“Snitches get stiches, yo,” the one on Pea Coat’s right chimed in, earning a glaring rebuke from the leader, I assumed for his unimaginative comment that closed the curtain on the performance.
Again, I knew very well what Pea Coat had referred to. He could order a hit on Darnell from outside jail using the kite system—a network of passing “kites” or notes inside the jail, usually with the cooperation of prison guards. “Back door parole” was the humorous but dark term for dying in prison. He added that if I were “a dump truck” or an incompetent attorney and Darnell had to “go all day” or serve life in prison, then he would just have to do exactly that.
****
In the following weeks before the trial, I holed up in my home office, also known as my dining room table, outlining cross examinations, clipping video, and drafting in limine motions.
Eddy and I had seen each other twice more since our first night together, each date ending in her bed, each time better than the last. Now motivated to look better naked, I was running and working out daily, finding the exercise a welcome break from the trial preparation. Currently, she was in Los Angeles for a wedding. We’d texted frequently.
—If you need me to jump out of a cake for the bachelorette party, remember I’m available—
—Really, is that a side hustle of yours?—
—That and underwear modeling?—
—Lol. Thanks anyway but I think I’ll keep you for myself—
—How does the bridesmaid dress look?—
—Every bit as bad as I predicted. Who chooses purple? We look like giant grapes—
—You aren’t exactly shaped like a grape—
—Off to the rehearsal dinner. I miss you—
—Miss you too—
I noticed a voicemail forwarded from my office and listened.
“Mr. Turner, oh God, Mr. Turner, please help me.” It was the quaking voice of a hysterical Glenda Moore, Darnell’s mom. “The jail called and Darnell was attacked. Oh, God.” She paused to sob. “He’s in the infirmary but they won’t give me any other information. Please help me. Please, Mr. Turner.”
I showered, changed, and drove to the jail, calling Mrs. Moore on the way with a promise to report back on Darnell’s condition. After my parking lot visit from the Iceboyz, I had reported the threat on Darnell to the watch commander at the jail. Realistically, I knew if Darnell was a target, there was not much the guards could do to protect him.
Seeing inmates in the infirmary was less of an ordeal than regular visits. Since the pandemic, the jail had begun moving the hospitalized inmates to an interview room at the front of the jail, partitioned with heavy glass and equipped with telephones.
As I waited for Darnell’s arrival, I considered his impossibly bleak predicament and felt sorry for my client. He could continue to refuse to name the shooter and likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Or he could snitch, and if the D.A. believed him, accept a plea bargain that would still have him in custody for at least a couple decades, time made infinitely worse by a daily fear of being killed. And oh, by the way, even if he has decided not to snitch, the gang may kill him before the trial anyway just in case he changed his mind.
He was rolled into the interview room in a wheelchair. Remarkably, a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“What happened, Darnell?”
“Got shanked by some punk.” He shrugged, his right hand subconsciously holding an area below his left ribs. “That’s all.”
“Well, obviously, your family is very worried. I really think you should consider entering protective custody.”
He smirked and shook his head slowly, as if to say, “You’ll never understand.”
Switching gears, I told Darnell about finding Wendell and asked if he had thought about testifying in his trial. Generally, I believed it was in a defendant’s best interest to testify. Otherwise, the jury would no doubt consider his silence as evidence of guilt, questioning why someone accused of a crime would not take the opportunity to deny it.
In most homicide cases, a defendant’s testimony was a bad idea because on cross examination, their normally extensive record of past violence could be recited to the jury. Darnell didn’t have this problem. In fact, his lack of any prior violence was a plus. On the other hand, I shuddered at the prospect of him sticking to his complete denial tale while attempting to explain away the mountain of evidence to the contrary.
“Nah, I don’t think me testifying would go very well,” he said glumly. He sighed deeply and shook his head again, smiling a sad smile. I had seen it too many times. The yoke of custody was taking its toll, its weight slowly wearing away his youth, quietly dimming his outlook and suffocating his hope.
“Hey,” he said, as my door buzzed open, “could you, uh…” His voice trailed off as he stared at the floor. He looked up with moist eyes. “Could you tell my mom I love her?”
“I sure will. Take care, Darnell.”
****
A week before the start of trial, I was in Didery’s office to finalize discovery and share statement transcriptions. We had exchanged witness lists earlier, mine now including Wendell.
I noted that Didery had included Rocco Bedrossian in his. He probably planned on using him to authenticate the video tape obtained from his father’s store. It was a shameless ploy. Didery knew that if given the chance I would stipulate, or agree to the videotape’s authenticity, but he would much rather have the handsome guy serving his country be part of his case.
“So, I ran the rap sheet on your eyewitness,” the D.A. said, smiling across his desk at me, failing to contain his glee.
“Yeah? Extensive, I’m assuming?”
“Fairly. He has a prior murder conviction as a juvenile.”
I was shocked with the news. “What? Murder?”
“Yeah,” Didery nodded, opening a folder, and scanning its contents. “William Jesse Wendell. Born July 7, 1997. Apparently killed his foster dad with a barbell when he was ten.”
