“Unbelievable. Chuck, we’re officially in crisis mode. Trial is scheduled to start in a month, and we don’t have a defense.”
“You’ll think of something.”
“What? Like Jakes and Bedrossian decide to shoot the kid at the very instant Darnell is barreling though the intersection. Their shots go through the passenger window of Darnell’s car, out the driver’s window, somehow missing Darnell, and kill the victim?”
“I love it,” he said, his laugh coming over the waves. “I’d pay to see you sell that to a jury with a straight face.”
“Don’t laugh. You may get the chance. See ya.”
Despite my characterization of my theory as wacky, Bedrossian, the long-tormented market owner had crossed my mind as a possible suspect. It would explain his rush to blame someone else. Also, I wasn’t sure his bullets would have had to travel though Darnell’s windows. Maybe he could have shot over the top of the car, or slightly ahead of it.
But I would still have to explain the immense coincidence of the timing of Darnell’s dash through the intersection, not to mention all the other evidence pointing to his guilt.
I got home with every intention of burning off my frustration with a run, but a ballgame was on and a few gin and tonics would have the same effect. I exchanged texts with Eddy, wishing she was with me on the recliner. At some point I realized I had forgotten to eat and slapped together a peanut butter sandwich. Soon, I stumbled off to bed, the Darnell Moore case flushed from my mind, at least for a night.
The morning was unkind, but after coffee and cold pizza, I was ready for a run, returning to find an email from Didery. Did this guy ever stop working? Attached to the email were the recorded jail calls of Darnell, from the first date of his incarceration to the present. I cringed. Not only was there a good chance there was something incriminating in the calls, the task of listening to the calls meant hours, even days of tedium. The fact that I could listen while watching a game or running helped, but still the task was one of my least favorites.
No matter how many times I warned my clients against talking about their case on the phone, it was astounding how many defenses had been torpedoed with an admission on the phone to a friend or loved one. Every inmate phone call was actually preceded by a recording. So often did inmates disregard the warning, my defense attorney friends had joked that the warning message should add, “Begin your confession at the sound of the tone.”
One memorable client, accused of possession of a firearm, told his friend to be sure and “hide the, uh, biscuit in your car.” Not surprisingly, when the gun was found in the car, the jury had cracked the code and convicted in less than thirty minutes.
I wanted to get through Darnell’s calls so I could devote time to more important matters, like figuring out what in the hell I would tell the jury. Throughout the next week, his conversations with his mom and brother became the soundtrack for most of my waking hours.
Against all odds, by week’s end, I had eavesdropped on roughly three quarters of the calls without hearing my client utter a single incriminating statement. For the most part, he continued to sound like the confident, upbeat kid who was sure he would be out of jail any day.
I was at my kitchen table paying bills when Eddy’s name appeared on my phone. Not wanting to bother her on her trip, I had managed to only respond to her texts, though I’d been daydreaming about her more than I cared to admit to myself.
—What’s up, counselor? I’ve been thinking about you—
—Me too. Was just picturing you on a dig. I believe that’s the terminology?—
—Yes. More impressive than your first comment about my field. “Wow. So like, digging.” What were you picturing on the dig?—
—Nothing too specific. Just you in a hard hat and hot pink string bikini with a rolled-up map in one hand and a whip in the other—
—Lol. Yeah, not very specific at all. How’d you guess my dig attire?—
—Just lucky. How’s the trip going?—
—Okay, lots of boring meetings but I love the city. I do miss you. Feel free to text me once in a while—
—Okay, I didn’t want to bother you, but I will. I can’t wait to see you—
In the office on Monday, a ballistics report arrived in the mail. Pulling open the manila envelope, I braced for the news that Darnell’s gun had been the murder weapon. It wouldn’t be the first time one of my clients had been shot down by his own gun.
Juries love scientific evidence because it is visual and easy to understand. Every handgun is manufactured with its own unique rifling, which refers to the markings etched inside a firearm’s barrel to impart a spin on the bullet for accuracy. The rifling leaves the same unique imprint on bullets. Similar distinctive markings are left on shell casings, the brass jacketing of the bullet that is expelled from the gun when fired.
Firearm examiners can test fire a suspect’s weapon into a water recovery tank to obtain comparison bullets and shell casings, then compare them to those recovered from a crime scene under powerful microscopes. The report documented the bullets dug out of the front door of 454 Eighth Street. I flipped hurriedly through the lengthy report to the conclusion.
None of the 4 bullets examined were of sufficient quality for comparison purposes.
Surprisingly, only the bullets and none of the ten shell casings found in the street had been examined. Also, only the four bullets dug out of the front door and door frame had been recovered. The ten shell casings meant ten rounds had been fired. One left at the base of Cleveland Barlow’s skull still left four bullets unaccounted for.
I double-checked the crime scene photos. The shell casings, which were ejected to the right of the handgun, were scattered within a radius of twelve feet near the middle of the street. I printed one wide angle photo and I drew a line from the front door where the bullets were recovered through the location of Barlow’s body into the street.
As I suspected, the line ran to a location in the street just to the left of the shell casings. That meant that all the rounds were fired from roughly the same location. The bullets that missed Cleveland Barlow had lodged in the door. So where were the other five bullets?
