A large, ponderous man in his late fifties with longish hair of a suspicious shade of auburn, I had never seen him out of his robe, which he kept zipped tight, his fleshy jowls spilling over his collar. He sat at his ornately carved cherry wood desk, barely looking up from a law book as we entered.
“Good morning, Judge,” said Didery about to approach the desk for a handshake.
With a dramatic wave, Ludlow stopped Didery cold, a traffic cop’s signal as his eyes remained glued to the page. I was skeptical about the level of the judge’s concentration, having heard him enter his chambers less than twenty seconds ago. Ludlow slowly took off his reading glasses and held their edge to his lips while reclining in his massive leather chair to frown at the ceiling.
“Well this was quite a show,” I thought to myself, now thoroughly convinced he was acting. Didery and I stood awkwardly for several more seconds as the judge did his best to impress us with his spoon-bending concentration.
“Fascinating reading,” he finally said. “Truly fascinating legal concept. Sorry fellows, I tend to get wrapped up in the law.”
“What was it, Judge?” I couldn’t resist.
“What’s that?”
“What was the fascinating legal concept?” I asked, hoping I sounded genuine.
“Oh, uh, no matter. Let’s get to the matter at hand,” the judge replied gruffly, suddenly in a hurry. “I assume you have some in limine motions to file today?”
Didery and I explained that we both had standard boilerplate motions. In the way of actual decisions, the judge would have to exercise his dizzying intellect to decide which of Darnell’s prior theft convictions would be admissible should he decide to testify and which of the grisly photos of the victim’s dead body would be excluded as more prejudicial than probative. The only hearing required would be in ruling on my motion to exclude the gun.
“Gentlemen, I expect the gun issue to be fully briefed,” the judge said with emphasis. This was code for, “In your briefs, please assume I know nothing about the law,” which I had done.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Didery and I replied in unison, exchanging knowing looks.
“Any issues with witness availability?”
I explained that I was still tracking down an Armenian translator and would add him to my witness list as soon as I knew his name.
“Okay, I’ll hear the motion tomorrow morning, then we can begin jury selection. I’ll be on the bench to put this on the record in a few minutes.”
Back in the courtroom, Darnell had taken his seat at the counsel table, watched closely by the bailiff, Deputy Hartag, a short man who took his job of protecting the public very seriously. Nicknamed “Hard Ass”, he sat behind the defendant at his desk, his hand resting on his holstered pistol.
I was happy to see Darnell dressed in civilian clothing for the trial. As I had requested, his mother had supplied khaki pants, dress shoes, and a blue oxford shirt. With a new closely cropped haircut, he looked like he belonged behind a rental car counter. The bulky bandage underneath his shirt would not be noticed by the jury.
He looked warily around the courtroom, squinting under the fluorescent lights. “So, did that witness show up?”
“Doesn’t look like it. The judge will issue a warrant for his arrest, and hopefully we can find him.” Darnell shook his head with a look of disgust.
Judge Ludlow took the bench. “Good morning. We are here for the People of the State of California versus Darnell Moore. Appearances, please.”
“Nathaniel Winston Didery for the People of the State of California, Your Honor.”
“Joe Turner for Mr. Moore.”
“Gentlemen,” the judge began with confidence, “We have discussed the trial schedule in chambers. Counsel are to file their motions, which I will rule on tomorrow. Jury selection to begin tomorrow.” Then, turning to his clerk, “Cherlynn, please call the jury commissioner. We’ll need fifty jurors for tomorrow morning.”
“Only fifty, Judge?” the clerk asked, then attempted unsuccessfully to mouth a silent message to her boss.
Didery and I looked at each other. In most criminal trials, the attorneys had at their disposal ten opportunities to excuse jurors without regard to their ability to be fair. However, in trials where the potential punishment was life in prison, the law bestowed twenty such opportunities, known as juror challenges. So, Ludlow’s request of only fifty total jurors would likely be inadequate to accommodate the trial. His error was not surprising, given that he had spent the past few years hearing traffic and misdemeanor cases.
