by Robert Rand
“Yes,” April replied.
“Would it be fair to describe the Valley Motes as being rather run down?”
“It was the last time I saw it, ten years ago” she was able to clarify.
“Have you ever been arrested?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is the Valley Motel a locally infamous place of drugs and prostitution?”
Vasquez stood. “Objection, calls for speculation, Your Honor.”
“Sustained. Rephrase your question, Mr. Evan,” ruled the judge.
“Were you arrested for possession of methamphetamine on October twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-nine, during a prostitution sweep at the Valley Motel?” he asked, as he puffed up like a bandy rooster, dressed in his imitation Armani double-breasted suit.
“No” April replied.
“No?” he asked. Then before she could answer, he added, “Need I remind you that you are under oath, Mrs. Rourk?”
She knitted her eyebrows as she responded testily, “Last I looked, this was Judge Bennett’s courtroom, so if anyone needs to remind me of the oath I took, I believe it should be His Honor, but I don’t need to be reminded and my answer remains No.”
The judge chuckled with the rest of the court, then offered a “Touché, Mrs. Rourk.” Then to the prosecutor, “The witness is correct in observing that this is, in fact, my court. Be a good man and see to it that you keep that in mind, counselor. You may continue.”
Evan was red-faced as he formed his next question. “Are you saying that you weren’t arrested at the Valley Motel on October twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-nine?”
“No, I’m not saying that I wasn’t arrested at the Valley Motel on that date.”
“Were you arrested for possession of methamphetamine during a prostitution sweep?”
“No!”
“I have here a police report that says you were!” he argued.
April turned to the judge with tears in her eyes and said, “Your Honor, just because I had a drug problem back then and I could afford no better accommodations than the Valley Motel doesn’t mean I was a prostitute. I was arrested for a small quantity of meth, but it wasn’t during a prostitution sweep. I’m not a hooker, nor have I ever been one” she sobbed.
“I believe your question has been answered, counselor” replied the judge as he handed the witness his handkerchief.
“Nothing more of this witness, Your Honor.” A dejected G. David Evan sat down.
When Vasquez cross-examined April, he brought out the fact that she had successfully completed thee court ordered drug diversion program and three years probation. He showed the bright, articulate woman who had gone from drug addiction to architect and, when tragedy and adversity struck, April rose above the sorrow and stayed loyal to her heart. She never lost sight of the truth, though the government had sought with vigor to distort the truth. Vasquez turned a former dope fiend into a debutante, scoring point after point with the jury.
Emotion was a minor player in the defense game. Minor until Sullivan Rourk took the stand in his own defense. Vasquez led his client through his childhood highlights, the deep pain of never having known his biological father, whom his mother had divorced soon after his birth. The frustration of never being able to identify with his adoptive father, a man he loved, but was never able to get close to. The wonderful love he felt from his maternal grandparents who raised him through most of his teenage years. And his mother, who was and remains one of his closest friends, but who never really knew how to be a mom. The lawyer led him through his college years and into business. The meteoric rise to power in a multi-million dollar enterprise that he had managed to expand and more than triple its profits in less than three months. How he had committed himself and the casino to a cruise line venture shortly before the events leading to the current proceedings. And how Sullivan Rourk’s partner, Chuck Freely, had stepped in while Sullivan was recuperating from his wounds, dissolved the limited partnership they had formed, taken over as manager of the Desert Pueblo Casino, and then absorbed the contracts and clients involved with the cruise into a new company. A company to which Chuck Freely was the sole proprietor, a move that cost Sullivan nearly everything.
Sullivan denied any involvement in the robberies when asked, saying, “You’ve seen April, Mr. Vasquez. She’s beautiful. I would have had to leave her side in order to do these crimes. I didn’t leave her side. I didn’t do these crimes.
Then the attorney brought up the gun. “On the day in question, did you have in your possession a three-eighty caliber semi-automatic pistol?”
“Yes.”
