by Alfredo Vea
Jesse’s stomach began to tighten. His dark-blue suit felt tight and ill fitting. A thin film of sweat had appeared on his forehead. With all of his strength he forced his hands to stay absolutely still. His key chain and dog tags had been making a racket. Beneath his thumb he felt his own name, a serial number, a blood type, and the words No Preference.
There were two gay men and a lesbian on the jury. The gay men owned property in the Castro district and were definitely for the prosecution, thought Jesse. Jesse regretted keeping them on the panel, but the jury pool had been so thin. The judge was wrong about the man in the Birkenstocks. Jesse guessed that it had been the lesbian who had held out. The rest of the jury had been blue-hairs, retirees who had nothing better to do with their time than sit on a iury. Jesse sighed. For them, this was as good as a soap opera.
The entire jury pool had been a travesty, nothing but blue-hairs, sweaty bicycle messengers with rings in their noses, conservative, older Asians who had heard the rumor that all you had to do to get out of jury duty was shrug and answer in Cantonese. The venire had included two or three Filipino clerks who wanted only to be excused from jury duty altogether or be allowed to vote guilty and go home. There had been a smattering of tall, white-haired bank executives clutching their portfolios and cursing that foolish day when they had registered to vote. There had been a few Barbie doll people, young socialites with surgically sculpted faces and new sweaters draped over their shoulders.
There had been no Latinos on the panel. Immigrants from Nicaragua and El Salvador were so distrustful of government that they never voted; they never registered, either at the polling booth or the Department of Motor Vehicles. Older Mexicans who had voted south of the border believed that every election was surely rigged, that every cop was on the take. Younger Mexicanos would register their cars, but they would use aliases and false addresses. They had learned from their elders, and didn’t want to be picked up for all of their outstanding traffic warrants. Russian Jews knew better than to voluntarily place their true names onto a piece of paper.
Jesse had used all his peremptory challenges on this jury. He had never been satisfied with it. In the entire voir-dire process he had not heard a single answer that rang true. In desperation he had even reached into his pocket and placed the sliver of jade he had found almost thirty years ago onto the tip of his tongue. But it hadn’t helped; he’d heard nothing. Every mind on the panel had slammed shut the instant the judge had read the charges against the Vietnamese defendant : “… did intentionally and with malice aforethought murder a human being…”
He had kicked off every older Asian juror in hopes that the prosecutor would move for a mistrial based upon Jesse’s exercise of racially motivated challenges to a set of jurors. The court would be forced to bring in a whole new panel. Any other prosecutor in this building would have jumped to his or her feet and objected strenuously, righteously, and mechanically. Peter Cling wouldn’t fall for it. His case was too good. He’d given Jesse all the peremptory challenges he wanted. He knew what Jesse knew: other than juror number seven, the lesbian, there had been no freethinkers on this panel, no artichokes.
“May the record reflect that all parties are present in the matter of the State of California versus Bao Han Vung. Madame foreperson,” asked Judge Taback, “does the jury have a verdict? There were stray pieces of pastrami in his teeth and shining beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as the follicles and pores of his crown responded to the magic Atomic horseradish.
“Yes, we do,” said the foreperson. She rose and handed two pieces of paper to the court clerk. The judge, the prosecutor, and the defense lawyer knew immediately that the verdict had to be a second-degree murder. Judge Taback smiled knowingly at both the prosecutor and the defense attorney. Better than a first-degree, sighed the defense lawyer to himself. His thumb stopped moving over the dog tags. Better than a voluntary manslaughter, thought the prosecutor, whose jaw had loosened up perceptibly.
“Feh!” muttered the judge to himself as he perused the forms. This was a farshtinkener jury panel. They could’ve done this two days ago. He glanced at his gold watch. He was about an hour away from that martini and those unbelievable fingers. A smile appeared on his face as he imagined the sweet pain. The jurors saw the smile and surmised, with great satisfaction, that his honor was quite pleased with their verdict. One day in the future, two of these jurors, while hearing another case, would vote for guilt simply to please the judge.
