by Michael Nava
Theo admitted: (1) he and Freddy had talked about bombing Ekklesia; (2) he had agreed to help Freddy carry out the bombing; (3) he’d gone with Freddy to the hardware store to purchase parts for the bombs; (4) he’d been in the apartment when Freddy made the bombs; (5) the Sunday before, he’d gone with Freddy to the church to scout locations to plant the bombs; (6) he’d agreed to plant the bombs; and (7) he’d planted the bombs. Objectively considered, Theo’s own story implicated him as an accomplice to the bombing, and under the felony-murder rule, as guilty of the murder of Daniel Herron as Freddy.
If, in fact, he was even telling the truth about Freddy. I had only his word that Freddy was involved. Nothing from the police investigation— to the extent the cops had released details of it— pointed to any other suspect.
Theo also repeated his claim that Freddy had assured him the church would be deserted and that he’d been coerced by Freddy into helping him. Under the felony-murder rule, it was irrelevant whether Theo believed the church would be unoccupied. If someone is killed in the commission of a felony, you’re still on the hook for murder. As for coercion, the law had its own definition— a threat or action taken by the perpetrator of the crime so intimidating that the person threatened lost the ability to refuse to assist in the crime. What Theo described, verbal abuse and being slapped around a couple of times, didn’t cut it.
A potentially more promising defense was that Theo’s emotional state was so compromised by drugs and his obsession with Freddy he lost the ability to make rational decisions: a kind of Stockholm Syndrome claim. But again, that was based only on Theo’s word. He painted Freddy as a homicidal maniac, but no one who had ever seen them together supported that characterization. To the contrary, the people in QUEER thought Theo was the firebrand and that’s what the evidence pointed to as well. I needed different evidence. It was time to call in my investigator.
••••
Freeman Vidor’s office was a short walk from the Criminal Courts Building on the second floor of an old brick building above a bail bondsman. I rapped at the door and he said, “Yeah, come in.”
Behind a surplus sale metal desk, strewn with papers and fastfood bags, sat a thin Black man wearing a gold suit and a vintage Rolex. The dusty blinds were drawn over windows that fronted the noisy street; the only illumination in the room was the harsh light of a gooseneck desk lamp. Above a threadbare sofa was a license that attested to the legitimacy of his operation. Beneath it was a photograph of a much younger Vidor in an LAPD uniform.
At first glance, except for his graying hair, little seemed to have changed about Freeman Vidor since that picture had been taken. His face was still unlined, but he didn’t look young. He looked like a man nothing had ever surprised. I’d been referred to him on another case by a public defender when I first started practicing in LA and had used him since then.
Freeman was the most thorough and tenacious investigator I’d ever worked with. He was also utterly without illusions about humans and human nature, a cynic to the bone. As such, he regarded his fellow humans and their behavior— however atrocious— without judgment. He brought intelligence and cunning to his work, but no emotional investment. As far as he was concerned, we were all specimens he regarded with clear-eyed curiosity and mordant humor. That included me: a gay, Mexican-American defense lawyer was the kind of oddity he enjoyed.
“Morning, Freeman,” I said.
“Move that box off the chair and have a seat,” he replied. “You want some coffee? I got a thermos here.”
“No, I’m good.”
He poured coffee into a mug, added a packet of Sweet ’n Low and stirred it with a pencil. “So, now you’re defending church bombers. It’s like you like being hated on.”
“Everyone hates defense lawyers until they need us; then they expect us to pull rabbits out of hats.”
“What rabbit are you trying to pull out of your hat for—” he glanced at the case file on his desk I’d sent over earlier, “Mr. Theo Latour?”
“I’m trying to keep him off death row.”
In capital cases, once the defendant is convicted of the underlying murder, the jury chooses between two penalties: death, or life without the possibility of parole— LWOP. I was hoping to plead the case for a deal on the sentence. In my wilder dreams I even thought I could talk the DA into a life sentence with the possibility of parole.
“You want to offer up this Saavedra character to the electric chair instead of Latour?”
“You know California stopped using the electric chair decades ago.”
He grinned. “I know, but it sounds scarier than lethal injection.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “Lethal is pretty scary.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“We need to gather evidence that supports Theo’s story that Freddy planned the bombings and made the bombs.”
“You want me to find Saavedra.”
“Actually,” I said, “no. It’s better for my defense if he stays disappeared because if he’s found and arrested—”
“He’ll pin the blame on your boy.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to fight a war on two fronts at trial, against the DA and Saavedra.”
Freeman lit a Winston and said, “But if both boys point at each other, that will confuse the jury. Isn’t that what you defense lawyers like? A confused jury?”
“Ordinarily, yes. A confused jury is at least a hung jury and maybe even an acquitting jury. But in felony murder, the jury doesn’t have to decide exactly who did what to convict them as long as it’s convinced they both did something. Theo did more than something. He planted the bomb that killed the victim. There’s no possibility he won’t be convicted of murder. It becomes a question of degree and punishment. If all he did was plant the bomb, not knowing someone was going to be at the church, and everything else was Saavedra’s doing, maybe I can talk the DA into a deal or persuade a jury not to send him to San Quentin.”