“Your Honor,” Didery began, sounding as officious as ever, “Perhaps the Court is not aware of the rules of court as it pertains to jury challenges. Pursuant to Penal Code section—”
“Mr. Didery,” the judge’s booming voice broke in. By now, I saw that Cherlynn’s note had reached His Honor’s desk. “I am fully aware of the Penal Code. And I intend to request one hundred jurors,” he barked, jowls jiggling from the force of his words.
It was another of Ludlow’s less than endearing traits. To mask his incompetence, he often lashed out at attorneys, hoping bombast would somehow obscure mistakes. Didery had just experienced it first-hand. I shared a smile with Cherlynn. We both knew the courtroom’s capacity was ninety.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor stuttered, in full backpedal, “of course, I certainly, um, by no means did I mean to imply that you did not know…”
“Mr. Didery,” the judge interrupted again, having regained his composure. “I’m sure it won’t happen again. Anything else, gentlemen?”
I stood. “Yes, your Honor, I subpoenaed for this morning a William Jesse Wendell. He is a material witness for the defense and therefore I would ask the Court to issue a warrant for his arrest.”
Ludlow’s vacant stare told me he had no idea he had authority to do any such thing. “Your Honor,” I continued, giving the judge an out. “I should have indicated this request is being made pursuant to Penal Code section 881.”
“Ah, yes, 881,” came the predictable response from the jowls. “In that case then, I’ll sign the arrest warrant, Mr. Turner. Gentlemen, I’ll see you two tomorrow. We have a murder case to try,” he said proudly, fittingly capping off the morning’s tour de force of incompetence with yet another gaffe.
It was a homicide case. It would be up to the jury to decide if it was murder. Although seemingly a minor matter to those outside the world of criminal trials, the difference was fundamental, and assiduously adhered to by all reasonably intelligent judges.
Before I stood, Darnell, perceptive as ever, leaned over, whispering, “Yo, uh, seems like this judge don’t really know what he’s doing.”
“We’ll just have to educate him,” I whispered back. “See you tomorrow.”
In fact, Ludlow was going to be much worse than I had thought. The first glimpse of the judge in action had me genuinely concerned he could keep the trial on the rails.
On the way out of court, Didery handed me a CD. Apparently, still shaken from his tongue lashing, he didn’t request that I sign for it at his office. I was pretty sure it contained ballistics results from the shell casing comparison.
“This is bad for me, isn’t it, Nate?” I asked as he stepped onto an elevator.
The gangly prosecutor stood with his fingertips together, hands at his chest, savoring his answer. “I wouldn’t describe its contents as helpful to the defense, if that’s what you are asking,” he answered, breaking into a smile before the doors closed in front of him. I was beginning to dislike Nathaniel Winston Didery.
I walked to the office imagining myself explaining to the jury how it was that Darnell’s gun had been used in the shooting.
“Nathan Didery called,” Lawanda said, handing me two notes as I entered the office. “Something about signing for the CD he gave you. Also, some law student says he wants an unpaid internship. Free labor, right?”
“Yeah, it usually ends up being more trouble than it’s worth,” I grumbled, tossing m
y satchel on my desk.
“You’re in a mood. Bad day in court?”
“Let me guess. You got Dudlow’d?” Andy called from his office.
“Yeah. That and the truckloads of evidence against my client lining up outside the courthouse. Jury selection tomorrow,” I said as he reached my doorway.
“Well then you’d better pick some idiots. Just get some of your old clients on the jury.”
“Sadly, most of them can’t vote. Being felons and all.”
I collapsed into my chair and slid the CD into my computer, bracing for a ballistics report matching the shell casings found at the scene to Darnell’s gun. Instead, the index listed only a video file labeled 466 9th Ave. The address was about a quarter mile from the murder scene.