“Will the defendant rise.”
Jesse rose with his client.
“Will madame clerk please read the verdicts.”
“We the jury in the above stated cause do hereby find the defendant Bao Han Vung not guilty of count one, murder in the first degree.”
Though Jesse knew that this was coming, he still loved to hear the words “not guilty.” It helped cushion the blow that was sure to follow. Bao Han Vung, not knowing the significance of two sheets of paper, smiled confidently.
“We the jury in the above stated cause find the defendant Bao Vung guilty of count two, murder in the second degree. Further, we find the allegation to be true, that in the commission of the above crime he did personally use a firearm.”
“Caínày ngha là gì? What this mean?”
Jesse could not believe his ears. Since he had been appointed to represent this defendant, more than a year ago, the man had stubbornly refused to speak to anyone—not his lawyer, not his family. Jesse had sent various Vietnamese interpreters into the jail and even a Buddhist monk from the defendant’s hometown, but Bao Vung had maintained his cold silence. And now he was speaking out loud, and in passable English.
“What this mean?” he repeated.
“It means,” whispered Jesse, “that you will get fifteen years to life for murder in the second degree. You will also get a mandatory consecutive term of three, five, or ten years for use of a weapon. It means the judge could give you a maximum of fifteen years to life, plus ten years consecutive.”
As the lawyer and his client spoke for the first time, the judge was thanking the jury for their service and excusing them from any further duty. As he spoke to them, the jury was treated to a glimpse of scattered remnants of the judge’s lunch still clinging to his teeth. Before filing out of the courtroom and into the hallway, the departing jurors had all hazarded a last backward glance at the defendant.
“Well, what do you think?” asked the lesbian juror audibly as she slowly put on a jacket. There was a disturbed, pensive look on her pretty face. The young woman was clearly shaken by the whole experience.
“I’m not really sure,” answered another juror, “but I think it was pastrami.”
When the door closed behind the last juror Vung spoke again.
“The gun not belong me. I took from Ky.”
“You took it from the victim?” asked Jesse angrily. He reached out for his client and grabbed a lapel of his suit. He jerked the defendant’s face toward his own. Bruce, the bailiff, rose quickly from his seat, shrugged, then sat back down. A lawyer was attacking his own client? He had seen the reverse often enough. This situation just wasn’t covered in his job description.
“You took the gun from the victim?” The fingers of Jesse’s free hand were moving furiously over the dog tags now. “When did you do that? If you say the night of the killing I’ll kick the shit out of you right here and now.”
“I took one from Ky just before he die. He had two gun.” Vung meekly held up two fingers and repeated his comment in Vietnamese. Hong Ha, the interpreter, repeated in English, “Ky had two guns.”
“I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me for over a year. Your wife has been begging you to talk to me or to Eddy. Why are you bothering to tell me this today, thirty seconds after the damn verdict? It’s too late, man.”
Jesse turned away from his client. The enormity of his client’s foolishness was almost overwhelming.
“Your brilliant strategy sure paid off, didn’t it, asshole? First
you got your boys to scare off all of the witnesses by threatening to kidnap their grandparents and children. Then you threaten all of their extended families with death, and what happened? They all waltzed in here, one right after the other, and testified against you, pointed you out in the courtroom.
“Did you see them up there? They were shaking with fear and that jury was hanging on their every word. If the victim did have a gun in his hand, none of those witnesses was going to say it. Your terror tactics made sure of that. This is not Vietnam, Vung. You should’ve told me.”
Hong Ha, the Vietnamese interpreter, reached out and touched Jesse’s wrist. “Calm down, Mr. Pasadoble,” he said gently. “Vung will suffer for his stupidity.”
“We didn’t get at the truth in this trial, Hong,” said Jesse. “Vung should be sentenced for the truth of his crime, not for his stupidity.”
Vung turned to the Vietnamese interpreter. There was a word that he could not say in English.
“Appeal?” said the translator.
