Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  —Chuck, any chance you can check some backchannels for info on the ballistics?—

  —I can try a few of my old contacts at the lab—

  —Thanks—

  After a few flirty texts with Eddy, I began to make my way back to Department 27 where I found Didery, perched on the edge of his chair with both hands on the edge of the table, a bony raptor ready to take flight.

  After Ludlow took the bench with the usual folderol, I flashed on the laughing fit I’d had with Eddy as we thought of suggestions to add to the entrance. She thought his rise to the bench should be accompanied by a soaring rendition of Ode to Joy or a royal procession of bagpipes. Maybe Ludlow should take a victory lap around the courtroom, stopping to shake hands with the gallery like the president before the State of the Union address. Perhaps a unison reading of All Hail, Ludlow.

  Juror number nine, a free-lance writer, caught me recalling the memory and shot me a knowing smile, no doubt astounded by the charade that was repeated after every courtroom break.

  “Mr. Didery,” Ludlow invited from the bench, “your opening statement?”

  Didery, Cherlynn and I all exchanged glances. Ludlow had forgotten to have the jury sworn. The clerk silently wheeled her chair to the side of the bench where, shielded from the jury’s view, she discreetly passed her dull-witted boss a note.

  “Actually,” Ludlow said, pretending that the thought just popped into his head, “I believe that now would be a good time to swear the jury. Ms. Robinson, will you do the honors?”

  After the jury was sworn, Didery walked to the podium confidently. “It is March 22 of this year, around six-fifteen p.m., still daylight,” he began quietly. I hated the overly dramatic first-person present tense crap. It was an opening statement, not a poetry reading.

  “Cleveland Barlow is hanging out in the front yard of 454 West Eighth Street, here in Oakland, only about three miles from here. Cleveland is with members of a gang called Cashtown. He is seventeen years old. He is unarmed.

  “Young Cleveland has no idea that a rival gang member from a gang called the Iceboyz is approaching. He has no idea,” Didery said more loudly, walking toward our side of the counsel table, “that this man, Darnell Moore, will soon end his life.”

  Reaching his crescendo, the prosecutor pointed at Darnell from only a few paces away. Somewhere in some prosecutor’s manual, it was written that pointing is required. Probably some bullshit about displaying your personal conviction. It usually comes off as an awkward gesture, at least from my biased point of view.

  “You will learn that Darnell Moore drove his own car past his victim once, then minutes later pulled up in front of him and using a semi-automatic gun, fired two shots from his car before speeding away. One struck Cleveland in the head, the other in the chest. Cleveland’s friends returned fire, striking the car, but Mr. Moore got away. He got away with his cowardly act, ladies and gentlemen, but he will not escape justice.”

  Didery went on to methodically summarize the investigation which led to Darnell’s arrest—how his license plate number was captured on surveillance tape which eventually led to a witness identification. The District Attorney chronicled the evidence of Darnell’s gang affiliation, showing photos on the courtroom flat screen of Darnell posing with other gang members, flashing guns and gang signs. Didery told the jury that Darnell had first told the police that he was home at the time of the shooting and then later changed his story, admitting that he had been in the area.

  “The evidence will be clear and overwhelming,” Didery said after forty-five minutes in front of the jury “and the evidence will lead you to one inescapable conclusion: Darnell Moore killed Cleveland Barlow in cold blood, and he is guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  “Mr. Turner, does the defense wish to make an opening statement?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Your Honor,” I answered, wishing I were somewhere else.

  “Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. I should remind you that after that very eloquent summary by Mr. Didery, the judge will instruct you that in making your decision, you are to consider only the evidence. And thus far, you haven’t heard any evidence. What the attorneys say is not evidence.

  “Evidence,” I said, emphasizing the word, “will show that Darnell Moore did not commit this crime. You will learn that he is himself only nineteen years old. He grew up here in Oakland, graduating from Franklin High School. The evidence will show that despite some run-ins with the law, Darnell Moore has never committed a violent crime.”

