Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  —Turns out the shell casings were only submitted to the lab yesterday. Didery must have finally remembered. Results likely next week—

  —Thanks. I thought all your old friends from the lab were retired or dead—

  —I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers—

  —You’re dating yourself—

  ****

  After it left F-pod, the tiny scrap of paper had been passed through four sets of hands in less than twenty-four hours. From an orderly, who complied out of fear, delivering it to a cafeteria worker, who had extracted three cigarettes and passed it on to a trustee, parting with a can of fruit cocktail in the process. The trustee kept it overnight then delivered it to an Iceboyz captain in the exercise yard.

  The gang member scanned the yard, then summoned one of the newer recruits who lived in C Pod. “Time to do work,” he said, dropping the kite in the younger man’s back pants pocket as he brushed past him. It would remain there until that evening when the recruit called Turbo took it out in his cell, unfolded it, and ate it after reading two words: “Jesse Wendell.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Wednesday’s trial session began with an announcement by Ludlow that we would not be in session on Thursday. With Friday already declared a day off by the judge, I began to wonder if the jury might lose the threads of evidence, which wouldn’t be a bad thing for the defense. Beside himself, Didery’s fidgeting and tapping reached new heights.

  Back on the stand, Dr. Haverfaller described the path of the two bullets that killed Cleveland Barlow. After more than thirty years on the job, the Chief Pathologist for the Oakland Police Department was not about to change his ways when it came to visual aids. His testimony would not include three-dimensional depictions on the flat screen or animated re-enactments of the bullet paths. Instead, he brought with him a bald, white mannequin and thin wooden dowels to use as directional aids.

  A tall, thin man with an unhealthy pallor, the pathologist appeared straight out of central casting. He was bald on top, and longish wisps of white hair ringed his head, reaching the shoulders of his outdated tweed sport coat. “I cannot determine which bullet struck the victim first. I can tell you that either on their own would have been fatal.” His tone was matter of fact.

  Didery asked the doctor to describe the path of the bullet that entered the victim’s chest.

  “The bullet entered the bottom portion of the chest, left of center, passed through the liver then through the bottom portion of the left lung. The bullet then travelled out the back of the body though soft tissue.”

  The doctor spoke as if he were describing a subway route, then unceremoniously pierced the soft exterior of the mannequin with a dowel and shoved it through the body at the angle he described. A woman in the gallery, whom I had guessed to be Cleveland Barlow’s mother, left the proceedings, dabbing a tissue to her face.

  Oblivious, the doctor continued, now describing the bullet that “entered the right forehead, through the skull, into the brain at a slightly downward angle, then lodged at the base of the skull.” Now the expressionless mannequin stood next to Dr. Death, impaled through the chest and the head with the wooden rods, lending a ghoulish aura to the already morbid proceedings.

  After concluding with the rather obvious pronouncement that the cause of Cleveland Barlow’s death was gunshot wounds, it was my turn for cross-examination. For everyone’s sake, I wanted to be brief. “Doctor, the bullet that entered the chest of the victim was travelling at a downward angle,” I said, steering clear of his creepy visual aid.

  “Yes, at about thirty degrees.”

  “And the same with the head shot?”

  “Yes, approximately the same angle.”

  “And common sense tells us that a bullet fired from, say, twenty feet away that entered the body on that downward angle would have to be fired from a position substantially higher than the body.”

  “I would say that is accurate. Although, sometimes bullets ricochet off of bone in the body and change course. In this case, it is possible that the bullet’s contact with a rib or the skull may have changed its angle.”

  Thankfully, I had researched this area. “In your experience, if a forty-caliber bullet fired from approximately fifteen feet away met human bone in a direct hit, isn’t it true that it would likely not ricochet?”

  “Correct, it would more typically shatter the bone if it were a direct hit on the bone. In order to ricochet it would have to be a glancing blow to the bone.”

  “So that would mean that both bullets in this case would have to glance off bones.”

  “Yes.”

  “And both would have to glance off bones and happen to ricochet at the same thirty-degree angle.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that would be quite a coincidence, correct.”

  “It would be a coincidence for sure. I’m not a mathematician, so I don’t know precisely how much.”

  “No further questions.”

  After Ludlow dismissed the jury for lunch, I grabbed a hotdog from the stand outside the courthouse. The morning had been bad, but at least my cockamamie sunroof theory was still intact, the fatal shots having been fired by Darnell’s imaginary friend. Such was the state of the defense. Since neither my client nor my star witness would tell me what happened, I was flying blind, scrambling to preserve theories that may well be destined for failure.

  Maybe Damon had made headway with his twin. I texted him.

  —How’d it go yesterday with Jesse?—

  Back in Court, a police video technician testified in unnecessary detail about how the video surveillance had been enhanced, and the new version of the surveillance was played for the jury on the flat screen.

  After the afternoon recess, Detective Bosco took the stand. A veteran in the courtroom, he was forthright and direct, pleasant, without the smarminess of Jameson.

  He told the jury how he had obtained the license of the green sedan from the enhanced video and traced the vehicle from Department of Motor Vehicle records to Darnell Moore. “Mr. Moore was arrested without incident and transported to the police department for questioning.”

