Jenny sighs. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do because I know him.”
“You’re barely speaking to the guy, and now you’re defending him?”
“Of course I’m defending him.”
“You said he told you he was going to solve the problem. Apparently, he did.”
“Hold on. Who was that on the phone?”
“My brother-in-law’s an L.A.P.D. detective. After the break-in at your office, I asked him to ask around about The Shepherd. He knows an administrator with the Federal Bureau of Prisons. The Shepherd was raped, beaten and stabbed to death.”
“You had no right to do that.”
“No right? The Shepherd threatened you. I’m working closely with you. That means my life was also in danger.”
“So what are you saying? You think Dre broke into a federal prison and killed him?”
“No. But maybe he paid somebody to do it.”
“Just because the man is dead, doesn’t mean Dre had anything to do with it.”
“It seems awfully coincidental to me.”
I look around for my purse. I need to discuss this with Dre, not Jenny.
“Can you make sure all the exhibits and outlines are packed up?” I say, heading for the door. “I’ll meet you back here in the morning at seven.”
CHAPTER 69
Dre
I’m whistling as I park in front of Angela’s apartment building. Apache called me yesterday with the news that The Shepherd is dead and now my woman needs me. Life is beginning to taste sweet again.
When Angela opens the door, she’s not wearing a face that welcomes me. Her eyes are cold and her expression is hard. I can tell she’s been crying. Except for the faint light coming from a floor lamp in the living room, the apartment is dark.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay? Did something happen with Graylin’s case?”
Angela doesn’t respond.
I step inside and close the door behind me. “Angela, say something. What’s the matter?”
“Did you have anything to do with The Shepherd’s murder?”
I suck in a breath and don’t let it out. “How’d you find out?”
“Doesn’t matter how I found out. Answer my question.”
“I need to know who told you.”
“Jenny.”
“Jenny? How did she know?”
“Her family’s full of law enforcement. After the break-in, I told her The Shepherd was behind it. She asked her brother-in-law to look into it.”
I wish she hadn’t done that. His nosing around could cause us some problems. “I think we need to sit down,” I say.
“Just answer my question, Dre. Did you have anything to do with his murder? And don’t lie to me.”
“No.” I pause. “Not directly.”
“Not directly!” Angela yells. “Did you put a hit on the man? Please, God, tell me you didn’t.”
“I’m not going to talk to you until you calm down. Let’s go into the living room.”
Angela stays put for several seconds, then turns and flops down on the living room couch.
I ease into an armchair facing her.
“I’m going to tell you everything. The whole truth and nothing but. But before you start bombarding me with questions, let me get it all out.”
Angela’s arms are locked across her bosom. “Fine.”
I run my palm down my face, move to the edge of the chair, then sit back again.
“No, I didn’t put a hit out on The Shepherd. But I guess you can say I did have an indirect role in his murder.”
I expect Angela to fire off some more questions at me, but she doesn’t.
“After we got word that The Shepherd’s guys were after me, and possibly Brianna, Apache came up with a plan to shut him down. For good.”
I’m shocked that Angela’s abiding by my request not to interrupt. I almost wish she would.
“Apache knows a drug dealer named Blaze who’s doing life at Corcoran for cocaine trafficking. He was way up there in the drug game. Did millions of dollars in business. After he got locked up, his daughter got trafficked. Snatched off the street just like Brianna. She was sixteen. A couple of months after she went missing, they found her in a crack house, dead from an overdose. She was a good kid and Blaze loved her to death.”
I pause to evaluate how Angela is taking this. Her entire face is one big frown.
“Apache put the word out that The Shepherd’s guys snatched Blaze’s daughter. That’s it. That’s all he did. But Apache figured that once Blaze heard that, he’d take revenge against The Shepherd. Blaze has all kinds of connections inside and outside of prison. And that’s exactly what he did.”
Angela pinches the bridge of her nose. “Did The Shepherd actually traffic Blaze’s daughter?”
“I have no idea and neither does Apache. But we didn’t care. We wanted him dead. And the plan worked. As a matter of fact, it worked like a charm.”
Neither one of us says anything for the next few minutes.
“You can’t tell Jenny any of this. If she talks to anyone, that could cause us problems.”
She inhales slowly. “I know that.”
I wait for another question, but Angela is staring off into space.
“I know I promised you my criminal past was behind me,” I say. “But I’m not the kind of dude who can sit back and let somebody threaten me or anybody I care about. It’s not in me. I’m always gonna protect mine. And that includes you. And for the record, I’m not sorry he’s dead. He was pure evil. After all the young girls he destroyed, he didn’t deserve to live.”
I take my time standing up, hoping she’ll tell me to sit back down. When she doesn’t, I start making my way toward the door. My hand is on the doorknob when Angela calls out to me.
“Wait a minute.”
I turn around as she walks over. “Yeah?”
“Nobody has the right to play God. I’ve never believed in an eye for an eye.”
