Killing Cortez

by A. L. DeNova

  “Perfecto,” she chimed. He handed her a pink can of carbonation, masquerading as diet cola. Heidi responded with a broad smile. She pulled open the tab and daintily guzzled a can full of saccharine. She was going to need that, and charm to circumvent the law and evidence. Heidi knew, it could all be done with mirrors.

  Across the cavernous courtroom, which could house a full basketball court, Jo teetered in her new black patent leather pumps. She too was setting up and getting organized. She had the burden of proof. She had a lot on her mind. Closest to the jury box, she sat at the table reserved for the prosecutor. By hallowed tradition, this was her table. Was it written anywhere? Not that she knew. One of the traditions of the law, or at least of the prosecution, was to defer to the might of the tradition.

  A trial, like a sports competition, came down to synchronicity. And so, knowing that discretion was the better part of valor, Jo glanced at her watch, observing the law school graduation gift from her papa Detective Giacomo Gemma of Chicago’s finest. Her wrist watch that allegedly had a quartz crystal, which read 7:47 while the courtroom clock said 7:59.

  “Note to self” Jo said loudly, hoping her words would travel across the expanse of the courtroom to draw a chuckle from Heidi, “The courtroom clock is 12 minutes faster than the outside non-legal world.” Jo wobbled closer to Heidi as she saw the corners of Heidi’s mouth curl up in a grin. Jo reached the defense table and cupped the microphone at the defense table which was there to amplify the comments of counsel for the diminished hearing of the aging judge.

  Just as Jo delivered this witticism, the judge’s courtroom deputy clerk, Mrs. Littleton heralded the incoming judge. Mack said as he ascended “I see you are nearly punctual, Miss Gemma. You look well in a dress.” Jo tried to smile. She turned and saw Carmen sitting in the front audience seat on the prosecutor’s side of the courtroom. Jo smiled wider.

  Mack said, “We are now on the record. Your appearances please.”

  Jo rose up to a standing, really a swaying position in her unfamiliar pumps and said: “Good morning, your Honor, Josephine Gemma, for the United States.” Judge Mack answered, “Why Miss Gemma, and good morning to you, don’t you look splendid in your finery.”

  Heidi rose smoothly, and sang out “Heidi Vandeweghe for my client,” she said, staring with maternal tenderness at her client. Garuda was trial ready, beefy head held high, his face adorned by a large scar over his left eyebrow.

  Mack nodded and intoned,” As always, a pleasure to have you.” Mack continued “Ladies, I am now reviewing your proposed jury instructions. The Court will announce its decision at the morning break. Be prepared Miss Gemma, to stand and deliver as soon as we have one dozen warm bodies packed in the box.” Mack then barked to Amber, the court reporter, “Please note we are now off the record.” That was the order from the federal district court judge, that there would be no more typing, and that what was about to be said by anyone present would not be recorded for the annals of history, but would instead slip into the forgotten mists of time.

  “Ha! Mrs. Littleton,” Mack savored in a hearty voice, “I am so beating Judge Flynn. I might indeed have 50 trials by the end of this year, or is it sixty, I have to get our law clerk to count them up again. A record, I tell you.” Mrs. Littleton who served at the pleasure of Mack, nodded agreeably to this victorious announcement.

  Jo glanced at her wrist watch and then again at the dissonant court room clock. On top of all her other distractions, Jo noted that she had to perform arithmetic in order to determine first the time, and then interpret Mack ‘s pronounced schedule.

  “I give up,” Jo said without emotion. Capitulation came fast after that. She pulled out the knob on her watch, and made the first step into the dystopia of that courtroom. “There, the clocks run fast, my watch runs fast, and Justice has been entirely deleted in the interests of expediency” Jo said. The Courtroom Clock read 8:20 a.m.

  Mrs. Littleton, formally pronounced in a loud voice: “All jurors for United States versus Garuda Cordero, follow me.” One by one, the twelve, and one retired Navy Chief, the alternate filed in where they sat in the jury box, unamused.

