Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

  “And painful.”

  “It hurt like hell for days.”

  “Did you go to the hospital?” I ask. “To be examined, taken care of?”

  She pauses. “You mean, by myself?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? If it was so painful?”

  “I was too scared.”

  “That the hospital might tell the police, and then you’d have to tell about the bikers, and they’d make good on their threats to come back and kill you,” I elaborate.

  “Yes.”

  “When the police … when officers Sanchez and Gomez … when they found you, were you still experiencing pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bleeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they do anything to help you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They took me to the hospital.”

  “Objection!” from Robertson, on his feet, his arm outstretched.

  “Over-ruled,” Martinez barks, never taking his eyes off Rita.

  “And they saw to it that you were taken care of,” I say.

  “Yes,” she answers.

  “And only after that did they take you up to the mountains and start to get your story.”

  “Yes.”

  I stand in front of her. Our eyes meet. I look at her with as much warmth and reassurance as I can muster.

  “You lied before, didn’t you? At the trial.”

  “Yes.” Eyes downcast, her entire body shaking. If I’ve ever felt for her, it’s now.

  “And you’re telling the truth today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely and without reservation and without any coercion or promises from me.”

  “Yes,” she answers, in a firm, clear voice. “I ain’t lying now.”

  “Miss Gomez.”

  Robertson stands in front of her, poised on the balls of his feet. He leans in towards her. She draws away from him, pressing her back against the hard oak chair.

  “Why should anyone in this room believe what you’ve told us today?”

  “Because it’s the truth,” she says, defensively.

  “I see. The truth.”

  “That’s right,” she answers, more aggressively. I’d coached her to be prepared for this, and not to back down. She has right on her side, and she shouldn’t be afraid to stand up for herself; in her case, easier said than done.

  “And what you said at the trial, that was the truth, too, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “But you said it was. You swore on a Bible that it was.”

  “I swore falsely.” She looks up at Martinez. “I had to, judge. They would’ve sent me to jail otherwise.”

  “So you say,” Robertson barks at her. His voice echoes through the courtroom.

  “It’s the truth,” she protests, jumping in her seat, startled and frightened.

  “You seem scared, Miss Gomez,” Robertson tells her. “I barely raised my voice. Of course, you should be; you’re involved in a pack of lies here, a web of deceit that makes this courtroom stink to high hell!”

  “I am not,” she answers gamely.

  “Why should anyone believe a word of what you’ve said here?” he thunders. “Of what’s in these raggedy-ass pages,” he continues, holding her new testimony in his hand.

  “Because …” she starts to say.

  “Because it’s the truth,” he answers for her, cutting her off, the sarcasm dripping. “Because you, an admitted liar and perjurer, say so.”

  “It is,” she whimpers.

  “Sure,” he comes back, “and the moon’s made out of green cheese.”

  Martinez leans down from his perch.

  “Counselor,” he tells Robertson, “lay off the hyperbole, okay? And stop browbeating this witness.”

  “Browbeating this witness?” Robertson exclaims. “Browbeating … what’s there to browbeat, your honor, this woman is completely without credibility!”

  “That’s for me to decide,” Martinez tells him.

  “That’s right,” Robertson says. “It’s for you, the court, to decide.” He’s fighting to keep in control, and it’s hard, because he’s a true believer. “And may I remind your honor that your decision must be based on clear and over-riding evidence, hard evidence. It’s not enough that a witness says she’s telling the truth now and was lying then. You have to be convinced that what she’s testifying to now is the truth, beyond the shadow of a doubt, virtually, and all the rest is lies. You have to be completely convinced of that.

  “And you also have to be convinced,” he continues, turning away for a moment to give my clients a look of utter contempt, “that if her testimony today is true, her sworn testimony, then several officers of this court have committed criminal acts. Grievous acts, acts that could imprison them. They are flat-out liars, and Rita Gomez sits at the right hand of the Virgin Mary.”

  “I’m aware of my duties,” Martinez tells him, his voice cold with anger. “But thank you for reminding me.”

  “I mean no disrespect towards you, Judge Martinez,” Robertson tells him, eating a little humble pie, “but I just can’t believe her. She is the most unpredictable and contrary witness I have ever encountered in all my years of practicing law.”

  Martinez looks at him through hooded eyelids.

  “When she was your witness you believed her well enough,” he says.

  My argument exactly.

  “Because her testimony was consistent with all the other facts in the case,” Robertson protests. “What we’re hearing today is utterly without foundation.”

  Martinez shakes his head. “I can’t agree with you.”

  “Let me give you a specific example,” Robertson pleads.

  “That would be helpful,” Martinez tells him dryly.

  Robertson turns to Rita.

  “You’ve said that when detectives Gomez and Sanchez located you, you were still in bad shape from being raped.”

  “I was. Real bad, still.”

  “And that they took you to the hospital and got you fixed up.”

  “Yes.”

  “What hospital was that, Miss Gomez? Do you recall?”

  “I’m not sure. I was kind of in a daze. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “But a hospital with an emergency-room facility. They took you to the emergency room.”

