First Offense

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Shit,” he said, pulling out a wad of tissues and blowing his nose. The rug rats had brought home another damn cold. Then he looked at the house before him and sighed. He’d finally made it to the residence next door to Sawyer’s. Last night the people had not been home. He hoped they’d be home this morning, because if he was going to hit pay dirt, Whittaker thought, this would be the place to do it.

  He knocked on the door and waited. A few minutes later, a scruffy toddler opened the door and looked out through the screen. The detective couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The kid had short hair and big brown eyes and was dressed in a little blue tank top and flower-print shorts. “I need to talk to your mother or father,” he said. “Are they home?”

  “My mommy’s sleeping,” the child said.

  “Why don’t you be real sweet and go and get her for me?”

  “She get mad if’n I wake her.”

  “I’m a policeman, honey,” Whittaker said, reaching in his pocket for his badge, then kneeling down on one knee so the child could see it. “See, this is my badge. Now, be a good little kid and go get your mom for me.

  “Mom,” the child screamed, taking off running down the hall, leaving the door wide open. “There’s a placeman at the door. A real placeman wid a real badge.”

  Whittaker shuffled impatiently on the tiny cement porch, glancing down the street and then back at the door, coughing a few times.

  “What do you want?” a woman said from somewhere inside the house.

  Whittaker stepped closer to the screen. All he could make out was a dark shadow. “Can I ask you a few questions? It won’t take more than five or ten minutes max. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “What’s this about?” the woman said, still in the shadows.

  “We just want to ask you some questions about the three boys renting the house next door.”

  “They’re moving,” the voice in the shadows said. “I don’t know anything else. I just know they’re moving. They loaded all their furniture in a moving van.”

  “Do you mind if I come in and talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Yes, I do,” the woman said. “I don’t know anything. Officer. All I know is the people next door are moving.”

  “I see,” Whittaker said slowly, wondering why the woman was being obstinate. Some people just didn’t like cops. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to leave my card. Then if you think of anything, you can give me a call.” He stuck the card in the metal grille of the screen door and turned away. Damn, he thought, he hadn’t even gotten the woman’s name. The house on the other side of Sawyer’s was vacant, up for sale. He was going to have to face Reed empty-handed.

  “Excuse me,” the detective said through the screen door. “I need to get your name at least. See, my sergeant’s not going to be happy when he hears I didn’t get a statement from you. Can’t you give me a break here?”

  The pleading worked. A woman stepped out of the shadows and appeared behind the screen. She had limp shoulder-length brown hair and small hazel eyes. She was short, maybe a little over five feet, and extremely slender, almost emaciated. Her skin had a gray cast, and dark circles were etched under her eyes. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a blouse made of the same print fabric as the child’s shorts, and her face was void of makeup. “Sally Farrar,” she said. “Why are you asking me about the people next door?”

  “Oh,” he said, “I’m really not able to give out that information right now.”

  “Why?” she asked. “What did they do?”

  “They haven’t been charged with a crime yet, Mrs. Farrar.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because we want to know if you saw anything suspicious.”

  “What’s suspicious?”

  “You know, strange people coming and going at odd hours. Maybe strange sounds like someone screaming. Stuff like that.” As soon as Whittaker got the last word out, he sneezed and quickly reached for a tissue.

  “You’ve got a cold.”

  “No shit,” he said, sneezing again. “Excuse my language. You’re right. I feel terrible.”

  “Did someone say something about me? Is that why you came here?”

  Whittaker studied the woman. A little paranoid maybe, he thought, deciding Sally Farrar might be the neighborhood weirdo. “No, ma’am, it’s just that you live right next door. Surely you know something about what was going on over there. I mean, if anyone did, it would be—”

  “They were wild, okay,” she said, stepping up closer to the screen, her voice almost provocative. “They had girls over there every night and did disgusting things with them. Do you know what I mean, Officer?”