“Tell me again why these boys were blowing up churches.”
“To protest the church’s support for the quarantine initiative.”
“You’re not going to get much sympathy from a downtown jury for that,” he said. “The Black folks you pull from south-central are likely going to be churchgoers, and your people from East LA are not big gay rights supporters.”
He wasn’t wrong. Downtown juries, largely drawn from the surrounding Black and Latino communities, were often better for the defense than the white suburban juries because they tended to be more skeptical of cops, but on the issue of homosexuality they were, if anything, likely to be more conservative than white jurors.
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I need hard evidence against Saavedra.”
He tapped ash into an overflowing ashtray and asked, “Like what?”
“We need to prove he made the bombs. Theo told me he went with Saavedra to a Home Depot on Sunset where Freddy bought the components.”
I reached into my briefcase and handed him a manila folder.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a photograph of the two of them taken by a photographer for one of the gay papers at a demonstration. Take it to the Home Depot and see if anyone who works there recognizes them.”
He was taking a long look at the photo, which showed Theo and Freddy standing in a crowd, shoulder to shoulder, fists pumping the air, screaming at a line of cops.
“These the bombers?” he asked, tapping the photo.
“Yeah.”
“The Chicano dude I could see; the other guy— your client— he looks like an addict.”
“He is,” I said.
He slipped the photo back into the file. “What else do you want me to do?”
“Check out Saavedra’s criminal history. Apparently, there was an arrest warrant out on him for an assault charge. Maybe there are other arrests and convictions for violence. When I get the police reports, I’ll see if the cops got his prints in the apartmen
t where the bombs were built. I know for a fact he spent a lot of time there. Theo’s roommate could testify to that.”
Freeman lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “He could testify he saw Saavedra making a bomb?”
“No, only that he was frequently in the apartment where the bomb was made.”
“You talk to the roommate? Is he involved?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “He’s my, uh, boyfriend.”
Freeman snorted with amusement. “You’re dating a witness? Isn’t that what you guys call a conflict of interest? I can already hear the DA asking him on cross, ‘Isn’t it true you’re sleeping with Mr. Rios, the defense lawyer?’”
“The DA won’t know unless someone tells him, and I’m not under any duty to disclose it,” I said. “Besides, it’s irrelevant.”
He shook his head, still amused. “If you say so.”
“Find me evidence connecting Saavedra to the bombing,” I said, “and don’t worry about my love life.”
“I’m just surprised to hear you got one. I was starting to think you were one of those married-to-his-work types.”
••••
Freeman was right about Josh and me. If jurors knew I was sleeping with one of my witnesses, we’d both look sketchy. Plus, it would out me at trial as a gay man with all the negative associations that entailed. I couldn’t see a way of keeping Josh off the stand, though. The bombs had been constructed at Josh’s apartment. I needed to establish that Freddy had been a frequent visitor to the apartment, often while Josh was at work. Freddy’s fingerprints— assuming the cops had lifted any— would only show he’d been at the apartment, not when or for how long. The only person other than Josh who could testify to Freddy’s comings and goings was Theo, his accomplice. I needed untainted corroborating testimony: Josh.
••••
Was Josh my boyfriend? At the moment, it wasn’t at all clear to me what we were to each other. Since talking to his parents, he’d grown distant. He’d reached that fork in the road where he had to choose between fight or flight— fight through the shame and guilt to stay in our relationship, or run. The stress put him all over the emotional map. He still spent nights with me at Larry’s house, but he came in later and later after his shift at the restaurant; he’d taken to going out with his coworkers for drinks. By the time he rolled in, I was usually asleep. Sometimes he woke me wanting to have sex and other times he kept to his side of the bed. If I asked him what was wrong, he’d say nothing, and if I pressed, he shut down completely. I knew I could do little but watch and wait. So I did, but I can’t say it didn’t hurt.
“You didn’t have to wait up,” he said that night after my meeting with Freeman. He tossed his leather jacket over the back of the sofa where I was reading a brief.
He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, came out, and sat down at the other end of the couch. I could smell the cigarettes and booze, but he seemed sober enough.
“We need to talk about Theo’s case.”
I explained why I might have to call him as a witness. I warned him that, to discredit him, the prosecutor would likely bring out the fact that the cops had questioned him as a suspect.
“Oh, that’s great,” he said sarcastically. “Now the whole world will know the police thought I was a terrorist and a murderer. Something to put on my resume because I’ll be looking for another job.”
“I’ll have you testify that the police concluded you weren’t involved and released you without charges.”
“That’s not what people will remember.”
“People have very short memories. Anyway, your testimony will only be a minor part of the defense.”