I clicked and digital quality video of a parking lot filled the screen. It appeared to be the half-empty lot of a convenience store. The time in the left-hand corner of the screen read 5:58 p.m. I watched for twenty seconds before a very familiar vehicle entered the parking lot. The olive-green sedan parked in front of the store, centered in the surveillance video. The car had no front license plate, but there was no mistaking the lighter shade of green on the car’s hood.
I paused the video, not exactly knowing why. I knew what was coming but I just didn’t want to see it right away. “Anyone for a hotdog?” I asked, walking out of the office, hearing no response.
Alone on the elevator, I assessed. The good news was that it wasn’t the nuclear bomb that the ballistics results would have been. Still, assuming Darnell was about to appear on my computer screen, driving his car less than twenty minutes before the murder, no longer could the jury realistically conclude that someone else had been driving Darnell’s car at the murder scene. I supposed it was likely inevitable anyway, what with his admission that he may have been in the neighborhood. Still, another escape route had been sealed tight.
Also, to some extent, the video validated Bedrossian’s identification. He had been correct in his identification of Darnell as the driver. Now, I would be left to argue that he must have been mistaken about seeing him shoot out the window.
Back in the office, hotdog in hand, I grabbed a beer out of the office fridge, resumed my position in front of my computer, and clicked play. Within seconds, the driver’s door swung open and Darnell hopped out, as big as life, carefree smile in place. He even seemed to pause in front of the camera before entering the store. Three minutes later, he emerged from the store carrying a small paper bag.
I played the video clip from beginning to end several times, trying to determine if there were occupants in the back seat of the vehicle, but it was too dark. I heard Didery’s adenoidal voice in my head. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the defendant clearly purchased at least one item in the store. Does the video show him distributing items to the back seat or communicating with them? No, because he was alone in that car.”
I walked home with considerably less bounce in my step than I had in the morning. While the air remained sweet with the smell of spring, my client seemed a little less innocent.
All in all—an opening day loss for the home team.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In an effort to ease the pressure on his handcuffed wrists, Jesse leaned forward in his hard vinyl seat in the back of the police cruiser. He rested his forehead against the steel mesh cage, cursing his rotten luck. He wasn’t even going to get high today. He actually planned on going to court just to put the suits’ minds at ease. But he wasn’t going to testify. After all, this was Oakland—and he was a survivor. He’d go to court and he’d keep in touch with the old hippie investigator then disappear right before it was his time to testify. That was the play.
But now he was fucked. He’d overslept and then his ride to court had bailed on him. He knew if he showed up late, they would want to put him in jail until the trial was over. And he couldn’t go back to jail, especially not as a witness to a gang hit.
In some ways, the juvy pen had been easier than life on the streets. It had been hard at first. Being away from Damon, mostly. Then having to fight to show you’re nobody’s bitch. But he’d figured it out. Got through his twelve years relying on his smarts and playing the angles. He’d peddled dope the guards would smuggle in, traded cigarettes, sold himself when he had to. For a while he had a racket renting out books that Damon would send him. The first of a series was free, then it was a dollar a book.
Out here on the streets, though, there was too much drama. Who owes who money? Who stole who’s stash? Who snitched? One thing about prison, you damn sure knew what to expect every day. Out here, though, there were too many variables. Too much could go wrong. He’d been out less than two years and had already been back to jail three times.
Like today, after he missed court, he was just going to lay low. But Eva had called. She’d scored some weed, probably after rolling one of her johns. He didn’t ask. Anyway, she wanted to smoke, so they got high in her motel room.
Still, everything had been cool until they got the munchies and he started craving pizza. Real pizza, not the ketchup and cheese on toast you could make in the pen. And not the cold dumpster pizza he and Damon had eaten growing up. Real hot bubbly pizza that burns the roof of your mouth. He’d only had it twice in his life. Once with Damon when he first got out.
So, he and Eva had ordered a pizza—pepperoni with extra cheese—and just like he’d planned it, he had waited for the delivery guy in the parking lot. He should have known, though, when he saw how athletic the guy looked. He should have called it off. But he kept thinking of that pizza.
