With absolutely no fanfare, the Curtlees’ lawyer reentered through the back door with his client.
The last time Durbin had seen Ro Curtlee, on the day of the original verdict against him nearly ten years before, he’d been a clean-shaven, good-looking young man with short-cropped hair, wearing a three-piece business suit and tie. Now, shackled hand and foot in his orange prisoner’s jumpsuit, jail slippers, and with a large cast on his slinged left arm, Ro was the picture of middle-aged dejection and defeat. His uncombed over-the-ears hair and general unshaven, disheveled appearance added to the impression, as did a still-swollen mouth, a bandage over the bridge of his nose, and a black eye. As he shuffled through the courtroom with his lawyer on his way to the defense table, the gallery first and briefly went silent, and then broke into a low roar of indignant reaction.
Novio, smiling next to his brother-in-law, leaned over and, his hand covering his mouth, whispered, “Good move. Going for the sympathy vote.”
Durbin started to pick up some antipolice slurs—Nazis, thugs, bastards—from the other side of the gallery, but before they got out of hand, Ro got himself seated next to his lawyer at the defense table, and the bailiff came into the courtroom by the judge’s podium and bellowed, “All rise. Department Eleven of the Superior Court of the State of California is now in session, Judge Erin Donahoe presiding.”
11
At first glance, Donahoe’s diminutive size seemed of a piece with a low-key, even shy personality. When she was thoughtful or amused, her features were not unattractive—a bobbed little nose, light blue eyes, fashionable rimless eyeglasses, and shoulder-length light hair shining enough for a shampoo commercial. When challenged or confronted by turbulent forces, however, the look changed quickly and dramatically—the eyes squinted down, the laugh lines around them vanishing into exaggerated crow’s feet, the small mouth pursed into a disapproving button, a flush tending to rise into her cheeks. Now, as she ascended the podium, it was clear that something had already compromised her composure. She wore an air of defensiveness around her as obvious as her formless black robes.
As the gallery sat with her, she cast a dark eye on Ro Curtlee—Durbin couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to his injuries and general appearance or because she knew he was a rapist and killer. But the look didn’t soften as she brought her gaze to the prosecution table, and then up to the gallery, which hung quietly—now even more quietly—in anticipation.
“Let me state for the record,” she began in a low voice that barely carried to the bar rail, much less the back of the courtroom, “that I’ve got eighty-five lines and thirteen preliminary hearings to get through today, and I mean to get through them all.” Cases in superior court are called “lines”—each defendant taking up one line on the computer printout prepared for the calendar courtroom. “At the request of Mr. Farrell, I’m going to call Line Twelve first. I expect to get this circus out of my courtroom so I can get down to business. Would counsel announce their appearances, please?”
After they’d done so, Donahoe announced that she wanted to make it clear that this was an arraignment and bail hearing, not a preliminary hearing. “We’re not spending all morning on this. Mr. Farrell, understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Denardi?”
“Clear, Your Honor.”
“All right. Would the clerk call the line, please?”
From her desk, the clerk didn’t even look up: “Line Twelve, The People of the State of California versus Roland Curtlee.”
“Mr. Denardi, does your client waive instruction and arraignment?”
Denardi, on his feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Plea?”
Prompted by his lawyer, Ro Curtlee stood up and said, “Not guilty.”
Donahoe stayed with the logistics. “Before discussing a time waiver, counsel, I take it you want to argue bail.”
All sense of decorum and procedure immediately dissolved. Denardi, still on his feet, came out swinging. “If it please the court. In the course of a bogus no-warrant arrest by Lieutenant Glitsky and two other officers, my client was severely beaten on Saturday night, some of the results of which you can see here today . . .”
“Your Honor.” Amanda Jenkins jumped up at her table. “I object to counsel’s description of a ‘bogus’ arrest. Defendant had gone to Lieutenant Glitsky’s home and threatened him and his family, which under Penal Code Section Four twenty-two . . .”
