Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  “No, but okay,” I replied with a shrug, mouthing, I tried to Rocco after Didery turned away.

  Once Ludlow retook the bench, the Assistant D.A. assumed a military bearing of his own, practically saluting his next witness. “The People of the State of California call Captain Rocco Ovsanna Bedrossian, Your Honor.”

  The witness walked up the aisle with perfect posture, noticeably limping on his right leg. Good God, now he was a war hero, too?

  True to his word, Didery’s direct examination was brief. Rocco verified that the video surveillance system was properly maintained and set to the correct time. At the request of an Oakland police officer, he had provided the relevant footage. The video now authenticated, the first week of trial ended with Darnell’s car flashing across the big screen.

  “How do you think it’s going?” Darnell asked after the jury had filed out.

  Answering questions like that was always tricky. On one hand, I didn’t want to give my client false hope. On the other hand, as still the most watched person in the trial, I didn’t want him projecting a belief of certain defeat to the jury.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, hearing the insincerity in my voice. “See you Monday.”

  Outside the courthouse, Rocco got my attention. “Joe, I couldn’t talk to you in front of the D.A. I’m having real concerns about my dad testifying,” he said, then suddenly focused on someone approaching from behind me.

  “Hey! Why are you talking to him!” It was the unmistakable accent and staccato speech of an angry man. “Don’t talk to him! He is helping the murderers!”

  “Dad, I’m trying to help you,” Rocco said. “You don’t realize how much danger you’re in.”

  “My son the soldier is a coward! These gang members have ruined our neighborhood, ruined my store. Someone must stand up!”

  “Dad—”

  “No!” Bedrossian the elder dismissed his son with a wave and turned his sights on me. “And you! Stop bothering my friend Elijah Jakes! He’s a good man. He grieves the loss of his wife and you harass him!” He stalked off down the sidewalk, looking like he was spoiling for a fight.

  I used the unexpected free afternoon to catch up on some billing before heading to the jail for a meeting with Jesse Wendell. I was escorted into one of the new interview rooms, equipped with a two-way microphone that allowed communication without phones.

  As I sat on a metal stool waiting for him to appear on the other side of the glass, I wondered if my visit was too soon. I had planned to wait until after Damon had a chance to speak with him, but Jesse’s public visiting day was Tuesday and I didn’t want to wait that long.

  Through the glass, a metal door buzzed open and Jesse sauntered into the tiny room. He closed the door behind him and rested a foot on the stool in front of him. He leaned against the wall, looking down at me, expressionless. A pale-yellow jumpsuit worn by the jail’s general population hung from his spindly frame.

  “Hi, Jesse,” I said awkwardly. A full minute passed as he continued to look at me impassively, unaffected by the silence. I should have waited for Damon to visit.

  Although I was certain I knew how Jesse felt about his incarceration, on some level, it was clear that he was more comfortable in jail. Gone were the nervous twitches and furtive fidgets I had witnessed in the coffee shop. I thought about his brother’s remark that he had spent more than half his life in custody. I could say the same about other of my clients in their forties, but Jesse had been raised in prison.

  Finally, he shrugged, the gesture asking what I wanted.

  “I know this isn’t fair, Jesse, and I’m sorry you’re in custody.”

  He slid down the wall onto his stool, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Look, man,” he said disgustedly, “don’t give me that shit. You wanted me in here, so you’re guaranteed I’ll come to court, so don’t pretend any different.”

  I really should have waited for Damon. “Jesse,” I said calmly, “think what you want, but I would have preferred that you had shown up to court like you promised.”

  “Look, Joe,” he said, looking me in the eye, “You got a job to do. I get it. But just don’t tell me you give a shit about me. You don’t think the Iceboyz are gonna make a run at me while I’m in here? I’m in on a snitch warrant. You know how it works, and you don’t care. Just don’t pretend like you do.”

