by A. L. DeNova
With the air of long-suffering forbearance, Jo turned to Jacobo Sanchez, “Can you help me carry these exhibits back to my office?”
Carmen, who had been sitting in the courtroom throughout the first day of court, stood up. “Hi Jo, don’t ask me to carry anything more than my purse,” Carmen said.
Agent Sanchez shrugged, and picked up the exhibits.
“You know Sanchez, it’s all about the journey, not the destination. That’s certainly true of these ridiculous charts.”
The prosecutor and the agent stacked the ten large charts on an oblong rolling metal case basket, specifically constructed to carry the 100s of weighty in terms of poundage cases carted back and forth by the federal prosecutor to the courtroom.
“OK Gemma, forget the trial, let the jury just bring a scale, and whatever side’s file weighs the most, they should win. Isn’t that what they mean by scales of justice, the most evidence?” Jacobo said.
“Very funny. Is that what they taught you at Special Agent School, to slay the bad guy with your one-liners?”
Jo carried a three-ring binder, and various code books that looked as weighty as an armful of bricks. Together, they dragged their evidence back to the United States Attorney’s Office.
After walking in silence for some minutes, Jo said,” We have more evidence, and it weighs more, and they should give our evidence more weight. Because we are the good guys.”
Carmen said, “Well it was a great first day, Jo I’ll see you back tonight?”
Jo said, “Carmen, it’s going to be a late night, but I will see you later.”
Carmen waved goodbye to the prosecution team, and punched the elevator to the ground floor.
22
The AUSA Always Wins
Heidi Vandeweghe remained in the quiet courtroom with her client, watched silently by the United States Marshalls, and ignored completely by the court clerk Mrs. Littleton.
Heidi touched her client gently on the shoulder, and brought her rouge lips right up to his hairy, waxy ear and whispered her favorite phrase in the English language “Reasonable doubt.”
Mr. Garuda Cordero smiled. She continued, in her quiet tones, her gently whispers, motherly and yet almost romantic, “no knowledge, Not Proven.” Garuda Cordero nodded with serious understanding. It was their stupid system, and they were going to beat them at their own stupid game, playing their rules, with an American lawyer, accomplished with Mexican evidence and Mexican money.
Garuda Cordero inhaled Heidi’s French perfume as she bade him goodbye: “Sleep well, we have a long day tomorrow.”
A man of action, and chosen by the organization because he was a man of impressively few words. Garuda nodded, and held out his hands and legs to be shackled by his legs and hands and be led back to his cell, waiting for dawn, and the trial. The trial would determine if he would go back to his small town a rich hero, with a Cadillac, many children, a wife, a mistress, a boat. Or, if we spend decades in America, in the federal prison system, which was not too bad, but had no women. And was very boring, from what he could tell. With a shuffle, clink, and tug, the U.S. Marshalls were pushing Garuda out of the courtroom and into the long, fluorescent, cement hallway that led to a series of subterranean corridors underneath downtown San Diego, and led up into the Federal Metropolitan Correctional Facility where all prisoners were housed pre-trial.
Garuda did the custody shuffle in his brown plastic prisoner sandals, and his tan cover hails with twelve inch letters that read “M C C” printed on his back. Garuda smiled again to himself, his face unseen by his two-man escort. He had the loveliest lawyer, a biased judge, a flustered prosecutor, and fresh snort of cocaine purchased for him and smuggled in his jail lunch. He was in leg irons, but on this afternoon, his spirit soared.
All Heidi saw was her foul smelling, rumpled, unshaven client being led into the custody exit from the courtroom. She had a chance with this trial. A not guilty on a case this big would make her quite the commodity in town. It was hard to win at trial. Harder still to win in federal court. As a general rule, and knowing the Feds, the rules probably had a number, and a subsection a, b and c. But the general rule was that the Feds did not take case to trial unless they knew they were going to win it. In fact, it was well known among the defense bar that they would rather dismiss a case, than lose it. Even if the odds were 50-50. The Man did not bet.
The Man stacked the odds. That’s why so many of the Judges were ex-prosecutors, because the prosecutors needed the evidence and the forum stacked entirely in their favor.