“Your Honor, if I may.” Denardi didn’t wait for permission to speak, and Donahoe made no attempt to stop him. “Counsel’s characterization of Mr. Curtlee’s personal visit to Lieutenant Glitsky’s home as a threat that rises to the level of four twenty-two is absurd and completely unsupported by any facts or evidence.”
Counsel are usually expected to direct all their remarks to the judge, but they were already long past that and Donahoe didn’t seem inclined or even able to stop them. Jenkins turned and spoke directly to Denardi. “You’re denying he went to Glitsky’s home?”
The elderly defense attorney shook his head as though something amused him. “No, he went to the lieutenant’s home, all right, but more or less to lodge a personal protest about the fact that the lieutenant had come to Mr. Curtlee’s home just the previous night, and for just as little reason.”
“Just as little reason? You can’t be serious. Lieutenant Glitsky was investigating the murder of a witness in Mr. Curtlee’s previous case. That’s a compelling reason.”
“If you believe that’s really what it was, and not pure harassment.”
“Well, gosh, maybe I won’t just accept your bought-and-paid-for opinion, Counselor. But that’s what the evidence shows.” Jenkins swung back to the judge. “Your Honor, these allegations of harassment and police brutality are ridiculous on their face. The witnesses in Mr. Curtlee’s previous case are being murdered one by one. Any sane person has to know that Mr. Curtlee is in this up to his neck.”
“Ridiculous!” Denardi exploded, giving full voice to his rage. “Just look at the man! What’s ridiculous has been his treatment at the hands of the police. He’s been battered half to death. You call this . . . ?”
Suddenly Donahoe seemed to realize that the give-and-take in the courtroom had gotten completely out of her control, and she cleared her throat and lightly tapped her gavel. “Ms. Jenkins, Mr. Denardi. Let’s not get into a personal squabble here, all right? I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this and resolve it to everyone’s satisfaction. Would you both mind sitting down, please? Thank you. Now, moving along, Mr. Farrell, do the people have information for bail purposes?”
After the near brawl that had been developing, the silence that suddenly reigned in the courtroom was unsettling. It took Farrell a few seconds to get to his feet. “Your Honor,” he began, “the defendant is currently awaiting trial for murder and has been out on bail since his release from state prison. Within days of his release, one of the witnesses in his murder trial has been killed. After Lieutenant Glitsky went to question him about his whereabouts at the time of that murder, the next day Mr. Curtlee went to the lieutenant’s home and threatened him and his family.”
Denardi wasn’t going to let this pass and again rose to his feet. “Your Honor, we’ve heard this before and it’s simply not true.”
Farrell, again ignoring protocol because Donahoe didn’t seem to care about it, turned to his opponent. “It’s absolutely true, Tristan, and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the sort, Wes. You tell me one word of actual threat that Mr. Curtlee said. Or even that Glitsky alleges he said.”
“He pointed at Glitsky’s daughter and made a point of saying she was a nice-looking child.”
Raising his hands theatrically Denardi let out a laugh and turned to the judge. “I rest my case, Your Honor. Calling a child nice-looking is hardly a threat.”
Now Farrell raised his own voice, losing his temper. “Going to the house, by itself, is a threat. Mr. Curtlee’s a convicted rapist a
nd murderer out on bail. He’s a suspect in the murder of the chief witness and he went to the house of the police inspector assigned to the case. You’d have to be crazy not to see what’s going on here.”
Again, finally, Donahoe lowered her gavel. “Gentlemen,” she said. “Please.” Then, “Mr. Farrell, I believe you were talking about bail. What was the original bail, by the way?”
“On the murder, ten million dollars, Your Honor. When officers tried to arrest Mr. Curtlee in this case, he took a gun and tried to kill one of them. Attempted murder of a police officer is a no-bail offense.”
Nodding sagely, she asked, “Who set the bail on the murder?”
“Judge Baretto.”
“And what are the people requesting this time around?”
“We want the scheduled bail, Your Honor. No bail in light of the current offenses and the defendant’s history.”