  Heidi scanned them all, and smiled her best smile. These were to be the savior for her client, but for her career as well. A not guilty verdict on a drug case this big was so valuable as to be unquantifiable. Heidi viewed these citizens with hopeful eyes. The potential jurors included a wealthy widow who trial lawyers colloquially categorized a Coronado Island Blue Hairs. Represented also were retired U.S. Marines with their erect posture and salt and pepper buzz cut along with the occasional University of California San Diego undergraduate, with the telltale red eyes of a pot-head. All citizen representatives of America’s Finest City.

  Utilizing the skills of a ventriloquist, Jo wisecracked to Jacobo. He maintained the silent decorum at the prosecution table. “We have to find a way to get a conviction from this lot,” Jo said.

  For her part, Heidi smiled as wide as she could, stretching the muscles of her lips, and standing immediately as the jurors walked in the courtroom. With all assembled, Mrs. Littleton again heralded the entrance of the judge.

  Garuda Gordon Cordero, Jo’s Defendant sat, confident, and respectable in a sober, blue suit recently purchased for him by Heidi’s investigator. Cordero stood stiffly as the jury filed in, he looked each one of them straight in their eye, silently arguing his innocence. He was, like all present, a proud professional.

  24

  A Numbers Game

  This was Federal Court, and every single one of the jurors had paid a very stiff price for admission, a lifetime of taxes. “Miss Gemma, call your first witness,” Mack said, and the substance of the trial began.

  Jo rose, aware that the jury’s only access to truth was what she would present in this trial. They would never see what Jacobo had found. In her skirt suit, and obscenely uncomfortable high heels, she was part of it, the prison industrial complex. There were few victims in federal court. The victims’ place was across the street. In state court, where the ravages of violence, child neglect and drug abuse were played out daily.

  “Tell the story in simple words,” Jacobo advised before trial. Jo flushed, her head was pulsing, her breathing came quick, like she was doing a swim sprint. The courtroom lights penetrated, to the vision she had when she opened her job offer letter to work for the Government. It was a job that she loved and hated at the same time.

  The routine interspersed with the most remarkable, poignant and disturbing events, excavated from the filthy crevices and back alleys. She adjusted her jacket, she traversed the five feet to the podium, and placed her yellow pad, filled with her script on the stand. She cleared her voice, carefully to sanitize her Chicago accent, into the flat mumbles of San Diego.

  She took a moment to look again at the list she had written out late last night. Summoning a voice from a region deep in her diaphragm, Jo loudly said: “The United States calls as its first witness, United States Customs Inspector, Sean O’Connor.”

  Agent Sanchez strode to the rear of the courtroom and within seconds, a rotund man with yellow eyes, yellow teeth stepped into the courtroom.

  O’Connor raised his right hand and with half closed lids grunted when asked if he would tell the truth, by an impassive Mrs. Littleton. With more than a little suspicion, O’Connor said. “I do.”

  Gripping the sides of the podium for stability, Jo threw a soft ball to the witness, to help him steady his nerves. “Good morning, Officer O’Connor,” was the opening pitch from the home team.

  Jo watched him inhale, and then began in earnest: “Directing your attention to March 17, 1988, were you on duty at the primary inspection at the Tecate, California Port of Entry?”

  O’Connor answered robotically, without pausing to compute, “Yes ma’am. And that is still my shift.”

  Jo led him through the night’s events, exactly as recorded in his report from that day.

  “Jo then then smiled, and looked directly at the Hono
rable McKinley L. Mack and said, “I have no further questions, your honor.” Protocol always trumped substance in the courtroom, per the explicit direction of McJustice himself.

  Before Jo had stepped away from the lectern, Heidi was standing by her side.

  McJustice, absorbing the delights of Heidi in full trial regalia, smiled broadly, exposing his over-sized predatory teeth.

  He nodded his head towards the vivacious defense attorney and boomed, “You may cross examine the witness.”

  This loud announcement from the bench, caused the front row juror in the Sea World T-Shirt to lift his head up, and wipe the spittle from the corner of his left cheek.

  In her sweetest tone, Heidi beamed “Thank you,” and looked gratefully up at Judge Mack. Slowly, and with unnecessary gyrations of her hips, she traversed the twelve feet from the defense counsel table to the lectern. She then paused, and smiled for a few seconds, sweetly, and demurely right at Inspector O’Connor.

