“I told you I needed citations in my courtroom!” he boomed into his microphone.
I’m not sure what made me snap. It wasn’t just Ludlow’s incomprehensibly ignorant bluster. Maybe it was the trial, sliding as it was, inexorably toward a guilty verdict. Maybe it was Didery’s snooping or his pen-tapping that continued unabated. More than likely, my stupidity with Eddy played a role.
“Okay, Your Honor, you want citations? Let me start again. Joe Turner for my client, Darnell Moore. I think therefore I am!”
“You’d better watch your tone, Mr. Turner! I’ll hold you in contempt,” he yelled, jowls quivering.
“Please do,” I yelled back. “I have nothing but contempt for this Court, so it’ll be your first correct ruling of the trial!”
“Mr. Turner!”
“You need the citation for contempt, judge? P.C. 166. The P.C. stands for Penal Code!”
“Don’t test me! I will find you in contempt!”
“Judge, you couldn’t find your ass with both hands!”
“Contempt! I hereby find contempt!” the judge shouted, banging his gavel like a child. “That is, I, err, find you in contempt! Deputy Hartag, take him away. Bail is one thousand dollars. Enjoy your ride to the jail, Mr. Turner.”
The deputy sprang into action like he’d been dreaming of the opportunity all his life, cinching the cuffs until I flinched in pain while my client stared, wide-eyed. “Pretty stupid move, counselor,” he said in his best tough guy voice while shoving me into the holding tank.
“Go practice your ‘Here ye’s,’ asshole.”
Soon I was joined in the tank by Darnell.
“Damn, Mr. Turner, that judge wouldn’t even listen to you.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Well,” he said, “I appreciate you fighting for me.”
“That’s my job, Darnell. So what happens now?” I asked after I had calmed down.
“Bus back to the jail. Usually leaves in about an hour.”
We sat there, discussing the case until the bus arrived. I continued to be impressed by his understanding of the evidence and the nuances of trial strategy. “Hey, Mr. Turner,” he said before we were loaded on the bus.
“Yeah?”
“Guess you’re having a bad day now.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. ―Harper Lee
Once at the jail, I was put in a large holding tank filled with new arrestees, all misdemeanants from the looks of them. Lots of future DUI clients, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood to drum up business. It was eight p.m. before I got access to a pay phone. Thankfully, Andy picked up.
“You’re where?” he asked in disbelief. “Ludlow?”
“Ludlow.”
“Sorry, partner, I’m in Tahoe,” he said trying to contain his laughter. “Let me make some calls. I’ll find someone.”
It was an hour before the jailor called my name. I walked to the door, smelling freedom, but was denied at the door. “You have a visitor,” he said, gesturing to an interview room to my left.
“Are you sure?” I asked, walking in.
It had crossed my mind that Andy might call Eddy, and there she was on the other side of the glass with a phone to her ear. “Thanks so much for coming,” I said after picking up the receiver on my side.
“Listen, Turner,” she said, cutting me off. “I haven’t posted the bail yet. You want out, you need to answer some questions.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to be in a relationship with me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I feel the same way, but can you grow a pair and get over your ridiculous insecurity. Because if you can’t, tell me now.”
“Yes, I can.”
“I mean, would you ever not date someone because they were slightly less attractive than you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, do you think I’m that shallow?”
“I guess I just assumed…”
“I know what you assumed. But I’m not fifteen, Joe. If I don’t want to be in a relationship with you, I’ll tell you. I called to tell you about the Rome thing because I was excited about it and I wanted to share it with someone I care about. I wanted you to be happy for me and all you thought of was yourself.”
“I know that now. I’m sorry, Eddy. You mean a lot to me…really a lot. I just thought I had lost you.”
Her features softened. “You know you’re going to owe me. This place is disgusting. What happened?”
“Uh, Eddy?
“Yes?”
“Will you please bail me out now?”
