Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  Ludlow took the bench to a particularly resounding call to order at two-thirty p.m. and Didery finally called his next witness, Officer Gabe Lucero, who had supervised the seizure of Darnell’s car. The witness identified photos of the vehicle, its driver’s side riddled with bullet holes. He told the jury that a search of the vehicle had revealed mail on the floorboard, parking citations, and old pay stubs, all bearing the name Darnell Moore.

  “One more question, Officer,” Didery said, glancing my way. His tone was smug. “Did you have occasion to test the power windows in the vehicle?”

  “Yes, they were operational.”

  I felt the nauseous wave of revelation just before his next question.

  “How about the sunroof, Officer? Did you check to see if it functioned?”

  “I did. The sunroof was closed and would not open. It was nonfunctional.”

  “No further questions,” Didery said with a smile of satisfaction. So much for my lame sunroof theory.

  Technician Emily Bradshaw took the stand next and explained the Firespotter technology to the jury in needless detail, concluding that the first shot fired at the murder scene had been fired at six-seventeen-o-five p.m.

  “Technician Bradshaw, did I ask you to check Firespotter records for the previous two years for any gang-related shootings?” Still reeling from the death of my sunroof theory, I felt queasy again, this time with the feeling that I had missed something important.

  “I did.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “I found that there were shots fired two days prior to Cleveland Barlow’s homicide, on March 20, 2021. Police responded to the scene and found possible bullet holes in a wooden fence surrounding a residence. There were no witnesses, no victim, and the case was closed without an arrest.”

  Didery’s pen taps on the podium were punches to my stomach. “Officer, what was the location of those shots?”

  “According to Firespotter, those shots were fired in front of 483 Clement Street, in west Oakland.”

  “Does that residence have any significance to you?” asked Didery theatrically, feigning true curiosity.

  “Yes. That’s the home of the defendant, Darnell Moore.”

  After Ludlow dismissed the jury for the day, I stalked out of court, cursing my own lack of preparation. During the testimony of the technician, a “Clement” word search on the entire case file had pulled up the report of the shooting. It had been buried amidst the two thousand pages of reports reviewed by Damon. It wasn’t his fault. He wouldn’t have been aware of Darnell’s address to make the connection. In giving him the assignment, I had been lazy.

  I was also pissed off at Didery. At the time the mountain of reports had arrived, I had wondered about their relevance. Absent a connection among the homicides, reviewing every Iceboyz-related murder for the past two years seemed like overkill. I had chalked it up to Didery’s profound thoroughness, but now it seemed that he had purposely hidden the one very relevant report in the massive stack.

  —Hey Chuck, could you go to the murder scene and take about 400 random photos?—

  —Uh, sure (????)—

  —Tell you later—

  What I assumed would be a rather benign day in court had turned out to be devastating. The sunroof theory had been rife with speculation anyway, but combined with the angle of the bullets, it had been something.

  But this latest blow—that there had been shots fired outside Darnell’s home only two days prior to the murder—was much worse. Now there was evidence that Darnell, separate and apart from every other gang member, had motive. It was yet another coincidence that would require an explanation. Another drip on the defense forehead in Didery’s relentless prosecution by Chinese water torture.

  “And heaven forbid my client would give me a heads up about the shooting,” I complained to myself once inside my car. I put in my earpiece for cover and yelled over my heavy metal play list.

  “Can someone please tell me the truth about this case?”

  ****

  Turbo didn’t know when he would get the weapon or what it would be. That was for the O.G.’s to sort out —the “Original Gangsters”, veterans of the pen who knew how to make weapons in jail. He figured it would be some kind of shank fashioned from metal: a bed spring, a nail, a piece of chain link fence. He’d heard the O.G.’s tell stories of lots of elaborate weapons—a ping pong ball filled with lighter fluid, a toothbrush handle melted and sharpened, a toothpaste tube filled with feces and urine to squirt on your enemy. But he figured his would be the standard metal shank.