  “Good morning, Inspector O’Connor,” she said.

  “Good morning, counsel,” O’Connor answered.

  “Were you aware that the Southern District of California shares a 140-mile border with the Republic of Mexico,” Heidi said.

  Out of the gate, this was not the type of question that O’Connor was expecting.

  “It sounds right,” O’Connor said, a bit off balance. “So that’s a yes,” Heidi said flatly.

  “Yes,” O’Connor answered obediently.

  “St. Patrick’s Day was on your mind on March 17th, 1988, earlier this year, is that also right Inspector O’Connor?”

  Without pause, he said, “Yes. You know that’s gotta be my favorite holiday, of course.”

  “Of course,” smiled Heidi. “You testified you were getting off and then going to have fun?”

  “Yes, that was my plan,” said O’Connor.

  “Officer O’Connor, did you put the plan into action on Saint Patrick’s Day”.

  “Objection,” declared Jo, jumping to her feet.

  McJustice also enjoyed that holiday as a time-honored custom of law enforcement. O’Connor said “Of course, I did.” “So, this incident that you just testified about, it occurred over four months ago, isn’t that correct?”

  “About that,” O’Connor said. “And you have been on duty six days a week since that time?”

  “Yes, that is true, we are a small port, and we have a small staff, and it has to be manned 365, 24-7, “said O’Connor.

  “So, it would be fair to say you’ve worked about 100 days since this incident?”

  Yes, I have, Ma’am,” O’Connor said proudly.

  “And you have worked other seizures, narcotics. Seizures of narcotics in addition to the one you are testifying about today?” Asked Heidi.

  “Sure have, Ma’am.”

  “More than 10?”“Oh yes,” said O’Connor.

  “More than 40 in these last 100 days?”

  “Oh, easily more than that,” said O’Connor with pride.

  With a tone of surprise, Heidi than asked “More than one hundred seizures, in the last one hundred days, Officer?”

  “Ma’am we have at least a seizure a day, and most days, yes, I get involved,” said O’Connor.

  Heidi shared a coy smile with McJustice, following that answer by the Government witness. Turning back to inspector, Heidi asked “Officer O’Connor you had about a two-minute interaction with my client, Mr. Garuda Garrett Cordero.”?

  O’Connor answered, well I did not time it, but that sounds about right.”

  “And Officer O’Connor, as the primary inspector at the Tecate Port of Entry, you have had interactions with all of those 100 people, who were involved in the 100 seizures that you have participated in, true?”

  “Yes,” O’Connor said, nodding.

  “And you are asking questions of all of those at least 100 people who came from Mexico into the United States?” Asked Heidi. “Why yes, of course,” said O’Connor.

  “You do not have an independent memory of this case, now do you?”

  O’Connor took a moment and stared into Heidi’s pretty face, her red lipstick, her sweet questioning eyes. He listened to his heart beating, before he replied, “Nope, er No.”

  Immediately, Heidi followed with the right hook, “In fact, you do not remember, whether your conversation with Mr. Garuda Garrett Cordero was in English or Spanish, do you?”

  O’Connor shook his head. “Mr. O’Connor, is that a no?” Asked Heidi.

  “No,” O’Connor stated.

  “You do not speak fluent Spanish, do you Officer O’Connor?” Heidi asked.

  “I do speak some Spanish.” “Officer, your Spanish is not fluent, is it?”

  “Well, no, not fluent,” O’Connor answered.

  “Thank you, Officer,” Heidi said with a wan smile.

  “Your honor, I have no further questions.” She picked up her yellow pad and red Mont Blanc, sat down, crossed her legs, and glanced over to the prosecution table, to punctuate the termination of her cross examination.

  Jo called the rest of the witnesses, who had been lined up outside the courtroom. She knew of utmost importance was the fast delivery of the witness to the stand, to keep the pace moving, moving, so McJustice, could have justice served fresh and hot, regardless of quality. As her final witness, she called Jacobo Sanchez.

  Of course, Jo had saved her best witness for last. It was Special Agent Jacobo Sanchez. Although no man-lover, she glanced at him with admiration. The guy was built, and he knew how to accentuate every inch of his tall and powerful build. The experienced agent strode across the courtroom. As Jacobo Sanchez raised his right hand to take the oath of a witness, all eyes were upon him, his 6’2” frame, his three-piece suit, his U.S. Army tie pin, and erect military bearing which promised disciplined strength.