  I was surprised that he knew my name. I suspected that its use was by design, to try to connect personally so I would release the custody hold. Still, I did feel for him. I never felt good about witness warrants. Incarcerating someone because they chose not to risk their life to testify wasn’t fair. I had also thought about the risk that Jesse would be attacked in jail. But now, seeing him locked inside, his fear and desperation seeping through the glass, made the danger real.

  “Jesse,” I said changing course, “I need you to tell me what you saw.”

  He stared at me, planning his next move. “No,” he said, “you need me to say what I saw in court.” This guy recognized his leverage. Also, his identical twin’s career choice was beginning to make sense.

  “True, but let’s start by telling me here.”

  “Okay,” he said after a time, looking around the tiny room reflexively, leaning towards the glass. “There was this car coming toward Maybeck. Older looking car. Green, I think. Right before the intersection, it stopped like suddenly. I saw the dude who got shot in front of his house with his buddies. Then there were all kind of shots and then I saw the guy on the sidewalk fall.”

  “Did you see anyone on the porch at the market across the street?”

  “Yeah. Two older guys. Short white guy and an old black guy with a cane.”

  “Who was the shooter?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not snitching,” he said emphatically. “Your guy didn’t kill anyone, though.”

  “The problem is, if you don’t identify the shooter, you’re not going to have any credibility with the jury.”

  He smirked. “Sounds like that’s—how do you suits say it—in your issue box.”

  He stood and stretched, then sat down again. “How about this. How about you let me out of here then I’ll tell you who the shooter is, and you can do some investigation on your own?”

  “Sorry, Jesse. I can’t risk it. You are really playing the angles.”

  “You think I’m playing?” he asked earnestly. “Okay, then, maybe the D.A. will be interested in what I have to say about your client, know what I’m saying?” he said casually. “Maybe he was the shooter, after all.”

  I stared hard at his poker face, his threat hanging in the air. “You tell that lie and an innocent man goes down for murder.”

  “Been known to happen.” He shrugged.

  I wanted to yell but knew he was too important of a witness to alienate. “Jesse,” I said after a deep breath, “my client would go away for the rest of his life.”

  “Yeah, well, this is my life!” he hissed, forcing his words through clenched teeth. He stared at the floor, forcing himself to calm down before continuing. “Besides, life’s hard, Joe.” His green eyes met mine, and I could tell he meant it.

  We sat in silence for several minutes. “So, you know not to talk about the facts of the case on the phone with Damon,” I said, not wanting to end the visit on a bitter note. “They tape all the phone…” I trailed off, seeing his deadpan stare. “Yeah, I guess you probably would know about that.”

  I stood to press the button to summon the guard.

  “Hey, so I guess Damon is in law school?” he asked tentatively.

  I sat back down. “Yeah, not just any law school. He’s at Cal. Doing really well.”

  “Probably going to be a suit like you, someday,” he said, staring into space. “Living in a big house, driving fancy cars. I sure am happy for him.”

  Then Jesse smiled. Not the smirk he wore like a hard mask but a genuine smile. At that moment, I saw the identical twin of the affable law student I’d met in my office. The
tears and sweat of his youth spent in a cage, like water over sandstone, had etched his face with a bitter scowl. But just for a moment when he smiled his brother’s carefree smile the lines faded, his face warming in the glow of his twin’s happiness.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  From my office, I heard the door to our lobby open. “I’m not saying it’s hot out there,” boomed Chuck, “but I’m pretty sure the thermometer reads ‘Satan’s balls!’ ” He stopped in mid-stride, mortified to find Eddy in my office, beaming.

  “Oh.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not at all,” chuckled Eddy. “That’s hilarious, and from what I’ve heard about you, it must be a movie line.”

  “Really, I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his face reddening, “it’s just so unusual for Joe to have a woman in his office.”

  “Very funny, Chuck. This is Eddy.”

  “Of course. Joe’s been talking my ear off about you. Sorry to interrupt you two.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chuck. And no worries. I was actually just leaving. See you tonight around seven, Turner?”

  “Yes, bye, Eddy.”