  He had seen the target, a skinny white kid, in his pod. He didn’t look hard, but you never knew here in jail. He’d heard he’d done time for murder but had no idea if it was true. One thing he’d learned in his six months in the Dungeon, there were more rumors here than at his mom’s hair salon. Whatever was true, he had a job to do. He knew what happened to members who disobeyed orders. He wouldn’t do that to himself or his family.

  ****

  Damon Wendell hated jails. For one, his twin had suffered in one for twelve years, keeping him from the only person in his life that mattered. But it was more than that. He had spent one night in juvenile hall when he was eight and he never forgot it. He and Jesse had been caught trying to break into the rec league snack shack for candy and hotdogs. Even now, he could conjure the smell of the dank air of juvy, the feel of the damp cement, and the echoing sounds of metal doors that had kept him up all night.

  To think his first instinct as a kid when Jesse went away was to somehow break into the prison. When that seemed impossible, he thought about committing a crime, but he figured he would probably have to kill someone to get sent to Jesse’s jail. He remembered doubting that he could do it unless he really hated them.

  Sitting in a tattered chair in the crowded lobby of the North County jail, Damon snorted at his childhood thoughts. Memories like those made him realize how young he and Jesse had been back then. It was true they had seen more than most ten-year-olds. Still, they were children when Jesse had been taken away.

  He hadn’t been able to visit his twin in juvenile prison until he was fifteen. They had written letters, of course. Every day at first, then weekly for every week of those twelve years. He still had the letters. Jesse complained about the food and told funny stories about messing with the guards, but Damon knew he kept the really bad things from him. He could tell. Damon also undersold his good fortune of being placed with the Swenson family. He was sure Jesse could tell that, too.

  He recalled his first visit with Jesse like it was yesterday. After a trip through a metal detector, he had been escorted into a large room filled with families sitting at round tables. One inmate sat at every table, distinguishable by their orange jumpsuits with “PRISONER” across their backs.

  He had seen the “no contact” signs and the armed guards but hadn’t cared. He hadn’t seen his twin in five years. He and Jesse had embraced, clinging to each other desperately until pried apart.

  Damon had begun to notice the changes, first in his letters and then on his visits. Jesse had been the cock-eyed optimist, a joke always at the ready. They both had been, really, taking turns helping each other through difficult times. Slowly, he became less resilient, his buoyancy weighted down by the relentless burdens of prison.

  By the time of his release, Jesse was constantly on edge, a frightened animal set free in strange surroundings. He had lived with Damon for a while and later showed up from time to time, usually to borrow money. But Damon could tell he hated to ask, and he seemed happier by himself.

  Last Tuesday, Damon sat in his car, sweating, and chomping on the nicotine gum he hadn’t needed since he was fourteen, trying to muster the courage for the jail visit until it was too late. Now, he was filing inside the Dungeon with the other family members. By the time he arrived at the long row of stools bolted to the floor and facing windows of thick glass, Damon was a wreck, flinching with every clang of a metal door.

&
nbsp; Then his twin brother appeared on the other side of the glass.

  “Am I ever happy to see you,” Jesse said with a tired smile.

  “Me too. Obviously, I wish it wasn’t here,” Damon said, looking around.

  “Yeah, this side of the glass ain’t no day at the beach either. We just finished lunch. The food here is worse than the pen.”

  “Is it better than dumpster pizza?”

  “That’s a close one,” Jesse said, smiling. “Those were some fun times though,” he said after a time.

  “They were,” Damon said quietly, knowing they were sharing the same memories.

  “Hey, remember the time we were dumpster diving at Vinnie’s, and we got a salad dumped on our head?” asked Jesse.

  “A salad? More like the entire salad bar. We had lettuce ‘fros.’ ” Watching each other laugh, they were taken back to happier times.

  “Hey, any luck with the suit on maybe springing your bro out of here?” Jesse asked after the laughter died down.