My body braces for more condemnation from the woman I love. I wait patiently for her words, the final detonation that will blow up our relationship for good.
“I don’t condone what you did,” Angela says, “but I’m glad The Shepherd’s dead.”
Relieved, I reach for her, but she backs away, out of my reach.
“But that doesn’t mean I forgive you for lying to me.”
CHAPTER 70
Angela
When I arrive at Jenny’s office the next morning, I quickly put The Shepherd issue to bed.
“Dre told me he didn’t have anything to do with The Shepherd’s murder and I believe him.”
Jenny smacks her lips. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
I know she doesn’t believe me, but we don’t have time for distractions. Graylin’s trial is about to start in a couple of hours. Any strife between us could impact the defense of our client. I need to concentrate on my opening statement. I practice it for the umpteenth time and we head to court.
Judge Erik “The Electric” Lipscomb runs his courtroom like a drill sergeant. He’s a tall, handsome guy with an athletic build. He was a cop before going to law school. His claim to fame is an article he wrote calling for a return to the electric chair, along with televised executions, as a deterrent to crime. Hence his nickname. The judge takes the bench promptly at nine and gets things rolling.
Sullivan’s opening statement is brief and to the point. In my opinion, she spends way too much time on reasonable doubt and little time on what she’s going to prove. She doesn’t tell the juror that she has evidence that will show Graylin took the picture of Kennedy or that he tried to intimidate her into dropping the case. That means she doesn’t have any such evidence. Sullivan’s final appeal, tells me she senses that we’re banking
on jury nullification because she practically begs the jury to follow the law, not their personal feelings.
“In deciding this case, I ask that you put your personal feelings aside and focus on the law,” she urges the jury. “You may not like the fact that minors are being prosecuted for possession of child pornography, but I’m asking you to look at the larger implications if this crime is not punished. In our society, we protect our children. Child pornography is a danger we cannot allow to spread.
“The evidence will show, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the defendant was in possession of child pornography. We need to send a strong message to him and to other kids who might also think it’s okay to use their cell phones to invade the privacy of others. What the defendant did is wrong and it shouldn’t be tolerated, regardless of whether he’s an adult sex offender or a fourteen-year-old child predator. This is not a victimless crime. There’s a young girl whose naked picture has been circulated all over the internet. She deserves justice. And the only way to give her justice is to listen to all the evidence, apply the law and find the defendant guilty as charged on all counts.”
My take is totally different. As a very young attorney, I learned that a trial is basically a story. Whoever has the best story and the most believable witnesses wins. I take a quick sip of water before standing up. I round the defense table and face the jury.
I do the perfunctory introduction of myself and thank the jury for their service.
“Contrary to what you just heard from the prosecutor,” I begin, “this case is not about a child predator or about protecting children. This is a case about a kid being a kid. My client, Graylin Alexander,” I turn to face him, “received a picture via a popular social media app called Snapchat, something you’ll hear a lot more about over the next few days. Maybe you’ve used it before. If you have teenage kids, there’s a good chance they have a Snapchat account. Graylin opened a Snapchat message and, to his surprise, someone had sent him a naked picture. A naked picture of one of his classmates.
“What did he do? What any fourteen-year-old might do. He saved the picture to his cell phone. He didn’t show the picture to anyone. He didn’t send the picture to anyone. He didn’t post it on social media. He simply took a screenshot of it. That’s it. That’s why he’s here. Graylin Alexander—an A student who’s active in his church, who’s loved and respected by his teachers and classmates, who’s never had any contact with the criminal justice system—took a screenshot of a picture someone sent him. That’s why the prosecutor charged him with a number of sex-related crimes that will change his life forever.”
I stop and dramatically shake my head to show my dismay.
“You’re going to hear several witnesses over the next few days. I want you to listen very carefully to each one of them. And not only my witnesses, but the prosecution’s as well. Graylin Alexander doesn’t have to prove he’s innocent. The prosecution must prove he’s guilty. The prosecution must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that this cherub-faced young boy”—I face Graylin again—“is a sex offender.
“Many people think that if someone is charged with a crime, they must be guilty of something. But you must give my client the presumption of innocence. If I asked every one of you right now, if you thought Graylin was innocent and you hesitated, even for a split second, then you wouldn’t be giving him the presumption of innocence he is entitled to by law. As you listen to this case, my client has to be as innocent as your next-door neighbor, who you know didn’t take that picture.
“Like the prosecutor, I want you to listen carefully to every witness and follow the law. But I also want you to use your common sense. If what you hear doesn’t seem right, then maybe it isn’t.”
I pause. This is as close as I can get to asking for jury nullification. I’ll hit it harder in my closing. I’m not looking in her direction, but I can feel Sullivan ready to pounce with an objection. I let the silence hang in the air until it’s almost uncomfortable.
“Graylin Alexander is a kid,” I finally say. “He did something any kid—even your kid—might do in the same situation. He expressed his adolescent curiosity. He’s not a criminal. Don’t punish this kid for simply being a kid.”