If they couldn’t have the home field advantage with a crooked ump, well they would forfeit the game. But Jo was a different kind of prosecutor, she was young, hungry to make a reputation, and she was a real competitor. Maybe because she was so obviously a dyke, she had something to prove, or maybe it was just in her DNA, or she got dealt just too much testosterone for a woman. Heidi liked men, she preferred men, but she had to admit, she liked flirting with Jo, and Jo definitely was not blind to her Vandeweghe blonde charm.
Heidi picked up a thin rose-colored leather folder, purchased specially in Manhattan, and pranced out of the courtroom.
Yes, if the verdict depended on the physical weight of the documents provided by the parties, it was clear the Defense was at a material disadvantage. Heidi swayed out on her high heels, exaggerating her femininity. Her rear end did not go unnoticed for the courtroom security officer who had remained behind to lock and secure the thick courtroom door to the courthouse hallway.
By this time, Special Agent Sanchez and Jo had crossed the covered elevated hallway bridge that connected the United States Attorney’s Office to the Federal Court House.
“That’s convenient Jo, to just walk back to your office with all this stuff.”
“It would have been a whole lot more convenient if that wizened biddy Littleton would have just let us keep that stuff overnight. If it was frozen food, it would not even defrost. We will be back there before she knows it. I don’t know what the big deal was.”
“I think,” said Sanchez “She’s just following orders. They don’t pay federal workers to think.”
“Yeah,” Jo said.
“You know Jo, the only place ‘Success comes before work, is in the dictionary,” Jacobo replied.
“Oh, Sanchez have you not learnt anything today?
The only place success comes before work is in the judiciary,” Jo said.
“Sounds like a perfect fit for you,” Special Agent Sanchez said.
Sanchez pushed the full cart of evidence, sealed plastic bags with large yellow tape prominently labeled “Evidence.” He jammed the cart into a small office with a name plate outside the door that said AUSA Gemma
“Jo, it’s 5:30 -let’s grab a beer and a burrito,” Sanchez offered.
“No,” came Jo’s immediate reply. “I have work to do.”
Jo dropped her armload of books onto an already full wooden desk circa 1945. Agent Sanchez strode to the office doorway, one foot into the hallway.
Leaning back in, he called, “I’ll see you mañana, then Josephina.” Sanchez pulled down his tie, opened up the top button of his collared shirt, and removed his suit jacket, and flung it over his broad, muscular shoulder, and strolled towards the exit.
Jo stared outside, to the afternoon sky of mid-summer. A perfect San Diego evening, she could see the trees outside gliding with the breeze coming off the harbor, sailors, and tourists, enjoying the sun and warmth, and she was stuck inside with her terror. She opened the gate of her mind, so she could ramble through memories of a fun weekend, of Carmen’s suggestive smile. She rubbed her eyes with her fists. There was work to be done. She took off her suit jacket, and hung it on the back of her decrepit chair.
“That Defendant is so guilty,” Jo said aloud to the impressive pile of evidence and reports gathered on his behalf, but actually to his detriment. “Why does Mack have to make a hard one out of an easy one?” Jo said again aloud, thinking that she was in an empty office space.
Jo plopped down on the old chair with an audible “squeak” and grabbed a long yellow legal notepad and wrote with her Skill craft government issued pen in a large, still girlish cursive handwriting:
Factors of Guilt
1) The Driver
2) Professional Driver
3) Value
Jo looked away from her legal pad and saw a vast body blocking the door. She saw the friendly face of Shawn Deaver casting a long shadow across the worn and stained blue industrial carpeting. His ample soft belly pushed against his tailored shirt and dark trousers, and was not lessened by his 6’4” frame.