  “The emergency room, definitely.”

  “And the hospital was in Santa Fe.”

  She nods. “We didn’t have to go very far.”

  “Who paid for this, Miss Gomez? Did you pay?”

  “No, man. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Well, maybe your insurance company paid.”

  “I ain’t got no insurance,” she says, almost laughing; she virtually lives on the street, to her the thought of having luxuries like insurance is simply ridiculous. “I can’t even afford a car or a decent apartment.”

  “Maybe the policemen paid? The detectives who allegedly brought you there?”

  “They must’ve. I never thought about it one way or the other.”

  Robertson turns to the bench. And I suddenly realize where he’s taking this and I kick myself for not following through properly.

  “There are three hospitals in the Santa Fe area with emergency facilities, your honor. We have gone to all of them and checked out the date in question when Miss Gomez would have been admitted. In fact, we checked from the day she said she was raped until the day she voluntarily gave her statement about this incident. None of those hospitals have any record of a Rita Gomez being admitted to their emergency room or any facility of theirs.”

  He crosses to his table, picks up a large envelope, hands it to Martinez.

  “Do you have a copy for me?” I ask, testily, glancing at Mary Lou. I’m really pissed at myself, I should’ve been prepared for this.

  He hands me a duplicate envelope. I pass it to Mary Lou, who rapidly
skims the contents, silently hands it to me. We both feel dumb as stones.

  Martinez reads his more carefully.

  “These appear to be in order,” he finally says.

  “They are, your honor,” Robertson replies. “My staff double-checked them personally. We had to be sure. She was never in a Santa Fe emergency room on any of those dates.”

  He takes a hard look at Rita, then turns back to the bench.

  “Plain and simple, your honor, she lied about going to the hospital. She was never there.”

  “That appears to be the case, yes,” Martinez says.

  “It’s her pattern, your honor. She’s a liar. And if she lied about this, which, although important, is not critical, who’s to say she isn’t lying about something else? About everything else? Who’s to say that what she’s told this court today, and in her so-called sworn statement that this testimony is based on, is nothing more than a desperate pack of lies?”

  “It’s the truth!”

  Martinez bangs his gavel.

  “Please restrain yourself, Miss Gomez,” he warns her.

  “I have a different theory about these events, your honor,” Robertson says. “It’s much more in keeping with the facts that were developed at trial, and with the personalities in this case.”

  He turns and stares at our table, at the four convicts sitting there in Death Row overalls.

  “These four men here, in front of us, are scum. They are the worst kind of cancer in our society, and they have committed crimes from here to eternity, practically. They were convicted in a fair and square trial. And they were sentenced to their just rewards.”

  “So what about this hospital shit?” Lone Wolf asks in a whisper, leaning close to me. “Is that for real?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I’ll try to find out.”

  I’ll try to find out as fast as I can; this is blowing a big hole in our case.

  “But they couldn’t accept that,” Robertson continues. “They were going to get her to change her story, one way or the other.” He turns to the bench. “We all know the horror stories about men like these. And we know that they spread their poisonous tentacles all over the country. That their comrades-in-arms from other chapters stand ready and waiting to assist them.”

  The truth is, he’s right. Not in this specific, but in the general mix of things he’s right.

  “Someone got to her,” Robertson states flatly. “Another Scorpion, Hell’s Angel, one of them. Somehow, despite her best efforts to get herself out of harm’s way so she could start a new life, they found her. And they scared her to death so that she’d come up with this story she’s brought in here today. Not only that …”

  “Objection!” I’m on my feet. “This is supposed to be cross-examination of a witness, your honor, not a formal summation.”

  “Agreed,” Martinez says. “Sustained.”

  “I’d like to respond to that, your honor,” I continue.

  “What is it?” Martinez asks.

  “Someone did get to Rita Gomez. I did; initially. I found her—let me correct that, my colleague Ms. Bell found her—and I took her statement at that time. Later on, when she was about to appear before this court, someone did get to her. According to her, it was one of the officers who had originally corrupted her.”

  “Bullshit!”

  We all turn. Moseby’s standing, his face beet-red.

  “That’s a lie, your honor!”

  Martinez slams down his gavel.

  “Sit down and shut up,” he commands. “Or you will be forcibly escorted from this courtroom right now!”

  He turns to all of us.

  “This is not the proper time to be discussing these allegations,” he warns us. “We will deal with them at the right time, which is when I say it is.”

  He turns to Robertson. “Are you finished with this witness?” he asks, taking no pains to conceal the anger in his voice.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Then she may stand down, subject to recall.” He looks up at the clock. “This court stands adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” He stares at Robertson, then at me. “Let’s try to conduct the remainder of this hearing with less rancor and hysteria—from both of you.”

  With a sweep of his robes, he storms out, leaving us all hanging.

  At three o’clock in the morning, Ellen, my intrepid researcher, walks into my office with a geek. She’s done a great job of finding a needle in a haystack. She preens as she introduces him. We shake hands. His is cold and wet.

  Then the geek, a pimply-faced computer nerd in his late teens, sits at my desk, opens a Toshiba T3100SX mini-computer, hooks his modem up to my telephone, and starts to type.