“Ridiculous!” Denardi said. “That’s insane.”
Donahoe simply nodded, acknowledging the interruption, but tacitly condoning it.
“And what are the charges, exactly, this time?” she asked.
Farrell looked down at his notes, impassive in the face of what he knew to be more problems. He and Glitsky and Jenkins were at least on relatively firm ground charging Ro with the one count of threatening an executive officer that Glitsky had gone down to arrest him for. But the fracas during the arrest had overshadowed that original charge and now Farrell was stuck with Glitsky’s and Jenkins’ egregious overcharging. But there was nothing for it. He had to brazen it through. “One count of threatening an executive officer (four twenty-two), one count of attempted murder on a police officer (six sixty-four/one eighty-seven). Three counts assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon (two forty-five[d] [one]), both of these latter two with firearm enhancement. Three counts,” Farrell went on, “battery on a police officer (two forty-three[b]). All charges with a twelve-oh-two-two point one enhancement, since the defendant incurred these charges while he was out on bail.”
“Your Honor!” Denardi again, on his feet. “There was no attempted murder. One of the officer’s duty weapons fell out of its holster and Mr. Curtlee picked it up.”
“And pulled the trigger,” Jenkins said.
“I don’t think so, Amanda. And beyond that, Your Honor, the alleged assault was pure self-defense. The police arrived at his house without a warrant and then attacked Mr. Curtlee when he went outside to find out what was going on with more police presence out in his street. This was a bogus arrest, as I’ve said before. Anyone would have resisted it, would have been justified resisting it, even with force.”
This speech got a little rise out of the gallery, and yet again, Donahoe made no effort to control it, but rather let it run its course.
“Your Honor,” Farrell said over the slowly subsiding hum. “All three police officers involved in the arrest are in the courtroom and are willing to testify about—”
But here, finally, Donahoe seemed to disapprove. Her mouth went tight and the flush came up in her face. “We’re not turning this into a preliminary hearing, Mr. Farrell. I believe I made that clear during my opening comments. The question is about bail. And, to be honest, I’m tempted to send it back over to Judge Baretto and see what he thinks we ought to do.”
“Your Honor.” Jenkins stood up next to Farrell and tried with only minimal success to keep her voice neutral. “With respect, as Mr. Farrell has already said, the people seek no bail at all. Not even at the ten-million-dollar level. That the defendant has been allowed back on the street at all is a mockery of the judicial process.”
“Now, now,” Donahoe said. “I don’t know if that’s a little too strong . . .”
“It’s a mockery, all right,” Denardi said, again rising and getting into the act. “But it’s these charges that are a mockery. Not only fabricated and vindictive, they’re—”
“All right, all right, Mr. Denardi, that’s enough. I take your point. Now just give me a minute here, would you all?” The judge looked down and ruffled through some pages in front of her. Picking up her pen, she made a few notes while the courtroom hung in suspense. Finally she looked up and offered a confident smile first to the prosecution table, then over to the defense. Mixed signals everywhere it was possible to send them. “I think Judge Baretto’s set a bit of a precedent here. Due to the questions about the legality of the arrest itself and so forth, I believe a reasonable bail would be five hundred thousand dollars.”
At these words, the courtroom exploded into applause that got interrupted by Jenkins, who could no longer restrain herself. “Your Honor!” she exploded.
“Oh, counsel,” Donahoe said. “There’s no jury here. You don’t have to make a speech to impress anybody. You know as well as I do that defendants have rights. We’ll get to the bottom of all this”—apparently one of Donahoe’s pet phrases—“the charges and so on, after the preliminary hearing. And at that time, I’m making a note to revisit the bail question in light of the facts that come out during that hearing.”
Another wave of what was clearly approbation made itself felt in the gallery, and Donahoe smiled, acknowledging that she’d made a crowd-pleasing decision. “Now, Mr. Denardi,” Donahoe went on, “I assume that you’d have no objection to waiving time.”