“Was that weapon registered to you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you often carry a handgun?”
“Yes.”
“Were you licensed to do so?”
“Yes.”
“And what was the reason that you stated on the concealed weapons permit application for needing to carry a handgun?”
“I had the responsibility of huge sums of money at the casino. Though I rarely touched the cash myself, I would often carry large checks.”
“Mr. Rourk, did you have a large check in your possession the day you were shot?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, I would like to place into evidence this check marked defense exhibit ‘Q’.” Vasquez handed the Sycuan Casino check to the bailiff, who, in turn, handed it to the court clerk.
The clerk marked the exhibit before passing it up to the judge. Judge Bennett studied the check, and then asked the prosecutor if he had seen the check. He had. Then, to the court reporter and jury, “I have here a check. It is made payable to Desert Pueblo Casino, through Bank of America, in the amount of thirty seven thousand dollars, marked defense exhibit ‘Q’ and shall so be referred from here on.
The judge then passed the check back to Vasquez, who then showed it to Sullivan Rourk. “Is the check marked exhibit ‘Q’ the check you had the day of the shooting?”
“Yeah, my blood is soaked into the side of it.”
“Objection! Fact not into evidence, Your Honor. The stain has not been proven to be blood, Mr. Rourk’s or otherwise!” blustered the prosecutor.
“Sustained” ordered Judge Bennett. “The jury is to not consider the comments about Mr. Rourk’s blood being on the check. It is sufficient to know that Mr. Rourk recognize the check as being in his possession at the time of the shooting.”
Vasquez went on, “When you were suddenly ambushed…”
“Objection!” The prosecutor shot to his feet. “There is no evidence that Mr. Rourk was ambushed, Your Honor.”
“What would you call five armed men jumping out at you in your driveway, Mr. Evans? Overruled” came the judges’ reply, stunning both the prosecution and the defense.
Vasquez continued, “When you were suddenly ambushed, did you see any uniforms indicating that these men were law enforcement officers?”
“No.”
“Did you see any special equipment or attire that would identify the ambushers as law enforcement?”
“Other than the guns?”
“Other than the guns.”
“No.”
“Did any of the Agents order you to do certain things?”
“Yes, they told me to get down on the ground.”
“Did you comply?”
“Of course. I went to my knees. Then as I began to lie on my stomach I remembered that my gun was tucked in my waistband. I removed the gun by its grip with my thumb and index finger, you know, like you see ‘em do on TV cop shows.”
“Then what happened?”
“Someone yelled “Gun!” and everyone started shooting at me. The last thing I remember was calling for April, but words wouldn’t come out of my mouth, only blood.”
“Where were you shot?” Vasquez had prepared for this moment very well. Sullivan had intentionally dressed in a gray turtleneck shirt, rather than the coat and tie he normally would be wearing to court. Before the prosecutor could object, Sullivan had pul
led the shirt over his head revealing the still-pink scars of 12 bullets, 8 of which had entry and exit marks, 7 corrective surgery scars and the colostomy bag, which could have been removed a month earlier, but, for obvious reasons, was left in place until after the trial.
The entire court inhaled a collective breath at the horror of those wounds. Puckered flesh crosshatched with the dots of both staples and sutures. If put end-to-end, twenty-two feet would be the measurement of his scars. The three women of the jury cried, as did one of the men.
The prosecutor jumped up. “Your Honor, may I approach?”
Both lawyers approached the bench for a side bar conference with the judge. The prosecutor demanded a mistrial be declared. Vasquez said that he was ready to submit his case to the jury after one question from one more witness, and that a mistrial should not be declared. The judge ruled in favor of the defense on the issue.
Back at the Podium, Vasquez announced no further questions.
The prosecutor spent a day on cross-examination without gaining an inch.
After Sullivan had stepped down from the stand and resumed his seat at the defense table, Vasquez called his final witness.
“The defense calls Lamont Alexander Michaels to the stand.”