  Whittaker blushed and put a finger inside his collar, pulling it away from his neck. It was the way she was looking at him, the tone of her voice. If she asked him to come inside now, the detective gave thought to sprinting down the street. Women used to make plays for him all the time, frustrated housewives and the like. But no one had approached him in years, not since he had stopped wearing a uniform. “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “Orgies, Officer. Do you know what an orgy is?”

  “Sure, but…how did you know they were having orgies specifically? Maybe they were just having parties.”

  “I saw them,” she said, her eyes glazing over and her mouth falling open as she pressed her entire body against the screen.

  “Ah, what exactly did you see?”

  “There were three of them. A Chinese boy, very handsome, a tall blond boy with a gorgeous body…the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.” She stopped and took a breath, trailing a fingernail down the screen as she stared at him.

  The detective looked down at the ground nervously. The woman was trying to seduce him. He knew it. Shit, he thought, wait till he told the guys about this. “We’re…interested in the dark-haired boy, the one with the long hair. His name is Jimmy Sawyer. Can you tell us anything about him?”

  “He was rough. You know, with the girls. I think he had a bad temper or was more jealous than the others. They shared their women. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. These weren’t normal parties. They began when the sun went down and never stopped. Day after day…” Her voice trailed off and she stepped back into the shadows.

  Whittaker decided to drop this line of discussion. The woman was obviously a mental case, and they couldn’t arrest Sawyer and his roommates for excessive screwing. Then he thought of the fingers. Ann Carlisle had said she’d seen fingernail polish. He almost slapped himself on the forehead. The woman had said Sawyer had a bad temper. If the case got to court, this woman would be a valuable witness. “Could you describe the girls you saw over there?”

  “Possibly,” she whispered, “if I wanted to.”

  “What about drugs? Did you ever see them using drugs or anything else relating to narcotics?”

  “Don’t people like that use drugs?”

  “Did you ever see smoke or anything along those lines? There’s a possibility that they were manufacturing narcotics, running a home lab. You know, like chemical smoke?”

  She laughed. “A lab? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The door slammed in his face.

  “Thanks a hell of a lot,” Whittaker mumbled, staring at the door. There was no use trying to get any more information out of this lady. They’d just issue her a subpoena when the time came.

  Whatever Sawyer and his friends had been up to, he decided, they’d been having the time of their lives, and Whittaker was a tad envious. Fast cars, fast girls, easy money. Sure beats the hell out of getting doors slammed in your face. He sighed and then headed off down the street, reaching for another tissue.

  Arraignment was scheduled for one o’clock. Ann met Tommy Reed outside the courtroom, and they went in and took seats in the front row. Even Reed had his reservations about filing so soon, but the case was out of their hands. Ann wanted to get it over with, get Sawyer locked up whatever it took
. She was anxious about what he would say, however. If his lurid story surfaced in an open courtroom for everyone to hear, Ann knew she would be humiliated.

  When the bailiffs escorted Jimmy Sawyer in, Ann couldn’t help but stare. Both shackled at the ankles and handcuffed, he could walk only in small steps. His long hair was lifeless and stringy, his shoulders slumped, and his face had an unhealthy cast. In his jail-issued jumpsuit he certainly looked different from the last time he had appeared in court, she thought, feeling a measure of satisfaction. A night in the Ventura County Jail could do wonders for an inflated ego.

  Harold Duke was waiting for him, and stood to allow the bailiff to seat Sawyer at the counsel table. Then the two men leaned their heads together and began to confer in hushed whispers.

  Ann craned her neck around, expecting to see the entourage Jimmy had brought with him the last time, but no one was present today but his mother. After what Ann had seen in the Henderson house, she wasn’t surprised that Sawyer’s friends had decided to stay away.

  “Where’s Hopkins?” Tommy asked her.