  “And was Mr. Moore cooperative in the interview?” asked Didery, punctuating his question with a rap of his pen.

  “He was. We told him of his right to remain silent, but he agreed to speak with us.”

  “What was his demeanor?”

  “He was cooperative, but generally evasive. He told us that he thought he was there to address some unpaid parking tickets.”

  “Did you find this believable?” I could have objected, as the witness’s opinion as to his believability was technically irrelevant, but I just wanted it to be over.

  “No. We had introduced ourselves as homicide detectives, so I did not find that statement particularly credible.”

  “And what did he tell you about the murder?”

  “First, he denied any involvement or knowledge of the shooting. We told him his vehicle was on video and we had a tentative identification from a witness.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “He maintained his denial. He said he was at home at the time of the murder.”

  “Eventually, Detective, did Mr. Moore change his story?”

  “Yes. We created a ruse in which we told him that we had cell phone records placing him at or near the murder scene.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “May I refer to the transcript of his interview?”

  “Yes, Detective, if that would refresh your recollection.”

  Detective Bosco removed papers from his black leather portfolio and flipped to the appropriate page. “He said, ‘I guess I might have been in the area,’ but continued to deny his involvement in the shooting.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Turner?”

  “No questions, Your Honor.”

  Ludlow dismissed the jury for their four-day weekend and hurried off the bench before Dider
y could ask about scheduling the hearing on the motion to suppress the gun. As the Deputy D.A. meticulously packed up his file and color-coded pens, I asked again about the surveillance video from inside the E&J.

  “Yeah, nothing yet. I’m not sure what the problem is. I’ll have my inspector check on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  On my way out of court, I read Damon’s return text.

  —Sorry. I wasn’t able to make it to the jail. I will visit him next Tuesday for sure—

  Eddy and I had moved our standing Friday date to Thursday due to Ludlow’s decreed vacation day, so I headed home, took a run, and headed to Bill and Nick’s. It was becoming our place.

  “Hi there!” She greeted me at the bar with a kiss and a fizzing Gin and Tonic. “How’s trial?”

  “Dreadful. My client is afraid to testify, my witness is afraid to name the shooter, the prosecutor’s nervous fidgets are a constant pebble in my shoe, and the evidence is coming in by the truckload. Other than that, peachy. How’s your week been?”

  “Brilliant compared to that. Actually, though, I’m souring on corporate life. I think I mentioned I’ve applied for some professorships.”

  “Good for you. Professor Busier has a nice ring.”

  “I’m glad you like it because I’m going to make you call me that in bed.”

  “Really?” I said laughing. “I think I can do that.”

  “So, back to your trial. Let’s put our heads together. I’ll bet we can solve the case.”

  “Love where your head’s at, Busier. Let’s assume Darnell’s innocence and figure out the killer. Wild speculation is welcomed.” I summarized the crime scene evidence as she sipped an Aviation, her favorite cocktail.

  “Great,” she said with enthusiasm. “From my experience watching cartoon detective shows, the bad guy is in our midst, already introduced at the beginning of our story.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, only to be unmasked at the end of the episode as the gang says together in astonishment, ‘Mr. Ridley!’ ”

  “I don’t think we have a Mr. Ridley here.”

  “How about the shop owner, Bedrossian? It’s always the grumpy old guy introduced at the beginning of the show.”

  “Ah yes, the one who would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those meddling kids.”

  “Yes! And that reveal at the end would be classic. ‘Mr. Bedrossian!’ ”

  “Not a bad guess. I think he wishes he shot the kid, but if he did, I get the feeling he’d own up to it. Also, how would he have known when Darnell was planning the shooting?”

  “Or how about his son, the army stud?”

  “Sorry, Busier, he was out of the country.”

  “Okay, how about the guy on the porch?”

  “Same problem with the coincidental timing of Darnell’s drive-by. With respect to your cartoon analysis, my money is on a gang member in his car. Someone he knows, hence the attempt on his life in jail.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Time for another round,” I said, heading to the bar. When I returned with the drinks, she gestured toward the flat screen on the wall opposite our seats.

  “I got the ball game on for you.”

  “What would I do without you?” I asked, feeling starry-eyed.

  “Is that you or the alcohol talking?”

  “It’s me talking to the alcohol.”

  She punched me in the arm. “Good one, Turner. Okay, how about if the shooter was Damon?”

  “Damon Wendell, the law student who agreed to help me on the murder he actually committed? Your cartoon analysis is losing credibility.”

  “I told you I got a weird vibe from him. Maybe that’s why Jesse doesn’t want to name the shooter?”

  “It’s creative, I’ll give you that,” I said laughing.

  We strolled back to her place, arm in arm, leaning together as we went. Our time was becoming more of everything—at once more exciting and relaxing, intense, and carefree.

  Inside her house, she melted into my arms, her forearms behind my head.

  “I have so much fun with you,” she said, staring into my eyes. We kissed softly at first, then dived in, our greedy mouths hungry.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Busier,” I panted between kisses.

  “That’s Professor Busier to you, Turner.”

  ****

  “So, how in God’s name are you and Eddy still a thing?”

