Good Lookin'

by T. L. Bequette

  Ludlow scowled at the thought of his free day taken away. “Why don’t we meet briefly tomorrow after testimony to deal with jury instructions? Briefly, mind you. I expect you two to consult beforehand.” So I don’t have to make any legal decisions. He dismissed us with a wave of his hand.

  Out in the courtroom, I barely recognized the distinguished middle-aged man in the dark suit. Chuck’s radical transformation from aging hippie surfer to corporate investigator never failed to surprise me.

  After another of Deputy Hartag’s rousing calls to order, Ludlow addressed the prosecutor. “Mr. Didery, do you have further witnesses?” The Assistant District Attorney strode deliberately to the podium with his chest out. “Your Honor,” he said solemnly, trying desperately to communicate the momentousness of the occasion, “The People of the State of California rest.”

  I even thought I detected the slightest of eye rolls from Ludlow. “Very well. Mr. Turner, do you wish to present evidence?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor, the defense calls Chuck Argenal.”

  Chuck walked to the witness stand looking uncomfortable, no doubt because he wasn’t wearing flipflops.

  “How are you employed, sir.”

  “I am a private investigator, retained in this case by your office.”

  “As part of your duties, did you review photographs taken by the arresting officers in this case.”

  “I did.”

  “Directing your attention to the video screen in the courtroom, do you recognize that photograph?”

  “Yes, it is a photograph taken by technicians investigating this case. The photo shows the front of 454 West Eighth Street. A pattern of four bullet holes is depicted in a half-moon pattern on the front door and door frame.”

  “I walked to my computer and pulled up a slide of the same photograph, this time with another photo of the door though shot from a slightly different angle alongside it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Didery shuffling though his file. After his stunt of burying an important piece of evidence in a stack of thousands of pages, I had delivered the old real estate photo to Didery amidst a file containing four hundred-fifty of Chuck’s random crime scene photos. I had been dragged down to his level, but it felt good.

  “You see the photo you just identified on the right. Do you recognize the photo on the left?”

  “Yes, that was a photograph of the residence showing the same pattern of bullet holes in the front door.”

  “Do you know the source of that photograph?” If I had had a pen handy, I would have rapped the podium and glanced at Didery.

  “That photograph was published in a magazine called ‘Baytown Real Estate’ in March of 2019, more than two years prior to the shooting in this case. If you look closely you can see the caption of the magazine’s letterhead on the photograph in the upper right-hand corner.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Didery, do you wish to cross examine?”

  The prosecutor smirked for the benefit of the jury. “No, Your Honor.”

  And with that, the defense had landed its first punch of the trial. Given the current state of the evidence, it was more of a tap. The prosecution could easily argue that Darnell had killed Barlow with two shots, then fired wildly, missing the house entirely as he drove away. Still, it was something. Personally, I liked the fact that it rendered the prosecution’s silly laser show worthless.

  After Court, per our tradition, I bought Chuck a beer at the Armory, a bar a block from the courthouse that overlooked Lake Merritt. Elijah Jakes would testify tomorrow. I wasn’t sure why I was putting him on the stand, but I was certain he knew more than he was letting on.

  “Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to,” I told Chuck, repeating the golden rule for trial attorneys. “With Jakes, I’ll be violating that rule with every question.”

  “Yeah, as you might imagine, he wasn’t thrilled to receive the subpoena. He’s a bitter old dude. Wife shot, store he founded gone to hell. Maybe you can get him to confess on the stand.”

  “Ah, the Perry Mason moment. I’d like just one in my career.”

  “How’s our boy, Jesse Wendell?”

  “Stitched up and back in his pod.”

  “The kid’s got more guts than you can hang on a fence. He knows the culture, too. In that world, if you show weakness, you’ll be a victim all your life.”

  “It’s sad.” I understood Jesse’s motivation, but the premise was that he had resigned to being “in that world.”

  “It is sad,” Chuck said, finishing his IPA, “and I can’t help but think the attack won’t exactly motivate him to help us in court.”

  “Damon thinks his twin will do the right thing. We’ll see.”

  “I wouldn’t hang your hat on it.”

  Damon returned my call on the way to my car.

  “Hey, Damon, I feel terrible about Jesse. I—”

  “No,” he said cutting me off. “You were doing your job. Jesse put himself in jail by not showing up.”

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  “I just can’t believe he’s back in that cell. I know it’s his choice, but isn’t there something that can be done? I spoke to him on the phone last night. Everyone knows who did it but, of course, no one’s talking.”

  “I’m with you, but as far as I know, if he doesn’t want protective custody, it’s his call.”

  “That’s my stubborn twin. I really need to see him in person to talk some sense into him. Isn’t there any way I can get in a room with him?”

  How could I say no? “Yeah, I’ll call the jail and designate you as my investigator. If you can meet me in court, I’ll give you the jail pass.”

  “Thanks. Hey, the translator finally got back to me. Says he’ll email a transcript first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks again.”