She was asking the defense counsel if he’d agree to postpone the preliminary hearing of his client beyond the ten days that the law provided. And of course it was to Ro’s great advantage that Denardi did this. And then he’d waive time after the preliminary hearing so the trial wouldn’t start within the sixty days the law provided, either. In fact, this was the beginning of the defense’s orchestrated delaying tactics that could postpone a trial for a year or more.
“Your Honor!” Again Jenkins stood, although by now she was running out of steam. “The people object to waiving time.”
Donahoe looked not unkindly down at her. “Thank you, counsel, but of course counsel is entitled to time to prepare. Mr. Denardi?”
“Defense will waive time, Your Honor. We’re going to need considerable time to do a background check on these arresting officers. Two months from today to set?”
“Granted.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Donahoe looked down for one last time at Farrell and Jenkins and gave them a slight shrug of her shoulders, as if telling them she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter of her rulings. Then, moving along, she nodded to her clerk. “Call the next line,” she said.
Everybody was standing up, clearing room for the next case.
Durbin watched Ro Curtlee break into a smile and rise at the defense table with his attorney. Turning around, Ro reached over the bar rail, nodded at the mayor, shook his father’s hand, and put an arm around his mother, drawing her in with a hug.
No sign of pain now, Durbin noted. No hint of hangdog.
“What a travesty,” he whispered to his brother-in-law. “I’m trying to believe this, and I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s a great country,” Novio said. “You gotta love it.”
Durbin found that he couldn’t keep his eyes off the man he’d helped send to prison so many years ago. Ro broke from his mother’s embrace and looked out over the gallery. When his eyes got to Durbin, he stopped for a long beat.
Could it be that he recognized him?
Durbin quickly looked down and away, avoiding eye contact, his heart suddenly a pumping jackhammer in his ears. When he felt it was safe, that Ro had moved on to someone else, he again looked up. Sure enough, Ro’s gaze had now brought him back around to the front, where Glitsky and Lapeer and the two younger officers had come up to the bar rail by Farrell and Jenkins, all of them clearly dejected and angry.
Durbin might have been afraid to have any eye contact with Ro Curtlee, but that didn’t seem to be Glitsky’s problem. When Ro’s line of sight got to the lieutenant, the two of them stared at each other for a long moment. Ro put his smile back on, shook his head as though they
’d all just enjoyed a good prank together, and pointed a finger at Glitsky. Then, to Durbin’s shock, he cocked his thumb and “shot” him.
Glitsky didn’t react in any way. His face a solemn mask, the scar white through his lips, he kept up his stare until, at last, Ro looked away.
“Jesus,” Durbin said.
“What?”
“You see that?”
“Yeah, I did. Your Ro’s a pretty ballsy guy.”
“He scares the shit out of me. I think he might have just recognized me.”
“And what would that mean?”
“I don’t know.” Durbin threw a quick glance back up to the front, where Ro was still talking to the mayor and his parents and his attorney and one of the bailiffs, trying to get them moving, get him out of the jail clothes, and get his new bail processed. “Maybe nothing,” Durbin said. “But if it is anything, it’s trouble.”
“After all these years, I don’t think so.”
Durbin shrugged. “I hope you’re right.” He breathed out heavily. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come down here to see this. If he’s going after people from his last trial and he sees me . . .”
Novio put a hand on Durbin’s arm. “Easy, Michael. If he went after this woman from his last trial, it was because she was going to be part of his next one. You, not the same at all.”
“Okay. I guess you’re right.”
Why, Durbin wondered, had he come down here after all? Probably, he thought, because he had wanted to see his work finished at last, this criminal back in jail where he forever belonged. And now that had not happened and he suddenly realized that he was very frightened—he didn’t want any part of Ro or any of the Curtlees even marginally aware of his own life.
By now the rows behind them had cleared and they started filing out with the crowd. In a couple of minutes, they were outside in the hallway, Durbin now anxious to be gone, to be no part of this anymore.
Damage Page 10