  Steering clear from the mountain of circumstantial evidence, I spoke about the presumption of innocence, the necessity that the jurors keep open minds, and the prosecution’s burden to prove the case beyond a reasonable doubt.

  “You will hear circumstantial evidence that will require speculation and will fall well short of that standard of proof. The prosecution’s case will rise and fall on the eye-witness testimony referenced by Mr. Didery. You are all on this jury because in jury selection, you showed me that you have what it takes to properly evaluate that eyewitness and find the truth. When you do, I am confident that you will find Darnell Moore not guilty.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Turner.”

  Didery stood, ready to call his first witness.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a long day,” Ludlow pronounced at three-fifteen p.m., provoking some sideways glances in the jury box. “We’ll be in recess until tomorrow morning.”

  The big man was off the bench with a furtive glance toward Didery, deftly avoiding another inquiry about the suppression hearing.

  I drove to the office to find a smartly dressed clean-cut young man in the lobby, no doubt one of Andy’s clients ready for a deposition. I was at my desk unpacking the Moore file when Lawanda walked in, ten minutes later. “Did you see the law student?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Wendell is in the lobby.”

  With my mind consumed with the trial, the fact that Damon Wendell was a law student had completely escaped me. To me, the person I was meeting was the brother of my recently incarcerated star witness. So my mind’s eye had pictured someone similar in appearance to the down-and-out street urchin I had met last week.

  “Damon Wendell,” he said pleasantly, shaking my hand.

  “Hi, Damon. I apologize for walking past you. It’s just that you look a bit different than your brother.”

  “Yeah, we’re actually identical twins, but I know what you mean. We’ve lived different lives,” he said with a compassionate smile. And now I saw it clearly, starting with the arresting green eyes. Apart from Damon being slightly heavier and healthier looking and his grown out blond hair, their features and builds were a perfect match.

  “So, you’re a law student?”

  “Yes. I’m a second-year at Cal.”

  “Wow. Good for you.” I’m sure he wanted me to ask why in God’s name he was in law school when his twin was a petty criminal? And, by the way, a murderer.

  “Jesse and I were raised in foster care. He’s obviously made some bad choices, but he’s also had it pretty rough.” I assumed Damon knew I was aware of Jesse’s murder conviction as a juvenile. If so, it was one of the few times I’d heard murder referred to as a bad choice.

  “I’m sure his childhood wasn’t easy. Yours either, for that matter.”

  “I got lucky. Got placed in a wonderful home and ended up being adopted.”

  “Well, my client and I really hope your brother will take the stand and tell what he saw.”

  “I talked to him briefly on the phone,” Damon said. “He’s scared. Says the gang will target him in jail just on the chance he’ll snitch. That seems crazy.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s right. My client is in the same boat. Won’t name the shooter, but the gang won’t take the chance.”

  “Of course, he wants me to try convincing you to release the witness hold,” he said without conviction. “Says he’ll appear if he’s released.” He sounded like someone who had heard such pr
omises before.

  “Sorry, we tried that.”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Obviously, I feel bad that he’s in custody and at risk, but my client’s defense has to come first. I’ve spoken to the watch commander at the jail. They know the situation and have taken measures to protect Jesse. Did he say if he planned to testify? Right now, he’s the only hope my client has.”

  Damon sighed, pausing to choose the right words. “Jesse has been incarcerated for more than half his life. He trusts me, and that’s about it. With other people, he tends to assume they’re using him.”

  “Sounds like it might be good for you to keep in touch and maybe be a go-between with him.”

  “I’d like that. Actually, I also thought I could help you out with trial prep if you need it. It would be good for my resume.”

  “Sure.” I thought for a second, catching sight of the large box of files I hadn’t reviewed yet. “After you familiarize yourself with the case, you can check these investigation files of other gang-related shootings. It’s a long shot, but you might find something interesting.”

