Misdemeanor Trials

by Milton Schacter

  “Your honor,” said Jacoby. “I have given a list to the prosecutor. There may be other witnesses, but we don’t intend at this time to call any additional witnesses than those on the list, however, that could change as we see the case presented by the Prosecution. I have no audio or written statements from any of the witnesses, other than appears in the police report. As far as exhibits, I have several photos of the Wal Mart parking lot, including a DVD from the Parking Lot showing my client leaving her car ten minutes before the police arrived. I have already supplied the exhibits to the Prosecution for inspection. I will stipulate to excuse all witnesses from the courtroom until called.”

  “Mr. Trader, are you satisfied?”

  “Yes, your honor,” said Trader.

  “Mr. Jacoby, do you have any motions.”

  “No, your honor. I spoke with the Prosecutor’s Legal Assistant last week and was assured I had all appropriate discovery.”

  Judge Crawford looked at the bailiff and said, “Deputy Bledsoe, call in the jury pool.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RANSOM

  “Roger.”

  --The term translates to 'understood' during police radio transmissions.

  Not unlike 'Amen' at the end of a prayer.

  Uniformed officer Kinsey followed the gurney carrying Jax into the hospital emergency room. The ER Nurse Stopped the officer from following the gurney further, and said, “We can take it from here, officer. I'll let you know.” As Kinsey turned to leave he received a dispatch call over the radio clipped to his shoulder. “54 Romeo 12, contact assault unit on a landline as soon as you can.” Kinsey called the assault unit and identified himself.

  “Kinsey, this is Detective Ransom. Is the vic alive and conscious?”

  “Negative. He is still alive, but never regained consciousness. Looks like he might not since he has a bullet hole in his head,” said Kinsey.

  Ransom said, “Stick around the hospital for a while, and if he wakes at all, let us know ASAP. We can't figure out how this guy ended up on the side of the road with a hole in his head. We went back to the apartment address on his driver's license and some gal answered. She said she never saw the guy before last night. She woke up, and he was gone. She looked like she had been rode hard and put away wet. Seems this Doctor will be the only one who can tell us what happened.”

  “Roger,” replied Kinsey.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE DONOR

  “No one who comes to E.R. has clean underwear.”

  --Denise Anderson, E.R. Nurse Philadelphia Central Hospital

  Jax recognized the odors of a hospital, but it was different. He could hear the sounds of a hospital but it was all in the darkness of his own mind. Jax tried to understand what was happening. He knew he was not working as a doctor at the hospital, and in fact he knew he did not have a job at a hospital anymore. He could not understand why he was there. Slowly, searching his memory, he recalled he was kidnapped by two people in a van. When he saw the third person on the van floor he knew what he was supposed to do.

  “This guy needs a hospital, right now,” Jax told his kidnappers. There was no response from the driver or passenger. He was driven silently to a house about 30 minutes away. The van parked in the garage and Jax was told at gunpoint to go into the house. The wounded man was carried in.

  “Fix him,” the driver said.

  “I can't. I don't have any anesthetic, or stitching, or bandages.”

  “Fix him.” the driver said, and pointed the gun inches from Jax left temple. Jax looked at the wounded man who was lying on a makeshift bed in the room that would normally be a living room. He was conscious but said nothing. The room was dirty, with garbage on the floor. Jax took off the wounded man's shirt. He saw what he recognized as a bullet entry point in the upper right chest. Bleeding was contained. He looked for an exit wound but did not find one. He followed a red blood-colored quarter inch line around to the back of his body. In his medical judgement the bullet had entered his chest, hit a right rib bone, traveled skin deep, but did not exit on the backside of the wounded man. It was not serious. At that moment, the passenger walked into the room from the back of the house. He had some bandages and tape in his hands while also holding onto the gun. He put the bandages and tape next to Jax. “Fix him,” repeated the driver. Jax cleaned the wound with a washcloth, bandaged the entry wound hole and leaned back.

