“What about Mayor Villaraigosa?” the judge asks. “Governor Schwarzenegger? President Bush?”
Sigh of annoyance: “Yes.”
“Well, maybe not Bush,” the judge says, deadpan.
The sparsely occupied room bursts into laughter, Dixant and the Salazars excepted.
“Only kidding,” Rosen says. “Don’t anybody tell on me to the Justice Department. So, Mr. Dixant. The well-established concept of a credible person, a person who carries weight in our community, is one that you accept and understand. That there are people whose word speaks truth to power, which the community pays attention to.”
I stuff my papers into my briefcase. This hearing is over.
“Yes,” Dixant answers. He can barely keep his head up now.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Judge Rosen says to him. “So do I. Which means we are on the same page.” She preens a moment for her special guest. “Defendant is released on his own recognizance, pending the outcome of his preliminary hearing, which we will schedule for …” She looks to her clerk, who is scrolling through the court’s schedule on her computer. But before she can announce a date, I make a snap decision. Quickly, I raise my hand.
“What is it, Ms. Thompson?” the judge asks.
“We’ll waive prelim, Your Honor, and go straight to trial.”
Rosen mulls over my request. “Have you discussed this with your client?”
I glance back at Salazar, who doesn’t understand what’s happening, which is good. “Yes,” I answer. “We have.”
That’s a lie, but only technically. Salazar wants out; not just for a week, but until he goes to trial. Although I won’t get a preview of the state’s case against him, I already know the basic parameters. I also know that Dixant will again request that bail be revoked, and his office might come up with a better reason to do it, one that will change the judge’s mind, regardless of how star-struck she is at the moment over Amanda Burgess.
Rosen looks to Dixant. “Any objections from the people?”
My worthy opponent shakes his head. He wants out of here so he can lick his wounds and return to fight another day. “No, Your Honor,” he acquiesces.
The judge is brisk. “Set trial for sixty days from today,” she instructs her clerk. “Good for both of you?” she asks Dixant and me.
The marathon is in eighty-two days; I know the date to the hour. This trial will be all wrapped up long before then. If I run into a problem, I’ll ask for a continuance.
“I’m good,” I announce.
“Also me,” Dixant tells her.
“The defendant will sign the required documents, then will be free to go,” Rosen pronounces. She reminds me: “Make sure your client knows all of his obligations and responsibilities, Counselor.”
“Absolutely, Your Honor,” I assure her.
Rosen makes a note in her calendar, then smiles at Amanda, who has come over to stand next to Salazar. “Thank you for your participation, Mrs. Burgess,” she says. “It was a privilege to have you in my courtroom.”
“The privilege was mine, Your Honor,” Amanda responds with a generous smile. “And it’s Ms., not Mrs.”
“W
HY AREN’T YOU WEARING
a skirt?” Reggie Morton confronts me.
Idiot. As if my attire in any way matters. “It’s at the cleaners,” I answer tartly.
But to him, obviously, apparel is critical. He’s like the student who writes a crummy term paper but presents it in a fancy binder from Kinko’s. In his mind, that warrants a passing grade—sizzle without steak. “Can’t you get nothing right?” he mutters under his breath.
“Excuse me?” I bark. I’m not in a forgiving mood this morning. Knowing that I’m going to get my butt kicked always puts me in a sour frame of mind.
“Nothing,” he says, taken aback by my abruptness.
We’re in the prisoner’s holding room adjacent to the courtroom. In a few minutes, Reggie’s trial will begin. He spurned my last attempt at pleading out, so now we are going into the pit.
For the record, I am dressed in a navy-blue blazer and slacks, one of my sharpest outfits. I will probably be the best-dressed person in the courtroom. But all Reggie cares about is what is covering my lower body. He has never gotten his priorities straight, and never will. Which is why he will go down.
“See you inside,” I tell him as I stand up. Usually, at this juncture, I throw the client a bromide, like “It’s going to be fine” or “We’ll get through this,” but with him I can’t fake it.
He nods, but doesn’t speak; he’s freezing up from tension. I leave him and enter the courtroom.
Lorraine Tong, my District Attorney counterpart, an old hand about a decade my senior, is sitting at the prosecution’s desk going over some last-minute notes. She gives me a professional smile of greeting as I place my briefcase on the defense table and take out a sheaf of papers, which I thumb through to make sure they are in the proper order.