  “He won’t budge.”

  Jesse bowed his head. “Yeah, I figured it was a long shot.”

  “Hey, I dropped some books off for you at the front. I remember you liked Flames of Sorcery, so this is the next one.”

  “Oh, thanks. I actually read the rest of the series in the pen, but I like to read them again. Helps pass the time in here.”

  “It really sucks that you’re in here. I mean, you didn’t do anything this time. Just happened to have witnessed the shooting. Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Yeah, well…” Jesse said, a sheepish grin spreading across his face, “even if I was on my way to buy weed in a stolen car, it was rotten luck.”

  Damon laughed and shook his head. “I did wonder what you were doing in west Oakland. Jesse, you are unbelievable.”

  “So, this attorney, Joe. I told him I’d say that his client wasn’t the shooter, but he’s after me to testify about who I saw shoot that kid.”

  “Yeah, he is. And I know that’s easier said than done.”

  “Yeah. It’s hard for me to explain to someone who ain’t in this world, D. For people who have done time, snitching is like the worst thing you can do. It’s more than being afraid to snitch. It’s like I don’t never want to be the reason behind someone doing time, no matter what they did.”

  “Yeah, but I guess Joe’s point is that if you don’t say who it is, the jury might not believe you and an innocent guy will be in there.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Jesse nodded.

  “My concern is your safety in there. It seems crazy that you’re in danger even though you aren’t going to snitch.”

  “Yeah, the thing is, these guys don’t want to wait to see if you’re gonna snitch. You take the stand, it might be too late for them. So they just take care of business.”

  “Isn’t there some sort of protection in here for you?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry about me. I know how to take care of myself.”

  Damon didn’t believe him but knew it was no use to ask Jess to go into the protective custody section of the jail. They had had that conversation before when he was in prison.

  “So Jess, I know you’ve heard this from me before, but I’d really like to see you turn it around when you get out. I know you got your GED in prison. You should go to the local junior college. I’ll pay the tuition.”

  Jesse sighed, nodding. “Yeah, okay. It is probably time I got it together.”

  “You should. Your grades were always as good as mine.”

  “Yeah, who knows, we might be law partners one day.”

  “There you go. Wendell and Wendell.”

  “Hey, how’s your schooling going, D? I hear you’re kickin’ ass.”

  “Oh, it’s no big deal. I’m doing okay.”

  Jesse looked his twin in the eyes with a serious expression and sighed. “Listen, Damon. This is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, really, for a long time now.” He looked down for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts.

  “Here’s the thing, D. You doing well, going to law school, having parents and nice things, it is a big deal, and I don’t need you pretending that it’s not. I tell damn near every person I meet about you. Just five minutes ago, I’m walking here from C-pod with a deputy, telling him that my twin brother drives a nice car and goes to school at Cal and is going to be a lawyer. Not one of them dump truck public defenders, neither, but a real successful one,” he said, smiling for a second.

  “And I know you think when you talk about yourself it might make me feel bad or something. But it don’t. It makes me feel proud. And even though I don’t have those things, I feel like part of me does and I can enjoy them. Not like you can, course, but hearing about them makes me happy.

  “I’ll never forget one time you visited me in the pen. We’d just turned sixteen and you were telling me about this birthday party your new family had for you. I could tell you didn’t want to talk too much about it. But you said there was cake, ice cream, and presents, and the whole family sat at a big table and sang. I remember you said you even got to choose what kind of cake it was. You had them write ‘Happy Birthday Damon and Jesse’ in blue frosting.” He paused to look down and swallowed hard. “That day, hearing about all that…it was one of my best days since they took me away from you. Inside or out.”

  Jesse re-focused on Damon, looking his twin in the eye again. “Anyway, D, I want to hear about all that. What law school is like, what it’s like to drive a car, have a steady girlfriend. All of it. Got it?”

  Damon blinked away tears. “You got it, Jess.”