“Appeal what?” asked Jesse, now even angrier than before. “Newly discovered evidence? The victim had a gun in his hand? Vung, it has to be evidence that we couldn’t have discovered at the time of trial, even with due diligence. I don’t think it applies to evidence that the defendant himself decides his attorney shouldn’t have. We couldn’t investigate a self-defense because you wouldn’t let us!”
There was a soft overlay of Vietnamese above Jesse’s English as he spoke. Hong Ha’s lips moved no farther than five inches from the defendant’s ear as he translated.
“You told all those witnesses out there not to talk to me or my investigator. You did that, Vung. It was you. You made me try this case in a straitjacket. I know that this jury suspected that something else was happening at that party, that’s why they compromised on their verdict. If we had been allowed to work on this case, who knows what they might have done? You could be free today.”
Vung turned toward the interpreter and whispered a full sentence in Vietnamese.
“He says,” began the interpreter, “that the guns are in the lake in Golden Gate Park.”
Jesse’s head fell into the palms of his hands. Long ago he had learned to respect the tough single-mindedness of men like Vung. Short, small-boned men like him had once ridden down the Ho Chi Minh trail on bicycles, carrying dismantled artillery pieces or enormous bags of rice on their sweating, breaking backs.
“Vung, you number-ten dinky-dau.”
“Vung,” repeated the interpreter, “you are worthless and crazy.”
Jesse turned to face the interpreter. Generalized, diffuse anger was beginning to focus, to acquire direction.
“I want you to translate this word for word.”
The interpreter nodded solemnly.
“Look at me, Vung.”
Vung raised his eyes to meet those of his lawyer. It was the first time the two had ever made eye contact. In the jail the prisoner had steadfastly refused to look at his lawyer’s face. He had spent long, silent hours feigning bored deafness and staring at the Formica tabletop or at the ceiling of the interview room.
“Bao Vung, you are a stupid son of a bitch. And now you are a sorry bastard with a whole lot of time on your hands. I will file your appeal. I will file a declaration saying that I messed up your case. My investigator will file a second declaration of his own. He will say that he failed to investigate the possibility of a second gun. I will prepare a motion for a new trial based on newly discovered evidence and ineffective assistance of counsel.
“I will do whatever I can. I was ready to do just that over a year ago. I want you to know that if it would do any good, I would beat you to a pulp right now for what you’ve done to yourself. It’s what I feel like doing.”
Jesse held a clenched fist in front of his client’s face. There were tears in Vung’s eyes, and he turned away from both the interpreter and his lawyer.
“He’s got to go now,” said Bruce, the bailiff, sternly. Manny Valenzuela, a second bailiff, had joined him.
Just then Jesse caught a glimpse of two forms seated in the back of the courtroom, It was Eddy Oasa, his investigator, and Carolina, his ex-girlfriend, sitting silently and respectfully in the last row of seats. They had heard the verdict and smatterings of the conversation af terward. Jesse waved them forward, but only Eddy rose and walked to the defense table.
“I’m very sorry, man,” said Eddy. “You did the best you could for him. He sunk himself.”
“I must love pain,” said Jesse wearily. “I must really love it. Did you hear what he just told me?” Eddy shook his head, no. As he watched his client being escorted from the room, Jesse spoke in a restrained, controlled voice. “He told me that Ky had a gun. He just told me that the two guns are at the bottom of a lake in Golden Gate Park.”
Eddy slumped visibly as he listened. For this trial he had interviewed scores of terrified witnesses. Over time he had come to believe that Ky had been carrying a gun, but he could never prove it. No witness had answered any of his questions without first having a heated discussion in Vietnamese with his family or the elders of his community. Only a few small merchants had talked, and they had said that Ky ran a protection racket and was never without his gun. Eddy looked to the front of the courtroom and watched as Bruce and Manny took Vung on the very first steps of his twenty-five-year journey.
Soon enough this courtroom, the color of the oak paneling, and the dry taste of the recycled air would be lost in the mists of his diminished life, a life that would become a grinding gray monotony of restraints, manacles, hobbles, Cyclone fences, razor wire, and bars. Over the years, time would distort everything that had happened today.