“How’s the trial going, Jo?” Deaver asked. “Shawn, if you blink, it will be over.” Came the answer delivered with deliberate disinterest. “Are you kidding? Isn’t this like 500 kilos of cocaine?” Deaver said. “But it is the world’s most brilliant judge, McJustice and the man or should I say the Monarch- he detests me. It could be my boyish good looks, my political party, Stanford pedigree, or maybe it’s just all of the above.” “Listen Jo, he wants street justice, not case cites. Look at the bright side, it’s another trial coin from the U.S. Attorney and with that lucre, you can cash in with the Big firms,” He added. “Either way, you win. You got to take my approach, it will at least save you from a brain aneurysm. Listen, if you win the trial, well you get slaps on your back from everybody here in the office. You can tell your future civil litigation partner in L.A. what a big shot Assistant United States Attorney you were and how hard you worked to keep their blow rare and expensive.”
Jo kept scribbling away at her yellow pad, but Deaver was on tirade, he was in the flow.
That’s why he became a trial lawyer, so he could talk without ever being interrupted.
He continued, ignoring that he was being ignored, “But even if you lose, you win. If you lose out, you don’t have to try this dog again. Double jeopardy attaches and you can shitcan all the evidence. You will never have to defend the validity of the conviction to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeal—you know the Ninth Circus, to a bunch of geriatric leftist, law professors with a very weak grasp on reality from deciding, no the jury instructions were wrong, the statute, the law itself is wrong, they will legislate from the bench, and throw your ass right back to the place you love least, before the throne of McJustice to try the case again.” When he finished this sentence, he paused for air. Thirty-five-year-old Dylan Deaver, took off his wire glasses, wiped them on his Brooks Brothers rep tie and continued: “It all boils down to a very simple rule of success Jo, try the case, be fair, and be professional. And don’t worry there will be another case like this.
This is not Judgement at Nuremberg.” Jo set down her pen and stared at Dylan as he emphasized his lecture by slamming his ham-sized fist into his large palm. “Jo, let me just be clear, McJustice is a lunatic, to the immense misfortune of the people of San Diego. Some President I think it was Nixon, gave this guy a lifetime appointment to the federal bench, our defense bar is rabid, and the Court of Appeals have burned out their collective minds on acid. But we have one shield, the United States Constitution. It upholds the dignity of every person who has the distinct privilege of entering our borders.”
“Nice Speech, Dylan,” is all Jo said. “Are you running for Congress?” Dylan shook his head no, and glanced at his large digital watch, “No, I am just being Irish.” Jo smiled.
“Jo, in spite of all the garbage, the heart palpitations, the hand wringing, there is something so vital here. It tears out your guts to be an authentic courtroom prosecutor, doing the right thing for the right reasons. Taking the high road always, even when your bosses are incompetent assholes.” Dylan walked up to the desk and leaned his powerful frame, placing his long arms across the desk, until he was inches from Jo’s face. “Jo, get out of here while you are young, make some money because the Mexican border will still be around in five, ten, hell, fifty years if you ever decide you want to pin a badge across your chest again. Make money, and come back, and buy yourself the job of United States Attorney, and then you can make a difference.” Dylan finished the lecture by throwing his heavy torso into the chipped wooden guest chair facing Jo’s work desk.
Jo inhaled deeply, and playing office poker said flatly, “Thanks Dylan, but I am working the instructions for tomorrow as ordered by McKinley L. Mack. I will see you tomorrow.” And she returned to writing intensely at her yellow pad. She rose to walk to her bookshelf, and pick up a small red soft cover book entitled “Pattern Jury Instructions for the Ninth Circuit.” Dylan heaved himself out of the low chair, turned towards the door, and then swung around to look at Jo. “Break a leg,” Dylan said, as he slammed her office door shut.
23
Consequences of Hard Work
JC made the phone call from the pay telephone at the upscale bar adjacent to Horton plaza, Jamison’s it was called. He had been escorted by Jose, who as promised, was at his side at all times. JC thought at first, he would just make the call from the courthouse lobby, but Jose´ persuaded him, emphatically nodded his head “no,” when he picked up the black receiver in the courthouse telephone booth. Jose´ handed him the two quarters. “Hello, yeah, we found the short-haired girl. She does not know about the product, so it’s all good,” JC said.
“Sit there, until you see Carmen,” El Chiño said and slammed the receiver down. Idiot.
