Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  There was something else about the picture that bothered me so much that I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. It took me a moment, but I finally got it. The look in Tolletson’s eyes was almost exactly like my father’s.

  The receptionist said, “You can go in now.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Down the hall two doors. Sylvia Plotzske is the deputy.”

  Plotzske?

  The electric door buzzed. I opened it and took Mandy by the hand down the hall. A young woman carrying several files passed us and smiled. A guy who must have been a prosecutor passed us on the other side and didn’t smile at all. He looked at us like we were aliens landing in the middle of his private bog.

  The open office door had no name on it. I looked in. The office was even smaller than my own. The woman behind the desk stood up and said, “Come in.” She was in her early thirties and plump and looked ill at ease in her gray business suit. Her hair was brown and short, and she wore thick glasses with uncompromising black frames. Her handshake was firm and to the point. “Sylvia Plotzske,” she said.

  “Jake Denney.”

  Sylvia looked down and saw Mandy. For a moment she seemed confused and a bit annoyed.

  “My daughter,” I said. “We drove up from L.A.”

  “Oh,” said Sylvia with as much warmth as a clam. “You sure you want her here?”

  “You going to shoot me or something?” I said with a smile.

  Sylvia Plotzske did not smile. “We are going to discuss the details of a heinous crime, Mr. Denney. I don’t feel comfortable having her here.”

  Mandy grabbed my leg tighter.

  “Let’s just see what we can do,” I said, sitting in the only other chair in the office. Mandy crawled up on my lap immediately, just like a puppy.

  “All right then,” Sylvia said. “You’re representing Panino.”

  “Patino,” I said.

  “Right, right.” She sat again behind her desk and looked at her file. “How’d you get connected?”

  “His parents.”

  “You ever try any cases in Hinton?”

  “Never. Had one in Ventura once.”

  Without looking at it, Sylvia Plotzske picked up a rubber band from the desk with her left hand and absently wrapped it around her fingers. “We’re a little more laid-back here,” she said. “No reason we can’t wrap this thing up nice and easy.”

  Even for a laid-back office, this was a little fast for a plea offer. Sylvia snapped the rubber band with her thumb and said, “We’re charging murder in the first, of course.”

  “Based on what?” I asked.

  “The evidence.”

  I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. “What evidence?”

  “Let’s start with twenty-five stab wounds.”

  That was one little detail I didn’t know about. It hadn’t been mentioned in the story from the Hinton Valley News. It only reported that the victim died of stab wounds. What the prosecutor was describing was butchery.

  “Howie was stabbed too,” I said.

  “Self-inflicted.”

  “That’s your theory?”

  “That’s the fact.”

  Mandy squirmed in my lap and pulled my head down toward her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she whispered.

  With the watchful and bespectacled eyes of Sylvia Plotzske on me, I whispered back to Mandy, “Can you wait a couple of minutes?”

  “I’ll try,” she said with a pained look.

  “Problem?” said Sylvia Plotzske.

  “What about a plea to involuntary manslaughter?”

  She shook her head. “You’re not going to get that, not with twenty-five stab wounds. We might consider second-degree murder.”

  “And I might consider voluntary manslaughter.”

  “I don’t see that happening.”

  “Have you considered his mental state?”

  “You talking heat of passion?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sylvia Plotzske shook her head again. She was good at that. “I don’t see that.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I snapped. “Why don’t you take it up with Tolletson?”

  Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “You know him?”

  “Just the name. Run it by him.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “Howie’s not a bad guy. He’s not your America’s Most Wanted. This isn’t the case to take to the mat.”

  “Well, that won’t be entirely my call. I’ll let you know.”

  I lifted Mandy off my lap, set her on the floor, and stood up. I shook the hand of Sylvia Plotzske and said, “Just one more thing, if I may.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FINALLY WE MADE it back home.

  Before heading to the apartment, we nabbed dinner at Chipper’s, which Mandy loved. For some odd reason she liked the liver and onions. That must have come from her mother’s side. I can’t stand liver, and onions make me sweat.

  After dinner I took Mandy to 31 Flavors and got her a scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I was number one on her hit parade.

  Then we stopped at Blockbuster, and she picked out a tape from the children’s section. Back at the apartment we popped it in the VCR and cuddled up on the sofa to watch it. She was in kid heaven.

  It was almost like a scene out of Father Knows Best. What Mandy wasn’t aware of was the undercurrent of reality. Every now and then I’d get up from the movie—I think it was The Little Mermaid—and go into the kitchen where I had a bottle of Jim Beam in the cupboard. I must have taken six shots before the movie ended.

  Mandy wanted to play a game after the movie. Because of the drinks, I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Please?” she pleaded, stretching out the magic word like a musical note.

  “No,” I said. “Watch more TV.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to play a game.”

  “No.”

  “Read me a book.”

  “Not now. Go color.”

  Her face grew suddenly dark. “You’re mean,” she said.

  That was a new phrase, something I hadn’t heard her utter before. And she was hurling it at me. It stung. “Don’t you say that.”