  “Good. That’s settled. So, D, let me ask you something.” They both heard the buzzer, signaling the visit’s end. “If I don’t say who the shooter was, will that kid go down?”

  “Hard to say, really.”

  “ ‘Hard to say.’ Typical fucking suit answer,” he said smiling at his brother. “Take care, D. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Mr. Bedrossian, do you see the man who shot out of the car in the courtroom?” Didery’s direct examination had taken the better part of the day to reach its climax.

  The squat market owner scanned the courtroom for dramatic effect, his small, dark eyes falling on Darnell. “Yes. He is there,” he said, pointing, “sitting next to his attorney in the blue shirt.”

  “Your Honor—” Tap tap tap. Didery was at it again. “—will the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant?”

  “It will so reflect,” said Ludlow, keeping up with the proceedings.

  Bedrossian wore a new looking charcoal gray suit and a red tie for the occasion, his deck shoes a give-away that it wasn’t his normal attire. When Didery asked how certain he was about his identification, Bedrossian smiled at the prosecutor. “I am very sure.” If I wasn’t mistaken, his accent seemed thicker now. “It is, how do say here in America, ‘as plain as the nose on my face.’ ” The comment drew smiles from a few jurors.

  I rose to begin my cross examination. Although I had plenty of ammunition, I remained convinced I was missing something. I had spent last night reviewing Bedrossian’s preliminary hearing testimony, listening to his 911 call and his recorded statement to the police. There was something there.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bedrossian. Your store has been severely impacted by gang violence, hasn’t it?”

  “Oh yes. Many shootings, especially at night. Of course, people don’t want to be outside. It used to be, people would gather at the store. Buy a soda and talk. Now, because of gangs—” He gestured toward Darnell, disgust in his body language and tone of voice. “—no one comes.”

  “And when you hear shots outside your store, what do you do?”

  He smiled at me like I was an idiot. “Of course, you get to the floor. Right away if you’re inside. If you’re outside, you get yourself inside and get down.”

  “Mr. Bedrossian, did you see the car first or hear the shots?”

  The
market owner’s eyes shifted to Didery, as if asking for help. “I heard car, shots, then looked up and saw shooter.”

  “Mr. Bedrossian, have you ever heard the term ‘profile’?”

  He looked quizzically. “I’m sorry. My English is not too good,” he said, smiling at the jury.

  “Your English is fine, sir. Certainly better than my Armenian.” I picked up the preliminary hearing transcript. “Do you recall that in the preliminary hearing, you testified, ‘Profile. I saw the shooter’s profile’.”

  “I don’t recall,” he said, shifting in the witness chair.

  “Prior to your testimony at the preliminary hearing, you met with Mr. Didery, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that where you got the term, ‘profile’?”

  “Objection, Your Honor, argumentative.” Didery was out of his chair, glaring at me.

  “Move on, Mr. Turner,” said Ludlow, again dodging an actual legal decision.

  “So, Mr. Bedrossian, assuming the shooter was looking where he was shooting, he must have been looking away from you, correct?”

  “I saw his face,” the witness said with finality, crossing his arms over his paunch.

  “Mr. Bedrossian, when you heard the shots, you were on the porch.”

  “Yes. I was in the store sweeping then went out to sweep the porch. I heard the shots.”

  “And as you told us earlier, if you’re outside and you hear shots,” I paused, flipping back a page on my legal pad. “I wrote it down. If you’re outside, ‘you get yourself in and get down’.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So when you heard shots on March twenty-second, that’s what you did. You didn’t wait to look and see who was in the car, you got inside, correct?”

  “No!” Bedrossian pounded the witness stand. “No! I saw your client!”

  “Mr. Bedrossian,” Ludlow broke in. “Please remain calm and only speak if you are asked a question. Continue, Mr. Turner.”

  I had walked to my computer during Bedrossian’s outburst. “Sir, this is a photograph of a sports car, correct?” I asked, presenting the image on the big screen.