He’d managed to surprise him from behind a car and snatch the box, but the guy was fast. That and being high had slowed him down. Anyway, he’d been tackled, the pizza lost. Of course, given his luck, a cop had been driving by.
Still, he was pretty sure the cop was going to just cite and release him. He’d be in Eva’s room now, eating ramen off of her hotplate. But then he’d heard the radio chatter, then the rattle of the handcuffs. The cop found out about the warrant, and that was it.
Jesse lifted his head and leaned back in the cruiser, the steel of the cage cooling his skinned knee. He dreaded the phone call, but now he had a serious problem. He needed his twin brother.
****
“Hear ye, hear ye.” boomed the voice of Deputy Hartag, as the great Ludlow ascended the bench with a flourish, robe billowing behind him. “All rise. Department 27 of the Superior Court of the State of California, County of Alameda, Oakland Hall of Justice, is now in session, The Honorable Douglas Latimer Ludlow III, presiding. Please be seated.”
The judge paused slightly when he reached his perch and looked out across the courtroom filled with prospective jurors with a prideful smile, as if surveying his kingdom.
I had heard tell of Ludlow’s over-the-top entrance and it certainly lived up to all expectations of absurdity. The call-to-order was left to the discretion of the individual judge. Most opted for “Ladies and Gentlemen, come to order, this court is now in session.” Ludlow being short on discretion, his introduction more resembled a gaudy coronation.
Darnell sneaked a look behind him at the gallery and frowned. I read his mind. Watching the courtroom door as the jurors entered, I had counted only six African Americans out of ninety.
As a city, Oakland has one of the largest black populations in the state. However, jurors are summoned to court from throughout sprawling Alameda County. County wide, African Americans make up less than ten percent of the population. Also, juror lists are gathered from voter registration rolls, which do not include the many disenfranchised residents of Oakland.
The judge welcomed the venire and told them they were here for a criminal trial. Then he read the charge, always one of the worst moments in a felony trial. “The People of the State of California have accused the defendant, Darnell Jackson Moore, of a violation of Penal Code section 187, Murder, in that on or about March 22, 2021, Darnell Jackson Moore murdered Cleveland Barlow.”
Darn
ell squirmed in his seat to my left as we felt the stare of every eye in the courtroom. “The charges themselves are not evidence, ladies and gentlemen,” Ludlow said, reading from a script. But by now, the prospective jurors were probably no longer listening, instead wondering why Darnell had killed and how he had done it.
Ludlow reviewed the trial schedule. Didery and I were surprised to hear that we would be in session only four days a week. This was common for many departments, as they often handled motions calendars on Fridays. Since Ludlow couldn’t be trusted with a motions calendar, his incompetence bought him a vacation day once a week. He certainly wouldn’t give up that for our silly murder trial.
After the first twelve jurors were seated in the box, Ludlow began to question them, again reading from a script. There was the usual collection of teachers, software engineers, retirees, and office managers. Overall, not a bad group from a defense perspective, save for one crusty retired marine who looked like he was ready to convict Darnell before lunch time.
Things went smoothly until it was the marine’s turn with the microphone.
“Mr. Eggers, I see you’ve served our country…”
“It’s Captain Eggers,” the juror cut in abruptly.
“I see, sir.” Ludlow stared hard at the man, undoubtedly thinking, ‘Didn’t you read my name plate? I’m the God damned judge.’ The judge began again, emphasizing the title ever so slightly. “Well, Captain, have you had any previous jury experience?”
“Yeah. Military Court. It’s not the same though. We didn’t go through all this unnecessary process.”
“Sir, the trial process is hardly unnecessary. The trial—”
“Well, why don’t we get on with it, then? There’s clearly some pretty strong evidence that this guy did it, so let’s just—”
“Mr. Eggers, stop interrupting me!” Ludlow bellowed, banging his gavel like a child. “You are on thin ice, sir. You’re being disrespectful to me and this courtroom and this murder trial.” For a moment, I thought the flustered judge would fling his gavel at the juror. “Counsel, approach.”
Good Lookin' Page 13