Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  I had forgotten to return Didery’s call, and he had followed up with an email and a text earlier in the day before I had gotten out of bed. I sent an email on my phone confirming the stipulation. Before I put it down, it buzzed a text from Eddy.

  —So if the victim was shot in the eye by your client’s Slaezik, would he need Slaezik surgery?—

  —That’s a loaded question. Looking forward to Wednesday. Let me know what to bring—

  On the way to the office, it was Didery again, calling at eight-fifteen a.m. He was quickly becoming a pebble in my shoe and we were nowhere near trial.

  “Hi, Nathan. The stipulation is fine. I emailed. Sorry for the slow response.” …to your email at eight o’clock p.m. on Saturday night.

  “That’s okay. I appreciate the email. I answered with an email early this morning. I was just wondering if you had gotten it yet.”

  “No, I’m just on my way into the office. What’s your email say?”

  “I just forwarded the written stipulation. I was hoping you could sign it and send it back.”

  “Um, I guess I can, but why do you need it in writing? I’m going to stipulate.” I knew the answer was he was just being “Jittery Didery,” thinking of what he’d do if I changed my mind. He acted like one of those OCD types with contingency plans for meteor showers and alien landings.

  “Well, I just think the better practice is to memorialize it now out of an abundance of caution. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Again, I was reminded of one of his annoying eccentricities. He was constantly asking for agreement, as if daring someone to call him on his neuroses. “Okay, Nathan,” I said, sighing into the phone, “when I get to the office, I’ll see when I get to it.”

  “Thank you. Also, my inspector has obtained surveillance videos from various businesses in the area around the time of the shooting.” I cringed. I had expected it from a D.A. as thorough as Didery. He was hoping to catch a clear video of Darnell behind the wheel. “Nothing important, but I’m emailing you the videos.”

  “Thanks, Nathan.” I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled into the office parking lot.

  Inside, I greeted Lawanda, the part-time assistant Andy and I shared. Retired from a long-time secretarial job at an insurance company, she had accepted the position on the condition that she not have to perform certain tasks, some of which were classically secretarial in nature. Still, she was reliable, good on the phones, and Andy and I enjoyed her occasional reference to herself in the third person as in, “Now, Joe, you know Lawanda doesn’t do filing.”

  At my desk, hoping to avoid more calls, texts, or emails from Didery, I got his stipulation out of the way, then checked my phone.

  —Thanks for asking. If it’s not too much trouble, please bring a mustard green and kale salad, a side dish—preferably roasted vegetables with a Romesco sauce, a cheese souffle, and any custard-based dessert—

  —Well played, Madam. Lol—

  I opened the surveillance videos, suddenly in a much better mood. Even though Didery had said they were uneventful, I needed to see for myself.

  Seven different businesses had provided surveillance tape starting from an hour before the homicide. I began fast-forwarding through the videos, my eye out for Darnell’s green sedan, but my mind elsewhere. In video number five, something else caught my eye.

  It was a bright red muscle car turning into a gas station only two blocks from the crime scene. The car parked in front of a pump, and out walked the driver, passing directly in front of the surveillance camera, his face in full view. I paused the video with him centered in the shot. Slender and smallish, he looked to be in his early twenties. He was fair with blond, medium-length hair, and fine features. He wore a white T-shirt that read “Gaels” in blue letters.

  “Hello, murder witness,” I said to myself, celebrating a minor victory. I knew it was entirely possible that the witness may tell Chuck that the shooter was his acquaintance, Darnell Moore. If that were the case, we would send him on his way. I was always a little uncomfortable with that course of action, but not only was it legal, it was required of a zealous advocate. The law required only notice to the prosecution of witnesses you intended to call at trial. If the Gaels fan identified Darnell, he would be the last witness I would call.

  Still, given the current state of the evidence, the discovery was something. Now, to identify the witness and find him. It was a situation like this in which the police enjoyed a huge advantage. With access to a huge database of mugshots, facial recognition would solve the problem in minutes.

  Instead, I turned to Chuck, who knew a lot of people in Oakland. As an ex-probation officer, he also knew a lot of people on the wrong side of the law.

  Eddy’s name appeared on my phone with a text.

  —Bring the wine and your sexy self—

  Still smiling a goofy smile, I cut the still shot and texted it to Chuck.

  —Hi Chuck. Here’s the mystery witness up close. Recognize him?—

  —No, but I know a few hundred cops I can ask. If the guy’s a regular customer, someone will recognize him—

  —Thanks. I’ll give you a call after the prelim tomorrow—

  —Have fun storming the castle—

  The preliminary hearing in the People of the State of California v. Darnell Moore had been assigned to Judge Ed Hazelton in Department 6. Appointed to the bench in 1984, he was still spry at seventy-eight years old. Never accused of overworking himself, he often wore jeans and a polo shirt under his robe. “Judge Haze,” as everyone called him, was efficient in moving cases through his department.