JC closed the telephone booth metal accordion door. He found Jose´ sipping beer with a twist of lime at the bar. “We stay,” JC told Jose. With an expectant grin, JC caught the eye of the twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress. She approached and hovered inches away. “Two tequilas please,” JC said tenderly to the young woman.
* * *
Hunched over her desk in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Jo scribbled away for hours, sifting through the reports, and evidence. She wrote notes on top of her stack of papers. She wrote a story and a theme from a seemingly random crime. “Trial work is therapy, performance art, and a blood sport,” Heidi told her at their first meeting.
The long summer sun dipped into the ocean and day became night. Jo looked out her window. There were no pedestrians, no cars, no staggering sailors. “Time to go home,” she declared. Jo grabbed her keys, her U.S. Attorney Creds, and her Velcro surf wallet. She shut the door, and walked into a dark hallway that smelled of stale coffee, and fermented politics. Jo dashed out of her office, and made a quick escape. She zoomed home in minutes to her quiet neighborhood, and cozy home. She parked her convertible in the driveway, and tiptoed into her dark home. She threw off her clothes, not bothering to hang them. Jo face threw herself down on her double bed and immediately fell asleep. Carmen rolled over to a hold a strand of Jo’s thick hair.
The blare of the electronic alarm clock split Jo’s REM slumber. She was drooling into her pillow. With reluctance, she opened one eye to peak at the insistent red numbers flashing. “7:10, how do I sleep so late!” Jo jumped out of bed. Her panties were indeed in a bunch as she had but fifteen minutes to get clothed, to pull on those unfamiliar nylons, skirt, and race downtown. This was the first full day of the actual trial. She had to be in Mac’s courtroom before 8:00 a.m. She was not sure what time zone actually ruled for Judge Mack but it surely wasn’t Pacific Coast Standard, more like the Bermuda Triangle. If her butt wasn’t planted in the ancient counsel chair by 7:45, she was toast. A fate so terrible, she focused on pulling on her clothes and jumping in her car. There was a set of three edicts applicable to every prosecutor in every situation:
1) be in court on time, 2) appropriately dressed 3) and if you say anything intelligent that would be extra credit.
She had no time to dwell on philosophy, she threw on a white blouse with a ribbon tie, a blue pin-striped skirt suit that she had added last night on credit card. Next, she grabbed the shoebox holding her brand new black pumps.
Jo took one half second, and paused in self-preservation to stare into the mirror. She looked tired, but her thin, tanned face, showed twenty-nine years of healthy living, with n
ary a wrinkle. She winked at those blue eyes, revealing more than a glimmer of intelligence and insouciance. She liked what she saw.
Heidi Vandeweghe walked coiffed, cool, and calm towards the United States Federal Courthouse. She was there early, not only to impress the judge, but also to organize her exhibits, and defense file. As she entered, she thought she heard a familiar voice. She turned to see that once in a purple moon occurrence that demands a pause. Heidi removed the designer sunglasses from her face in disbelief, and stared. “Why Josephina Gemma, you shouldn’t have,” Heidi quipped as she gazed at the young prosecutor decked out in a skirt suit, panty hose, and shiny black high heels, with a pink ribbon bow tie. Sweetly and softly, Heidi confided to Jo as she took up the prosecutor’s arm to escort her into the courthouse “You know Josephina, you are a very attractive woman.” In response, Jo blushed. She had to admit, Heidi was a shameless flirt.
The two women were waved through the court security as regulars and punched the elevators for a precarious ride up to the top floor. They entered the courtroom together. Heidi entered first, she smiled widely at the Deputy United States Marshall in a blue suit and a wide red tie. The wire of his security feed was exposed on the trail from his muscular neck to his ear. He was always ready to call in the artillery.
Heidi placed her thin notebook down on the extensive defense counsel table, a heavy oak flat top, decades old, somewhere between an antique and an albatross. The clink of metal on metal betrayed the imminent arrival of her client.
Heidi’s very own Sancho Panza, the private investigator she retained on all cartel cases, entered the courtroom and dumped ten pounds of case material on the table in front of the unoccupied chair. He claimed his family name was IlDefenso. She never had that verified as she always paid him directly in cash.