Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  To whatever effect, the prosecutor spent most of the morning session painstakingly reviewing with the store manager how the surveillance video camera operates, how the system is maintained, and how the digital information is stored. Next came the police officer who obtained the video from the store, meticulously documenting the requisite chain of custody. By the time similar testimony had authenticated the 911 tape, the jurors’ eyes were glazed.

  After I declined to question the witness, the courtroom waited for Ludlow to excuse the officer and mercifully order a recess. But the courtroom was silent.

  The judge was fully reclined in his chair, facing the ceiling. Even though his eyes were not visible, no one doubted that he was dozing. Darnell snickered to my left. Cherlynn looked at me and blinked slowly, then looked down. Soon the soft buzz of the judge’s phone could be heard somewhere near the bench. He sat up suddenly, looking startled before getting his bearings.

  “Your Honor, I am at a good stopping point if the court wishes to take the noon recess,” said Didery, throwing Ludlow a lifeline.

  “Indeed. Yes. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let’s take our noon recess. We’ll resume at one-thirty p.m.” He staggered off the bench, no doubt to resume his nap.

  I walked to the office over the lunch hour, enjoying the sunshine. I arrived to find Damon finishing up his review of the files and asked him to follow up with the translation service. There had to be an Armenian translator somewhere.

  Back in Court, the action picked up with Didery’s playing of the 911 tape. I was pleased when juror number one, an insurance agent from Hayward asked if they would be provided a translation of the first few words uttered by Bedrossian.

  “That will be up to the parties,” answered Ludlow, for once getting it right.

  Next, Didery played the video from the convenience store. The jury leaned forward in their seats as the big screen showed Darnell’s car entering the parking lot. Didery stopped the video with Darnell’s face centered on the screen as he entered the store.

  The image was a haunting parallel to the one the jury had seen last week when they saw the victim’s sad face in repose. I was sure they thought of Cleveland Barlow, and how this young man on the screen stopping for a snack was about to end his life.

  Next, police lab technician Melissa Wu took the stand. A veteran expert witness, she made Didery’s job easy. After listing her credentials, Didery asked her to explain gunshot residue to the jury.

  “When a gun is fired, the explosion that propels the bullet also expels particles into the air and often onto the hands of the shooter. These elements, mainly from the bullet’s explosive primer, include nitrates, barium, and lead. If deposited on the hands of a gunman, the elements can be identified through a process called atomic absorption spectroscopy.”

  “Can you summarize this procedure, Ms. Wu?”

  “Yes. Essentially, a subject’s hands are swabbed to collect samples. Then, a flame is used to create light. The wavelength of that light is then measured to determine the specific element found on the sample.” Wu went on to tell the jury that samples from Cleveland Barlow’s hands tested negative for gunshot residue, thus indicating that in all likelihood he had not fired a shot before being killed.

  The technician’s testimony was irritating in one respect. On two separate occasions over the years, I had used a lack of gunshot residue as evidence of my client’s innocence. In those cases, Wu had testified for the prosecution, noting that wind gusts or rain could explain a negative test, or the defendants could have rubbed off the residue. But she was a formidable witness, and I needed to choose my battles. If the jury believed Darnell was the shooter, then whether or not Barlow was armed wouldn’t matter.

  The afternoon session wrapped up with the testimony of detective Ed Acuna, who showed the jury a satellite image of West Eighth street superimposed with the crime scene photo to depict the exact placement of the shell casings in the street, aligned as they did with the victim’s dead body and the door of 454 West Eighth. Unnecessarily, he used a laser to “interpolate” the flight path of the bullets.

  I was pleased that Didery assumed that the bullets dug from the door were fired from the car. I had made the same assumption before Damon’s discovery. My only question on cross examination was to confirm that there were only four bullet holes, leaving no wiggle room for Didery to explain the missing bullets. I could tell he wondered about the purpose of my question. I would wait until the defense case to reveal the photos of the bullet holes taken prior to the murder.

  On my ride home from court, Damon called from the office, interrupting my off key but enthusiastic rendition of rock songs from my ’80s play list.

  “So what’s up with the translator service?”

  “They can’t help us. Turns out Bedrossian wasn’t speaking Armenian. He was speaking a language called Kurmanji. It’s only spoken by an ethnic minority in Armenia called….um, here it is, the Yazidi. I can try to track down a translator if you want but sounds like they are few and far between.”

  “That would be great. Thanks. Unless you want to just learn the language in the next week.”

  “If I can manage it, I’m seeing Jesse tomorrow on his visiting day. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Okay. What do you mean if you can manage it?”

  “Jails sort of freak me out. I visited him a lot in the pen. I never got used to the idea of being locked in.”

  “Yeah. Not my favorite either. I think they have video conferences you can do from the lobby now.”

  “No, I want to see him in person. I’ll be all right.”

  “Thanks again.” The kid was really helping. I turned up the ’80s rock and thought about my next date with Eddy.

  ****

  Jail was bad enough, but LuAnne Epperson hated Mondays. She hated her worthless, gangbanging, baby-daddy for getting her into this mess. It was six p.m. and soon she would hear the ominous echo of the fat deputy’s black boots on the cement floor.

