Web of Justice

by J J Miller

  “No. He just outgrew her approach, I think. I mean, she can be Old-Testament tough, and I guess I was kind of someone who advocated a more gentle, if no less committed, approach to finding his true self-esteem, as opposed to the false version built by gang machismo.”

  “Mr. Anderson, did you see Demarco on the day of the murders?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Where?”

  “At the shelter. We chatted for about ten minutes.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about Demarco’s demeanor that day?”

  “No, he seemed fine, just the same. He was asking me about education, about how to go about getting his high school diploma.”

  “Realistically, this goal was out of his reach, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve seen many people come into the shelter off Skid Row and wander straight back into it to spend the rest of their lives there. Skid Row’s as hard to escape from as a gang—even harder. But Demarco was smart. He had been doing a lot of reading in juvie. He was self-educating. Do you realize how rare that is? Anyway, to me, he had the will, the brains and the outlook to make something of his life.”

  “So can you imagine why he would walk out of the mission that day and go and kill two people he had never met? All for nothing other than to see them dead, it would seem?”

  “That is last thing I would have expected him to do. Fall down and return to the gang? A long shot. Descend into drug addiction? Maybe. It’s happened to stronger wills than his. But to go and kill two people? That’s just crazy. He had a point to prove to himself.”

  “What was that?”

  “I think deep down he just wanted to be a young man his father would be proud of.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Anderson. Nothing further.”

  I allowed myself a glance at the jury and was pleased to see that, as a whole, they were deep in thought. I just had to keep giving them something to think about.

  Jessica was watching them too. And she got to her feet with a will to put an end to this little Warren Anderson love-fest once and for all.

  “Mr. Anderson, you say the defendant was determined to make a different future for himself, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did he have any money?”

  “No. But he was about to start a job, like I said.”

  “Had he enrolled in any class, any form of education whatsoever?”

  “No.”

  “You said trying to extricate yourself from a gang is most likely going to end in failure, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say getting out of Skid Row is even harder, right?”

  “Yes, the challenges are different, but I believe it’s a true statement.”

  “So Demarco Torrell is some kind of Superman, is he? By your reckoning, he was facing double near-impossible odds to fix his life, wasn’t he?”

  “That doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

  “But realistically, the overwhelming odds were that he would have gone back to what he knew—a life of crime.”

  “That doesn’t mean those odds can’t be beat.”

  “And Demarco Torrell was that extraordinary?”

  “I think he was exceptional, yes.”

  “Well, the facts are that he was with two men that day who are now dead, and he was found with five hundred dollars in his pocket.”

  “I know that.”

  “Where did this money come from?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s a lot of money for someone like the defendant, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “A defendant who is versed in the art of robbery, assault, theft and intimidation, a defendant who faces Everest-sized odds of living a crime-free, drug-free, gang-free life, walks out of a Skid Row mission without a dime in his pocket. Yet an hour later, he has five hundred dollars in his possession. Wouldn’t the most logical deduction be that Demarco Torrell just accepted that going straight was just way too hard?”

  “I can see why you might think that, but I had a lot of faith in Demarco Torrell.”

  “But during the time you knew him, the defendant did relapse, didn’t he? He returned to his gang, didn’t he?”

  “Those visits were very brief—just a few days.”

  “But the truth is the defendant walked out on you and went straight to the Sintown Crips. Isn’t that a reflection of where his loyalty lies?”

  “No, it’s not like that at all. Demarco Torrell still had a lot of respect within the gang.”

  “And yet as the court has heard, the defendant boasted about the murders and talked up his gang pride.”

  “That was foolish of him, but it was purely for self-protection.”

  “The purpose of the defendant’s visits to the gang was to seek readmission, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s not what he told me.”

  “But he could tell you anything, couldn’t he? He could tell you anything he thought you wanted to hear. And might a condition have been placed on the defendant that to re-enter the gang, he’d have to perform a high-risk criminal task to demonstrate his loyalty?”

  “That is a far-fetched theory.”

  “But it’s not uncommon. You must know that you don’t just walk back into a gang and resume your place as a trusted member—you have to pay a cover charge, so to speak. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

  “No, not always. But even if it was true, there’s no gang I know of that will send you on a suicide mission to prove your loyalty.”

  “We don’t know for sure, do we? But what we do know is that after this meeting between the defendant and the Sintown Crips, two people who deeply offended the gang, two people who received death threats for insulting them were murdered. And the defendant just happened to be with both of them shortly before they died. The pride of the gang was restored with their deaths. And then we hear the defendant boasting about how he had defended his gang’s honor.”

  “Demarco Torrell had no reason to throw his life away.”

  “Maybe that’s not how he saw it—maybe he came to realize that loyalty to the gang was all he had, was all that mattered. Maybe he thought he was going to get away with it.”