  She had stopped by after a business lunch nearby. Her company occupied a floor in the latest high rise in San Francisco, so I was a little self-conscious. On the other hand, I had survived her visit to my home. She had met Lawanda, who had since gone home, and Damon, who was working in the conference room.

  “You, sir, have outkicked your coverage,” my investigator said, after she was gone.

  “Yes, Chuck, I’m aware. Satan’s balls? Very nice. Any word on the ballistics tests?”

  “No, I’m striking out so far, but I’ll keep at it. All my old contacts in the lab are either dead or retired. I’m serious, Joe. She’s a knockout.”

  “Again, I’m aware. And if you don’t mind, I’m trying to feel less self-conscious about my relative attractiveness.”

  “Right. Can’t help you there. How’d your meeting with Wendell go?”

  “Well,” I said shutting my office door so Chuck wouldn’t say anything regretful within earshot of Damon, “it went.” I explained to him about Damon and summarized my meeting with Jesse.

  “I emailed you some invoices for the county. Happy trails.” He introduced himself to Damon on the way out.

  “Scanning? Emailing?” I called at his retreating back. “Who are you?”

  Back in my office, I checked on the progress of the Armenian translator. Nothing yet. Next, I listened to Bedrossian’s taped statements again, preparing for his upcoming cross examination. I sensed that I was hearing the words but somehow missing their meaning.

  “Joe?” It was Damon in my doorway, carrying his open laptop.

  “Yeah, Damon, what’s up?”

  “I think I may have something here.” He had been in the conference room when I arrived this morning reviewing reports of other gang shootings.

  “C’mon in. Thanks so much for all your help.”

  Seeing him up close on the heels of my visit with Jesse was surreal. It made sense that the more I was around each of them, the more their identical appearance became obvious. From their exact shade of sandy blond hair, to their sea green eyes and closed mouth smiles, they were dead ringers for each other. They even shared the same ambling gait and slight vocal twang. But their physical sameness made the difference in temperament all the more jarring.

  Damon opened a file on his laptop and two photographs came on screen. I recognized them as two photos of the front of 454 West Eighth, one a closeup of the door, the other showing the entire residence from curbside. In each photo, the three bullet holes in the door and one in the door frame were visible.

  “What am I missing?” I asked. “These are the bullet holes in the door, right?”

  “Yes,” Damon said with a gleam in his eye, “but the photo on the right was taken—” He paused for dramatic effect. “—three months before the shooting.”

  “No shit?” I asked, slapping him on the shoulder. “That’s awesome! How’d you manage this?”

  “I just searched the address because I was curious about where it was and out popped this real estate ad from January of this year.”

  “Good work. So that means,” I said, thinking out loud, “that with the possible exception of the untraceable bullet lodged in the victim, none of the ten bullets fired at the scene are accounted for. “Strange, wouldn’t you agree?” I asked, wishing Didery were around to hear it.

  Despite my repeated suggestion to call it a day, Damon turned down my offer of a beer and was still at work in the conference room when I left for home at five o’clock p.m.

  I went for a run before dinner, determined to flush the thoughts of Jesse Wendell that had danced at the edge of my mind since my jail visit. Instead, as I made my way into the Oakland hills, they flooded my brain.

  Although I didn’t believe he would follow through with his threat to send Darnell away, I was far from sure. I reminded myself that there was a time when I questioned whether Jesse was capable of murder. Since the jail visit, those doubts had vanished.

  Jesse wasn’t physically imposing, but the tenacity of his survival instinct betrayed a sad and painful past. At the diner, I had witnessed his nerves, laid bare and frayed from years of tension and misery. In jail, simmering under his thorny shell of protection, surveying his prey before striking with his cold, calculated threat, his prior violence as a child seemed much more believable. My guess was he had been pushed into a corner and had come out fighting.

  After a shower, I drove to Eddy’s.

  “Another stellar wine choice, Turner,” she said, taking the bottle from me with a kiss.