  “Hi, Joe, c’mon in,” he said, peeking out of his chambers as I entered his courtroom. “I see you’re appointed. Thanks for taking the case. We’re low on qualified defense attorneys these days.” Judge Haze had worked under my dad at the District Attorney’s Office and had only recently stopped chiding me about switching to defense after a few years in the D.A.’s Office.

  The reality was that defense suited my critical nature. Also, I knew my father would have approved as he always spoke highly of defense attorneys and their crucial role in the system. As a District Attorney he had taken pride in fairness and often quoted Blackstone’s “It is better ten guilty escape than one innocent suffer.”

  I suppose the real reason for my switch to defense was that I drank too much as a young prosecutor. I probably still did, but back then I drank to escape memories of witnessing my dad’s murder, and it had been affecting my performance. There’d been rumblings within Human Resources, and in the end, it had seemed prudent to part with the office on my terms.

  I was mildly surprised to see Didery already in chambers. It was technically inappropriate to speak with the judge about the case outside the presence of your opponent, but it didn’t bother me, and Judge Haze made his own rules. It clearly bothered Didery, though, as he stood quickly as I entered. “Joe, I hope I’m not being inappropriate. Judge Hazelton asked me to, uh—”

  The Judge interrupted the prosecutor with a dismissive wave. “Joe doesn’t care. Nathan was just getting me up to speed on this case. Don’t suppose your guy would take a second and call it a day?” He was asking if my client would plead guilty to a second-degree murder. His sentence would be fifteen years to life.

  “Not at this point, Judge. My client is nowhere near that decision.” I had thought about that as a potential outcome, but not only wasn’t Darnell “feeling that,” there were too many unknowns for me to recommend the deal.

  “Okay, well it was worth a try. Let’s get this show on the road then. I’ve got an appointment after lunch, so let’s wrap this up before the noon hour.” Didery shot me a look of disbelief. Not surprisingly, he had planned a thorough and lengthy preliminary hearing.

  Out in the courtroom, we took our seats at the counsel table, and Darnell was soon escorted into the courtroom, squinting under the bright fluorescent lights. For inmates who attend court, their days start at four-thirty a.m. and it looked like Darnell had
been sleeping on the cold cement floor of the holding tank just outside the courtroom.

  Didery’s first witness was Oakland Police Department Sergeant Robin Severson, the officer in charge of the crime scene. The Sergeant sat with perfect posture in the witness chair in her black uniform, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was all business in describing her activities at the crime scene.

  “Upon my arrival, the victim was being attended to by paramedics. I posted officers on the perimeter down West Eighth Street and around the intersection of Eighth and Maybeck. Once the crime scene was secured with police tape, I approached the victim.”

  “What did you observe?” asked Didery from the podium.

  “The victim was laying in front of 454 West Eighth Street perpendicular to the street with his legs on the street, his torso on top of the curb, and his head on the sidewalk. There was a copious amount of blood. He was nonresponsive. Appeared to be suffering from a gunshot wound to the head and another to his chest area. He was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  “Did you eventually learn the name of the victim?”

  “Yes, the victim was identified as Cleveland Barlow.”

  My client leaned over to me and whispered, “Hey, ain’t that hearsay?”

  I was impressed but would later explain to Darnell that since 1990, officers could testify as to hearsay in preliminary hearings.

  “What did you do next?”

  “I radioed for a homicide detective and organized the techs.”

  “Did you observe evidence of gunshots being fired at the scene?”

  “Yes, there were ten forty-caliber shell casings scattered on the north side of the street, the side nearest the victim’s body. There were also numerous shell casings of various calibers in the yard of the residence and in front of the house on the sidewalk, near the victim. Also, there appeared to be bullet strike marks on the door and door frame of the residence.”

  “No further questions.”

  “Mr. Turner, do you have any cross examination?”

  The judge’s look said if I did, it had better be brief. I really didn’t have any questions I needed answered, but I felt compelled to let my client know I was at least paying attention. “Thank you, Your Honor. Officer, you also bagged the victim’s hands for gunshot residue testing, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you eventually learn the results of those tests?”

  “Not yet. The lab hasn’t gotten to it yet.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  Mindful of Judge Haze’s schedule, Didery did his best to streamline his case. After laying a foundation with the officer who obtained the surveillance video, he played the footage on the court’s giant video screen.

  Next came Officer Zuckerman, who testified that the suspect’s vehicle seen in the video was registered to one Darnell Moore and showed the Court photographs of the bullet holes in the car. He also testified about Darnell’s admission that he “might have been in the area around the time of the shooting.” Again, for my client’s benefit, I cross examined on the length of time Darnell was kept in the interrogation room and elicited his numerous denials before his eventual admission.

  At eleven o’clock, Didery called Mr. Bedrossian to the stand. The D.A. could have elicited the witness’s statement through the officer who interviewed him, but I was thankful for the opportunity to hear the witness’s testimony first-hand before the trial.

  Outside his market, Bedrossian seemed less confident. His eyes scanned the courtroom, taking in his surroundings as he walked toward the witness stand and took the oath.

  After a brief introduction, the witness told the Court of his activities just prior to the shooting. “I was alone in the market, sweeping,” he said, his accent producing an ‘sv” sound at the word’s beginning.

