Jake a final inane laugh before walking to where the others had already formed a line for the door. A guard stood waiting but if he saw Big Baby’s wake-up call he didn’t care. Jake, dead tired, had not heard the alarm. He trudged to the back of the line, assessing his condition. He felt as though he’d been run over by a truck, his legs and arms leaden and his head heavy. He followed the others, looking up at the camera as he approached the door. The blinking green light pulsed, but the camera no longer rotated left and right. It remained stationary, the lens pointing directly at him.

  WINCHESTER COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  The following morning, Sloane and Lynch filed the motion for a new trial along with their motion that it be heard on shortened notic
e as soon as the Winchester County clerk’s office opened at 8:00 AM. They also filed a separate motion to obtain a transcription of the record of the prior day’s hearing. The Winchester County clerk, Evelyn Newcomber, handled the papers herself and said she would hand deliver copies of the pleadings to the prosecutor’s office, also located on the first floor of the courthouse, as well as to Judge Boykin’s chambers on the third floor. She suggested Sloane and Lynch wait in the lobby and she would bring them file-stamped copies of the pleadings, as well as Boykin’s order either granting or denying the motion to hear the matter on shortened notice.

  Sloane paced the terra-cotta tiles, alternately adjusting the knot of his tie and tugging on the sleeve of the sport coat. The clothes Lynch brought were not a bad fit, but his left arm was slightly longer than his right, and he usually had to have his pants hemmed. Molia also paced. Neither of them had slept, not after the phone call from Jake, and the detective had pronounced bags under his eyes.

  Sloane knew it possible Boykin would refuse to accommodate them, refuse to hear their motion that morning and instead set the motion to be heard at some future date on the court’s calendar just to make their lives difficult and to send his own message reaffirming who was in charge. But Sloane didn’t think so. He hoped that the ego and temper Boykin flashed the prior morning was not an aberration but a reflection of the man’s personality and that it would again get the better of him. Sloane pegged Judge Earl to be the type who did not like to have his authority challenged, and in Sloane’s experience those were the types who usually went out of their way to look for a fight and rarely had enough common sense to back down gracefully. The motion for a new trial was a direct challenge to Judge Boykin’s decision to incarcerate T.J. and Jake, and Sloane and Lynch had deliberately not pulled any punches drafting it. If anything they chose words intended to inflame, calling the sentencing “a gross miscarriage of justice” and Boykin’s decision “woefully lacking in both legal support and equity.” Their request that Boykin hear their motion on shortened notice, that very morning, was also a direct shot at the judge’s compulsive need to run his courtroom on schedule.