The marshal at the rear of the courtroom stepped outside to call L.A. into court.
The prosecutor yelled out his objection and was overruled at side bar. The fact that L.A. Michaels had avoided testifying for the prosecution by checking into the Betty Ford Center to treat his alcohol addiction was irrelevant to the fact that he was included on the defense witness list, which had been provided to the prosecutor thirty-four days before trial.
L.A. was sworn in and provided the jury with his employment information, “I am a retired Supervising Agent in Charge from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
After a few qualifying questions related to Agent Michaels’ supervisory roll in the case against Sullivan Rourk, Vasquez had only one question for L.A. “Agent Michaels, was the gun that Sullivan Robert Rourk carefully attempted to discard, prior to laying flat on the ground, loaded?”
L.A. said “No”, then turned and faced the jury, ‘There were two loaded clips for that gun found locked in the glove compartment of the car Mr. Rourk was driving. The internal investigation revealed that the agents involved in the shooting of Mister Rourk had, in fact, panicked and overreacted.” As his eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over his red-rimmed lids, L.A. Michaels turned to face Sullivan Rourk and said, “I’m sorry.”
Sullivan bowed his head. Those two words coming from that man had an overwhelming effect on him. He didn’t even realize that the proceedings continued for several hours as each lawyer gave their closing arguments. The next thing Sullivan was aware of was the jury leaving the jury box.
That had been three days ago. The clerk had called the prosecutor and Vasquez around 10:00 AM to advise them that a verdict had been reached, and to be in court at 1:00 PM.
The jury was walking in and taking their seats. Not a clue could be read on their impassive faces.
When everyone was seated, Judge Bennett asked, “Has the jury reached a verdict, Madam Foreperson?”
Standing to answer, the foreperson, a retired school principal, stated, “We have, Your Honor.”
“Please pass your decision to the clerk.”
The clerk took the verdict slip from the juror, passed it to the judge, who opened and read it to himself, then passed it back to the clerk. The clerk of the court read the verdict into the record.
“In the matter of the People of the United States of America versus Sullivan Robert Rourk, case number CR-CD164903, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty of all charges.”
Sullivan hugged his attorney, then reached across the rail and hugged April, who had been sitting behind him.
Reporters rushed from the courtroom to call editors, prepare for live broadcasts and vie for interviews.
The judge thanked the jury and discharged them from further service. Court was dismissed and Sullivan Rourk was free to leave.
Chapter 18
Sullivan, April and Ralph walked out of the courthouse to speak with the press.
As they approached the podium full of microphones, two Riverside County Sheriff’s Deputies and a third man, who identified himself as a detective with the Sheriff’s Department, stepped in their way.
The detective asked, “Are you Sullivan Robert Rourk?”
Sullivan looked at Vasquez and Vasquez spoke up, “What is this about?”
The cops ignored the lawyer and asked again, “Are you, sir, Sullivan Robert Rourk?”
When Sullivan answered that he was, in fact, Sullivan Rourk, the deputies moved quickly, one grabbing his right arm, the other his left. One, or both, of the deputies placed handcuffs around his wrists, while the detective handed Vasquez a folded sheet of paper and said, “I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of violating California Penal Code, section 12303.2, which is possession of an explosive device in a public place.”
Sullivan was speechless. As was his attorney. The throng of reporters witnessing the arrest and sending his image across the country had questions galore. However, not a one was answered.
The sheriff’s deputies pushed their way through the crowd, shoving Rourk along between them. The detective opened the rear door of a waiting patrol car. One of the deputies grabbed Rourk by the arm with one hand and placed the other on top of Sullivan’s head, guiding him into the hard plastic, caged in, back seat. Once inside, the door was slammed shut. The uniformed deputies got into the front of the car and drove off. Sullivan twisted in the seat with his hands painfully locked behind him, and watched his wife’s sobbing form fade from view.