  “But you are, Daddy.”

  “You color or watch TV!”

  She started crying then and threw herself facedown on the sofa. I closed my eyes and thought hideous things about myself, all true.

  The phone rang. I picked up and said, “Yeah?”

  “Jake?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Janet Patino. I’m sorry to call you at home.”

  My brain was buzzing. “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “I just had to know what’s happening. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I saw Howie, and I talked to the DA.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing yet. Howie hasn’t been arraigned.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “Probably next week. Look, why don’t you come into my office on Monday morning. We’ll discuss it then.”

  “All right.”

  I gave her the address.

  “Jake?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Patino?”

  “You can help Howie, can’t you?”

  After a short pause, I said, “Let’s discuss it all on Monday.”

  “Thank you, Jake. Thanks for everything. We do appreciate it.”

  “See you Monday.”

  Mandy was still facedown on the sofa. I sat next to her. She kept her head in the cushions. “Hey, Scooter,” I said.

  She didn’t move. I grabbed her around the waist and tried to pull her to me. She stiffened. It was like holding onto a petrified frog. I turned her around and hugged her close, and she finally relaxed.

  Stroking her hair, I said, “I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry.”

  She breathed softly against my chest. "You know what?" she said.

 
"What?"

  "If you were happy it would be the best thing in the whole, wide world."

  "Don't you think I'm happy?"

  "No, Daddy."

  For once the lawyer didn't have an argument.

  Monday morning came faster than I expected. That’s probably because I managed a good Saturday with Mandy. It included the park and miniature golf. Mandy seemed to forget all about the incident the night before.

  Sunday we went to the beach. To top it off, my ex-wife actually arrived on time to pick up Mandy in the afternoon. I didn’t ask her how her weekend went, so we didn’t argue.

  I was in a fairly good mood when I arrived at my office in the Lee Law Building in Encino on Monday. I parked my Mustang in the lot and trudged up the stairs. A new girl was at the reception desk again. Gil Lee had a problem with receptionist retention. He paid minimum wage for the thankless task of answering phones, making coffee, and trying to look interested when anyone came to see a lawyer.

  “Hi, Marlene,” I said.

  “Eileen.”

  “Sorry. Any messages?”

  Eileen moved her head in super-slow-motion to check the message tray. She was supposedly a college graduate. I thought she must have majored in sleepwalking.

  “No,” she said.

  I smiled and nodded. Eileen closed her eyes momentarily. I took that opportunity to walk down the hall to the coffeemaker. I poured myself a cup, then went to my office.

  It was in the back corner of the building. Normally lawyers look upon a corner office as a sign of prestige and success. They usually have a nice view too. My office looked out on a couple of black dumpsters, an alley, and the rear of Bob’s Hot Dog Palace, a one-man operation that was as much like a palace as my office was like a suite. That’s probably why I liked to eat regularly at Bob’s. We both knew what it was like to operate out of a shoebox.

  Once inside, I closed the door and stepped over the boxes and files on the floor. I had developed a sophisticated filing system by this time, one that involved random placement and luck. It usually took me half a day to find something crucial, which didn’t matter much at this point because very little on the floor was crucial.

  I threw my briefcase on the desk and opened it.

  I told myself regularly that I didn’t have a drinking problem. I could control it. However, I didn’t have any files in my briefcase. I had a pint of bourbon instead.

  I opened the bottle and poured some in my coffee, then put the bottle in a drawer.

  A quick knock on my door. “Come in,” I said.

  Gil Lee entered. He was wearing another of his seriously loud ties, this one a mishmash of so many bright colors I was tempted to squint. “Sheesh, this place is a mess,” he said.

  “I know where everything is, so don’t say anything.”

  “If you know, you know. I only lease the joint. But I hope you don’t see clients in here.”

  “Matter of fact,” I said, “I have a couple coming in today. I was just about to clean up a little.”

  “A little?”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Gil stepped around a box and sat in one of my formerly plush chairs. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to get into a big thing, Jake. You know me. I like you.”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “I’ve got bills to pay.”

  “You need a nice, juicy medical malpractice claim, Gil, or maybe a police brutality so you can sue the city.”

  Gil didn’t smile, which indicated that my attempts at charming him off the subject weren’t working. “Jake, I need the rent.”

  I knew that wasn’t easy for Gil to say. He liked to look on his tenants not only as lessees but as his charges. He had a tradition of taking each new tenant for a fatherly lunch at Subway where he would informally pass on his wisdom, like Yoda. Gil actually resembled Yoda with his round face, peeper eyes, and gray hair. At our lunch he told me he knew all about my problems and wanted to help me get back on my feet.

  That he knew was no surprise. Everyone in the Los Angeles legal community knew about my “problems.” They had been splashed all over the front page of the Los Angeles Daily Journal, our legal newspaper. How could they avoid the juicy headline, “Lawyer for Drunk Driver Shows Up Drunk in Court”?