  AT ROBERTSON’S INSISTENCE (and what seems to be my and Mary Lou’s grudging acquiescence) Sanchez and Gomez are brought to the stand. Each categorically denies having taken Rita to any hospital at any time, or to have in any way brainwashed her or caused her to alter her story in any fashion. They stand on their previous testimony and on their combined service of more than forty years as deputies in the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office, during which time they have received nothing but accolades.

  A ridiculously skewed stand-off—the sworn testimony of two highly-decorated police officers against that of an admitted liar.

  “CALL LOUIS BONFIGLIO to the stand.” The geek shuffles down the aisle, crosses to the dock, languidly raises his hand and takes the oath. He’s dressed out of Central Casting; polyester shirt, the clear plastic penholder in his pocket stuffed with ballpoints, gabardine pants belted halfway up his chest, Birkenstock sandals. Short, unkempt hair, a complexion fish-belly-pale from never being outdoors. He’s a good fifty pounds overweight: the prototypical computer nerd.

  I scoop up a pile of printouts that are laid out on the table in front of me and approach him, smiling as if to put him at ease. He smiles back; his is the smile of the smartass co-conspirator whose greatest pleasure in life is to fuck over the authorities.

  We establish his bona fides, such as they are: he’s a student at Saint John’s College here in Santa Fe (the Great Books school, home to the far-out geniuses who don’t fit into places like Harvard or Princeton), he’s one of their top math and physics students, and he’s president of the campus computer club. He is famous in the underground hacker world for having broken into the computer that monitors the nuclear power plants that supply the energy to much of the Four Corners, shutting the entire operation down for several hours last year. (Famous not only for the deed but also because he was never officially charged; the authorities didn’t want what would have been overwhelmingly negative publicity, they let him go with a severe warning. And they watch him like a hawk.)

  Since then he’s played it straight, more or less. Until last night.

  “Did you recently obtain these documents for me?” I ask him, passing across the sheaf of printouts.

  He gives them a cursory glance.

  “Yeh, I did.”

  I hold them up for Martinez to see.

  “These are the raw, unedited records from the computer in the emergency room at Saint Mary’s Hospital here in Santa Fe, your honor, for the date that Rita Gomez says she was taken there by detectives Sanchez and Gomez. If you’ll notice, the name Rita Gomez has been entered.” I put my finger on her name in the middle of the page.

  Martinez’s eyes bug open.

  “Let me see those.”

  I hand them up. He starts reading them.

  Robertson spins in his chair, looking at the two cops seated behind him. They look away. He jumps to his feet.

  “I want to see those myself.”

  “In good time,” I tell him.

  He stands in place, fuming. Martinez flips through the pages, turns back to the one I’d ear-marked for him.

  “Are these for real?” he asks finally.

  “Very real,” I assure him. “The only real hospital documents that have been introduced in this courtroom.”

&nbs
p; He hands them to his bailiff.

  “Place these in evidence,” he commands. As an afterthought: “see to it that the District Attorney’s office gets a copy.”

  Mary Lou gets up from our table and tosses a copy on the prosecution table. Robertson grabs it, quickly starts reading.

  “How did you get these?” Martinez asks me.

  “Mr. Bonfiglio obtained them for me, your honor. At four o’clock this morning.”

  The judge stares at me, conflicted.

  “Were they obtained legally?” he asks reluctantly, feeling compelled to, not wanting to.

  “To be truthful, your honor, it’s a gray area. They are not public documents per se, but Saint Mary’s is a publicly funded hospital, so a case can be made that their records are public records, as long as releasing them doesn’t breach doctor-patient confidentiality, which in this case I clearly felt did not happen.”

  Robertson, meanwhile, stops reading and strides forward.

  “With all due respect, your honor, I have never seen these documents. Until this moment, I didn’t know they existed. But it’s obvious to me that they were obtained illegally, and should not be allowed to be placed in the record of these proceedings or used in any fashion here.”

  Martinez shoots him a look that would stop a rhino in its tracks.

  “This isn’t a trial, damn it. We’re trying to find out what the hell’s going on.” He turns back to me. “Explain how you got these, and why they aren’t part of the official record.”

  “I’ll let my witness explain, if I may.”

  Martinez turns to the kid.

  “Explain.”

  Bonfiglio smiles. The kid is in his element; he’s going to savor this.

  “Sure, judge. I’d be happy to. It works like this.”

  I step back; I want all the attention to be on him. All eyes are on this geek: the bikers, Martinez, Robertson, Moseby, everyone.

  “This patient came into the hospital. They got all her information, blood type and so forth, entered it here.” He points to places on the printout. “Every patient who ever comes into a hospital goes on the record. They have to, in case they get sued later by some ambulance-chasing lawyer looking for a quick buck.” He smiles maliciously at me. Let him—he may be a geek and an asshole, but he’s my asshole.

  “Then they treated her. According to this,” he reads, “they did the following procedures: a D&C, administered blood-clotting medication, antibiotics by injection, sterile after-care measures.”