  I had almost forgotten about the translation, which also reminded me to follow up on the in-store video I’d been after for weeks now. It was my turn to shoot Didery a late-night email. There were two witnesses left and the trial was still a tangle of loose ends. Given the state of the evidence, only an eyewitness naming a shooter other than Darnell would prevent a guilty verdict.

  Darnell, Jakes, Jesse—someone had to have the courage to tell the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sometimes it’s better to bend the law a little in special cases.―Harper Lee

  “Good morning, Mr. Jakes.” My next witness was waiting outside Department 27 in a dark blue pinstriped suit and gold tie. I sat down next to him on a bench.

  “I don’t know why you need me here. I already told you everything I know.”

  “Frankly, sir, I don’t think you did. I think you told me what you wanted me to hear.”

  “Is that right? And what makes you think I’m gonna say anything different on the stand?”

  “Well, I’m hopeful you care about justice.”

  “Ha!” His reaction was genuine bemusement.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Justice. That’s what you’re after?” he asked, his gravelly voice dripping with sarcasm. “Justice for who?” He sat staring straight ahead, his hand resting on the brass eagle-head handle of his blue metal cane that matched his suit.

  “Mr. Jakes, I’m sorry for your loss. I wasn’t aware last time we spoke that your wife had died recently.”

  He nodded silently and continued to face forward.

  “Is this the cane that holds whiskey?” I asked.

  “No. Left that one at home.”

  “Amazing how they can make canes to be anything.”

  He turned to look at me, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Mr. Turner, you’d be surprised.” Was this guy taunting me?

  “Okay, you’ll be the first witness. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready.”

  Damon caught my eye on my way into the courtroom.

  “Hey, so Jesse
is not scheduled to testify until Thursday morning now?”

  “Yeah. Ludlow signed the removal order. He’ll be transported from the jail. Here’s your jail pass,” I said fishing it out of my wallet.

  “Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate this. I’m going to do my best to convince him to get out of that pod, even if I have to put him back in the infirmary myself.”

  “Good luck.”

  Just before Ludlow took the bench, I checked my email and read the translation, considering my options. I was developing a theory that was short on evidence. It would involve going after nice old Mr. Jakes and risk alienating the jury. On the other hand, it was my only theory, and he did seem like he was taunting me.

  The judge reminded the jurors that we would hear one witness today, take Wednesday off, then conclude the case with the last defense witness and closing statements on Thursday.

  “Mr. Turner, your next witness please.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Elijah Jakes.”

  The witness made the long trek down the aisle of the courtroom and up to the witness stand, leaning heavily on his cane with every step. After he took the oath, he settled himself in the witness seat in his customary position with his right hand atop his cane, as if ready to leave on a moment’s notice.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jakes.” He nodded a reply.

  “Sir, you are quite familiar with the E&J Market, aren’t you?”

  “You could say that. I opened it in seventy-five.” Christ, he sounded like everyone’s favorite grandpa. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Yes, and you still spend a lot of time there.”

  “I do. Spend most days there on the front porch of the market. I’m friends with the current owner, Vardan.”

  “That’d be Vardan Bedrossian?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You two sit there most days, on the porch talking.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re even learning some of your friend Vardan’s language.”

  “Yes.” The witness’s eyes narrowed as he paused, surprised by my knowledge. “He’s taught me some phrases,” he said cautiously. “ ‘Hi. How are you. Goodbye.’ That type of thing.”

  “Mr. Jakes, when you opened the store back in seventy-five, can you describe the type of place it was?”

  The witness adjusted his position in his seat, sitting taller as he faced the jury. “The E&J, when it opened, was a nice little store,” he said with pride. “It became sort of the hub of the neighborhood. Families would come by after church. The First Baptist is just down the block. In the summer, people would congregate on the porch. The kids would play ball in the street. Couples would have a visit…” Jakes moved his focus to the floor for a moment, clearly immersed in a memory. “It was a nice little market,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “How would you describe the market now, Mr. Jakes?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Now, in that neighborhood, people are afraid to be on the street. Gunshots night and day. The market today basically sells liquor, cigarettes, some rolling papers for the youngsters to smoke their dope. That’s about it.” Jakes was speaking in an easy manner and I was sure the jury could picture him sitting on a porch, spinning a yarn.

  “And on March 22, 2021, you were on the porch at about six-fifteen p.m.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Were there any customers inside the store?”

  “No, it was empty, as usual. Vardan was sweeping out the store.”

  “Sir, tell the jury what you saw that evening.”

  “Same as I told you earlier. Car pulled up. I heard a bunch of shots. That’s it.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone actually shoot.”

  “No. It all happened too fast.”

  “Mr. Jakes, you sit there most days at that market, like you said, with those gunshots going off day and night. Do you ever have a gun with you?”

  For an instant, he stiffened, but then smiled, “No.”

  “It would make sense, for your protection, right?”

  “No.”

  “Sir, are you ever bitter about what these young thugs have done to your neighborhood?”

