by J J Miller
“Please put your minds in as neutral a frame as possible and ponder why on earth my client would carry out what would effectively amount to a suicide mission. One day, he suddenly decides to kill two men, one in a very public place, and then he does not even attempt to flee? I mean, come on. Here are some facts the prosecutor’s closing argument failed to reference or simply chose to ignore. It seems to my learned colleague these facts are merely inconvenient truths.
“Demarco was not a gang member. He had left the Sintown Crips. He had achieved something remarkable, something that exhibited an extraordinary amount of willpower and courage—he abandoned the security of a criminal gang and embarked on a life of an everyday citizen. Can you appreciate how much guts that took? He was determined to follow in the footsteps of his beloved father—a brave Marine who died serving his country in Afghanistan.
“He accepted five hundred dollars as a step towards that life. When Toby Connors offered Demarco that money to help out on a job, it was more than a lottery win: it was a sign from God. Demarco went along with it—he believed he was being paid to help make a prank video for YouTube. He did what he was paid to do. He made his way to the Anaheim Convention Center and delivered that message to Mr. Jameson.
“But then things went horribly wrong. And he found himself watching a young man die right in front of him. And what did he do? Did he run? No. Hundreds of others ran. Did he choose to save himself from the shooter? No. He stayed with the victim. Did he show the cruel instincts of a cold-blooded killer? No, he displayed the compassion of an empathetic human being.
“The truth here is not some simple grab at the lowest hanging fruit—which is what the prosecution is begging you to accept—it’s something far more complex and, to this point, obscure. Because there were three victims that day—the two men killed and my client, who is a victim of circumstance. You would be making a grave error if you believe justice will be served by finding him guilty. Please do not oversimplify this case, please do not err on the side of convenience because the whole truth cannot be known at this point in time.
“To find my client guilty, you must do so having dismissed every element of reasonable doubt that I have presented to you. In all good consciousness, you surely cannot do that. You must not condemn this young man because there is no one else to blame. He is due justice just as much as the victims are.
“If there is any reasonable doubt in your minds, then you must acquit. You must clear Demarco Torrell of these wrongful charges. You must find him innocent even though that comes at the price of many unanswered questions and the absence of having the right target for righteous blame. Please, do not succumb to the temptation to scapegoat an innocent man. This court, this state, this country deserves better than that. Thank you.”
I turned to take my seat and cast a glance behind the defense desk out into the spectators’ gallery. I almost stopped in my tracks at the sight of Jasmine Torrell. I could not believe she had made it to court. She was there all right, in her wheelchair, holding an oxygen mask to her face. As she looked at me, tears rolled down her cheeks. I sat down and put a hand on Demarco’s shoulder.
“Your mom’s here,” I said.
Demarco swiveled around immediately. He smiled, and she broke down into sobs.
“Love you, mom,” he said before the guards took him away.
26
One night passed. Then another. But at a few minutes past ten o’clock the following morning, I was notified that the jury had reached a verdict. I dashed back to court. I was just getting through the security scanner when I heard the elevator doors open behind me. As I grabbed my briefcase, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. It was Jessica Pope. She looked at ease if not entirely relaxed. We’d both done all we could, and we knew it was all out of our hands now. Save for appeals, of course.
“Two hundred bucks says it’s mine,” she said.
I looked at her. She had her jaw cocked playfully, daring me to take the bet. On other cases I might have been tempted, but not this one. Yes, we were both just doing our jobs, but this case was personal for me. What I wanted beyond my own professional score keeping against Jessica Pope was to prevent Demarco Torrell, my friend Sherman’s only son, from being put in jail on a convenience of evidence. The delay in the jury’s decision gave me confidence that they’d baulked long enough to acquire the wisdom not to convict my client. It would be sweet to take that two hundred off Jessica, but I wasn’t interested.
“Not today. But you’re being mighty sporting for someone who’s about to lose.”
“That’s what you think. Word is there’s been only one hold-out since the jury retired. That’s holding out against eleven guilty votes, in case you were getting your hopes up.”
How did she know that? Or was she bluffing?
“You’ve got a mole in the jury room?”
“No. But it comes from a very good source. You know jurors. They can’t help themselves when someone offers them the chance to get their frustrations out. Particularly when they’re locked up in the jury room just wanting the ordeal to be over so they can finally go home.”
It was true that the longer deliberations continued, the more likely expediency and self-interest were to become deciding factors in a jury’s decision. But I doubted Jessica’s account was true. I still believed it was a better sign for me than her that they’d taken so long.
We walked past dozens of people crowded outside the courtroom and entered. A few minutes later the jury appeared. Demarco was brought in, and we exchanged little else but a greeting. I had to admire the strength with which he kept himself together. Then Judge Garner emerged via the rear door and took his seat.
The courtroom fell silent.
“Members of the jury,” said Judge Garner. “Have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman of the jury, Mark Carnavan (#6), got to his feet. He held a slip of paper in his hand.