  I was a deputy public defender at the time working in the San Fernando office. Without false modesty, I can say I was a rising star. My first year I’d gotten three straight acquittals, which is no small feat. In 95 percent of cases, defendants are convicted, either in trial or by plea. For a public defender to get even one acquittal was noteworthy.

  My drinking was steady, but I picked my spots. I’d been doing that since I was nine. I thought I could always pick my spots, but soon after I was married, the spots started picking me.

  Drinking started to affect my work. I had to be taken off a few cases. The head deputy had me in his office a couple of times to express his concern. I was put on a mild probation.

  Then I got handed the case of Mr. Rudy Noble.

  A real piece of work, Mr. Noble. He was an electrician who liked to drink and hit women. He had pleaded to one battery a couple of years before but was not above admitting to me, with a smile yet, that they hadn’t caught him on several others.

  But that was not why Mr. Rudy Noble was my client.

  He was my client because he got drunk one night with his buddies, then drove his Chevy pickup through a red light at the intersection of Rinaldi and Sepulveda, and plowed into a Ford Tempo. The Tempo was driven by a man named Julio Sanchez who had his three-year-old daughter, Ines, in the back seat. Mr. Noble and Mr. Sanchez sustained minor injuries. Ines died at the scene.

  Noble was charged with vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated under Penal Code section 192. I advised him to plead out, which might have gotten him probation and treatment. If he went to trial, he was looking at state prison.

  Mr. Rudy Noble told me he was not going to plead guilty. I asked him why. And he said that he wasn’t going to admit any guilt, ever, just for killing a Mexican.

  A criminal defense lawyer is obligated, under the Code of Professional Responsibility, to represent his client with zeal even if he appears to be guilty. This obligation had never been a problem with me. I understood and agreed with the United States Constitution and the right of every citizen to a fair trial. The founding fathers knew what they were doing. They just didn’t know Rudy Noble.

  On the morning of September 12, we picked a jury. My strategy was to contest the breath test that showed Noble had a .13% blood alcohol content, the color of the light, and the observations of the prosecution’s witnesses. All standard stuff. I don’t really remember the makeup of the jury because I didn’t care. I was sleepwalking.

  Just before the lunch break, as the deputy sheriff was about to return Noble to the lockup, my client leaned over and whispered to me, “You’re the man.”

  It was a jock phrase, one that is uttered usually by one teammate to another as an encouragement, an expression of common support. Coming from Rudy Noble, it made me physically ill.

  I went to a bar for lunch to prepare for my opening statement. I sat on a stool and stared at a blank legal pad for one hour and fifteen minutes. I did not make a single note, but I drank volumes.

  The next thing I remember is sitting at the counsel table with Noble sitting next to me and the jury coming in. I had my eyes closed. Noble leaned over and asked me if I was okay. That’s when I almost threw up.

  I heard the judge ask for the lawyers to state their appearances. I think I heard the prosecutor state hers.

  I said nothing.

  The judge, an ex-cop and deputy DA, called my name a couple of times.

  I don’t remember what happened next. From the account in the Daily Journal, I apparently told the judge, with the help of a well-known epithet, to leave me alone.

  I do remember being hauled back into the prisoner’s lockup by a burly sheriff and having an AlcoSensor shoved in my mouth. The AlcoS
ensor’s a handheld breath tester that gives a preliminary reading on the amount of alcohol in the system.

  It was all over for me as a member of the public defender’s office and almost as a lawyer. Only my admission into an alcohol program and severe groveling kept me from being disbarred.

  I might have stopped practicing law altogether if Gil hadn’t rented me an office for less than he usually asked. It was my last hope, a life preserver tossed out to a bad swimmer in a choppy sea.

  Gil took no pleasure in informing me that he was about to yank the life preserver back onboard his ship.

  “I know you need the rent, Gil,” I said. “I just got a case.”

  “What kind?”

  “Criminal. A murder.”

  Gil rolled his eyes. We both knew that criminal cases provided the worst form of income for a private lawyer unless he represented white-collar criminals or the Mafia. “Well, then, remember the first rule of the criminal lawyer,” Gil said. “Get the money up front. Because if you don’t, they’ll stiff you sure as Richard Simmons sweats. If they’re convicted, they figure you’re worthless. If they’re acquitted, they think, ‘Why did I need him in the first place?’”

  The phone buzzed. Eileen, in a voice that gave new meaning to the word apathetic, said, “Some people are here to see you.”

  With Gil’s help, I shoved all the detritus on my floor to one corner and swept off the top of my desk. Gil bowed out just as Janet and Fred Patino entered my office.

  Behind them was the last person I expected to see.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “THIS IS HOWIE’S sister,” Janet Patino explained. “You remember Lindsay, don’t you?”

  Openmouthed, I looked at the woman whose car bumped me in the Hinton hospital parking lot. She seemed equally astounded.

  I pointed at her. “You’re not . . .”

  Lindsay Patino nodded and smiled. “Yep. The bratty kid sister who used to annoy you. I guess I still do, with my car.”

  “I never would have recognized you.”