Chapter Twenty
With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable.―Harper Lee
Oakland, California 2006
Jesse was sitting calmly on a foot stool next to the recliner when the police arrived, his white T-shirt splattered in crimson. He had already hugged Damon goodbye. They had said goodbye before, but they both knew this one was different.
Damon sat on the couch, tears streaming down his face. He wanted to say something to Jesse before he was led away by the police. He wanted to say he was going to find themselves a good home where they could play on baseball teams and eat hot pizza from a restaurant and watch cartoons on Saturdays. But he knew it wouldn’t help. He knew what his twin was thinking. He always did.
Chapter Twenty-One
“This is starting to piss me off, Chuck,” I said, turning on the blue tooth on the way back from the driving range. “I’m starting to think the Bedrossians are playing games.” It’s not like I thought the store video would show old man Bedrossian hiding his submachine gun under the counter. At this point, it was just the principle of the matter.
“I know what you mean, Joe.”
“I’ll have Didery drop a subpoena on them.”
“Any luck speaking to Mr. Jakes?”
“Actually, I just got off the phone with him. He’s not exactly enthusiastic, but he’s agreed to an interview in your office after court on Tuesday.”
“Great.”
“And I served Wendell with a subpoena for trial. He was higher than a hawk’s nest but promised to appear.”
“I have my doubts.”
“Me too, but the threat of jail can be very persuasive.”
“See you tomorrow.”
We were two days from the start of trial, and the video was one of several minor loose ends bothering me. I also hadn’t heard back from the Armenian translator, and there was no sign of the ballistic results on the shell casings. It still seemed inconceivable that Didery had neglected to have them tested, b
ut I couldn’t ask him for fear he would be spurred into action.
—Are we still on for tonight? Can’t wait to finally see your place—
Shit! Eddy’s text caught me off guard. I hadn’t cleaned in…well, ever.
—Absolutely—
—Is 6 ok? I can bring a pizza.—
It was four-thirty p.m. Maybe enough time.
—Sure. I’ll order the pizza. Great place in my neighborhood—
I pressed send as I walked in my front door. A quick survey told me there was not nearly enough time. The cleaning crew came once every two weeks—a mandate by my mother after her first visit. They kept the place clean enough. I just had an issue with tidiness.
I prioritized and got to work. Clean sheets on the bed. Suits hung up. All clothing not in drawers, which appeared to be three quarters of my wardrobe, piled in the laundry room. I’d sort dirty from clean later. Same with the towels strewn about the bathroom and bedroom.
After the third trip to the recycling bin, I was ready to admit a flaw in my extensive reliance on paper plates. The plastic blue container was full, and I still had four grocery bags filled to the brim. I looked around the neighborhood from the side of my house. Satisfied the coast was clear, I dumped the remaining bags in the black container reserved for garbage.
Sue me, recycling fascists.
Next, I vacuumed out the recliner, collecting a startling amount of food. Apparently, the big chair had been a bridge too far for the cleaners. I wiped down the kitchen then began collecting glasses and cups from every room in the house. I had entirely too many of these. Perhaps a move to plastic was in order, but then again, the recycling issue—a decision for another time.
I raked beer bottles off various tabletops throughout the house and made three more trips to the garbage bin. Alley came inside and promptly sprinted back out, clearly freaked out by her changed environment.
I caught sight of my embarrassing five-pound weights. What, Joe, the seven and a half pounders were too heavy? I rolled up my exercise mat and stowed it with the weights in, where else, the laundry room. Note to self: Do not open laundry room door. From there, my efforts were mainly cosmetic. The liquor bottles back in their cabinet for the first time in years. Alley’s bowl off the kitchen counter. At least thirty editions of the New York Times out to the garbage.
I looked around. It definitely had that only-recently-cleaned-up look, and the dining room table I used as my desk remained covered six inches deep in case files, books, and sports pages. That would have to remain, as most of the case files were active, and I had a good idea of the contents of the various piles.
I showered and hustled to the corner grocery. Eddy was teaching me about wine, and I wanted to impress her. She pulled into my drive as I was walking up my stoop.
“I love this neighborhood,” she said. “And what a cute house!” I sensed relief in her voice. After seeing her digs, I had tried to lower expectations as much as possible.
“Thanks. C’mon in.”
She walked in after me and took it in. “It’s charming,” she said holding back a laugh. “And there’s your recliner, as advertised. What is this decorating style, Joe?”
“I’d say sort of a post-modern rustic grunge.”
“Looks like you’ve had a few working lunches lately,” she said, gesturing to the buried dining room table.
“Such a smart ass, Ms. Busier.”
“Just getting started early on my campaign to shame you into buying some furniture. It could be a really great place.” She kissed me after I had set down the grocery bag.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Wine. Trying to impress you.”
“Oh wow. Port Lancer Pinot. This is good stuff, Joe. Very well done.”
“Thanks. I was torn between that and a strawberry wine from Kentucky.”
“Can I get the tour?”
“Sure,” I said leading her down the hallway. “Spare bedroom on the right. I assume that’s where you’ll be sleeping.”
“We’ll see how good the pizza is. I was going to bring one from Zach’s.”