  Andy was in my office early on Monday morning, doing his best to ruin my good mood. Eddy and I had spent Saturday together. Sunday, I prepared for cross examinations while reliving my time with her. “Surely, you’ll screw things up soon,” he said with a wicked grin.

  “Thanks again for all the support, and don’t call me Shirley.”

  “How goes the trial?”

  “Not well, so far. Damon’s brother is likely our only hope, and he’s not exactly rock solid.”

  “Damon is awesome. He’s helping me with deposition summaries.”

  “He is. Hard to believe the twins are twins. Makes you tend to take the side of nurture over nature.”

  Cherlynn sent an email that due to a juror conflict, trial wouldn’t commence until two p.m. After paying some bills, I walked to the jail for a visit with Darnell. I had managed to get through to him about the tattoos, and I hoped to ride that momentum into convincing him to come clean with me about the shooting.

  I opted for a “contact” visit with Darnell. I had never completely trusted that my conversations with my clients through the glass were confidential. The same phones were used for family visits, which were frequently recorded. It would be easy for the Sheriff’s Department to record my conversations if they were so inclined.

  I waited in the very room where that maniac Dunigan had succeeded in convincing me of my imminent death. The windowless rooms at least gave the illusion of privacy. The small window in the door was opaque glass. An oversized video camera from the nineties pointed down from its mount in a corner of the low ceiling.

  When Darnell took his seat across the table, I could see the stress of the trial was wearing on him. His effervescent smile had been permanently replaced in court by a look of concern as he concentrated on the evidence. His boyish cheeks were gone, victims of the jail food diet, and he’d developed a facial tic, his eyes spasming in rapid blinks. “Hey, Mr. Turner.”

  “Hi, Darnell. I wanted to speak to you about testifying.”

  “Look, no disrespect but…”

  I raised a hand. “Please, hear me out.”

  He smirked. “Sure. I got nothing but time.”

  “Thanks. It’s not because you need to tell the jury who did it, although that would be nice. If the D.A. asks that, you can just refuse to answer. Technically, the judge could hold you in contempt, but you’re already in jail. The real reason is this. Everyone on that jury will be thinking, ‘If I was accused of a crime, and I was innocent, I would damn sure take the stand and deny it.’ If you don’t, it’s almost like a signal to the jury that you’re guilty.”

  He sighed and stared down at the table. “It’s like this, though,” he began, “the moment I even take the stand, it don’t matter what I say. At that moment, it’s over. I’m a snitch for the rest of my life, in custody or out. I’ve seen how these fuckers work. My mom and my brother would be in danger, and I’m not gonna do that to them.”

  I sat there, thinking of his impossible predicament. I respected his decision and knew I wasn’t going to change his mind. “Will you at least tell me who else was in your car?”

  “So you can have your investigator go snooping and have them find out? No,” he said looking me in the eye. “I ain’t talking about what happened.”

  I nodded in acceptance, then hit the buzzer and we sat in silence. “Oh, Darnell,” I said, hearing the footsteps of the deputy in the hallway, “be sure to keep that tattoo out of sight as much as you can.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” For the first time, I saw sadness in his ey
es.

  My phone rang on the short walk to the courthouse.

  “Hey, Joe, it’s Rocco Bedrossian.”

  “Hi, Rocco.”

  “Hey look, I’m getting really worried about my dad testifying. The market got shot up late last night. Thank God we weren’t there, but this is crazy. Is there anything that can be done?”

  “Rocco, unfortunately, I’m the wrong guy to advise your dad on this. It wouldn’t be ethical. Have you tried calling Didery? I’m sure he could probably get your dad moved to a hotel during the trial, or at least get patrols in the neighborhood increased.”

  “Okay, thanks. He’s just so stubborn, he probably would refuse to move anywhere. I’m thinking about making him leave the area. I really think testifying is a terrible idea. I have to go back overseas next month, and he’ll be here alone.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Damon texted as I entered the courthouse.

  —Hey, still no luck with the translator—

  —Thanks for the update. Please keep trying—

  It was shaping up to be a boring day in Court. Didery planned to call an officer who seized Darnell’s car and a Firespotter technician, presumably to needlessly establish the exact time of the shooting.

  I arrived in Department 27 to find Didery pacing back in forth in the empty courtroom, twirling his pen in one hand. “This is fucking ridiculous,” he mumbled to himself. “We should be giving our closing arguments by now.”

  I toyed with the idea of telling him about Rocco’s concerns but thought the added stress would be cruel.

  “By the way, Joe, I think you’ll like the next witness.” Didery’s tone was cocky.

  Fuck it, then. “Hey, Rocco Bedrossian called me. Says he’s thinking about taking his dad out of town.” Didery’s confident expression faded and the prosecutor began typing on his phone frantically, no doubt alerting his inspector to the potential issue.

  Before court began, Didery managed to talk his way into a chambers conference. “Your Honor, Mr. Turner and I were hoping we could litigate the gun motion this week. Perhaps Friday?”

  “Friday I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged,” the big man said, no doubt referencing a tee time in his mind. “Let’s do it Thursday. And no more delays, gentlemen. We need to get this litigated.”