  “Objection!” I yelled. “Counsel is testifying.”

  “Sustained,” said Judge Garner.

  “He’s not like that,” said Warren. “As I said ...”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  I know I can’t read minds, but sometimes expressions speak a thousand words. And what I saw in various members of the jury was a light-bulb moment, one that told me they felt they’d reached a decision with which their conscience was comfortable. And that decision was bad for Demarco. If they retired to consider the verdict right then and there, I had no doubt they’d have returned within thirty minutes to find Demarco guilty. Jessica knew it too. Her pretty face radiated with a self-satisfied grin.

  But she had not won yet. I wasn’t done.

  Court broke for the weekend. I had a brief chat with Demarco and told him to keep his chin up. Then I left the building.

  Monday would be a triumph; I was sure of it. At least, I could counter the image Jessica had just left the jury with. I’d have two witnesses from Skid Row who’d testify that they saw Demarco and Toby talking in a very cordial manner.

  On my way to the car, my phone rang. It was Jack. News from Mexico already? He did move fast.

  But whatever optimism had propped me up was about to be knocked out from under me.

  23

  “Jack, what’s up?”

  “I’m in a shithole town and we are shit out of luck.”

  “Talk to me. Where are you exactly?”

  “I’m in sunny Oaxaca. The guy who got done for the Kyle Chambers murder is in the local slammer, a.k.a. Pochutla Prison.”

  “Right, you got a name?”

  “Oscar Sanchez, and up until the day he was nabbed for killing Chambers, he was just a local wino.”

 
“Have you spoken to him? What’s his story?”

  “Hear me out. After I got down here and picked up my translator, I paid a visit to the cops, because the case was processed and tried in Oaxaca. Then we headed straight to the prison. And the guard we spoke to, a young guy, told me no one’s allowed to talk to Oscar Sanchez.”

  “What? They deny visits to prisoners?”

  “No. Only to Oscar.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Special orders, it seems. But my translator took up the fight. He asked how much cash I had and then threw the guard enough pesos to get five minutes with Sanchez. We were told to come back at one when most of the other guards would be taking their siesta. Said he could get us within shouting distance. That was the best he could do.”

  “Not the ideal way to conduct an interview, but I’ll take it.”

  “There was no interview.”

  “How come?”

  “When we got back to the prison Sanchez was on his way out.”

  “On his way out? He was released?”

  “Yeah. On a stretcher. Someone shivved him right in the heart.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You think it was to keep him from speaking to you?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “What about the young guard? Did he tell you what happened?”

  “He’s wasn’t there. Another guard, who was older and very unfriendly, said he’d gone home.”

  “Gone home or sent packing?”

  “I asked when the young guard would be back and the new guy gave me this evil smile and said, ‘Maybe never’. Then he told us we had to leave or else some terrible misfortune would befall us.”

  There was silence for a few seconds while I processed Jack’s news.

  “Okay, let’s go with the serial killer theory for a minute. How would he know we’re looking into this murder?”

  “Maybe he left a bunch of cash and some standing orders—like, if anyone from the US comes wanting to have a chat with Oscar Sanchez, get rid of him.”

  “You think?”

  “The cops were just as hostile as the old guard. They told me not to go to the prison. They said it was not wise for a gringo to come into town asking the wrong kind of questions.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “I’m at the airport. My flight’s in an hour.”

  “Okay, thanks Jack. Talk to you later.”

  I hung up the phone and put it in my pocket. It rang immediately. It was Warren.

  “Warren, what’s up?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, Brad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Elroy Franks is dead,” he said. “He was shot in his tent last night.”

  Warren’s voice labored under the weight of sadness. He’d told me Elroy and Loretta had only agreed to come forward because they felt indebted to Warren for all the help he’d given them.

  “Jesus, I’m so sorry, Warren. Why did this happen? Do you have any details?”

  “No. To me it looks like he died precisely because of what he was going to do for us, for you, on Monday.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No one saw a damn thing. But Elroy had no quarrel with anyone. He had nothing to steal, and there was nothing anyone had to gain from his death. The fact that someone wanted to keep him silent is the only thing that makes sense to me.”

  “What about Loretta?”

  “She’s gone. Running for the hills and we won’t ever find her.”

  We were screwed. Another innocent victim terminated. And this on top of Oscar Sanchez’s death. Dino Cassinelli’s theory was quickly becoming the most plausible explanation of so many events. But for me, his serial killer story came in at a distant second to my main crisis—all of a sudden my defense of Demarco Torrell was dropping down an elevator shaft.

  “Warren, my case is screwed without these witnesses.”

  “I’m sorry, Brad, but Elroy’s death must have put the fear of God into Loretta.”

  “When did you last speak with her?”

  “A couple of days back. I told her I was testifying, and she was still eager to help.”

