He stares at me, shaking his head from side to side. “He said he bought them legally, in Mexico.” He pauses for a moment. “But …” He trails off into mortified silence.
You’re a nice guy, Roberto, I think, staring at his crestfallen face. And if you’re telling the truth, a dupe.
Another glance at my watch. We only have a couple of minutes left. “You drove down to Wilmington,” I prompt him again. “Then what happened?”
“Armando was parked where he told me he would be. The crates were in his truck. Armando was real jumpy. He kept looking around, real nervously.”
“And that didn’t arouse your suspicions?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I thought it was because he was afraid I wouldn’t show up, and the load wouldn’t be delivered.”
“Okay,” I concede. “Go on with the story.”
“We loaded them out of his truck and into mine,” he says. “Armando gave me the directions how to get to the Panorama City warehouse. I got in my truck and left.”
“Without him?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he come with you? It was his delivery, not yours.”
“He wanted to stay with his truck. He was going to call a tow company.”
Another plausible answer. “Go on.”
“I took off. It was easy going; there wasn’t hardly no traffic. Then, as I was passing through Westwood, I had to go to the bathroom.” He blushes; he’s embarrassed telling that to a woman he doesn’t know, particularly a woman who is an authority figure.
“So you pulled off?”
“On the Sunset Boulevard exit. There is a twenty-four-hour ARCO station near there, where I could use the bathroom.”
That piece of information gives me pause. “How did you know that?”
“Because I have clients in that area,” he explains. “It’s where I fill up my truck if I need to, since it is cheaper than the other gasoline stations.”
Yet another reasonable explanation. So far, his story is holding up. We only have a minute or two left. “Keep going,” I say.
“I came out of the station and drove up Sepulveda Boulevard to get to the freeway entrance. And then, all of a sudden, there was a police car behind me. He flashed his lights and made me pull over.”
“Were you speeding, driving without your lights on, what?”
He shakes his head in resolute denial. “He said I ran a stop sign.”
“Did you?”
“No. I’m a very careful driver. Especially in that part of town.”
“When he stopped you, could he see inside the back of your truck?”
“No. It’s closed off from the cab.”
“So why did you open the door to the cube?” I ask. “What reason did he give to make you open it? You didn’t open it voluntarily, did you?”
Salazar is twisting in his chair, reliving the ordeal. “He said he had to look inside to make sure there wasn’t an electrical short. Because besides running the stop sign, one of my tail-lights was flickering.”
That’s a load of bullshit, which I’ve encountered a hundred times, as has every defense lawyer in the county. This man wasn’t pulled over because he ran a stop sign or had a flickering tail-light. He was pulled over because he was a Mexican driving a beat-up truck through the streets of a rich, white neighborhood at two o’clock in the morning.
“And there were the televisions, and you didn’t have the paperwork for them, and …” I don’t have to finish.
The judge’s deputy sheriff, a roly-poly Bakersfield cowboy named Ike, with bright red hair and freckles like a grown-up Howdy Doody, sticks his head in the door. “You’re up,” he informs us.
“Here we go,” I say, nodding to Salazar. The deputy stands aside so we can enter the courtroom, which is of no particular distinction. Windowless, no pictures or friezes on the walls. Except for the Los Angeles County and California state flags, it could be in any state in the union.
“How do I get in touch with Gonzalez?” I ask, as I guide Salazar to the defendant’s table. “Do you have a phone number?”
He seems to be in shock. From his look it’s obvious that he’s never been in a courtroom before, certainly not from this perspective. “On a piece of paper in my wallet,” he answers. “Which the police took from me, along with everything else,” he adds, his voice forlornly bitter.
“I can get the wallet,” I assure him. “And the rest of your stuff.” I need to talk to this Gonzalez character as soon as I can. Although I shouldn’t buck up my client’s hopes, I add, “We’re going to work this out.”
He turns to me with a look of pure anguish. “We have to, Miss Thompson. Because I am not a criminal.”
“All rise.”