  “The wound is not serious. He will live, but he needs to be taken to a hospital to have the bullet removed and to protect the wound against infection.”

  The driver raised his gun to Jax, pointing it at his head. “He will live. That is all we need to know.” That is the last thing Jax could remember.

  Jax heard what he recognized as the exchange between Doctors.

  “Looks like we have a BHC,” said one Doctor's voice.

  Jax was puzzled by the term. He heard it somewhere, but could not remember what it meant.

  Another voice asked, “Have we followed the protocol?”

  The Doctors voice said, “His records show the protocol was followed.”

  The other voice said, “Maybe we should reconfirm.”

  The Doctor replied, “The EKG downstairs showed good heart rhythm. It is not necessary to confirm because the EEG showed flatline.”

  The other voice said, “I am going to reconfirm.” The Doctor then took a few drops of water from a bowl of ice in the operating room. He sprinkled some on the ear of Jax and peered into the open eyes of Jax. “No response of shivering in the eyes.” The Doctor then poked one eye with a cotton swab. “There is no gag reflex to a swab on the eye.” Then the Doctor removed the ventilator from the mouth of Jax.” There was no sign that Jax could breathe on his own. “Looks like he failed the apnea test too. Looks like we are good to go, but I am going to hook up the EEG just to make sure.” He hooked up the EEG. “Looks flat line to me. Let's proceed”.

  Jax slowly began to see light. He could not look in any direction. He had no feeling of any part of his body. He saw the operating room light directly over his head. “What,” he asked himself, “am I doing here?” He didn't feel ice on his ear, he didn't see or feel the poke in his eye, but he did feel that he could not breathe when the ventilator was removed from his mouth. Then he realized what was happening. BHC. He was a beating-heart cadaver. He was an organ donor. He was about to be harvested. But he was still alive. He wanted someone to help.

  “Let's begin,” said the Doctor. He picked up a scalpel and made an incision starting at the midsection of his chest.

  Jax felt the knife as it cut the first layers of skin.

  “We have a reaction on the EKG, his blood pressure is rising and his heart is beginning to race, Doctor. This is the reaction we see in inadequately anesthetized live patients. Maybe we should give him some high dose fentanyl and sufentanil. They won't harm the organs but will quell the high blood pressure and heart rate during the harvesting operations.”

  The Doctor replied, “That is simply reflex. It would be a waste of drugs. We will begin with the liver, heart, lungs, and kidneys. There are two patients waiting for these right now.”

  Jax felt a strange sensation inside his body. And then his vision went and the darkness inside his mind went silent. He did not know he was dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE WARRANT

  “I like cops, except when they are anywhere near me.”

  --Baton Compresti from the book Dark Alleys

  Once again Trader was picked for his rotation to be officer of the day. Between phone calls he reviewed police reports and complaints brought over by the police for his signature. If he signed them, they would go to the Legal Assistants who would draft the arrest warrants or summons, notify the victims and witnesses, and put them into the stack ready for trial. The DUI police reports had a pattern. An officer would see a car weaving inside the lines of the freeway, or the driver would blow a stop light, or the driver would run into a tree. The officer would ask the driver ho
w much he had to drink, and invariably the answer would be “Two Beers,” even though the driver could hardly stand and his blood-alcohol content was .15. There would be some indecent exposure cases, some drug influence cases, and a shoplift or two. As John read the police reports and complaints, he heard a knock on the metal door frame of his office. He looked up from his desk and saw two men in sport coats. He knew they were police. He could see the gun holster beneath their sport coats resting high on their hips.

  Both men were in their late 30’s, well-built and looked in great physical condition. They were dressed in sport coats and slacks, well-tailored, with white shirts and tasteful ties. The taller one had an American Flag in his lapel. The shorter officer was a bit older and had a buzz cut. Each carried a thin black cloth briefcase. They both had sandy hair and almost appeared cookie cutter similar, except the taller one had a tan that was of a George Hamilton quality. He spoke first. “Are you the officer of the day?”

  “Yes,” answered John. “I’m John Trader.”