“We have, Your Honor.”
He lifted the scrap of paper and read:
“On the crime of murder in the first degree of Mr. Luke Jameson, we the jury find the defendant Demarco Torrell guilty.”
My heart sank. A muffled roar rose from the spectators’ gallery. I reached out and gripped Demarco’s shoulder.
“On the crime of murder in the first degree of Mr. Toby Connors, we the jury find the defendant Demarco Torrell guilty.”
This time, the spectators dispensed with their prior restraint. Several people shouted out “Yes!”, as if their team had scored a touchdown. Others began hugging each other while shedding tears of sorrowful joy and relief. It was so jarring to see people revel in a decision that condemned the life of a young man I believed was innocent.
Demarco was crestfallen. Tears welled up in his eyes, but then he shut them down by sheer will. He was not going to let anyone see him cry. I took him in my arms and hugged him close. I had to raise my voice to make myself heard above the crowd as I spoke into his ear.
“This is not over, Demarco. This is not over. We are going to appeal this decision and we are going to win. You hear me? This is not the end. I promise you.”
Demarco nodded his head silently.
“Thanks, Mr. Madison,” he said the words so quietly I had to read his lips. “Thanks for trying.”
The guards came for him.
“Rot in hell, you monster!” someone shouted.
“You’ll make somebody a nice girlfriend, faggot!” cried another.
I swiveled around to face the culprit, but all I saw was a crowd of people jeering at Demarco as he was led away.
I packed up my things and went to march out of the court. Jessica was standing at the rail and swung the gate open for me.
“Good thing you didn’t take the bet.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I said as I swept past her.
By the time the elevator had dropped me to the foyer, my blood had cooled. I stepped outside the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center into a scrum of reporters and cameramen.
“I harbor no disrespect for the jury—they did their job admirably. But today they got it wrong. This has been a miscarriage of justice. It is not the end of this case.”
“So that means you’ll be appealing?”
“Yes. I will most certainly be filing an appeal.”
“Is that fair on the victim’s families, Mr. Madison?”
I wasn’t going to answer that. I was done talking. I began pushing through the pack and eventually broke free. I walked back to my office at a brisk pace, deep in thought.
Yes, you bet there would be an appeal. And yes, I would win it. But would Demarco live to see its benefit? How long could he survive in prison? Lethal injection wasn’t an imminent threat. Guys sit on death row for decades. But Demarco was going to be sent to live among murderers who planned to kill him. Once inside San Quentin, the “rest of his natural life” could amount to just a few days.
27
As fair-minded as Superior Justice Abraham T. Garner was, he was never inclined to go lightly. But there were no light options available to him—it was either life without parole or death. And Judge Garner chose death. His reasoning was that the jury had found Demarco guilty of two calculated, senseless murders, for which warranted the highest order of punishment. That Demarco was still a teenager didn’t matter—in an adult court age could not be used as a mitigating factor. Judge Garner was moved to say that it took a particularly evil mindset to do what Demarco had done and that he deserved no leniency. He added that the victims’ families had not requested the death penalty be removed, and he hoped they felt their cry for justice had been satisfactorily answered.
Demarco was a mess following the sentence. He just crumbled from within. As much as I tried to console him, my efforts were in vain. In the end, he’d fared no better than if he’d gone with a judge-appointed public defender. Again, I impressed upon him that I’d be filing an appeal, but we both knew that would remain a hollow promise until I had fresh evidence.
After leaving court, I went straight to Seven Grand, a retro whiskey bar, to drown my sorrows. I quickly got onto cask strength scotch—110 proof, the kind of stuff that tastes like paint thinner to the uninitiated—and it was going down like honey. I told the bartender to keep the bottle handy to save him having to slide the ladder along and climb up every time I wanted a refill. And I was going to want plenty of refills. As I took my fourth drink in hand, Jessica Pope sat down beside me.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she said. She was a completely different being to the one I’d seen in court. Totally at ease, gentle even, and smoking hot. I knew this version of Jessica Pope well and, normally, I liked it.
“What are you doing here? Have you come to gloat over your win?”
“No,” she smiled. “You were wise not to take that bet. But how about buying a girl a drink?”
She had that playful look in her eye. But I was cold on her. I’d never had trouble separating my work life from my personal life, but she’d just gotten my innocent client the death penalty. For me to just set that aside would have been psychopathic.
“Sure, what are you drinking? There’s some nice whiskey here if you’ve got the stomach for it.”
“No thanks. I’ll have a mint julep.”
“I didn’t take you for a southerner.”
“Who says you need to be? It’s my favorite.”
“Okay then.” I caught the bartender. “Can I get one mint julep for the belle of the ball here?”
She smiled as she watched the barman, a handsome hipster in beard, waistcoat and white shirt, make the drink. She looked like she was of a mind to consume both the drink and its maker.
“Look who’s hot to trot,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you be? Sorry to rain on your parade, but today I can feel good about my job. Maybe next time it’ll be you walking on sunshine.”