He flushed. “Minor! Maybe for you.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and angrily lit it. “Will the prosecutor also ask me if you’re fucking me? Wouldn’t that also be— what did you call it? ‘Relevant to my credibility’?”
His outburst solved my problem of how to broach the subject.
“That could come out.”
“Listen to you!” he shouted. “You sit there calmly telling me how I’m going to be humiliated in public like it’s nothing to you. Why don’t we let it all hang out? Tell the jury I’ve got AIDS, too. Or would that hurt the defense?”
“You don’t have AIDS.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I’m not in the mood for another pep talk from a guy who tested negative.”
I took a breath. “Then maybe you should leave.”
This got a shocked, “What?”
“If all you’re going to do is treat me with contempt like I’m your enemy instead of the guy who loves you, I don’t understand why you’re here.”
I couldn’t read his expression and thought maybe I’d been wrong to put the challenge so bluntly, but even rejection was preferable to the loneliness we’d created for each other. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“We need to talk about what’s going on with you, Josh,” I said.
He huffed a sound between a laugh and a groan. “I wish I knew what was going on with me.” He dropped back on the couch. “I feel trapped between the way things were before I got diagnosed and what might happen to me.” He sank into the cushions. “I’m afraid, Henry.”
“Fuck everything and run.”
He furrowed his brow. “What?”
“It’s an acronym for the word fear,” I said.
He worked it out. “Oh, I get it. F.E.A.R. Fuck everything and run.”
“It’s one response to fear,” I continued. “Deny it, try to escape it. Drown it with booze or silence it with drugs or, like I used to do, bury yourself in work.”
He leaned forward. “What were you afraid of?”
“Some of the same fears that chase you,” I said. “That I was broken, defective, dirty. It’s hard to be hated for who you are, Josh. We can’t help but absorb some of it. Work distracted me, but the booze took me to the place where I finally had to decide if I was going to live or die. You know what? It was a harder choice than you’d think.”
“You got sober,” he said.
“I stopped drinking,” I replied. “I’m still getting sober. I’m still making that choice to face the things that scare me and work through them.”
“I’m positive,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, that’s a fear you have to face that I don’t, and it’s not something you’ll resolve once and for all. You’ll have to face it again and again, but you don’t have to do it alone. You’ll have me beside you.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a prick.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Let’s talk.”
••••
She saw the red light flashing in the rearview mirror, heard the siren, and jerked the steering wheel to move her car into the next lane and allow the patrol car to pass her. But the patrol car also switched lanes, closing the distance until it was almost on her bumper. Then she heard the voice over the loudspeaker: “White BMW, pull over to the shoulder. Now.”
She flinched when the officer shined his flashlight in her face, and she fumbled for her driver’s license and car registration. When he returned to his patrol car, in her panic she briefly considered driving off. Instead, she gulped air to calm herself. Cars slowed as they passed her, and she felt exposed and humiliated, but her overriding emotion was terror. In the back seat was a grocery bag containing a half-gallon of vodka; she’d roused herself and run out earlier to go to the liquor store.
As her drinking had increased, she went farther and farther from home to purchase her alcohol, reasoning vaguely that this way she could conceal her consumption. This liquor store had been in a neighborhood where the signs of the surrounding businesses were as much in Spanish as English. The clerk, a thick-waisted, dark-skinned man in black-rimmed glasses, bagged her purchase without comment, but she still felt judged and hurried out of the store without collecting her change. On the drive home she got lost and ended up on the wrong freeway. Spotting an exit r
amp, she cut across two lanes of traffic so abruptly she nearly hit someone. That’s when she saw the red light.
The officer was back at her window, her papers in hand. He was young enough to have been her son. For a moment, she thought he would simply return them and release her, but then he asked, “Do you know why I stopped you, ma’am?”
“No, officer, I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
“You changed lanes without signaling and almost caused an accident.”
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I will be more careful.”
“Ma’am,” he asked, leaning into the car, “have you been drinking?”
••••
She stood at the window and watched the retreating back lights of Metzger’s car. Uncle Bob. That had been her first thought when she was led from booking to the jail cell after her arrest. I must call Uncle Bob. Roused from sleep, he had appeared at the police station looking every moment of his seventy-six years, mouth curled in displeasure, eyes fogged with contempt. But he had secured her release and on driving her home had assured her he would personally resolve the issue with the sheriff before it proceeded any further.
She had hoped he would let her out and drive away, but he insisted on coming inside.
Once inside, he asked, bluntly, “How long has this been going on, Jessica?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He sat heavily, regarded her coldly, and continued, “Your mother was also an alcoholic, but your father protected her. He’s not here to protect you and neither is Dan.”
She went cold, then hot. “I am not an alcoholic.”
“Cut the crap, Jess. I can arrange for you to go into rehab.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied. “I’m not leaving my home.”
“Technically, it’s the pastor’s residence, not your private home,” he said. “The church owns it. There will be a new pastor soon. One with a family. We’ll need the place back from you.”
She stared at him. “I’ve lived here all my life.”