  “I’m Officer Sprinkles and this is Officer Miles. We’re from the Robbery and Assault unit.”

  “Have a seat,” said John. There were two metal chairs across from John’s desk in his small office. One of the chairs he had purloined from a nearby unoccupied cubicle. With the two men in the chairs, there was no more room for anyone. “What can I help you with?”

  “We’ve got a strange situation. Early this other morning an officer pulled over a van that was weaving slightly in the street of a business area. He thought it was a typical DUI, but when he approached on the driver’s side, he could see the driver was the only person in the van and he was covered with blood. The officer called for uniformed backup and then gave a call to us in the Robbery and Assault Detective unit. We got there just as the uniforms were having the driver exit the vehicle in a felony stop. When the driver stepped into the street we could tell he was injured. He fell down and the blood patterns on his clothes told us he had an injury to his chest area. When the medics arrived they confirmed what they believed was a gunshot to the chest. He was taken away by the paramedics. When we called the hospital later, they confirmed a bullet wound to the chest. He was taken to surgery. After he had been taken to the hospital we conducted an inventory search of the van. We found blood all over the inside of the driver’s compartment. Forensics came down and gathered blood evidence. On the floor on the passenger’s side we found a suppressed and loaded .38 revolver. There was one expended 9 mm cartridge from a gun which was not the .38 gun we found. We ran a trace on the serial number of the firearm, but it had never been registered. We contacted Smith and Wesson and they said that serial number was part of a multimillion dollar firearm purchase by the Army and was shipped in bulk to Afghanistan ten years ago. The van was registered to a Than Aseb Saeed, but the address on the registration was an empty lot. We couldn’t find anyone with a driver’s license by that name. The guy in the hospital had a wallet that identified him as a 22 year old named Omid Bahman Madani, date of birth November 8. His address is in the local Iranian community. We drove over there, knocked on the door, and identified ourselves. After a few minutes a man answered through a crack in the opened door. He identified himself as the senior Madani. We told him Omid Bahman Madani had been shot and was in surgery. He told us he did not want to talk to us, and closed the door. We tried to contact him several more times, but he would not answer the door. We ran the senior Madani and he had no rap, no wants, and no warrants. Later today the hospital called and said Omid was okay to talk to. We met Omid in the hospital room. He seemed okay. Seems the surgeons pulled out a single 9 millimeter slug that didn’t injure any of his organs. The slug was not from a .38. The hospital expects to discharge him tomorrow.”

  “So, what can I do to help you?” asked Trader.

  “We need to charge him to keep this guy in custody. Something bigger is going on here. He was shot by a different gun than he had in the van. His family won’t talk to us. The van ownership is unknown. We need time to run the blood DNA in the van to see if there is some that does not belong to him. We need time to run forensics on the nine millimeter as well as the .38 and put an inquiry in the nationwide system. If we let Madani go, he could be in the wind tomorrow afternoon. And all the players are Middle Easterners.”

  “What did this Omid say when you talked to him? Asked John.

  Officer Sprinkles said, “He told us who he was, but said he didn’t want to talk right now.”

  “Where’s the crime?” asked John. “It isn’t illegal to be shot. Painful, but not illegal.”

  “It’s illegal to carry a loaded gun in the passenger compartment of a car. It’s a misdemeanor,” said Sprinkles.

  “Sure. I’ll sign it. He’ll probably bail out tomorrow and this whole exercise will be pointless. But I’ll do it. You will have to carry it over to the Judge to get a warrant signed right now if you plan to take him into custody today.” Trader filled out the complaint form, handed it to Officer Miles and said, “Let me know what happens.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  OMID

  “If you look at terrorists, they really have no sense of humor,”

  --Al Franken from the book, The Intelligence of Liberals

  A few days later John checked his interdepartmental mailbox on his way to his cubicle. There was a form that said, “Inmate Interview Request.” He had never seen the form before. He walked over to Melinda the paralegal and asked if she knew what it was.