  “I am, but I don’t need no gun.”

  “The gang members have ruined the neighborhood, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ruined your store.”

  “They have.”

  “And Mr. Jakes, these young violent men who ruined your store are also responsible for your wife’s death.”

  The witness stared hard at me, and I was glad he wasn’t armed now. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Sadly, she was struck by crossfire on—”

  “November 3, 2020,” he spit out the words, cutting me off.

  “Gang members again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You opened the E&J with your wife, correct? Named it the E&J. Elijah and Julissa.”

  “Yeah, so what’s your point?”

  “My point, Mr. Jakes, is that on March twenty-second of this year, you had a lot of anger inside you directed at those gang members who rode into your neighborhood and shot up the place, ruined the store you founded and killed your wife.”

  “I understand,” the witness said, smiling. “Your client is guilty. You got to do something, right?”

  “I get to ask the questions, Mr. Jakes. Now, if a person were to shoot a gun off that porch at someone across the street standing near the sidewalk, you’d be shooting at a downward angle, correct.”

  “I guess so,” he said smugly.

  “Well, don’t guess, sir. Look at these photographs,” I said taking the photos of the E&J off the Clerk’s desk. “People’s Exhibits fifteen and sixteen. That’s the E&J, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you have to climb four steps up to the porch to the front door, correct?”

  “Yes.” He was barely listening now, the smug smile still in place.

  “So, the porch is about four and a half feet up from the street, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “So a shot across the street would have to be at a downward angle.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You own a great many canes, don’t you, Mr. Jakes.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” He was becoming agitated, looking at the judge for help with his palms up, then sitting in silence, shaking his head.

  “Your Honor,” I said after twenty seconds of silence, “I would ask the witness to be ordered to answer the question.”

  Ludlow arose from a mini-slumber, clearing his throat. “Mr. um, Jakes, is it? You are ordered to answer the question.”

  “Yeah, I got canes. What of it?”

  “You have a cane that holds two ounces of whiskey, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve seen a cane sword, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before Court today, in the hallway, you said to me, with a smile, that it was amazing what they could do with canes, nowadays, didn’t you?”

  He stared daggers at me, nodding, like I had betrayed a sacred trust.

  “Do you own a gun that’s disguised as a cane, Mr. Jakes?”

  He forced a laugh, shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jakes, did you not hear the question? Do you own a cane that shoots?”

  “You got it all figured out, don’t you?” he said with a sneer. The forced smile was gone.

  “I’m starting to, Mr. Jakes.”

  “Objection!” Didery sprang from his seat. “Your Honor, Mr. Turner is testifying.”

  “Withdrawn,” I said quickly, not wanting to kill the momentum.

  “Mr. Jakes, you say you heard these shots,” I said, using air quotes. I was all in now, after all. “You must have run into the store with Mr. Bedrossian.”

  “No, I told you, I got off that porch and hobbled my ass down the street.” He glanced at the jury, smiling at his joke.

  “Now, Mr. Jakes, the o
nly way off that porch is down the steps toward the street, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you heard these shots coming from the street in front of you and what you decided to do was run toward the shots?”

  “I told you what I did.”

  “Sir, the truth is you went inside the store with Mr. Bedrossian.”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Bedrossian saw you shoot, so when you got inside, he said, ‘Go! You have to leave. Now!’ ”

  “No!” yelled Jakes angrily through clenched teeth. He had finally lost his cool.

  I paused, walking from the podium to my computer, letting the jury digest his rage while I cued up the 911 call. “Mr. Jakes, I’d like you to listen to Mr. Bedrossian. This is once he’s inside the store, having already dialed 911.” The jury listened as the market owner spoke in his native language for less than ten seconds.

  “Mr. Bedrossian, speaking his language is telling you, ‘Go! You have to leave. Now!’ isn’t he?” I said, reading from the transcript on my phone. I noticed that Didery didn’t object, which meant the weasel already had the translation.

  “How would I know what he said?” The witness had regained his composure.

  “Well, you had been learning the language, right? You told us that earlier in your testimony.”

  “I told you I knew phrases. Not words like that.”

  “Well, Mr. Jakes, you said yourself, the store had been empty, right? So when Mr. Bedrossian said ‘You have to leave. Now!’ was he talking to himself?”

  “Objection, argumentative.”

  “Sustained. Save the sarcasm, Mr. Turner,” chimed in Ludlow.

  “Mr. Jakes, after you heard the shots, you used your cane to get off the porch, correct?”

  “I always use my cane when I walk. Yes.”

  “So you would have no reason to wave the cane or point it at anybody, would you?”

  “No.”

  “And if a witness says that they saw that, they would be mistaken?”

  “Yes, they would.” The witness was back to smiling, with a “get a load of this guy” look to the jury.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Didery matched Jakes’ relaxed smile as he arrived at the podium for cross examination.

  “Mr. Jakes, I’ll be brief. We’ve taken enough of your time today. Can I get you a drink of water?”