I prompt Salazar to stand up as the Honorable Judith Rosen, a petite woman in her fifties whose hair is dyed jet-black and cut in the severe style of a silent movie star, enters the room. The only other people in the chamber are Wayne Dixant, the young assistant D.A. with ambitions who is running this case, the court clerk and the stenographer, deputy sheriff Ike Plowman, and a few other lawyers who have cases before the judge after ours is dealt with.
“Be seated,” the deputy intones.
The clerk reads the complaint and hands me a copy. Judge Rosen peers at us from over her bench. I know for a fact that her chair is padded to give her extra height. “Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?” she asks my client.
“He does, Your Honor,” I answer for him. I’ve instructed Salazar to keep his mouth shut except when she asks him how he wants to plead, which will be two words:
not guilty.
She asks him that now, and he answers. His voice is low and shaky.
The judge looks at the papers in front of her. “What are you requesting bail to be set at?” she queries Dixant.
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
The judge lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Explain.”
“The property in the accused’s truck was stolen from a bonded warehouse in San Pedro that was forcefully broken into,” Dixant tells her. “That’s one felony in itself. The retail value of the stolen goods is over fifty thousand dollars. We think setting bail at fifty thousand dollars is more than reasonable.”
“It’s utterly unreasonable, Judge,” I break in. “This man has never been arrested for anything in his life, and there are extenuating circumstances that I believe will prove his innocence, certainly of the charge of breaking into the warehouse. I ask that the court release him on his own recognizance.”
“Absolutely not,” Dixant cries out. “That would be irresponsible, Judge.”
Rosen glances at the paperwork in front of her. “How about ten thousand?” she asks me. “Is that doable?”
I shake my head. “No, Your Honor. Maybe …” I take a stab. “Twenty-five hundred.” Salazar would have to come up with two hundred and fifty dollars to cover the 10 percent payment on a five-thousand dollar-bond, plus post a bond for the rest. I hope he owns his house, so that he has equity to support that.
“Judge, come on,” Dixant whines. “This isn’t Sunday school.”
Rosen nods. She’s left of center on the scale of judges in the county, but she isn’t a bleeding heart. There are no bleeding hearts in the Los Angeles County judicial system.
“Set formal bail hearing for …” she glances at her clerk for a date.
“Tomorrow, please, Judge,” I implore. “This man needs to know where he stands as soon as possible.”
The clerk nods to the judge that the timetable is okay. Dixant also nods in agreement, reluctantly.
“Tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock,” Judge Rosen agrees, making a note on her calendar. “It’s on you to set up the probation interview and arrange for references in that period of time, Counselor,” she cautions me.
“I understand, Your Honor,” I reply. The probation interview I can handle; I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning as soon as I get back to my office. References, I don’t know. I’ll ask Salazar if he knows anyone solid who will help us.
The judge bangs her gavel. “See you tomorrow.”
Deputy Ike escorts us back into the interview room. I have a few minutes with Salazar before he’s taken back to the jail.
I grab a notepad and pen from my purse. “I’ll try to reach your friend Gonzalez,” I tell him. “In the meantime, who do you know who can come in here tomorrow and say good stuff about you, besides your wife?”
He names several of his parishioners. His wife will know how to contact them. I can see from both his facial expressions and body language that the world is spinning way too fast for him.
“Can I go home now?” he asks me, looking at the door. It’s as if he didn’t hear anything that was said in court, or wasn’t able to process it. Either way, he isn’t thinking clearly.
“Not yet,” I have to tell him. “Hopefully, tomorrow.”
He turns ashen. “I have to go back to the jail?” he whimpers.
“For tonight.” Poor bastard. He’s never done time. It’s a scary prospect for anyone, but for a first-timer it’s unfathomably frightening. “Just for tonight.”
I shouldn’t have made that promise, because I don’t know if I can back it up, but I can’t leave him hopeless. He’s too fragile. “You can handle one night,” I say, trying to buck up his spirits. “We’ll be in better shape tomorrow. I know it’s inconvenient, but you can do it.”
Inconvenient.
Christ, what a lame platitude. But it’s the best one I have.
“What I’m going to tell you now is very important,” I caution him. “The walls have ears. Don’t talk to anyone, especially about what you were arrested for. No one in there—another prisoner, a guard, nobody—is your friend. Keep it zipped, okay?”
