I pull into the parking lot adjacent to my office building. It’s eight-thirty. My official workday is about to begin.
I
T’S MIDAFTERNOON. EARLIER, SALAZAR
met with a probation officer, who certified that he met the requirements to be granted bail via self-recognizance. One obstacle removed. Now, as I enter Judge Rosen’s courtroom, I see a young Latina sitting by herself, in the back. She looks at me with hopeful eyes as I walk over to her.
“Mrs. Salazar?”
Her nodded
yes
is guarded. She is obviously frightened out of her wits.
“I’m Jessica Thompson, your husband’s lawyer. We spoke on the phone.” I put out my hand. Her hand is rough; it’s a hand that does manual labor. “I’m glad you could come,” I say. “So you were able to find someone to stay with your children?”
“Yes.” Her voice has an anxious trill. “My sister.”
That’s good to hear. Not that I was worried whether I’d have to shell out twenty dollars, but whether her family was supporting her. Family support in these circumstances is important.
I look around. Except for the regular court personnel, no one else is here. “Is anyone else coming? Any friends, or members of his church?”
She shakes her head. “No. Work.”
That’s understandable. For people in the Salazar’s financial bracket, missing a day’s pay would be a hardship. “Well, you’re here, and that’s going to make a difference,” I assure her. She needs all the assurance she can get.
I lead her to the front row and show her where to sit. Then I cross to the other side of the partition. Deputy Ike escorts me to the holding room where Salazar is waiting for me. He looks the worse for wear.
“How are you?” I greet him.
“Will I be able to leave today?” he replies, question to my question.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I hope so.”
He groans. “Why can’t I?”
You were arrested with stolen goods, pal. This isn’t parochial school, where Sister Mary Martha raps you across the knuckles with her ruler and keeps you in at recess. “It’s up to the judge,” I explain. No matter how many times you tell them the facts of life, it doesn’t penetrate. Like that dumb ass Reggie Morton, whose trial starts tomorrow. “If she gives you bail on your own recognizance, you’ll be out. That means free,” I explain; he’s not going to understand legal terminology. Against my better judgment, I add, “I think she will. She seemed sympathetic yesterday.”
I have to stop doing that—giving clients hope when I shouldn’t. But I need him to be in a positive frame of mind during this hearing. If he comes in with a hangdog attitude, the game will be over before the opening whistle.
“Did you talk to Armando?” he asks.
“No. His cell phone is out of order. Not in service.”
He jerks, an involuntary spasm. “Really?”
Christ, he sounds like a kid. “Really.”
“But I just talked to him, two night ago,” he says.
“And one night ago, when I tried to talk to him, his phone was no longer connected.”
He’s completely bewildered at hearing that. “Do you think he knows?” he asks. He sounds like a little lamb who’s lost his mother.
“That you were arrested with his televisions?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure he does,” I answer. Only a man grasping at straws, or a dupe, would ask such a question. Of course Gonzalez found out—either because whoever he was supposed to deliver them to called and asked where they were, or because he (Gonzalez) heard about Salazar’s arrest through the grapevine. Whichever reason it was, he’s nowhere to be found. If I were a private lawyer, and my client had money, I’d hire a detective and track Gonzalez down. But I’m not, and he doesn’t.
Deputy Ike sticks his head in the door. “Ready?” he asks rhetorically.
I take Salazar’s arm and pull him to his feet. “You’re humble, but not meek,” I prep him, like a trainer giving a boxer last-minute instructions before the opening bell. “If the judge asks you a question, answer precisely and look her in the eye, but don’t stare. And only answer questions; don’t give opinions. The judge doesn’t care about your ideas on life, liberty, or anything. Leave the driving to me, okay?”
“Okay,” he parrots. “I trust you.”
Great.
We follow Ike into the courtroom. As we walk to the defense table, my counterpart representing the state gives me a perfunctory nod and turns away. He’s going to hang tough. He knows he’s holding the cards and that I don’t have a strong enough hand to bluff him.
As I guide Salazar to his seat next to mine, I look behind me to make sure his wife is where I left her. She is, but now she isn’t alone. Another woman is sitting with her, holding her hand for support.