“How’s the running going?” Lorraine asks me.
“Fine,” I answer. It seems as if everyone in the building knows about my quest.
“Good luck. With your training,” she adds. She turns away and speaks to another D.A., a young lawyer on their staff who is sitting second chair for the experience. Lorraine has this case wired, and she knows it. And she knows I know it. The wheels of justice are going to grind to the only conclusion they can. Part of being a good lawyer is doing your best for your client. The best I could have done for Reggie was to get him to take the D.A.’s plea bargain. But he wouldn’t, so for the next couple of days we’re going to be stuck in a leaking boat that’s heading straight over a waterfall.
This is your basic off-the-rack trial, so there are almost no spectators. Judge Hodgkins, who is finishing his last term on the bench, will run a brisk trial, which is fine by me. I want to take my medicine as quickly and cleanly as possible. By lunchtime, the jury has been selected. It’s a Los Angeles mosaic—some young, some older, various ethnic groups, including blacks, Latinos, Asians (Taiwanese, Thai, Filipina), whites.
After the lunch break, Lorraine delivers her opening statement, and I follow with mine. I don’t pull any rabbits out of the hat; there aren’t any in there. Reggie, who had psyched himself up to expect a miracle, shows his dismay with obnoxious body language, which is noticed by everyone in the courtroom, including the judge, who is displeased, and the jury, who will be, once the prosecutor finishes presenting the damning evidence against Reggie. I’ve never bailed on a client, but if I could today, I would.
The state’s principal witness is the cop who arrested Reggie. A veteran narcotics detective who ran the operation from start to finish, he looks like he could have been sent over from central casting—Samuel L. Jackson or Richard Roundtree (without the retro Afro). Lorraine walks him through the whole enterprise, step by step, from the initial encounter to the actual arrest. We’ve been through all this during discovery, so there won’t be any last-minute surprises. He is well rehearsed—he would be a tough nut on cross-examination even if I had a hammer to crack open his shell, which I don’t.
The motel room where Reggie’s drugs and the state’s money changed hands, after which he was promptly and forcefully arrested, had been rigged for video, and now it’s showtime. Lorraine cues the operator to run the tape. The courtroom lights are darkened and we all turn our attention to the monitor, which has been placed so everyone can see it: judge, jury, Reggie and me, and the prosecutors.
Unfortunately for Reggie, lightning doesn’t strike twice. The bust unfolds on the screen exactly as it has been described. I watch the jurors watching the screen. They are riveted. I swivel in my chair to see how my client is reacting.
Reggie, too, is staring at the television set, but there is no acknowledgment that he’s seeing his life wash away like water going down a drain. It is as if he is disassociating from reality, and has found a portal into another world.
Maybe that’s good. Because this video has ruined him in this one.
The tape is over, the lights come on. “I have nothing further from this witness, Your Honor,” Lorraine tells the judge. She steps down, and I replace her at the podium.
“Who initiated this transaction?” I ask the detective.
Calmly, he answers, “I did.” He knows what I’m trying to infer: entrapment. And he’s not going to get caught up in my snare. “It was all done by the book. No shortcuts.” He looks away from me, at Reggie. His eyes remain fixed on my hapless client as he adds, “There was no need to. He made it easy for us.”
“Just answer the questions, please,” I tell him, barely concealing my irritation.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says back to me.
He’s solid granite. I don’t budge him, not an inch. I don’t spend much more time with him; if your questioning is going badly, don’t compound the misery and make things worse by hanging around.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
I walk back to the defense table. Reggie looks at me, hollow-eyed. “You let him off too easy,” he hisses in a harsh whisper. “Fucker suckered me.”
I tune him out and turn away to watch the next witness, a lab tech who will certify the heroin as real, being sworn in.
I hear a whoosh, like air escaping from a tire. “Shit,” Reggie murmurs.
My thought exactly.
By the end of the day, Lorraine has finished presenting her case. She did a tight, clean job. I wasn’t able to lay a glove on any of her witnesses. I hadn’t expected I could, but still, it’s a numbing feeling. Judge Hodgkins thanks the jury, gives them the usual admonitions about not discussing the case or watching anything about it on television or in the press, and reminds them to be back at ten tomorrow morning, when it will be my turn.
