The Trials of Kate Hope

by Wick Downing

  “Just tryin’ to soften you up, Reggie,” Grandfather said. “Kate. How’m I doing?”

  “I don’t think you’ve overwhelmed him with your charm,” I said.

  “Mr. Hope, if you have an offer, please make it.”

  My grandfather quietly stared at nothing for a moment, then nodded with understanding, like the old professor in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. “My client has a good job now,” he quietly told the prosecutor. “He’s with a construction company and can take care of his family. If he’s convicted of theft, he’ll be deported and sent back to Mexico and a hard life for his wife and children. Let’s plead him to drunk driving, and I’d even stipulate to some jail time. The immigration people won’t deport him for a conviction like that.”

  “I should just dismiss the theft charge?”

  “Believe me if you can, when I tell you from the bottom of my heart, he didn’t do it. He did drive while he was drunk, though, and he wants to be punished for it. To set the right example for his sons.”

  “In other words, I should take your word for the theft?”

  “Reggie, even if he did it, your evidence shows that he was angry and drunk. Jail is plenty for whatever he did. Don’t have him deported.”

  “Thank you for your kind offer, sir,” Mr. Applewhite said with sarcasm, “but Denver has too many thieves now, and far too many Mexicans. Let him go back to his own country where he belongs.”

  Grandfather was shocked, and let it show on his face. “That’s a terribly mean-spirited attitude for a prosecutor to have, young man,” he said. “You have a whole lot of growing up to do. Kate, I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Mr. Applewhite hurried off, looking pleased with himself, as though he’d had the last word. I led Grandfather toward the big door that opened into the hall—and there was Ron Benson, with a smile that was more of a threat, holding the door open for us. “How’s your boyfriend?” he asked.

  “He’s okay. No thanks to you,” I said.

  “It could have been a lot worse, Kate. Know what I mean?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  AFTER THE RECESS, with the judge high on the bench like a king on his throne and the jurors nice and comfortable in their seats in the jury box, Grandfather made a motion to “sequester the witnesses.” It meant that the people who would give evidence in the case had to wait in the hall until they were brought in to testify. Only a few spectators were scattered around the courtroom after that, but they included Ron Benson, the All-American thug.

  “Mr. Applewhite, you may give your opening statement,” Judge Merrill said.

  The opening statement is supposed to be a short little speech that gives the jurors an overview of the case. The evidence will come to them in bits and pieces, like the pieces of a puzzle, and if they know what the big picture looks like, they’ll understand how the bits and pieces fit together.

  But most opening statements are way more than that. Grandfather told me he used to practice his “little speech” for hours, in front of a mirror. Most lawyers treat it the same as argument, using it to persuade the jury that justice is on their side, not their opponent’s.

  When Mr. Applewhite marched to the lectern, I knew right away he’d worked hard on his. His voice rang out in the courtroom like a soldier calling his troops to fight for the cause of freedom and decency, as he told the jury what his evidence would prove: that Manuel Alvarez was not the subdued, decent-looking family man he appeared to be in the courtroom that day, but was actually a drunken thief. Then he spun out the details that made his point.

  They were devastating. How Glenn Able had given this man—a Mexican national, in this country on a work permit—a chance to make something of his life. How his kindness had been repaid with treachery and deceit. How Able had hired the defendant to be his maintenance man, but when he needed him for a repair, how he found the man in a drunken stupor and fired him on the spot. How strong words were exchanged between the defendant and Mr. Able, with the defendant vowing to get even and then angrily driving off in his pickup truck.

  And how, later, a terrified Mrs. Able watched the defendant come back. From her office window, she saw the thick-shouldered, powerful, menacing man drive into the parking area with his truck, stagger into the maintenance garage, and lurch out with his arms filled with tools. How she’d locked the door to the office, frightened and afraid, then sighed with relief when he loaded the tools into his truck and drove away.

  Finally, how the terrified woman had called the police, and how the police had actually found the stolen items in the defendant’s truck.

  Then, grim and righteous, like Robespierre sentencing the king of France to the guillotine, the prosecutor concluded, “I am confident that you will find that the People have exceeded their burden of proof in this case; and that you will do your duty, and find that the defendant, Manuel Alvarez, is guilty of theft.”

  Manuel had covered his eyes with his hands and lowered his head. “Please, Mr. Alvarez,” I whispered to him. “You could look really guilty to the jury. Sit up straight?”

  He tried, but couldn’t raise his eyes.

  “Mr. Hope? Your opening statement?” the judge asked.

  Grandfather didn’t even stand up! “I’ll reserve mine until later, Judge,” he said.

  “Very well. Call your first witness,” the judge said to Mr. Applewhite.

  Officer Mike Bosse, the uniformed cop sitting next to the prosecutor, marched to the witness box like a soldier doing his duty, sat down easily like he’d been there before, and stuck his right hand in the air. “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the clerk asked him.

  “I do.”