  “Okay, answer me this, my seductive sommelier. I’m in the grocery store, walking down the wine aisle, paying attention, as instructed, to the vintage, whether or not it was estate bottled, and all the rest.”

  “You have been paying attention!”

  “So, then I read about this rating scale for wine that’s fifty to one hundred, fifty being an F and one hundred an A.”

  “Extra reading. Now you’re just sucking up to the teacher.”

  “Of course, I’m trying to get laid. Seriously though, I thought it would help me but every wine in the store was between an eighty-six and ninety-two? Have you ever heard of a class of five hundred all getting either a B-plus or an A minus?”

  “Truly absurd. Can we order in and watch a movie instead of going out? I feel like Thai food,” she said opening the wine.

  “Perfect.”

  And I meant exactly that. Time with Eddy had become the highlight of my week, and I had begun thinking about seeing her again as soon as we parted. Her presence was an electric current that charged my soul and a warm wave that calmed my mind. Somewhere in a recess of my brain I was wary as I watched myself tilting slowly into her, but it was a whisper amid a soaring orchestral symphony of bliss.

  Thai food and two episodes of a British comedy was followed by another night of lovemaking, each foray more free and instinctive than the last.

  “Thanks for the coffee.” She set her cup on her nightstand and draped her warm body over me, resting her head on my chest. “It keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”

  “The coffee? Yes, I’m really getting the hang of your coffee maker.”

  “You dork,” she laughed. “I knew you were going to say that before the words were out of my mouth. Soon we’ll be completing each other’s sentences like me and my twin.”

  I thought of the Wendell twins. “So, you met Damon. His twin is our star witness.”

  “The homeless, criminal witness who’s in jail?”

  “Yeah, and Damon’s totally squared away. It’s crazy.”

  “Actually, I was going to tell you I got sort of a weird vibe from Damon.”

  “Really, how so?”

  “Hard to explain. His eyes just look sort of hollow or dead or something. Like there was a lot of sadness in his life.”

  “You should see his brothe
r. He’s basically been in jail since age ten. Horrible life.”

  “Maybe Damon was feeling his twin brother’s pain.”

  “Do you ever feel it when Rose is in pain?”

  “Good memory on the name. Not telepathically or anything, but if I know she’s in pain, I feel a real, like visceral need to make it stop. There’s something about seeing someone who looks identical to you suffering. Or if I think she’s in danger, instinct takes over and I have to keep her safe.”

  “Good lookin’,” I murmured to myself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Damon and Jesse just seem so different.”

  “I’ll bet they’re not,” she said looking up to kiss my lips.

  “Well, you’re the twin. I’m sure you’re right.”

  She rolled on top of me. “I’m happy to straighten you out,” she whispered, and trailed kisses down my stomach.

  ****

  After a Sunday of trial preparation, I walked into Department 27 on Monday morning to find Didery unpacking his trial box and Ludlow already on the bench. I frowned a question at Didery, who shrugged.

  “Well, gentlemen, I was under the impression that we were litigating the motion to suppress this morning at eighty-thirty a.m. Obviously, given both of your late arrivals, there’s no time now. We’ll have to take it up later in the week.” The judge plodded down off the bench as Didery and I sat, dumbfounded by his transparent remarks.

  It was becoming embarrassing and awkward. Everyone in the courtroom—the clerk, the court reporter, the attorneys—saw through Ludlow’s childish deceit. And this time, even Ludlow himself had to have known that we knew.

  After another triumphant return to his throne by the judge, Didery resumed his relentlessly thorough and deliberate prosecution. He first called the proprietor of the convenience store to authenticate the videotape that would show Darnell in his car less than twenty minutes before the murder.

  Again ignoring my offer to stipulate to the authenticity of the tape to save time, Didery was intent on sealing Darnell’s coffin shut with a thousand tiny nails. Maybe there was value in his approach. Perhaps on a subconscious level, the greater number of witnesses who testified for the prosecution, the more likely that the jury would ascribe greater strength to its case.