With his arm around the shoulder of the very hysterical, very pregnant, wife of the newly acquitted, and even more recently arrested, Sullivan Rourk, Ralph Vasquez, Esq. faced the cameras and vented his rage over the malicious and vindictive persecution of his client, first by the Federal government and now the State of California!
April regained her composure while Vasquez talked to the reporters. Following Vasquez’s statements, she was the focus of attention. Steeling herself for the onslaught of questions with a deep determination not to cry, she pointed to one of the reporters and said, “You first.”
“Mrs. Rourk, do you feel like this is some sort of a governmental conspiracy against your husband?” asked a television reporter, whose attempt to be serious was overridden by her bleach blond cheerleader looks.
April was amazed by the question and took a moment before answering. “If you mean some sort of second gunman on the grassy knoll, then, no! This is the United States, for Christ’s sake. We aren’t in some backwater developing nation or communist state. I do believe that there are people within government who regularly use the color of authority to illegally arrest and convict innocent people. While the government is responsible for the results of those people’s actions, the government is not, in itself, sanctioning these actions. All you conspiracy theorists need to realize that if our government was as subversive as you claim, then you wouldn’t even be allowed to ask if there was a conspiracy.”
The pseudo-serious blond reporter, dazed at having her question turned around on her, became a trailing blurb on news programs across the country as her open mouth image turned her into a comedic caricature of a news reporter. A brunette would soon replace her.
April had concluded her brief interview by stating that she had to go find a bondsman to bail her husband out of jail.
Sullivan found himself sitting in a small holding cell with a dozen other men. The body odor was horrendous in the small cell. Only the filthy homeless man in layers of tattered clothing was oblivious to the nauseating smell.
There was room for, possibly, 8 men in the cell; there were 13. A drunk had vomited, splashing chunks of food and booze on to the seat of the stainless steel toilet that was mounted to the rear wall of the cell. A big black guy, probably not
old enough to buy booze in a bar, was growing increasingly agitated. He had been in the tank already when Sullivan had arrived an hour earlier. The drunk was his last straw.
“Hey! Police!” the black kid was yelling out the bar-front of the cell, “Mutha-fucka. Yous ain’t treatin’ dis nigga like dis! Open the mutha-fuckin gate, you punk-ass polices!”
Two huge cops walked up to the gate. They looked like the Bobsey Twins on steroids. The muscles of their massive biceps stretched at the short sleeves of their uniform shirts.
“Who the fuck’s yellin’ in my jail?” screamed Bobsey Twin number one.
The black kid whined, “Dis drunk sum-bitch done puked all over the floor. It be stinkin’ in here, sir.” His tone was respectful.
Twin two told the kid, “Tough shit. Don’t like it, don’t come to jail!”
The Bobsey Twins walked away. When they had gotten back down the hall to their desk, the black kid started yelling again, “Fuck you, police! Fuck you! I’m mutha-fuckin Gangsta Creezip! Ain’t no bitch-ass polices gonna scares me!”
The twins returned and keyed the gate. The mouthy kid tried to fade back, but there was no place to go. Twin one reached in, snatched the black kid by his braids, and pulled him out of the cell.
The kid was yelling again. “Police brutality! Help! I wanna see a sergeant!”
The jail deputies handcuffed the kid and shoved him in an isolation room. Even though the room had a solid door, which had been locked closed, the kids’ threats toward the cops could still be heard from behind.
“Fuckin’ cell warrior,” mumbled a scruffy biker sitting next to Sullivan.
Sullivan looked at the guy. ‘Big son-of-a-bitch’, he thought. Red hair pulled back into a ponytail, red beard that went down to the middle of his flat stomach. Tattoos covered most of his exposed skin, from his wrists up to his neck. On his stomach, in old English lettering was written ‘IRON HORESMEN M/C’. Sullivan asked what the ‘Iron Horseman M/C’ meant.
The big biker laughed “That’s the club I ride with. Name’s Spanky.” He put out his big, gnarled hand.