“Laundry room is there. I wouldn’t open that. And in here is where the magic happens,” I said, pushing open my bedroom door.
She spanked me. “Very funny.”
“I’ll order the pizza,” I said walking back to the kitchen. “Hey, want to see the Moore video?”
“Absolutely.” I started my video on my laptop and left it on the dining room table.
We talked about the trial over pizza and wine. She had a great memory for facts and seemed to know the case as well as I.
“So, from the photos, it sounds like Darnell is in a gang, but is it weird that he’s never committed a violent crime?”
“It is weird, and it’s one of the reasons I can’t see him murdering someone. I have a feeling he’s all hat and no cattle.” Chuck was rubbing off on me.
“Probably the reason why the gang is afraid he’ll snitch.”
“Exactly.”
“The D.A.’s theory will likely be that this shooting was Darnell’s test to officially be in the gang.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the Iceboyz have very high standards for admittance. Letters of recommendation are important.”
I laughed. “You are the second funniest person I know.”
“Yeah?” she said sliding closer to me on the couch.
“Seriously, Eddy,” I said taking both her hands in mine. “Thank you for caring about my work. It means a lot to me.”
Her azure eyes rested on mine for several seconds. “This is pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I said unable to contain my smile.
“You know, the tour of your bedroom was pretty brief,” she whispered, her hand sliding to my thigh. “I think I need another.”
“Does this mean the pizza was up to your standards?”
She tilted her head under my face and kissed my neck as I inhaled a rush of arousal. “No,” she said, kissing me again, “I just want you.”
****
I sat at my computer early on Monday morning, eating cold pizza and daydreaming about Eddy. Coffee and the Sunday paper in bed had been followed by another round of slow, warm rhythm, our familiar bodies communing on their own, seeking and revealing with nuance, texture, and changing pressures. Subtle glances and carefree murmurs of desire escaping moist mouths, heightening the ache beyond our quivering reach before we had surrendered together in tangled bliss.
I shook myself from my sensual trance and refocused on my task. I had decided to draft a Motion to Suppress the gun found in Darnell’s house. Like most search warrants, the warrant had authorized the search of Darnell’s bedroom as well as common areas in the home. Other bedrooms were off-limits.
The gun had been found in a shoe box inside a hallway closet. Photos of the gun and the shoe box revealed the closet also contained a vacuum cleaner and what appeared to be several women’s jackets. If I could convince Ludlow that the closet was not a common area but instead the private closet of Darnell’s mom, he might exclude the gun from evidence. The motion was not based on sound legal theory, but with Dudlow making the decision, anything could happen.
I printed the motion, dressed, and decided to walk to court. Never one to work harder than he had to, I knew Dudlow would spend the first day essentially planning the trial’s schedule, so I stepped out into the late spring air carrying only the Motions in limine around my shoulder in my leather satchel. With the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air, the day reminded me of the promise of baseball’s opening day. All of the teams were undefeated, and hope was in the air. Darnell, in the eyes of the law, was innocent, at least for now.
As I rode the elevator to the fifth floor, I resolved to stop referencing the judge’s nickname in my mind, lest I call him Dudlow in person. Inside Department 27 at eight-fifty a.m., I quickly scanned the courtroom for Jesse. He had been subpoenaed for today. It was likely an early hour for him, but still I wasn’t optimistic.
I was not
in the least surprised to find Didery sitting ramrod straight at the counsel table. Three boxes —what I assumed was his entire case file—were stacked to his right. A clean legal pad was directly in front of him on the counsel table. Above it one black pen rested, centered and precisely parallel with the notepad’s top.
We exchanged greetings, and I took my seat to his left at the counsel table. We both wore dark blue suits and white shirts, his rigid with extra starch. After twenty minutes of waiting, I took out my motions. “Here you go, Nathan,” I said, sliding copies of my motions down the table. “We may as well have something to read while we wait.”
“Um, I would rather, uh, wait until you’ve filed them with the clerk. That way we can exchange file-stamped copies, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Uh, sure.” This guy must squeeze out shits the size of marbles. After another ten minutes of sitting in silence, I carried my motions to the clerk’s desk with a wry smile. “Morning, Cherlynn. Apparently, I need to file my motions.”
“Hi, Joe,” she said, rolling her eyes. A statuesque African American woman in her forties, Cherlynn Robinson was regarded as the most competent clerk in the courthouse. Her pairing with Ludlow was not an accident. Many times, I had witnessed her deftly “reminding” the judge of things that had never crossed his mind in the first place.
As I waited for my motions to be file stamped, I heard a door close, signaling the judge’s arrival in his chambers, nearly a half hour late. Seconds later, the clerk’s phone rang. “Gentlemen, the judge will see you now.”
I followed Didery into chambers. It was richly furnished with burgundy leather sofa and chairs atop a Persian rug. The dark wood-paneled walls were decorated with golf memorabilia and photos of the judge with various political luminaries. Behind his desk, covering most of the wall, hung an enlarged photo of the judge taking the oath at his swearing-in ceremony. The shot taken from below, a soaring tribute to the jurist’s grandeur.
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