I take a few seconds to look into the eyes of as many jurors as I can, then walk back to my seat.
“You did good, Ms. Angela!” Graylin reaches over and gives me a hug as soon as I sit down. He’s already forgotten my admonition about not showing emotion in front of the jury. But his hug gives me a boost of confidence.
I assumed Sullivan’s first witness would be one of the cops. Instead, she calls Simone Carlyle to the stand. This time, Kennedy is in the courtroom to witness her mother’s testimony. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to see the girl. She looks small and frail sitting next to her father. All this time, my focus has been on Graylin, not Kennedy, the victim. And today, my heart goes out to her.
Mrs. Carlyle testifies along the same lines as she did during the detention hearing, her testimony intended to elicit sympathy for her daughter.
“What impact has this tragic invasion of privacy had on your daughter?” Sullivan asks.
“My baby hasn’t been the same since,” Simone Carlyle says with a sniffle. She wipes at a non-existent tear with a tissue. “This has been so devastating for her. Teenagers are so sensitive. What that boy did to my baby was the worst kind of crime.”
“Objection,” I say. “The witness has no evidence that my client committed any crime.”
“Sustained,” declares the judge.
Every time she utters the words my baby, Mrs. Carlyle glances out at Kennedy and so does the jury. If Sullivan wants the jurors to feel sorry for the girl, Mrs. Carlyle’s performance is getting the job done.
On cross, I know I have to be delicate with Mrs. Carlyle or the jury could turn on me. I have only one area to pursue.
“Mrs. Carlyle, is Kennedy seeing a therapist?”
Sullivan cuts in. “Objection, rule 352, Your Honor. The probative value of this question is outweighed by its prejudicial effect. Also, this line of questioning is irrelevant and an invasion of the victim’s privacy.”
“I don’t plan to inquire about the specifics of her therapy,” I protest. “This line of questioning goes to whether the victim has suffered the degree of emotional distress that her mother claims.”
“This isn’t a civil case,” Sullivan counters. “The state doesn’t have to prove the victim suffered emotional distress.”
“Your Honor, my question goes to the truthfulness of Mrs. Carlyle’s statements on direct.”
The judge mulls over our objections. “I’ll allow it. Overruled.”
When I turn back to her, Mrs. Carlyle gawks at me as if she hasn’t heard my question. “Could you repeat the question?” she sniffs.
“My question is simple, Mrs. Carlyle. Has your daughter been seeing a therapist?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
I love her snippiness and I pray she gives me a lot more of it.
“If she was so devastated by what happened, why hasn’t she been in therapy?”
“Are you trying to say this didn’t affect my baby?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlyle, I’m the one asking the questions. I’m trying to understand why you haven’t placed your daughter in therapy since she’s suffering so much emotionally.”
“We haven’t found the right therapist.”
“How many therapists have you interviewed?”
She glares over at Sullivan as if she’s being derelict for not objecting. “Isn’t that confidential information?”
“Again, Mrs. Carlyle, I’m the one asking the questions. I don’t want to know any specifics about her therapy—which would be confidential—only how many therapists you’ve spoken to in an effort to get help for your daughter.”
Mrs. Carlyle puckers her lips and shifts in her seat. She ste
als another look at Sullivan, who’s looking quite alarmed herself. Her opening witness was supposed to pull at the jury’s heartstrings.
“If you must know, my husband doesn’t believe in therapy. He’s a very private person. We’re dealing with this through our faith.”
I peek over my shoulder at Mr. Carlyle, knowing the jurors will follow my gaze. Percy Carlyle looks even more uncomfortable than his wife. He tugs at his tie for the third time.
“Okay, what church do you attend?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Sullivan says. “This is really going far afield.”
“No, Your Honor, it isn’t. Mrs. Carlyle just testified that they’re dealing with the situation through their faith. I’m just trying to confirm that.”
“I’ll allow it,” Lipscomb says, “but not for too much longer.”
“Holman United Methodist Church,” she says proudly.
I don’t see the Carlyles as a church-going family. Holman is one of the most prominent black churches in L.A. Something tells me Simone just snatched that name out of the air.
“And where is that church located?”
“In Los Angeles.”
“On what street?”
“I don’t understand why that’s relevant,” Simone snarls.
It’s relevant because you don’t even know where the church is, which proves you’re a big fat liar.
“Do you know what street the church is on, Mrs. Carlyle?”
She shoots daggers at me. “It’s very stressful sitting up here in this witness box. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember right now.”
“Does Adams Boulevard ring a bell?”
She smiles. “Oh, yes, it’s on Adams.”
“And who’s the head minister there?”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead. She doesn’t know that either.
“Isn’t Reverend Sauls the minister there?” I say, helping her out again.
“Yes, that’s it. Reverend Sauls.”
“And when is the last time your family went to church?”
“Just because we don’t go to church every Sunday doesn’t mean we don’t have faith.”
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