  It had started as a one-time hustle for dumbass Skeets to buy her some protection in the Dungeon while she did her nine months for pedaling his dumbass’ dope. Fucking Skeets and his Iceboyz punks. She’d done her share of hookin’ when she was younger, but the blade was one thing. She got paid for one, and she could choose her johns and turn down pigs like this.

  The one-time thing had turned into every Monday. He would pop open her cell door and escort her out of the pod to a small room filled with janitorial supplies. And now it was expected. She was trapped between the deputy and the gang. One could end her life and the other could make it miserable. The deputy had made clear that any mention of their meetings would find her in the hole. It was one of the few things he had ever said to her.

  She was getting better at numbing her body and transporting her mind to a different place as he writhed on top of her. Now though, the nightmares and the dreading were almost worse. In her cell at night, she heard the jingle of his keys as he shoved himself inside her, felt his grotesque belly on her back, smelled the beef jerky on his breath.

  “Only one this week,” he said, fishing the kite out of the front shirt pocket of his ill-fitting uniform after he yanked up his pants. No bigger than a quarter, she took the tiny folded note from his pudgy fingers and put it in her bra without reading it. She wanted to know as little as possible.

  Now that the kite was in the inmate population, the rest would be easy. Back in her pod, LuAnne would turn it over to Ivy, the big bitch who ran the F-pod for the Iceboyz. She would send the kite on its way, usually routed through trustees or orderlies who had access to both the men’s and woman’s sides of the jail, then through one of the endless networks of inmate bribes and side hustles to its eventual destination.

  ****

  “Welcome back to Department 27, ladies and gentlemen.” Judge Ludlow greeted the jurors sporting a fresh dye job, its tawny hue not found in nature. “Mr. Didery, your next witness please.”

  “The People call Detective
Mike Jameson.”

  I had spoken to the detective in the hallway before court. He had been cordial but had resisted my invitations to talk about the case or his testimony. He would be Didery’s expert witness on the Iceboyz gang. In his mid-thirties with clean-cut good looks, he took the stand wearing a sport coat and tie.

  “Detective, how are you employed?”

  “I am a peace officer for the city of Oakland,” he said smiling a greeting at the jury, his eyes pausing for a moment on juror number eleven, an attractive pharmaceutical saleswoman.

  “You’ve reached the rank of detective quickly. How many years on the force have you served?”

  “This is my eighth year. I’ve been very fortunate.” This guy was going to have the jury eating out of his hand.

  “What is your current assignment?”

  “I serve on the city’s gang task force, primarily investigating homicides in gang-related cases.”

  Didery had the witness review his expert witness qualifications. In classic Didery fashion, he addressed the detective’s curriculum vitae line by line. The prosecutor was now rapping his pen on the podium after every question as if calling an orchestra to attention. Finally, he asked the court to declare Detective Jameson an expert witness, qualified to render opinions in court in the area of criminal street gangs.

  “I so declare,” said Ludlow, forgetting to ask me if I wanted to question the witness or object.

  Didery shot me a glance but I waived him off. There would be no benefit in refuting the witness’ expertise. “Detective Jameson, are you familiar with the Iceboyz gang?”

  “I am. The Iceboyz is a criminal street gang operating in west Oakland. It was founded in the late eighties by members of the Crips Mafia prison gang. Its members are predominantly but not exclusively African American.” The detective went on to describe the gang’s territory in Oakland, its rivalry with Cashtown, and the gang signs and tattoos common to their members.

  In some ways, the next testimony would be the trial’s most devastating to the defense. Along with the murder charge, Darnell was accused of committing the crime for the benefit of a criminal street gang. Although the sentencing enhancement would mean another fifteen years tacked on to Darnell’s life sentence, the real problem was what that meant for the trial.

  As part of his burden of proof, Didery would have to prove the existence of the Iceboyz as a criminal street gang. In so doing, he would have the opportunity to present evidence of other crimes committed by the gang, irrespective of Darnell’s involvement.

  For the next two hours, he paraded evidence of three of the most violent murders committed by Iceboyz members. First was a drive-by murder of a fourteen-year old member of Cashtown as he sat on his front porch. Next came a highly publicized murder of a mother of three, felled by a stray bullet in a gun battle as she tried to scuttle her children to safety. To my left, Darnell sighed and rubbed his face.

  As the courtroom flat screen filled with bloody images, the mood in the courtroom again turned somber, the jurors averting their eyes from the gore. The last was a triple murder of three Oakland high school football players, executed as they sat in their car in a drive-through line after a game. By the time the carnage inside the car hit the screen, the jurors were visibly stunned. Juror number two, a first-grade teacher from Fremont, sat clutching her handbag to her chest with both hands and staring grimly at the floor.

  The detective concluded his remarks by identifying Darnell as a member of the Iceboyz gang and rendered the opinion that the murder of Cleveland Barlow was committed for the benefit of the gang.