Reggie and I huddle for a moment before he’s taken back to lockup. “What happens tomorrow?” he asks.
“It’s our turn,” I say.
“What are we going to do?” His voice is heavy with doom.
The question is good. The answers aren’t. I don’t have any witnesses to counter the cops, the lab work wasn’t compromised, there wasn’t an egregious violation of the law. I only have one decision to make: do I put Reggie on the stand? I know he is his own worst enemy, but at this point, I don’t see what we have to lose. Maybe he’ll be able to charm (make that con) one juror into believing he was improperly seduced, or maybe there is a hidden sob sister who will feel sorry for him. Or maybe there is a mole in this jury, a radical who will vote against authority just because all authority is corrupt, the system screws the individual, the LAPD is racist, or one of dozens of other biases, all of which have a foundation in the truth. That kind of defense does work—again, witness O.J.—but it’s rare. The officers who set up Reggie and arrested him were brothers, so the claim of white or Latino racism against a black man won’t wash.
So, do I have Reggie testify? If I do, the odds are he’ll finish the prosecutor’s job for her. But if I don’t, the presumption of his guilt will be strengthened even more than it already is. Juries want to hear the accused’s side of the story from his own mouth. To deny that opportunity to them, even if the witness sucks, usually hurts your case.
I don’t have anything else. It’s either him telling his story, or betting all my chips on my summation. Either hand is a loser. I have to decide which one gives me slightly better odds: a thousand to one or a million to one.
“Can you handle taking the stand?” I ask him. “Without freaking out, or pissing off the judge and jury?”
We have batted this option back and forth, at length. Initially, he was all for it, but lately he’s been reluctant. He’s scared that he’ll be eviscerated on cross-examination. I don’t blame him. It’s a legitimate fear.
“Do I have to?” he asks.
“No.”
“Will it hurt if I don’t?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I don’t have a crystal ball. Every jury is different.” I hesitate to go on, but I have to. “At this point, I don’t see that we have anything to lose.”
“You mean anything else to lose,” he corrects me. “ ’Cause from what I heard in there today, I already have lost.”
He’s finally being truthful to himself. It’s awfully late in the game, but better late than never.
“It isn’t over till it’s over,” I tell him.
His reply is flat, emotionless, candid. “It’s over. So I’ll do it, ’cause what can it hurt?”
There it is. He’s decided to be the master of his fate. I have to applaud his bravery. “All right,” I tell him, trying to sound optimistic, but knowing I don’t. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning, before court opens, to go through your story.”
As I get up to leave, he grabs my wrist to stop me. Quickly, as if he’s afraid the guard waiting outside will rush in and restrain him, he lets go.
“Sorry,” he apologizes.
“It’s okay. Is there something else?”
He stares down at the floor. “That offer the D.A. made? Do you think …?”
Now
he’s ready to make a deal? “Reggie, I warned you: once we started the trial, it was off the table.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You did. Should’ve listened to you.”
God, he’s so miserable. “But I’ll ask her.”
I call Lorraine Tong from my office. The answer, as I knew it would be, is an emphatic
No.
So tomorrow, Reggie Morton will take the stand in his defense.
Jeremy and I aren’t seeing each other tonight. Except on weekends, we usually don’t when I’m in trial. I need to be completely focused, and I can’t be if I’m with him; that’s particularly important tonight, because I have to prepare for Reggie’s testimony tomorrow, and the stakes are high. Reggie’s going down, that’s not in question. The unknown is how stiff his sentence will be. The difference could be almost a decade. He wasn’t entrapped, so I can’t play that card. But there are mitigating factors; there always are. I need for him to convince the jury that he isn’t hard-core, that he understands he did wrong and is going to turn his life around. Tomorrow morning I’ll come in early and spend an hour with him to make sure we’re on the same page. I’ll bring a Bible, in case we decide to try a Hail Mary
I-found-Jesus
ploy. There are lots of passages in the Good Book about forgiveness and salvation. Maybe Reggie can come up with an appropriate quote (spontaneously, of course). There may be one or two Christians on the jury who would be sympathetic to a jailhouse conversion, however belated. It’s a shameless ploy, but we aren’t playing touch football. Lorraine will have a cow, and the judge will probably put the kibosh on it and warn me not to grandstand; but when all you have are lemons …