  “It’s a form inmates fill out when they want to talk to a D.A. It is a pointless form. The inmates have an attorney and we can’t talk to them, and even if they don’t have a lawyer, none of the D.A.’s ever go over to the jail anyway.”

  “Thanks,” replied John.

  He looked closely at the form. Under the “Reason for the Interview” portion of the form, he read that the inmate wanted to talk to the Deputy District Attorney who signed the complaint against him. It was signed by Omid, but Trader could not read the last name. The inmate’s booking number was on the form. John remembered Omid from earlier when Detectives Sprinkles and Miles had asked for a complaint on a guy who had a loaded gun in a vehicle and had been shot. John decided to go see him that afternoon. In the morning he reviewed a new stack of case files he had received from Tom Benton. He also looked up the statute about carrying a loaded gun in a car. He also read the part about how long a misdemeanor defendant can be kept in jail before he is arraigned in court. Three days.

  After a quick pomegranate sandwich at the building cafeteria, John walked the three blocks to the jail. He walked into the jail at the Public entrance. There were two deputies and no one else in the entry area. He said, “I’m a D.A., and I would like to see an inmate. I have never been here before, so if you could tell me what the procedure is, that would be good.”

  A deputy said, “Give me your I.D.” John handed him his newly minted District Attorney Identification Badge. The deputy gave him a large red badge with a clip. The Deputy told him to clip the badge to his chest area and walk through the metal detector. The Deputy told him he could pick up his I.D. on the way out. Once again John set off the metal detector and had to go through a pat down. After he was cleared, the deputy told him to walk through the metal door at the end of the hallway and follow the instructions.

  At the end of the hallway the door had its own notices. “You are entering a no hostage area,” and “Denim pants not allowed inside the jail except for inmates.” John looked for, but did not see the notice that said, “Have a nice day.”

  As he approached the door, he heard the buzz as the door was electronically unlocked. When John walked through the door he saw a window enclosed area to his left. Through the window he could see a deputy behind an array of panels and above the panel a battery of video display terminals. It looked like an air traffic control tower. In front of him were three large elevator doors with a yellow line before the doors. The deputy leaned over and spoke through a microphone, “Who do you want to see?
”

  Trader replied, “Inmate 97864.”

  “Omid Bahman Madani,” said the deputy. “Walk up to but do not cross the yellow line.” John did as instructed. “When you enter the elevator look up at the corner on the ceiling and signal with your fingers which floor you want to go to. Madani is on the third floor.”

  The middle elevator door opened and John walked in. Everything he had seen so far was metal and concrete. The air was a bit cold and the odor was mild antiseptic. There was nothing fresh about the place. John looked up at the ceiling and saw a camera. He raised his hand with three fingers pointed at the camera. He wondered how long he was supposed to hold his hand up to the camera, but when the doors begin to close he lowered his hand. The floor of the elevator jerked and then lumbered to the third floor. The doors of the elevator opened. John saw the same setup behind a window he saw on the first floor. A voice over the loudspeaker said, “Follow the red line through the door to your right.” John walked to the door, and again heard the click of the electronic lock. When he walked through the door he was greeted by a deputy who directed him to an area on the floor where there was painted a two foot by two foot square. The deputy said, “Wait here for the inmate. It should be just a minute or two.”

  John looked to the right and behind a window he could see four or five inmates in denim shirts and pants playing pool. They did not look up at him. In front of him he saw three small doors and on the door were the words “Interview Room”. Each door had a small window and was marked with number, IR1, IR2, or IR3. No one was in any of the interview rooms. A few minutes later, true to the deputy’s word, an inmate was brought out of a door on the other side of the area. He was in denim and he wore leg chains and handcuffs. His head was down as he shuffled towards the interview room. He had a scruffy dark beard, black hair and the skin of a middle easterner. He was a young kid in his early twenties. The inmate was put in room IR3. The deputy turned to John and said, “Room three.” John walked into Room three. It was no more than 6 feet by 4 feet, with a metal table and a bench on both sides. John sat in one across from Madani.