  Thank goodness Ludlow had the sense to take the morning recess. The jurors needed it, and I had no interest in beginning my cross examination of the superhero on the heels of the avalanche of atrocity.

  I walked around the courthouse outside to clear my head and was back at the counsel table when Darnell got my attention with a whisper. He met my eyes and gestured with his head toward the counsel table. His left sleeve was pushed up so that his bare forearm rested on the table in front of him. On top of his forearm, prominent against his light brown skin, was a very noticeable tattoo of a large “G”.

  I looked at him and frowned. I hadn’t seen the tat before. In fact, his lack of visible gang tattoos had counted as a positive. I frowned at him and stared straight ahead. “Where’d that come from,” I said out of the side of my mouth.

  “Been having this for two years,” he said softly, moving his hands under the table. “Check the car video.”

  I felt Didery staring at us, and I didn’t trust Deputy Hardass sitting five feet behind us. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Ludlow made another grand entrance, vaulting out of his chambers, his robe flowing behind him. “Mr. Turner, cross examination?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Good afternoon, Detective Jameson.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Just to be clear, these awful crimes that you’ve just described, you are aware Darnell Moore is not responsible for those crimes in any way.”

  “As a member of the Iceboyz, the gang that committed those murders, I would say he is responsible.”

  I cursed myself for my careless question and decided to take out my frustration on this nauseating huckster. “Detective, you’re familiar with Operation Ice Out? That was an extensive investigation of the Iceboyz members in all three of those murders, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The investigation was a colossal undertaking, utilizing surveillance, wire taps and search warrants, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Among the enormous amount of information gathered, was there a single piece of evidence that Darnell Moore shot those victims?” I asked tersely.

  “No.”

  “Any evidence he helped plan the murders?”

  “No.”

  “Any evidence that he assisted in the murders in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Any evidence that he knew the victims?”

  The detective’s smile had faded as the speed of my questions increased. “No.”

  “Any evidence that he was anywhere near the scene of the murders?”

  “No.”

  “Any evidence whatsoever that he was even aware of the murders?”

  “No.” He was spitting out his answers now.

  “And yet, Detective, you just testified under oath, that in your expert opinion, Darnell Moore is responsible for those murders.”

  He scowled. “I stand by my opinion.”

  “Detective, isn’t it true that not all gang members are violent?”

  “I would say that is not a correct statement. If you’re in a gang, at some point you will be asked to participate in violence to show your worthiness as a gang member.”

  “At what age do gang members typically join their gang?”

  He didn’t know where I was going, so he was being vague. “I would say it varies.”

  “Thirteen, fourteen?”

  “Typically, about that age, but sometimes younger.”

  “Darnell Moore is nineteen years of age, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how many times has he been convicted of a violent crime?”

  “Zero. We don’t catch them all,” he added, smiling for the jury. This guy was the consummate prick.

  “And prior to his arrest in this case, how many times has he been arrested for a violent crime?”

  “Zero, prior to this case, but I’d say murder counts as a violent crime.”

  “I see. So you know Darnell Moore is a violent gang member because he committed this crime and you know he committed this crime because he is a violent gang member.”

  “Objection, argumentative.” Didery probably objected to prevent the detective from leaping down on me from the podium.

  “Withdrawn,” I said, walking back to the counsel table. “No further questions.”

  Over the lunch hour I visited Darnell in his cell adjacent to the courtroom. It w
as possible that I had not previously noticed the tattoo on his forearm. Were that the case, we would be on to something. I wouldn’t have to “check the video,” as Darnell had suggested. I had seen the surveillance footage of his green sedan turning left in front of the E&J enough times to recall that there was no tattoo on the bare forearm that rested on the top of the door.

  He was finishing up his bologna sandwich when I walked in.

  “So, Darnell,” I said after Deputy Hartag left us alone, “you can tell that the driver of that car does not have a tattoo on his forearm.”

  “So, then we’re in business!” he said punching my arm.

  “The problem is, you and I both know that you can get tattoos in jail.”

  “No, Mr. Turner, I…”

  “Hear me out, Darnell. There is police body camera footage of your arrest. There is video inside the police car you rode in. You were being filmed during your interrogation and for the five hours you spent in the box before they spoke to you.

  “Darnell,” I said, looking him in the eye, trying to will him to be honest, “if your forearm appears in any of that footage without a tattoo—and believe me, if it exists, Didery will find it—then your plan backfires. Getting a tattoo in jail in order to avoid prosecution would look like the work of a very desperate, very guilty man.”

  He bowed his head, and shook it slowly, staring at the floor. “Guess I was desperate,” he said quietly.

  “Why a “G?” I asked.

  “It’s for my mom, Glenda.” He smiled. “She’s still gonna kill me for doing it.”

  The afternoon session was another Ludlow special. After Didery’s brief re-direct examination of Detective Jameson, he called to the stand Dr. Eugene Haverfaller, the pathologist who would describe Cleveland Barlow’s gunshot wounds. Didery’s painstaking review of the doctor’s qualifications took the trial to the afternoon recess, after which Ludlow dismissed the jury.

  I checked my phone after court, finding a text from Chuck.