  Bosse told the jury that on December 23, he and his partner had been sent to the Able Building to investigate a reported disturbance and a theft. They talked to Gladys Able, then drove to an address at the Santa Fe Housing project to question Manuel Alvarez. A woman who identified herself as Mrs. Alvarez opened the door, but refused to let them in the apartment. They had a description of the Alvarez truck, however, and found it in the parking lot. When they looked inside, what should they see but a power saw, a power drill, and an extension cord. These items were removed from the truck and put in their police car.

  An alarm went off in my head. “Grandfather,” I whispered to the old man. “The pictures they can’t find? Make him admit they lost them?”

  “Good for you, Kate,” he whispered back.

  The prosecutor pulled a box from under his table and lifted up a shiny orange circular saw for the jury to see. It had an electric motor and hand grips, with a trigger in one of the grips. He handed it to the witness. “Is this the power saw you found in the truck?”

  Officer Bosse examined it carefully, then compared the serial number on the saw with a number he’d written in his notebook. “Yes, sir, I can positively identify this power saw as the one we found in Mr. Alvarez’s truck.” He sounded like Joe Friday on Dragnet, giving the facts. Mr. Applewhite put the tool on a table for exhibits so the jury would see it for the rest of the trial, and then he and Officer Bosse did the same little song-and-dance routine with the power drill and the extension cord.

  “After putting these tools in your police unit, sir, what did you do?” Mr. Applewhite asked next.

  Officer Bosse said they took them to the Able Building, where they met Glenn Able for the first time. He’d just returned from an errand downtown. When he saw the items found in the defendant’s truck, he identified them as his.

  The officers then obtained an arrest warrant and returned to Mr. Alvarez’s apartment. When Mrs. Alvarez met them at the door, they explained to her they had a warrant for Mr. Alvarez’s arrest. She let them in this time, and they found him asleep on the couch, reeking of alcohol. They woke him up and placed him under arrest.

  “No further questions,” Mr. Applewhite said.

  “Cross-examine?” Judge Merrill asked my grandfather.

  “Can I hav
e a minute, Judge?” Grandfather asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Kate,” he whispered, careful to keep his voice so low that not even Mr. Alvarez could hear him. “How does it look to the jury? What do they feel?”

  I hated to, but I told him what I thought. Four of the jurors looked satisfied and ready to convict, like they’d heard all they needed to hear, but two of them clearly felt bad about what they’d seen. The case might look hopeless to them, but they didn’t want to convict Mr. Alvarez. “They want a miracle,” I whispered, hoping for one myself.

  The old man got up slowly, found the lectern, and peered out into the distance in the general direction of the witness on the stand. “Can you hear me all right, Officer Bosse?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hope. I hear you fine.”

  The old man nodded. “All right. Now, did Mr. Alvarez put up a struggle when you arrested him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was surprised to see you, in fact, wasn’t he?”

  “He was pretty much under the influence, sir. Nothing surprised him much.”

  “My point is, he didn’t know why he was being arrested. Isn’t that so, Officer?”

  “Well, I don’t know what was in his mind.”

  “Now, Officer,” Grandfather said like a kindly old man, “I know you are honest and have no ax to grind here, and you’ll tell this jury the truth. And the truth is, my client appeared bewildered and stunned about being arrested for stealing tools. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right, Judge Hope. That’s how he acted.”

  Grandfather shrugged, but smiled. “Now, you and your partner searched his truck without a search warrant, but you didn’t need one under the circumstances of this case. Am I right?”

  “Correct, sir. Exigent circumstances.”

  “The truck wasn’t locked, was it?”

  “No. We weren’t forced to break in.”

  “And when you saw the tools, what was it you said you did next?” Grandfather asked.

  “We put them in the police car.”

  “Very careful about picking them up, weren’t you, Officer? To preserve any fingerprints that might be on them?”

  Officer Bosse smiled at that. “Actually no, sir. I know that’s how it’s done on television, but this wasn’t exactly a federal case. It was just a minor theft case, and we had all the evidence we needed.”

  “Oh, is that so,” the old lawyer said. “So the rights of a defendant in a minor theft case aren’t as important as they are in a federal case? Is that what you mean, Officer?”

  “Not at all, sir,” Officer Bosse said. “Fingerprints in a case like this wouldn’t mean much. Of course they’d have been the defendant’s because he’s the one who used the tools.”

  “What if they’d been someone else’s?” Grandfather asked. “Mr. Able, for example?”

  “Objection!” Mr. Applewhite said, jumping to his feet. “Speculation of the rankest sort. That’s a matter for argument.”

  Grandfather smiled at the prosecutor. “Well. Certainly wouldn’t want to start an argument,” he said. “I’ll withdraw the question.” Before the prosecutor could react, he turned back to Officer Bosse. “But there is something you did first, before taking the tools out of the truck and putting them in the police car, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling this jury about?”

  “Are you talking about the photographs?” Officer Bosse asked.

  “Officer, we’re in a court of law,” Grandfather said. “It’s the custom for the lawyers to ask the questions. Do you want me to repeat it?”

  “No, sir,” Officer Bosse said, then faced the jury. “My partner took some photos of the tools, you know, to show where they were in the truck.”

  “Well. So photographs were taken of the tools before you and your partner moved them. I’d like to see them.”