“C’mon, I already did. I just needed to get your attention.”
Two minutes later, we were walking out the front door of the jail, my first stint in custody over. “You don’t mind if I don’t kiss you, I hope,” she said finding my hand as we walked through the crowd of protestors outside the jail.
“No, I need a two-hour shower.”
She drove me to her place where we shared a pizza after my shower.
“So…” I said tentatively, sipping my Pinot Noir next to her on the couch.
“Spit it out, Turner.”
“About this Rome thing. You’re going, right?”
“Yes, and what I was trying to tell you was that the position was only for a semester. I thought you could visit?”
“Wow. That would be great.” I felt relief wash over me. “I mean, would you want me to?” I asked, just wanting to hear her say it again.
“Yes, Joe.” She took my hands in hers. “I feel like we’re on to something here.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah?” She sipped her wine. “When do you think you knew?”
“Oh, easy. First date, I asked about your profession. You said, ‘I’m a shepherd.’ A great line. And yes, I’m just that shallow.”
“Hmm. After I drove to the jail, rescued you, poured out my heart, and saved us, I was expecting a little romantic soliloquy. I mean, I was thinking about suggesting make-up sex, but if that’s the best you can do, I’m not sure,” she said with a coy smile. “I mean, you do talk for a living, after all.”
“Okay.” I thought for a second or two, then looked into her eyes. “When I get up in the morning, if I’m going to see you it’s a good day. My coffee tastes better, the air smells sweeter. If I’m not, then I make it a better day by thinking of you. I think of what you might be doing right then or imagine you bored at a meeting at work or leaning into me as we walk down the street. If something good happens or I see something funny, the first thing I think of is telling you. I picture your reaction—the way your eyes widen when you inhale just before you laugh, the way your lips part in a triangle when you’re about to say something to make me smile.”
“You do talk for a living,” she said, kissing me on the lips.
“Well, make-up sex…the stakes were high.” She inhaled a little, her eyes widening before her laugh. “So, Eddy, when do you think you knew?”
Her lips made a triangle before widening into a smile. “You had me at ‘Wow. So like, digging.’ ”
****
I was tiptoeing back into her bedroom on Friday morning with coffee and a bag of donuts from the shop down the street when my phone buzzed. It was Damon.
—Hey Joe. I hope you’re out of jail by now. I found a Kurmanji interpreter. I sent him the 911 transcript. He’s available for the trial if necessary—
—Great news. Thanks—
“Yum.” Eddy stretched and sat up in bed, taking her coffee. “Thanks. And who are you texting with at this ungodly hour?”
“Damon. He found an interpreter.”
“Oh, for the market owner’s statement at the beginning of the 911 call.”
“Great memory.”
“So what do you think he said?”
“Hopefully, something like, ‘It’s too bad I didn’t see the shooter.’ ”
“Or better
yet, ‘Did you see that? I shot him twice.’ ”
“Now you’re talkin’, Busier. But I doubt if he would have said that to the 911 operator in any language.”
She sat pensively, chewing a glazed old fashioned. “Did you ever get the video from inside the store?”
“No, Didery promised it by Monday.”
“But I assume Bedrossian claims he was alone.”
And just like that, it clicked. All those hours of listening to Bedrossian’s taped statement to the police and reviewing his preliminary hearing transcript, and the missing piece finally fell into place. As I had predicted, the elusive subtext of the market owner’s story had been hiding in plain sight. It had taken Eddy’s question to reveal it.
“You are sexy and smart and perfect.” I kissed her before hustling into the shower.
“Is that the donut talking or you talking to the donut?”
****
That afternoon, I arrived at the office to find Damon making copies for Andy. I asked about his video conference with Jesse.
“He didn’t feel too secure talking on the video conference, so I don’t think I made much progress.” Damon seemed distracted, probably concerned for his twin’s safety.
“Any new information?”