The bartender placed the drink in front of Jessica. She raised it at me.
“No hard feelings?” she said.
Our glasses clinked.
“The better man won, I guess,” I said.
“Don’t be an asshole. The better lawyer won.”
“Touché.” I threw my drink back and signaled for a refill. “I have to hand it to you, Jess. You nailed me with the Sanders material. My investigator had a feeling everything was not what it should be, but his contacts at LAPD assured him we had everything there was to know about his background.”
“Of course they did. I made damn sure you never got a look at the internal complaints Melanie Crofts filed. I needed that to destroy his credibility.”
“Well, you sure did that.”
Jessica leaned her head towards me, her blond hair tipping down her right side.
“Come on,” she scoffed. “Don’t make like you were cheated. I did what I had to do. You would have done the same. You and I both know that to most people ballistics can be as much about guesswork as precise science. But thanks to CSI, the public thinks matching bullet to gun is as precise as fingerprinting or DNA testing. I for one am not about to rob them of that delusion.”
“The shoe will be on the other foot some day,” I said.
“I don’t doubt it. But I wasn’t just doing a job—your boy killed those two men, and he got what was coming.”
I had to admit, I did feel like the only person besides Jasmine who still believed Demarco was innocent.
“He didn’t do it, Jessica.”
Jessica leaned in closer still. “I’ll hand it to you, Brad. You’re nothing if not loyal. But if the murderer is still out there, where’s the evidence? If you want to prove you’re right, get your spurs on and come up with something solid. But there’s nothing out there, am I right?”
I didn’t want to tell her about Cassinelli and how Jack had chased his tail trying to put meat on that bone. I shook my head. She was right: we’d gotten nowhere. But I didn’t want her to know that.
“We’re getting close, Jessica. So enjoy your victory, because it’s going to be short-lived.”
“You know what you sound like?”
“What?”
“A sore loser. I didn’t prosecute that case because it fell in my lap and gave me some cheap thrill. You think I could sleep easy thinking I’d sent an innocent young man to his death? Our case was solid. Don’t be pouting because yours wasn’t. You had your chance to offer a reasonable alternative, but there was none. Where is this mystery killer of yours, Brad? Something tells me it’s all in your head.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“You can’t even tell whether you’re in denial or not. Can you?”
I let that one slide and took another sip.
“Didn’t think so,” continued Jessica as she downed the remainder of her mint julep and stood up. “Thanks for the drink.”
After she’d gone, I polished off the remainder of the bottle, got an uber back to my place, and fell into bed.
✽✽✽
The next sound I heard—the next one that registered, anyway—was my phone. It was a call that carried news I never wanted to hear.
As I reached out in my drunken haze, the phone stopped ringing. But seconds later it started up again. I lay on my back and let it ring out. The device was on the far bedside table, out of reach. I tried to summon the energy to roll over and switch it to silent but couldn’t move.
It rang again.
“What the hell!” I shouted. I heaved my legs up, swung them over to the other side of the bed, and sat up. The whiskey in my gut swished around sickeningly. For a moment, the urgent need to vomit took hold. I remained still and it subsided. The phone started ringing aging.
“My God, what is it?!”
I grabbed the unit and pried my eyes open to look at the screen. It was Claire. The phone fell silent again. I could see from the calls icon that she’d called eleven times already. A jolt of panic hit me—I must have done something severely wrong or forgotten to do something i
mportant. Had I drunk called her last night and abused her? Had I sent her a text? The shot of anxiety sobered me a little. The phone rang again. Claire again. I hesitated before finally tapping the green button.
“Hello?” I said groggily.
“Brad! Brad! Where have you been?!”
I perked up quick smart. Claire sounded like she was in trouble.
“Why, what’s up?”
“I’ve been calling you all morning.”
“Why? What time is it?” I snatched a glance at my watch—it was just past midday.
“Brad. It’s Bella...”
“What?” I said. “What?!”
Claire was struggling to find her words.
“It’s Bella...”
Oh fuck. Don’t tell me.
Claire was in tears.
Oh, Christ!! Is this that call?! Is this where I’m told my darling child is dead??
Claire could barely get her words out.
“What’s happened, Claire?!”
“Bella’s missing.”
“What do you mean missing?!”
“She was out with Caitlin and she just disappeared.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Caitlin took Bella to Abbot Kinney to return some goods I used for a shoot.”
My mind went blank.
“Caitlin. Who’s Caitlin?”
“My assistant. She took Bella with her to Sota...”
“Sota, what’s Sota?”
“A fashion boutique—Scandinavian. Caitlin went there with Bella to try something on and when she came out, Bella was gone.”
That useless bitch!
Volcanic anger erupted from within me. I felt compelled to lash out, hurl abuse at Claire. What kind of imbecile could allow this to happen? What kind of mother entrusts their seven-year-old daughter to the “care” of some air-brained teenager? It took all I had to keep those thoughts to myself.
“When did this happen?”