  Jo eyed him, and understood she could do worse. Jacobo held his right-hand steady, believing in this oath, and all the oaths he ever swore. In his own eyes, Jacobo was a real man. He swore to tell the truth, as he fixed his dark gaze on the jury.

  Jacobo and Jo together told and retold the tale of the importation of 2000 kilograms into the United States from Mexico. Heidi did not object a single time. This unnerved Jo. Jo liked Heidi, but viewed everything that a defense attorney did as somehow sinister and underhanded.

  The Government rested. Heidi rose, and very slowly, she turned to the jury, and said “The Defense Rests.”

  Judge Mack was satisfied. “It is now 6:00 p.m. The court will recess for the night. Jurors are ordered to return at 9:00 a.m. Lawyers are ordered to return to my courtroom at 8:00 a. m. Everyone is reminded that all admonishments are still in place.”

  25

  Too Early

  Wednesday July 20, 1988

  7:52 a.m.

  Federal Court San Diego

  For the entire Pacific Standard Time Zone, it was 7:52 a.m., for the courtroom of McJustice, it was 8:02 a.m. The prosecutor was late for his court. “Find AUSA Gemma, and bring her in.,” Judge Mack told the U.S. Marshall assigned to his courtroom. Immediately, the U.S. deputy marshal exited the courtroom doors, in search of the tardy prosecutor.

  The U.S. Marshal observed two young women speaking together at the end of the hallway. He walked quickly towards them, his well-worn wingtips slapping the linoleum floors with a “whap, whap.” Deputy Marshall Slaughter, soon recognized AUSA Gemma as the prosecutor in the case and a younger, Mexican woman dressed in a short tight fighting red skirt, extremely high stiletto heels, and a sleeveless white blouse. He tried not to glance too much at the cleavage waving at him, and instead directed his greeting to the prosecutor. “Hey there, excuse me,” Slaughter said, who had played the offensive line for the University of Alabama, “but Judge Mack sent me out here, to locate you, and you probably do not want to keep Judge Mack waiting.” Jo turned away from Carmen and gave the Marshall a frosty stare. She had some good conversation going with Carmen, she was feeling it, and she still had a few minutes until she had
to enter Mack’s tomb.

  “Really Deputy Marshall? It’s 7:52 a.m. I have at least 7 minutes of great conversation with my cultural consultant Carmen Cortez.”

  The handsome Marshall held out his hand, and said, “Miss Cortez, a pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” Carmen smiled exposing her teeth and biting down her Spanish, “enchanted.”

  Marshall Slaughter touched Jo lightly on the elbow, “Judge Mack,” he said “his time reads 8:05 and he is calling the courtroom to order. Really, he will put stuff on the record with or without you.”

  That was it. Jo had to tear herself away from this delicious banter. She picked up her briefcase, jury instruction book, Federal Code of Criminal Procedure, and gestured with her head for Carmen to follow. With the Marshall in the lead, the three entered the courtroom.

  Carmen sat in the first row of the courtroom gallery, careful to cross her legs in the tight skirt.

  She did not want the jurors getting a free peak. Carmen looked up and saw Jo walking quickly to a large table closet to an empty jury box.

  The old man on the high bench snarled, “Nice of you to join us, Miss Gemma. You are tardy, no doubt adding on the final bits of your rebuttal argument, correct?”

  Heidi did not listen to a word McJustice had uttered. She was transfixed by her client’s fascination with the pretty young Latina who had followed Jo into the courtroom. Heidi leaned in. “That’s Carmen, I have seen her at carne asadas with JC and Ramon, in Tijuana.” Cordero tilted his head even closer, “Yes, Carmen Sophia Ruiz de Quintana.” Cordero confided exhibiting his expertise at associating names with faces. “I never forget a name or a face. You never know when you are going to need it in this business.”

  “Don’t say a thing, don’t look at her, who knows why she is here. We’ll talk later about this after this trial. Wait until we are out on the street.” Heidi smiled sweetly, and turned away from her client to stare at Jo.