Overall, I was pleased there was no ballistics match to Darnell’s gun. On the other hand, I was certain Didery wouldn’t overlook testing the shell casings for long. I shut the file and tidied up my office for a meeting with a new client—a college friend whose son had been running a drug store out of his high school locker. My phone buzzed. It was Eddy.
—Tell me something I don’t know about you, Joe Turner—
—When I’m alone in my car, I sing off-key and practice impersonations. Your turn—
—I eat more peanut butter than any other food—
—Me too! Chunky?—
—You calling me chunky?—
—Ha-ha. No, and not plain either—
Chapter Sixteen
I was born good but had grown progressively worse every year.―Harper Lee
Oakland, California 2006
The boys sat at the kitchen table, wondering what was going on. Cooked hotdogs with canned chili beans and potato chips sat on paper plates in front of them, along with cups of cold milk, items usually reserved for Dumbass’ morning cereal. Damon eyed his hotdog, salivating.
“Eat up, boys. Your friend, Cheryl Swillinger is coming by for a home visit. Should be here soon.”
Then it all made perfect sense. A visit from the social worker was behind the dinner. Damon smirked at Jesse across the table, but his twin was staring off into space again.
It had been three days since that awful night when Damon lay on the floor outside his brother’s room. Jesse had barely said a word since. Damon stopped tapping on his door at night. He thought about telling Ms. Cheryl but he knew Jesse would never forgive him if they were separated again.
He had to do something.
Damon was about to squirt ketchup on his hotdog when Dumbass snatched it out of his hand. “You don’t put ketc
hup on a hotdog, dummy. Here you go,” he said, smothering the dog with mustard.
Damon stared at his ruined hotdog. He felt the tears coming. He didn’t cry much, mainly because it always made Jesse cry, too. But sometimes things just built up in his head until there was no more room and the tears spilled over. Not today, he thought, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He wouldn’t give Dumbass the satisfaction.
He’d wait until after dinner, after Happy Cheryl had asked more stupid questions, passed out candy, and went home. Then, he’d curl up on the floor with a blanket. He slept there now because his bed squeaked too. He’d lie there and let the tears spill over until his throbbing head pounded away the images of his brother suffering.
The next day was Saturday, and the boys found themselves pulling weeds in the lot behind the house. Dumbass had come outside in the hot sun for long enough to tell them where to take turns dumping a wheel barrel full of weeds in a ditch at the back of the property.
“You boys need to work smart,” he said, sipping his beer then cooling his forehead with the icy can. “You gotta plan your work and work your plan.” He smiled stupidly, proud of his saying.
“Plan your work and work your plan,” Damon repeated after Dumbass was out of earshot. “That’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Even for Dumbass, that’s dumb.”
Jesse looked up from his weeds. It looked to Damon like his twin was planning something but then he went on weeding.
“Hey Jess, you wanna run away from here?” he asked, nibbling on a raw onion he’d found in the yard.
Jesse looked up again. For the first time in a while, Damon felt his twin’s steady focus. His eyes were bright and clear. “No, D, I don’t want to run away,” he said with deadly earnest. “I’m gonna kill him.”
Chapter Seventeen
Since Eddy wouldn’t return until Friday, the week dragged on with more jail calls echoing in my earbuds while I scoured the police reports, looking for a break in the case. Thursday morning found me in the master calendar department for a scheduled pretrial conference. Theoretically, it was an opportunity for the defense to negotiate a plea bargain. But for the Moore case, it was a date to let the judge know that there would be no settlement.
It was the reason why murder cases went to trial more often than other cases. Didery knew he had a strong case, so he had made clear that his best offer would be fifteen years to life in prison on a plea to second degree murder. Since Darnell had made clear on several occasions that he “wasn’t feeling that”, there was nothing to talk about.
“Hey, Joe,” Jittery said, “I left some discovery at the front counter of our office for you.”
“Okay, thanks.” I wondered why he hadn’t just brought it to court. “Is it particularly voluminous or…I was just wondering why you didn’t bring it.”
“Oh, uh, well, I prefer that you get it from the office. That way, you can sign for it and we can file stamp your signature. More of a, you know, reliable system, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it,” I wanted to tell him, “maybe have the front desk get a urine sample and a DNA swab just in case someone has stolen my identity.” But I dutifully signed for the reports at the D.A.’s Office. They turned out to fill a banker’s box. I lugged it back to the office, inhaling a hotdog on the way.
At my desk, I opened the discovery box. The gunshot residue report was there, documenting the tests performed on the victim for the tiny particles that are deposited on the hands of someone who fires a firearm. I flipped to the conclusion: “There were no findings on either specimen.” Both of Barlow’s hands tested negative for gunshot residue.
Barlow may have been armed. If so, one of his fellow gang members would have likely taken his gun after the shooting. Still, the fact that he hadn’t gotten off a shot made his murder all the more cowardly.
The remaining contents of the box consisted of hundreds of pages of police reports, all documenting shootings by the Cashtown and the Iceboyz gangs in the past year. I put it aside to read later, assuming the shootings would be used by Didery to solidify the gang-related motive for the murder.