He nods. He can’t believe this is happening to him.
“One more thing,” I remember to ask him. “Did your friend Gonzalez pay you? Was there money in your wallet when the police brought you in?”
He shakes his head dolefully. “No. He was going to pay me when he got paid.”
All this trouble and he didn’t even get paid for it. Talk about being a fall guy. In a way, though, that’s good. If he had the money, that could be incriminating evidence against him. In this case, being broke is a blessing.
I nod to Ike through the window. He comes in and takes Salazar by the arm. They exit through one door. I go out the other.
A
S I GET OFF
the elevator at my floor and head for my office I see my roomie Sam and several other lawyers milling around in the large conference room, watching the television set, a fifteen-year-old curved-screen Panasonic. The D.A.’s office recently installed a big flat-panel high-definition TV, courtesy of an anonymous donor, but that generosity wasn’t extended to us. We’re the poor cousins; we rarely get a bone thrown our way.
The city brass is holding a press conference in front of City Hall, across the street. It’s one of the most recognizable buildings in the city. Everyone uses it for photo ops, even those who don’t work there. Since the set is tuned to Channel 9, I assume whatever they’re watching is a red-meat story; our local channels love blood and guts, we lead the world in televised high-speed chases shot from helicopters.
Mayor Villaraigosa, Chief of Police Bratton, County Sheriff Baca, along with several other high-ranking officers from both departments and sundry politicians from the city and county, crowd the frame. In the background, a stoic statue, I spot my new friend, police lieutenant Luis Cordova. The mayor, the alpha dog among alpha dogs, is hogging the microphone. As usual, he is impeccably dressed. The man could be a model for
GQ.
“Earlier today, the body of a thirty-two-year-old woman was found in West Los Angeles, where she resided,” the mayor speaks into the cameras. “The circumstances of this killing are similar to two previous murders that have taken place over the past few months in this same area.” He rises up on his toes. He’s a short, slim man, but he has a large aura. “After consulting with Chief Bratton, Sheriff Baca, and members of their departments who specialize in crimes such as these,” he continues, “we have concluded that these killings were all done by the same person.”
“Ya think?” one of our tribe catcalls to the television screen, as the video headline flashes on and off across the screen, superimposed over the dignitaries:
FULL MOON KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.
“Full Moon Killer?” another member of my crowd voices. “That’s lame. Can’t they do any better than that?”
What’s really lame is dignifying these murders with a title. If this killer is a publicity hound, as most of them are, this will only make things worse.
“Detectives from both the city police force and the county sheriff’s department will be working together to find this vicious killer,” the mayor continues, staring intently into the lens, as if to make direct contact with the thousands of viewers (voters) who are watching his slick yet earnest performance. “If any one of you has any knowledge of who he is, or any information at all that might lead to his capture and arrest, contact us immediately. A special hotline has been established to handle these calls.”
On the screen, a telephone number flashes in bold type. That the victims, now three, were young, attractive Anglo women who lived on the wealthy Westside, has already produced a predictable barrage of vitriol on television, in the newspapers, and particularly on talk radio. The fear (and secret blood-sport excitement) is that we could be facing another Hillside Strangler/Night Stalker saga that will yet again tear open the city’s fragile, delicately stitched coalition.
The men and women standing behind the mayor have on their professional grim faces. My mind drifts as they talk, because it’s all so predictable. Yes, they want to do the right thing, but more important, they want to advance their careers, which is why the mayor himself is up there in front of the cameras. Everyone knows that the public outcry about these murders, already shrill, is going to ratchet up, and they’re all going to feel the heat. Everyone also knows that hundreds of blacks and Latinos are killed in Los Angeles every year, and that no one, except members of their own communities, raises a voice. But someone knocks off a few white girls and it’s red meat for the television and radio talk-show Neanderthals who love to wallow in the gore. If you’re a politician, you have to pay attention to the mob.
I snap to as I hear the mayor announce that “a reward of fifty thousand dollars will be paid for information that directly leads to the arrest of this killer, hopefully before he can strike again.”