  Judge Haze frowned and sat up in his chair. “I’m sorry, sir, you said you were sleeping?”

  “No, sweeping. With broom,” the witness answered, pantomiming the motion with his hands.

  “Apologies, Mr. Bedrossian. Please continue.”

  “I opened the door to sweep out and I saw a car driving toward my market.”

  “Was the car travelling away from Maybeck or towards it.”

  “Fast, toward Maybeck.”

  “Can you describe the car?”

  “It was a green boxy car.”

  Darnell shot me a glance. He was definitely paying attention, noticing the witness’s improved memory since his interview with the police.

  “What else did you observe?”

  “The car screeched to a stop. I heard gunshots. Many gunshots, then the car sped away.”

  “Were you able to see how many people were in the car?”

  “I only see the driver. If there were others in the car, I did not see.”

  “Did you see anyone actually shooting a gun?”

  “Yes, the driver was firing lots of shots.”

  “Were you able to see the driver’s face?”

  “Yes. I saw his face from the side. I saw his—” the witness paused as if trying to recall something “—I saw his profile.” This was going exceedingly poorly. All this case needed was an identification to have to overcome.

  “So, you saw a profile of the driver’s face?”

  “Yes. Profile.”

  “Mr. Bedrossian, do you see the person you saw behind the wheel in court today?”

  The shopkeeper stared straight at the prosecutor. “Yes, the defendant.” I looked at Didery. The answer didn’t seem to surprise him.

  “Please point to where he is seated and describe an article of clothing he is wearing.” Bedrossian pointed to the defendant without looking at him. “He’s wearing red and white striped clothing.”

  “Your Honor, may the record reflect the witness has identified the defendant, Darnell Moore?”

  “The record will so reflect.”

  “No further questions.”

  “Mr. Turner, cross examination?”

  I was torn. On one hand, I wanted to save my best cross-examination of Bedrossian for the trial. On the other hand, I wanted to let him know that the trial would not be a pleasant experience. Also, I needed an outlet for my frustration. “Good morning, Mr. Bedrossian. You called 911 after the shooting, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m curious, initially you were speaking in your native Armenian language, correct?”

  “I haven’t heard the tape but sometimes when I’m excited, I revert to my language.”

  “Do you recall what you said?”

  “ ‘Oh my God.’ ‘Jesus Christ.’ Things like that.”

  “I understand. Now, you told the Court that the person that shot out of the car was, quote, ‘the defendant,’ right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew when you walked into court that the defendant would be the guy seated next to me in jail clothes, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did someone tell you that, or did you just figure that out?” The witness looked at Didery, who was stone-faced but no doubt feeling a migraine coming on. If the witness said Didery told him, it would be very bad for the prosecutor.

  The witness refocused on me. “I figured out that he was the defendant.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Objection, argumentative.”

  “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Turner.”

  “So anyway, Mr. Bedrossian, before you even walked into the courtroom, you knew that you were going to identify the defendant?”

  The witness crossed his arms defiantly, gaining confidence. “I saw him in court here, and I recognized him.”

  “When you saw the driver of the car, you said you saw his profile. Just so we’re all on the same page, that means you saw his face from the side view.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you saw the defendant, you say he was shooting.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was shooting toward a house that w
as across the street from you, correct? He wasn’t shooting up in the air or firing blindly out his window, was he?”

  “No.”

  “No, you saw him aim the gun in the direction of the house, correct.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he must have been looking where he was shooting, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if that was the case, Mr. Bedrossian, the driver of the vehicle would have been facing away from you, correct?”

  The witness knew he was trapped. “I saw his face. It was him.”

  “Mr. Bedrossian, if the driver of the car was aiming at the house across the street while he fired and looking where he was shooting, then how did you see his profile?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Before today, did you ever tell anyone that you saw a profile of the shooter?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Sir, before today, had you ever used the word, ‘profile’?

  “Today, I see him. Now I am sure it is him.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  I would save Bedrossian’s prior statements as the main ammunition at trial. I was still convinced his identification wouldn’t hold water at trial, but it was still another piece of evidence to be explained.

  Judge Haze looked at the clock on the wall. “That about wrap it up, Mr. Didery?”

  “Your Honor, I did have two witnesses I wanted to put on.”

  “Counsel, approach,” the Judge said, waving us to the bench.

  “Nathan, you’re beating a dead horse here. What other possible evidence could there be that this kid’s the shooter? Who are your other witnesses?”

  “I have a cop who found a gun in his bedroom and a gang expert,” said Didery, intent on resuming with the dead horse beating.

  “No, I’ve seen enough. Step back.”

  The judge then undertook the formality of ruling there was enough evidence for Darnell to face the charge of murder and set a trial date six weeks out.

  When I rose to leave the courtroom, I noticed Darnell eyeing three young men in the back row. Two carried Kansas City baseball caps, dead giveaways for Iceboyz. If these were Darnell’s friends, he had no need for enemies. All three were glaring at him—mean-mugging, as Darnell would no doubt describe it.