  “I called before I came over, and he was still arguing with Robert Fielder. He should be here any minute.” Ann frowned as she said this, worried that Fielder had quashed the proceedings for lack of evidence. Again she looked over her shoulder, this time checking for reporters, but the courtroom was practically empty. Just then she noticed Sawyer watching her, a glint in his eyes. When he smiled, Ann quickly looked away and inched closer to Reed. A thought kept racing through her mind: maybe Sawyer had followed her and Glen to the fire stairs, had been the one who opened the door while they were having sex. That could be the foundation for his ridiculous story. Seeing her having sex in the stairwell would give anyone food for thought.

  Hopkins suddenly came barreling into the courtroom and slammed his briefcase down on the table. Removing his notes and files, he glanced back and saw Ann. “I got the go-ahead from Fielder,” he said, smiling confidently. “Don’t worry, Ann, everything’s under control.”

  She got up out of her seat and met Glen in the aisle on the far side of the courtroom. “Why didn’t you tell me what Sawyer said about me last night?”

  “Why?” Glen said, not happy she had been told. “Why have you listen to something like that? I knew it would upset you, Ann. I hate to see you upset.”

  Gratitude swept over her, and she quickly touched his hand with her own. “Can you come over tonight?” she asked. “Maybe we could visit in the backyard after David goes to bed.”

  His eyes softened. “Just take care of your son, Ann. Next week will be better. The last thing I want you to worry about right now is me. Besides, I’m burning the midnight oil on Delvecchio. Since we lost Estelle Summer’s testimony, the case is not as solid.”

  The two exchanged a grimace at this, and Ann slipped back into her seat, watching as Glen crossed the room to the clerk, handing her two copies of the information form, which was used in felonies to set forth the various pleadings and charges. The clerk then handed a copy to the bailiff to deliver to Sawyer’s attorney and placed the judge’s copy in the file. The woman’s phone rang, and she picked it up. Then she yelled out to Hopkins, “Judge Hillstorm wants to see you in chambers before we go on record.”

  Glen quickly exited through the back door of the court and headed down the corridor to the judge’s chambers. Hillstorm’s secretary, a middle-aged woman with red hair, waved him in.

  “Sit down,” Hillstorm said, looking out over a large maple desk that had seen better days. The surface was marred and scratched, and most of the desk was buried under stacks of papers and periodicals. Hillstorm collected western bronzes and odd artifacts, and his office looked more like a musty attic than a judge’s chambers. On one side of his desk was a stuffed owl on a podium. Set on his credenza were several bronze sculptures of rearing horses and riders. Because of their shared love of horses, Hillstorm and Hopkins were quite chummy.

  Once the D.A. was seated, Hillstorm picked up a newspaper and glanced at it. “Is this the same man we’re arraigning today for attempted murder?” He tossed the paper across the desk at Hopkins.

  “Yes,” Glen said, looking at the paper and then placing it back on the judge’s desk. “You sentenced this man yourself on the narcotics case. Don’t you remember him?”

  Sunlight streaked in from an overhead window, and Hillstorm’s white hair sparkled. But his eyes were narrow and his voice sharp. “Of course I remember him. Counselor. They even contacted me when they did this newspaper piece. It was a nice story for a change. Man comes before the court, then saves the life of his probation officer.” Hillstorm chuckled and rested his arms over his stomach. “Thought I made an impression on this young fellow and he cleaned up his act. Made me feel kind of special, you know?”

  Hillstorm was eyeing him steadily, and Hopkins became uncomfortable. Was the old judge serious or just playing with his head? They were all hams, loved to get good publicity, particularly since most of their publicity was negative. Every day some group blasted a judge for leniency or some impropriety. “Is this what you wanted to discuss?” he said.

  “What did you think I called you in here for?”

  This time Hopkins kept his mouth shut and listened.

  “Bob Fielder sent over a transcript of this man’s statement. Seems his parents are decent people and he has some reservations about this case in general. Think there’s any truth to this man’s statements about Ms. Carlisle?”