Bao Vung’s recollections of this trial would be reduced, boiled down to a few faint flashes: a tearful witness, a standing foreperson, the fearsome, echoing words of a court clerk, and the brown and red face of an angry lawyer. Awash in an ocean of years, he would soon forget the insignificant slice of an instant when an index finger tickled a hair trigger, that single drop in a swelling sea of time when a firing pin moved forward to strike a center-fire cartridge.
The bailiffs were leading him toward a world without butter, forks, knives, or shoestrings; a world devoid of spices, French coffees, or Vietnamese food. It would be almost three decades before he would slurp a bowl of noodles or savor the taste of lemon grass and mint. The heavy door slammed behind Bao Vung and he began to move through a dark maze of cramped, barred rooms, through a quarter century of stainless-steel commodes, waxy single-ply toilet paper, stupid tattooed cellmates, and televisions with tiny nine-inch screens. Before he next saw the sunlight he would smoke twenty-three thousand packs of Salems and Kools, receive six thousand letters, and write five times as many.
A man who may well have fired a gun in self-defense had made the fateful decision to let his chain-smoking, Elvis-haired hoodlum friends intimidate all the witnesses. Appeals would be filed in vain. On the day of his release from prison, he would qualify for Social Security.
“What’s happening, Eddy?” asked Jesse, who was also staring toward the holding cell. The image of Bao Vung disappearing into the jail elevator was now burned into his memory.
“You know how the cops have been trying to find Little Reggie Harp?” said Eddy excitedly. “Well, they found him.”
“Where?” asked Jesse, suddenly diverted from his sadness. “Was it the Hayward cops? He has a cousin in Hayward, doesn’t he?” As he spoke he glanced toward the back of the courtroom where Carolina sat silently. She is so beautiful, but demanding, excessively demanding, thought Jesse. She wants a normal, healthy, loving relationship. Her presence in this part of his life made him uncomfortable.
“No, man,” continued Eddy excitedly. “They found him in the projects. He never left Tourette’s Hill.” There was an incredible intensity in his voice.
“Has he given a statement?” asked Jesse, suddenly unaware of Bao Vung, who was now four floors overhead and sobbing in his cell. “Did he mention
Calvin?”
“He ain’t never going to talk again.”
“Oh no!” shouted Jesse. “How long?”
“A week, maybe ten days. It was hard to tell. The homicide inspectors think there were four or five generations of insect predation present. He could have been put into the ground two days after the killings at the Amazon Luncheonette. But get this. He had a note on his body from someone we both know and love. It was a death threat. they found it in one of his pockets.”
“Biscuit Boy can write? Calvin writes notes? Did you see the paragraph he sent me about the book he’s reading? He’s on his third rewrite. The spelling and penmanship are below high school level.”
As he spoke Jesse removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to Eddy, who glanced at it briefly.
“He sure wrote this one,” said Eddy, “and he signed it for good measure. The lab found his fingerprints all over the note. I’ve heard from the cops that it says Little Reggie is a dead man. Unless it was smuggled out of the jail, Calvin must have written it before his arrest. But listen, Jesse, you ain’t heard the best part. They’re digging up the whole damn hill. Tourette’s Hill looks like Swiss cheese.”
“Where is this Tourette’s Hill?” asked Jesse impatiently.
“Potrero Hill, man,” said Eddy. “Ain’t you down with the new lingo?”
“Are they looking for the murder weapon, the gun?”
“No, man. It’s bigger than that. Someone called in a bomb threat. The anonymous caller said that there was a pipe bomb buried near a wrecked car just below the projects, so the bomb squad brought in a metal detector, a robot arm and a dog. There wasn’t any bomb, but the dog started digging behind a Dumpster and found Little Reggie. While homicide detail and the coroner were securing the first crime scene, the dog went running up the hillside about thirty feet or so and found another one. They’ve found three bodies so far and they’re looking for more.”
“Jesus, let’s go!” said Jesse. “Any identities on the other two?”