“Same story. Wouldn’t tell me who the real killer is, if he knows him, or if he could recognize him if he saw him again. He saw the two old guys on the porch. One white guy, one black guy waving his cane around. The green car stopped in front—”
“Wait, Damon. Back up. Did you say the black guy was waving his cane around?”
“Let me check my notes,” he said, pausing. “White guy, black guy on the porch,” he mumbled. “Here it is. Yeah, black guy was waving his cane around. Is that important?”
“Hadn’t heard that before.” I recalled Elijah Jakes leaning heavily on the cane in my office. It wasn’t a prop. “Seems odd that when shots were ringing out, Jakes would be using his cane for anything except for getting himself off that porch?”
“Good point, I guess.”
“Hey, Damon. You’ve really been an asset in the office. If you’d like to work on other cases, Andy and I can probably scrape together some slave wages for you.”
“Thanks. I’d, uh…” He paused, looking down at the copier buttons. “I’d probably be better suited for Andy’s cases. This was kind of a one-time deal because of Jesse’s involvement.”
His answer surprised me. “Sure, criminal defense isn’t for everyone.”
“Yeah,” he said, still looking down, “I know everyone deserves a defense, but people who bully or abuse…” When he looked up, his jaw was set, his eyes, empty and flat. “I tend not to react well to them,” he said deliberately, imparting a massive understatement.
“Totally understand.” I looked away from his icy stare and tried not to shudder. These Wendell twins were something else. So much seemed to be going on beneath the surface. One thought had flipped Damon’s switch, and I could almost feel the rage pulsating through him.
Later in the day, he was back to his pleasant self. “Thanks for the offer,” he said, poking his head in my office on the way out. “I’ll talk to Andy.”
“Sounds good. And let me know when you hear from the interpreter.”
“Will do.”
I texted Chuck as he left.
—Can you find out how Elijah Jakes’ wife died?—
—I’m on it—
After another round of miniature golf with Eddy on Saturday, I spent the rest of the weekend preparing for the final trial push. The prosecution was likely to rest on Monday after the shell casings evidence, Didery’s coup de grace. I would call Chuck to testify the bullet holes found in the door pre-dated the murder and then Jesse—not exactly a tour de force for the defense.
Jesse was obviously the key. If he took the stand and merely said Darnell wasn’t the shooter, I didn’t think the jury would believe him. He hadn’t reported the crime to the police and his credibility would be suspect, especially given the tiny matter of his prior murder conviction. But if he would just reveal the actual shooter, or even describe him, we might at least have a fighting chance.
By Sunday evening, I needed an Eddy fix, if even just a text.
—Hey, good lookin’, thanks again for the bail out—
—You mean bail outs, plural—
—Good one, Busier. Yes, thanks for setting me straight. And BTW, I know what you mean about Damon. Something’s maybe a little off—
—Yeah. I think he feels all his twin’s pain. So my theory that he’s the murderer???—
—Ha-ha. Still nuts—
****
Jesse loved escaping into the magical worlds of fantasy novels. The books let him slip through the bars of his cell to lay in a lush shire or soar among the spires of medieval castles. Still, it was jail and his guard was never completely down.
The squeak of the cell door had him on his feet before his attacker reached the bed, two hands on his book, a hardback copy of Daggers of Sorcery. He saw the flash of metal and blocked the first punch with the book but not the second, the jab piercing the flesh of his left shoulder.
Another wild slash to his face dodged, but now Jesse was pinned against his bunk by the larger man, who jabbed at him relentlessly as Jesse tried to block the blows. A thrust to his midsection hit his book but not a chop downward, the shank plunging deep into his left thigh. The pain was starting to register, but he kept his wits as he endured two more sticks, one high on his arm, another puncturing his ribcage. Losing blood but propelled by adrenaline, he knew he would collapse soon, exposing his vital organs to his attacker.