I walk to the railing. The second woman stands to meet me. She is dressed modestly and her makeup is minimally understated, but nonetheless, she is very attractive, in a highbred, almost old-fashioned Katharine Hepburn way. From what I know about this woman, she is in her mid-to-late sixties, but she looks a decade younger. Money may not be able to buy happiness (which I personally think is debatable), but it can buy a lot of other things, including retarding of the aging process.
“How do you do?” she says. Her cultured voice is warm, generous. “I am Amanda Burgess.”
“Jessica Thompson. Thank you for coming.” I turn to Salazar. “Look who’s here, Roberto,” I say, in the sappy tone of a mother talking to a six-year-old in the presence of special company.
He jumps up. “Mrs. Burgess,” he says, with genuine surprise. It’s obvious he didn’t know anything about this.
“Roberto,” she says warmly, but she keeps her distance; she doesn’t try to hug him or make any physical gesture. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess. But everything will be fine.” She smiles at me. “You’re in good hands. Miss Thompson will take good care of you.”
Thank you for that, I think. I’ve known the woman for five seconds, and she’s already setting me up to fail?
“All rise.”
We turn as Judge Rosen comes in from her chambers and takes her seat at the bench. “People versus Salazar, bail hearing,” the bailiff calls out. “Be seated.”
Dixant, the deputy D.A., has grudgingly lowered yesterday’s bail request. “Twenty-thousand dollars, Your Honor,” he says, when the judge asks him again for his bail recommendation. “Which is generous. The people have no reason to further lower that amount; it’s already a big concession.” He sounds bored, as if this is all a waste of time.
He sits down. Judge Rosen glances at the probation statement, then nods at me. “Your turn.”
“Bail in any amount is unnecessary and unwarranted, Your Honor,” I announce as I stand up. “This man should be released on his own recognizance, today. Let me explain why.”
I tick off my reasons: “Mr. Salazar’s record is clean. Not only has he never been convicted of a crime, he has never even been charged with one. When was the last time a defendant standing in front of you could say that, Your Honor? He is married, with two children. He has his own gardening business, and he also has a delivery business. He is a minister of a church in East Los Angeles. A minister,” I repeat. It never hurts to play the God card. “There is no possibility that this man is a flight risk. Zero. He will show up for his trial.” I place a hand on Salazar’s shoulder. “Let him go home, do his jobs, take care of his wife and small children, administer to his flock.” That’s laying it on a little thick, maybe, but subtlety doesn’t work. I want to help the judge support my position, so I have to give her as much ammunition to defend doing it as I can. “He’s going to show up, Your Honor. You know it, I know it, everybody in this room knows it, including my distinguished colleague sitting across the aisle.”
Dixant waves a hand in the air. “Don’t speak for me,” he says cheerlessly. “I don’t know it, and neither does anyone else. This guy was caught red-handed with stolen goods, at three in the morning, forty miles from his house. He’s not an angel.” He gets to his feet and points a finger at my client. “In fact, I think the fact that the accused does not have a record is a negative in this case, not a positive.”
“Because?” the judge asks.
“Because the accused has too much to lose.” That’s a standard prosecutor’s ploy, to always call a defendant “the accused.” It taints them right from the start. “His jobs, his ministry, his family. Even for a first offense, the guidelines for a case like this are four years, minimum. It’s
precisely
because he isn’t some bum off the street that he’s a prime flight risk, Your Honor. This man could run in the blink of an eye without taking any consequences into consideration, out of sheer panic.” He shakes his head sternly. “Giving him a get-out-of-jail-free card is not in the people’s interest. Make him pay for it. Better still, keep him where we know he’ll show up. Across the street, in lockup.”
I look at Rosen. To my dismay, she seems to be taking this dipshit’s arguments seriously. I raise my hand.
“Yes, Ms. Thompson?” Rosen says.
“May I have a minute, Your Honor?”
“All right.”
I stand and go over to the railing where Amanda Burgess is sitting with Salazar’s wife. I make eye contact with the older woman. She pats Mrs. Salazar’s hand supportively, and gets up. I lean into her, my mouth almost touching her ear. “Are you willing to speak up for Roberto, Ms. Burgess?” I whisper. “Publicly, now?”
“Yes,” she says. “I am.” She touches my hand lightly. “And please—call me Amanda.”
I turn back to the judge. “I have a character witness who would like to speak in my client’s behalf. May she?” I ask.