  The prosecutor stood up. “Your Honor, we went over this in chambers, and the defense lawyer knows perfectly well that the photographs were lost. He’s merely trying to embarrass the witness. I object to this line of questioning.”

  “Never heard that one before,” Grandfather said to the judge. “Does he mean I’m not allowed to embarrass the witness?”

  A few people laughed, and even the judge smiled. “Mr. Hope, let’s just move on. Ask your next question.”

  Grandfather rubbed his jaw and thought about things for a moment, then faced the witness. “Officer, I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that I get no pleasure at all out of embarrassing you, and I apologize to you if I’ve done that. But the photographs are very important to this case, wouldn’t you say? Without them, how do you know where the tools were in the truck before you moved them?”

  “I remember exactly where they were, sir,” the officer said. “They were all wedged in behind the passenger seat, down low, so you couldn’t see them.”

  “That’s what you wanted to show with the photographs, isn’t it? That the tools were out of sight, as though they’d been hidden?”

  “Exactly, Judge Hope,” the witness said, smiling. “Hiding them that way goes to show intent, you see. Guilt.”

  Grandfather did nothing when Officer Bosse gave that awful opinion! Why didn’t he object? All he did was rub his chin. “Now let me see,” he said. “You told this jury how you looked inside the truck and observed the tools, but the fact is, they were hidden from sight. The fact is, you couldn’t see them until you opened the door and looked behind the seat on the passenger side. Isn’t that true?”

  He squirmed a bit. “That’s what I meant by looking inside, sir.”

  “I see. You didn’t mean to imply that you could see the tools from outside, just looking in through the window?”

  “No.”

  “Because they were hidden to the point that you couldn’t see them without opening the door and looking around. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “A man in the driver’s seat wouldn’t see them either. Am I right?”

  Officer Bosse moved his head around as though sitting behind the wheel of a car and looking for something he couldn’t find. “He might, sir, if he knew where to look.”

  “If he knew they were there and knew where to look, it’s possible he might see them. Is that your testimony?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Officer, for your honesty,” Grandfather said, searching for his chair and sitting down. “No further questions.”

  I made some notes about the things I couldn’t see that were going on. Everyone on the jury was more interested in the case now. It wasn’t what all the guys at Hill would call a slam-dunk. I had the feeling that at least we had a chance.

  But that didn’t last very long. The prosecution called Gladys Able to the stand as its next witness. When she came in from the hall she stared at Manuel as though she was scared to death of him, then sat in the witness box looking very brave and determined.

  After the clerk gave her the oath, Mr. Applewhite asked her a string of questions to show the jury what a wonderful citizen she was, a woman who gave to charities and went to church. Then he focused her attention on December 23, 1972, just two days before Christmas, and let her tell her story.

  “I was going over some accounts that morning in the office,” she said. “It’s on the ground floor and has a big window with a clear view of the parking area . . . The maintenance garage is right next to the office and my husband came in and asked if I’d seen Manuel . . . He was our maintenance man and had worked for us for two years . . . Yes—the man sitting between the older gentleman and the girl . . .

  “I told my husband I hadn’t seen Manuel, but he had to be around because his truck was there . . . Glenn looked for him, and the next thing, I heard yelling. It was loud and not nice.” She sniffed and glared at Mr. Alvarez. “Some of it was in Spanish and it came from the maintenance garage and frightened me terribly.”

  “What happened after that?” Applewhite asked her.

  �
��I saw Manuel stumble into his truck and just knew he’d been drinking. He drove off quite erratically but made it to the street without hitting anything . . . Glenn came into the office and was quite upset over having found Manuel drunk again, just when he needed him to fix a lamp for one of our tenants. He said he’d had it with him and fired him. A few minutes later, after composing himself, my husband drove off to the hardware store. He needed something for the lamp . . .

  “Then just after one o’clock—I remember looking at my watch—Manuel came back. He drove right at the garage and I thought he would smash into the building! He jumped out of his truck, took a drink from a bottle, and went inside. I was so frightened that I locked my door—then watched him take things out of the garage! Tools, and an extension cord, all coiled up . . . I was terrified and did not try to stop him, but the moment he was gone, I called the police.”

  Manuel sat like a statue with his head down, staring at his hands. She made it sound so real, and I hated what was happening. She sat in the witness box with that look of determination on her face, as though nothing—not even that awful Mexican who frightened her with his anger—would keep her from telling the truth. All of the jurors seemed to believe her every word, although my two favorites looked troubled about it.

  “After calling the police, can you tell us what happened next?” Mr. Applewhite asked her gently, as though he didn’t want to upset her any more than he had to.

  They arrived within minutes, Mrs. Able said, and she told them what she’d seen their maintenance man do. They asked for his address and a description of his truck, which she gave them. Later the officers came back with some tools and an extension cord, which they showed to her husband, who was back by then. She couldn’t identify them, but he could.

  Mr. Applewhite nodded at her and glanced sadly at Mr. Alvarez, like he felt sorry for him. “No further questions,” he said to the judge, and sat down.

  “Mr. Hope?” Judge Merrill said. “You may cross-examine.”