Jesse caught the next blow to his thigh with the book, the sharp metal sticking into its cover for a moment. He coiled downward clutching the book, and ripped upwards with all his strength, catching his assailant under the chin, and sending him against the opposite wall. Jesse heard the knife clatter against the bars of his cell door and dove toward it. His hands groveled frantically for the weapon as his attacker leaped over him and out of his cell before the guards arrived.
****
“Your Honor, for its last witness, The People of the State of California call James Burns,” Didery announced grandly. The more the evidence mounted, the more insufferable he became. And here was none other than Burns, every Alameda Assistant D.A.’s favorite witness. He was at the top of his field, beyond reproach, and spoke with a clipped high-brow British accent that would make him sound smart ordering a cheeseburger.
“Mr. Burns, good morning. How are you employed, sir?”
“Good morning to all,” he said nodding to Didery and the jury. “I am employed as Chief of the Alameda County Crime Laboratory,” he said, using the British pronunciation of his final word while the female jurors swooned.
“Mr. Burns, please summarize your educational background.”
“Yes. I hold an Honors Degree and a PhD in Physics, both from Shraffordshire University, in England.”
“And prior to your current employment, where were you employed?” And here it came, for my money, the coolest part of his resume if not the most impressive.
“I was employed as Vice Constable at Scotland Yard, in London.”
Didery strutted in front of the jury as if he, himself, were the ex-Scotland Yard employee, guiding the witness through a summary of the field of ballistics before describing the testing conducted on the shell casings. The witness wove a video presentation seamlessly through his testimony, demonstrating how identifiable and unique marks are left on shell casings as they pass through a firearm before being ejected.
It was nearly noon before Didery asked his last question. “Mr. Burns, in your considerable expert opinion, is there any doubt that the shell casings found at the scene on the street were all fired by People’s Exhibit twelve, the firearm recovered from Mr. Moore’s residence?”
The witness turned to face the jury, as if considering the question for the first time. “No,” he said in a classically British unde
rstated tone. “I haven’t a doubt at all.”
“Mr. Turner, cross examination?”
“No questions, Your Honor.” Strangely, my initial exchange with the judge didn’t feel awkward. My opinion of his incompetence could not have been a mystery to him before my outburst but now that it was out in the open, the air was clear.
At the lunch recess, I checked my messages. Chuck asked me to call.
“What’s up?”
“Jesse Wendell was attacked in jail last night.”
“Oh God. Is he all right?”
“Multiple stab wounds but no vital organs hit. Sutures and stitches but no surgery.”
“Damn it. I feel awful. Does Damon know?”
“Yeah. I called him first. Seemed pretty shaken up. And another thing. Julissa Jakes died six months ago in the crossfire of a shooting in west Oakland.”
“Interesting. Any way you can get Elijah subpoenaed for tomorrow.”
“Just did it.”
“You’re the best. Are you on your way? You’re on at two p.m. and Dudlow wants to break early again.”
“On my way. You know I hate testifying.”
“Piece of cake. Just relax and tell the truth.”
“You can’t handle the truth.”
“See you soon.”
I called the infirmary at the jail to check on Jesse. After receiving stitches and sutures, he had refused further medical treatment and had demanded to go back to his pod. He could testify Thursday if necessary but not sooner.
I called Damon, not sure what I was going to say. I felt terrible about Jesse and second-guessed my decision to keep him in custody. I could have agreed to his release. He could have stayed with Damon. What if he’d been killed? I got Damon’s voicemail and left a stuttering, awkward message of apology.
Back in Court, I asked to speak to Ludlow. I knew he would jump at the chance for a mid-weekday off.
“Gentlemen, I hate to delay this trial again, but I understand it’s out of our control. I suppose we could take Wednesday off and resume on Thursday.”
Didery spoke up, knowing he couldn’t change the judge’s mind when it came to having a day off. “Your Honor, perhaps we could utilize the time and meet briefly on Wednesday morning for our jury instruction conference?”
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