“Any objections?” Judge Rosen asks Dixant.
“No, Your Honor.” He’s made his case, and some do-gooder civilian isn’t going to change the judge’s mind. He did what he needed to do: he gave the judge a reason to keep the bail requirement out of Salazar’s reach, which is the same thing as denying it outright. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times, when the prosecutor requests a specific cash bail, the judge agrees—better safe than sorry. So he’s cool.
“Come forward, please,” the judge instructs Ms. Burgess.
Deputy Ike pushes the swinging gate open, and Amanda walks through, taking her place in front of the bench. This is an informal situation, so she won’t be sworn in.
“Please state your name, and your relationship to the defendant,” the bailiff instructs her.
“Amanda Burgess. Mr. Salazar is my gardener.”
Dixant doesn’t know who Amanda Burgess is, so nothing registers; but Judge Rosen sure does. Her mouth flops opens like a lipsticked clamshell. Finding her tongue, she says, “Welcome to my courtroom, Mrs. Burgess. I’m honored to have you here.”
“Thank you for having me,” Amanda replies. “Although I’m sorry I’m here under these circumstances.”
“Of course.” The judge practically bats her eyelashes. “You wish to speak on the defendant’s behalf?” she coos.
“I do, Your Honor,” Amanda says, and turning, smiles at Roberto, whose own smile back at her is a combination of embarrassment and gratitude.
I steal a look at Dixant. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows it isn’t good for him. He sits up, paying attention now.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the judge says to Ms. Burgess. I’ve been coming up before this judge for more than five years, and I’ve never seen her this deferential.
Amanda’s bearing is erect and commanding, as if this were her chamber, not Rosen’s. “Thank you, Your Honor. I have known Mr. Salazar for a number of years,” she states. “He has worked for me, and for several friends of mine.”
She turns to face Dixant. “All of whom live in the vicinity of where Mr. Salazar was arrested.” Her point being that Salazar is no stranger to that area, and could have been there legitimately. She holds his look until he turns away, then she addresses the judge again.
“Mr. Salazar’s work is exemplary. But more important is who he is as a human being. He is one hundred percent trustworthy. He has never taken advantage of anyone, and has never cheated or fudged or done anything underhanded. Mr. Salazar is an honest and good man. And a good, honest man is hard to find,” she says with conviction, as if she were Mrs. Diogenes.
“I would certainly agree with that,” Judge Rosen replies.
Almost gleefully, I watch this lovefest. It’s as if we’re not in a courtroom, but on the set of a woman’s television talk show.
“That Mr. Salazar would abandon his family, his parishioners, and his obligations is absurd,” Amanda continues. “The idea is not only preposterous, it’s insulting.”
She turns and looks at Salazar again sympathetically, then locks eyes with the judge. “Mr. Salazar deserves his day in court, which he will have in due time, I assume.”
Judge Rosen, listening carefully, nods assent.
“I know that if he is found guilty, he will pay his penalty,” Amanda goes on, “although I cannot imagine that he is. But that’s what trials are for, so I’ve been taught. Until then, however, it would be cruel and wrong to keep him in jail.”
She takes a step toward Rosen. “Mr. Salazar will show up for his trial, and every other hearing at which he is required,” she says. “I give you my word on that.”
Dixant, whose expression has become more and more a study in irritation, scrambles to his feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor,” he calls out. “Some woman off the street waltzes in here and vouches for the accused’s character, and that’s supposed to influence your decision? What is her legal standing? Does she have any?”
Rosen’s look to him is withering; you could cut glass with that stare. You just shot yourself in a place that’s really going to hurt, pal, I think with delicious pleasure, as I look at him, back to Rosen, then to Amanda, who stands in place, calm and composed.
Rosen leans over the front of her podium—she must have gotten up on her tiptoes. Her cheeks are flushed, as if she had put her rouge on in a closet. “Amanda Burgess is not some woman off the street, as you have blithely and carelessly characterized her,” she tells the hapless deputy D.A. “If Steve Cooley came in here and testified on someone’s behalf, would you think he knew what he was talking about?”
Steve Cooley is the Los Angeles District Attorney, Dixant’s boss.
“Well, yeah, of course,” Dixant mumbles. He’s in deepwater and he knows it, although he still doesn’t understand how his boat capsized.