  I copied the police reports, copying being on Lawanda’s “doesn’t do” list, and told Damon to feel free to use the conference room any time. He was there reviewing the files when I left.

  After a run, I made myself a bean and cheese burrito and reviewed witness statements. Since Fridays were Ludlow’s day off, I anticipated that Didery would want to get through as many witnesses as possible before the long weekend. I nodded off in the recliner then went to bed with trial thoughts swirling in my head.

  I awoke to the sound of my own voice telling Damon that his brother was my client’s only hope. “Good God,” I said into my pillow, recalling the shifty-eyed, paranoid pothead devouring his cheeseburger. Even if he testified that Darnell was innocent, which was no guarantee, the jury would hear of his prior murder conviction. On my drive to court, I called to schedule a jail interview with my pathetic excuse for a star witness.

  Needing a mental break from the case before court, I turned up my country music play list and belted out the lyrics in my off-key baritone until I arrived at the courthouse.

  Inside Department 27, Didery, looking particularly insect-like in a light gray suit and black bow tie, stood at the counsel table, rapping his pen against his chair. He had picked up this annoying habit recently, and it was becoming intolerable. The D.A. asked Cherlynn if we could see the judge in chambers. The clerk picked up her phone and relayed the message.

  “Mr. Didery,” the clerk said with her phone still to her ear, “Judge Ludlow would like to know if this is about the timing of the motion hearing.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Didery, with more than a tinge of frustration showing in his voice.

  Cherylyn shrugged, hanging up the phone. “He said he’ll address it later.”

  Didery’s head sagged to his chest in frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said under his breath, and tossed his legal pad on the table.

  This was getting ridiculous, even for Ludlow. He was actually hiding in his chambers. Surely, he realized that eventually he would have to hear the motion or risk an automatic appeal, but maybe this was giving him too much credit. Maybe he thought if he just closed his eyes it would go away.

  Ludlow finally took the bench at nine-thirty-five a.m. Once there, he continued his campaign for laziest judge in the world. “Ladies and Gentlemen, today, due to matters beyond my control, we will be adjourning at twelve noon. There will be no afternoon session. Mr. Didery, please call your first witness.”

  “Your Honor, may we approach?” asked Didery, clearly struggling to contain his exasperation. For a meticulous master of minutiae like Didery, Ludlow’s constant changes in the schedule were becoming torturous.

  “Make it quick, Mr. Didery. We have to get this trial moving.”

  The D.A. took a few seconds to absorb the judge’s oblivious comment, but wisely chose not to respond. “Your Honor, with all due respect, I have subpoenaed four witnesses for today and have another two on standby who believed they would be testifying yesterday. Is there any way we can be in session this afternoon?”

  “As I said, Mr. Didery,” Ludlow whispered, covering the microphone with one hand, “these are circumstances beyond my control. Step back.”

  “Very well then, The People call Sergeant Robin Severson.”

  The sergeant entered the courtroom looking even more serious than she had at the preliminary hearing. Her hair was stretched taut, appearing to pull her sharp eyes apart. Out of uniform, she wore a severe charcoal gray suit and blouse. She marched to the witness stand before a crisp about face to take the oath, her right arm forming a perfect L.

  “Sergeant Severson, how are you employed, sir, I mean, ma’am?” Didery asked with a nervous laugh. I was happy to see that the personal communication required for examining witnesses had brought with it the return of jittery Didery.

  “I am a police officer for the city of Oakland.”

  “And were you so employed on March 22, 2021?”

  “I was.”

  “And were you dispatched to 454 West Eighth Street around six-twenty p.m.?”

  “I was.”

  “When you arrived at that location, what did you see?”

  “I saw a male black lying in the street, suffering from gunshot wounds. He was unresponsive.”

  I always wondered why officers used the term “male black” rather than “black male.” To me, using the color as a noun rather than an adjective seemed vaguely racist.