My phone rattled on my desk.
—Hi there. I’m flying back tomorrow. You free Saturday?—
—Yes! Safe flight—
The phone was still in my hand when Chuck called.
“Hey, Chuck, what’s new?”
“We got a break. An old friend from the Probation Department recognized our witness. He’s a two-bit mook named William Wendell. Mainly into drugs and petty theft offenses. Hangs out at Bushrod, but he’s due for a check-in with his probation officer today at two o’clock.”
“Look at you, Chuck, getting all sleuthy on me.”
“Yeah, well, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while.”
“Well done! Pick me up whenever you’re free?”
“See you in fifteen.”
Chuck and I sat inside his bucket of bolts eating hotdogs, idling in front of the probation department, waiting for Wendell’s arrival. Our plan was to catch him on his way out afterward. The fact that he wasn’t in custody meant he had not been busted for driving the stolen car, so we had some leverage if we needed it.
At two-ten p.m., our guy was hustling inside the front door of the building, wearing the same St. Mark’s T-shirt he had worn in the video. He emerged twenty minutes later, walking quickly away from the building, shoulders hunched, his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his jeans.
As he moved down the sidewalk toward Chuck’s car, he looked this way and that, as if scanning for danger. As he neared, Chuck got out of his car. I crumpled my wrapper and did the same, regretting the second hotdog.
“Hey, can I bum a light?” Wendell asked Chuck in a raspy voice, holding a cigarette between his fingers.
“Sure. You’re Wendell, right?” The young man peered over his cupped hand with startling green eyes, eyeing Chuck silently as he returned the lighter and frowned into a long drag. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His shabby clothing hung from a thin frame. Up close, his freckled face was lined and weathered from too much time in the sun.
“Who wants to know?”
“We’re defending someone accused of murder and think you may be a witness.”
He looked at Chuck, then me, digesting Chuck’s answer, then pushed past us on the sidewalk, walking away.
“You’re on Jennings’ caseload, right?” Chuck called after him, referencing his probation officer.
Wendell stopped in his tracks five yards away. His head sunk to his chest, and he continued to face away from us for several seconds, rubbing his closely cropped blond hair with one hand. Finally, he turned and sauntered back to us, looking around, furtively. “Look, I don’t need any trouble,” he said, his face grimacing as he puffed his cigarette. “Meet me at Slim’s,” he said, gesturing to the hamburger spot down the block.
“Okay,” said Chuck. “And we know about the car, so you need to be there.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, tossing his cigarette on the sidewalk and walking away.
We watched him scurry off, head tucked between his shoulders and darting glances in all directions, as if afraid of his own shadow. “Well, we knew our witness wouldn’t be the pope,” I remarked, as we followed him across the street toward Slim’s.
He took a seat at a corner table, his back to the wall. He was already ordering when we walked in. “So, you think I saw something,” he said after we were seated, and the waitress had disappeared.
“Look, Wendell,” I spoke up, noticing the pungent funk of body odor and pot for the first time. “We’re not here to fuck around. We know you saw the shooting at Eighth and Maybeck. We need you to tell us what you saw. If not, we’ll give the video of you driving the stolen car to your probation officer.”
“Wow, the dweeb is playing hardball,” he said sarcastically. He sat back and smiled, savoring his rare position of power. He sized us up for several seconds, looking back and forth bet
ween us, wearing the seasoned smirk of a street hustler. This kid had been around, for sure, and he was considering all his options.
“Look, assholes,” he said, eyes darting around the room. “Do I look like a fucking idiot? This is Oakland. I grew up here. If I play ball and identify some gang member, my ass is dead. You think I can’t do six months in jail? That ain’t shit.” He put two bony elbows on the table and rubbed his forehead with both hands. I got the sense he was thinking about being in jail, away from his drugs.
“Tell you what,” Chuck said, “I have a photograph of our client. If you look at it and tell us he’s the shooter, you’ll never hear from us again. But if you know he wasn’t the shooter, then we’ll need you to cooperate.”
He stared at the table, rubbing a hand over his scarred knuckles. “Cooperate how?” he asked, shaking his head, his face etched in dread.
“You’ll be subpoenaed to testify about what you witnessed.”
He put his face in his hands and sighed deeply, then looked up when the restaurant door opened. I got the sense he could list its occupants from memory. “Okay, listen. I’ll look at your picture, but I ain’t eye-deeing nobody. I ain’t no snitch.”
Chuck took the booking photograph of Darnell from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table. Wendell sat up straight and looked over our heads, his green orbs scanning the room. He glanced down at the photo for less than a second before pushing it toward us. “Ain’t him.”
“Just to clarify,” I said, feeling a surge of adrenaline, “you’re saying—”
“He ain’t the shooter,” he spat between clenched teeth, looking me in the eye.
“Here we are, young man.” The waitress arrived with a double cheeseburger and a plate of home fries. “Will you gentlemen be dining with us?”
“No, thank you. We’re going to get this for him and be on our way,” I said, wanting to get away from the odor.
“Suit yourself,” she said on a shrug. “You can pay up at the cash register.”
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