  “He shot the woman,” Hopkins exclaimed, leaning forward. “If you listened to his statement, then you know he placed himself in the parking lot prior to the shooting, exactly where we feel the assailant was hiding when he fired. He must have positioned himself behind a parked car. Ann Carlisle’s car was disabled. That means he flushed her out in the open so he could get a clear shot and was lying in wait for her. This was a premeditated, vicious attack. Not only that, Ms. Carlisle saw human fingers in his refrigerator. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. We could be dealing with a serial killer for all we know.”

  “You didn’t find these alleged fingers, though. Isn’t that correct?” Judge Hillstorm swiveled his chair around and faced the window, not waiting for Hopkins’s response. He already knew the answer. “That will be all,” he said.

  Once the bailiff had called the court to order, Hillstorm peered out over the courtroom. “Do you have a copy of the Information, Mr. Duke?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the short attorney said, standing. “I also have a discovery order I would like to file.” Duke walked over and handed it to the clerk for dispersal.

  When the judge received his copy, he simply set it aside. To file discovery, requesting all evidence and information the other side had on the case, was routine procedure. As the case continued, more discovery orders would be filed by both parties, along with dozens of motions and petitions.

  The courtroom fell silent, except for the rustling of papers by the clerk as she prepared the file. Finally Hillstorm spoke, his gaze fixed on the defendant. “It saddens me to see your face, Mr. Sawyer. You’re a young man with a good family behind you, I hear. These are serious allegations you’re facing.” Hillstorm shook his head and looked down at the Information, slowly sliding on his glasses before he began the arraignment. “How does your client plead to count one, a violation of section 664/187 of the California Penal Code, attempted murder?”

  “My client pleads not guilty. Your Honor,” Duke said.

  “As to count two, a violation of section 12022(a) of the penal code, using a firearm in the commission of the above crime?”

  “Not guilty,” Duke said again.

  “As to count three, a violation of section 245(d) (1), assault with a deadly weapon on a peace officer?”

  “Not guilty,” the defense attorney said, leaning over and whispering something to Sawyer, then glancing back over his shoulder at Sawyer’s mother. The woman was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “All right,” Hillstorm said, “as
to count four, a violation of section 1203 of the penal code, violation of probation in case A5349837?”

  “Not guilty.”

  Suddenly, Ann realized that this was not another routine hearing, like so many others she had attended in the past. Two lives were on the line here. Not just Sawyer’s but hers as well. By going to his house that day and making her grisly discovery, Ann had set this machine in motion. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t stop it now. She felt herself vacillating, thinking like a mother. Sawyer was so young, she thought, staring at his back. Maybe one of his roommates was the butcher, the one who had sliced off the fingers. As unjust as he was to accuse her of seducing him, could he have done it in retaliation? No, she thought, she couldn’t allow herself to think this way.

  Simply by closing her eyes, she could relive the night of the shooting, the bullet ripping into her flesh, the blood, the panic and terror. Now she knew how victims felt, sitting only a few feet away from the very person who had attacked them.

  Ann knew that by law. Sawyer could be convicted of only one crime involving the shooting, plus the second count, which was considered an enhancement for the use of a firearm. If he was convicted of attempted murder, he could not be convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, basically the same crime but with nonspecific intent. Overfiling charges gave the jury an option. If the prosecution did not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Sawyer’s intent had been to kill Ann, the jury could still bring in a conviction under the lesser offense of assault with a deadly weapon. In addition, pleading multiple counts was a tactic used to provide options should the case be plea-bargained. If Sawyer was receptive to entering a plea of guilty for a prenegotiated term of imprisonment, the first count would more than likely be dismissed.

  “Fine,” Judge Hillstorm said, proceeding with the arraignment. He selected a date for the preliminary hearing in three weeks and explained to the defendant what would occur then. In essence, the prosecution would have to establish only that a crime had in fact occurred and that there was probable cause to believe the defendant had perpetrated this crime. During the trial, on the other hand, the burden of proof would be more specific, and the prosecution would be charged with proving its case within a reasonable doubt.