  The sergeant again described the precise location of Cleveland Barlow. “Sergeant Severson, I’m handing you what’s been marked as People’s Exhibit 1. Do you recognize this?” asked Didery, showing me the photo before handing it to the witness.

  I breathed deeply, bracing myself.

  “I do.”

  “Your Honor, permission to publish the photo to the jury?”

  “Granted.”

  Back at the counsel table, Didery pressed a key on his laptop and the image appeared on the court’s flat screen. The courtroom was deathly silent as the prosecutor paused to allow the image to wash over the jury. It was Cleveland Barlow, splayed on his back in the street, arms and legs akimbo, his head resting on the sidewalk. Blood soaked his white T-shirt, obscuring the logo. His young face was fixed in distant sadness, a perfect black circle on his forehead.

  Didery and I had haggled about which of the photos would be shown to the jury, neither of us trusting the decision to Ludlow. I had prevailed upon him not to use another, more gory side-angle shot that revealed the larger exit wound in the back of the victim’s head.

  Now, the young man gazed down from the flat screen in a faraway, sorrowful trance, as if mourning his own death. When I first saw the photo in my office, I had quickly looked away and for the most part blocked it from my memory. Now, the haunting misery of this image would stick with me long after the trial ended. If my own reaction was telling, I was certain I had made the wrong choice with the photos.

  “Sergeant Severson,” Didery’s pinched voice broke the silence, “does the image accurately reflect what you saw that evening?”

  “Yes, sir. That photo was taken after paramedics had pronounced the young man dead.”

  As she had done in the preliminary hearing, the sergeant described her actions in setting the perimeter, organizing the technicians, and dispatching a homicide detective to the scene. She told the jury how she had placed plastic bags around the victim’s hands so that they could be tested for gunshot residue.

  Finally, after giving the jury a cogent explanation on how shell casings are ejected from a fired gun, she described the cluster of casings in the front yard of the residence and the ten forty-caliber shell casings near the middle of the street.

  “Just one more question, Sergeant. At some point were you able to identify the victim?”

  “Yes, I found a wallet on the pavement, under the victim’s legs. It appeared to have likely been
dislodged from his person. After opening it, I found an identification card with a photo that matched the young man’s appearance.”

  “What was the name?”

  “Cleveland Barlow.”

  “And Sergeant, what type of identification card was it?”

  “It was a student body card for Madison Park High School.” It was a nice touch by Didery, as if there wasn’t already enough sadness in the courtroom.

  “No further questions.”

  There was a pause before Ludlow remembered his line. “Mr. Turner, cross examination?”

  “No questions, Your Honor.”

  “Sergeant, you may step down. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our morning recess. We’ll resume at eleven-thirty-five a.m.”

  After the jury had filed out, I asked the clerk if I could see the judge in chambers. “Not about the motion,” I hastened to add. “I would like him to sign an order that my client be allowed to shower and shave on trial days.” It was a routine order that even Ludlow could understand.

  My request granted, I entered to find Ludlow brushing powdered sugar from a half-eaten jelly donut off his robe. He grunted and reached for the order and commenced an inscription with an elaborate flourish that ignored the confines of the signature line.

  As I turned to exit, I caught sight of a gym bag on the floor next to his desk, unzipped to reveal spotless white golf shoes, no doubt the “circumstances beyond his control” that were sending us home early.

  Back in the courtroom, Didery was speaking to his next witness, Rocco Bedrossian, who cut a dashing figure in the army’s midnight blue dress uniform. I approached and shook hands. “Ready for a scathing cross examination?” I joked.

  “I’m actually pretty nervous.”

  “Piece of cake,” said Didery. “Probably a total of five questions, all about the videotape.”

  “Nate, are you sure you don’t want to just stipulate to the authenticity of the videotape?”

  “No thanks, Joe. Since we have Mr. Bedrossian here to authenticate it for the jury in person, I think this is more thorough. Wouldn’t you agree?” he said, smiling. We both knew he wanted the handsome soldier on his side.