  “Did she say anything else about what she saw that day?”

  “Funny you should say that, because she told me something had popped into her head that she hadn’t mentioned before.”

  “What was that?”

  “She said that just before Demarco and Toby Connors met, she saw Toby standing on Wall Street just round the corner from the shelter’s entrance. She said he was talking to some guy in a black car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A new, shiny black Lincoln.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Said Toby was talking to a bald dude in the back seat. She thought he was in his sixties, but she couldn’t be sure. But she said his face was all sunken in—skull-face, she called him.”

  “Damn. And she’s definitely flown the coop?”

  “She could be anywhere, Brad. She was initially from Frisco, still has a daughter there, but that doesn’t mean she headed home. She could be halfway to Kansas for all I know.”

  “Warren, this has just about knocked the legs out from under my case.”

  “I understand that and I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. You’ve done so much for me. Thank you. And I’m truly sorry about Elroy.”

  After I hung up, I walked half-dazed back to the office. I didn’t even hear what Megan said to me as I made my way to my desk. I was going to lose this case. Demarco Torrell was going to go to prison—sitting on death row wondering when those Mexican gangsters would come for him. The only things I had left were one last witness and a closing argument.

  Could that last witness be enough to scrape our case over the line? I sure hoped so. It was ballistics expert Dick Sanders. And by the time I was done with him, every jury member would have good reason to doubt Demarco’s guilt.

  24

  I had to walk behind the plaintiff’s table to get to the lectern. I copped a lungful of Jessica’s perfume as I passed. It was almost a tactical weapon. There was barely a man on the planet she could not distract from his purpose. But that could have just been me interpreting everything she did as a ploy. She kept her head down, busying herself with paperwork. There was a hint of a smile. She was nothing if not cocky. I knew already she didn’t think my firearms expert could sway the jury my way. But maybe her smugness wasn’t just a front. Could I somehow be playing into her hands even as I felt poised to deliver the telling blow? That was exactly what she wanted—for me to doubt myself.

  I snapped out of it. I couldn’t let her mind games to get the better of me.

  I stood at the lectern directly opposite my expert witness on the stand. Dick Sanders was someone you would not look twice at on the street. Average height, average build. But he looked fit—the kind of guy who puts in a five-mile run every morning before shaving, donning a freshly ironed shirt and a well cut suit, kissing his wife on the cheek, and patting the dog on his way out the door. He’d impressed me as a guy who might never wow you, but who could nonetheless engender trust in anyone who gave him the time of day to talk. And that was why he was here. To talk about his profession—ballistics. Oh, and there was also the fact that he’d written a few papers pouring cold water on the idea that ballistics experts could match spent bullets to a particular gun with a high degree of accuracy. That was the real reason he was here.

  I cast a glance at the jury and almost regretted it. Doing that could sometimes come across as needy. But there was no question I had their attention. Most were looking at me with pens and pads poised. Remarkably, they all seemed as fresh as the first day. And I got a familiar sense of why I love being a trial lawyer. Yes, it had taken a lot of training and preparation to get here. But there was always the sense that the job was a high-wire act—one loaded with the prospect of success or failure. I felt the adrenaline charge my body and sharpen my mind
.

  I used the first ten or so questions to establish Sanders’ cred. Ten years in law enforcement, five years with the FBI, and another five years with a private consultancy firm he’d established with a partner. His was a small business, but it meant he didn’t have to travel as much as he had in the FBI and got to spend more time with his growing family. Over his career he’d gone from lab technician to highly respected ballistics expert—a reputation that had allowed him to strike out on his own and that kept him in demand, particularly as an expert witness in trials such as this.

  “Mr. Sanders, have you studied the police ballistics report asserting the same gun was used in both murders?”

  “I have.”

  “Would you have reached the same conclusion as they did?”

  “I would not be so confident in saying it was the same weapon.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, I would be reluctant to draw the same conclusion as their GRC data.”

  “GRC data? What is that?”

  “Gun rifling characteristics data. You see, each firearm has what’s called rifling, or grooves etched into the inside of the barrel to get the bullet to spin. They improve the bullet’s aerodynamics in flight and hence improve its accuracy. Those rifling marks end up cutting distinctive grooves—or striations—on the bullet as it passes through the barrel.”

  “In essence, it’s like a fingerprint?”

  “Yes, but I hesitate to use that analogy, because it is not always possible to be that precise.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, weapons like the Glock are all rifled the same way, and the striations are not as distinctive as some people, particularly those who make TV shows, would have us believe.”

  “So is this an accurate way to tell if the same weapon was used or not?”

  “I would say it is a guide at best. It would be safer to say a similar weapon was used rather than the exact same weapon. And the job of matching is made harder by the fact that the bullet can be damaged by the objects it comes into contact with after it has been fired—like human bone or other materials it ricochets off.”