The Guardian (12 page)

Chapter Ten

Connie Nguyen’s office was on the seventh floor of the Harris County Criminal Justice Center on Franklin Street -- smack dab in the center of Houston’s Beltway 8.    Born Yen Nguyen and the oldest of three siblings, Connie immigrated from Vietnam to the United States in 1969 and settled in San Jose, California with her family when she was nine years old.  Her father worked as a laborer, taking any odd job he could find while her mother worked as a maid.  During her years at Stanford, she recalled many nights being afraid for the welfare of herself and younger siblings; her father often went weeks with no work, and her mother’s work paid meager wages.  But despite all of the financial hardships they’d encountered, her parents found ways to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.  She wondered now how they’d managed.  Often thinking her mother may have done the unspeakable.
       Upon graduating from law school and passing the Texas bar exam, Connie moved to Houston to work in the State Attorney’s office where she remained for a period of three years before deciding she wanted to practice criminal law.  She quickly realized that she was on the wrong side of the courtroom.  After defending murderers, rapists, and drug dealers for five years, she felt the unrelenting desire to protect the community; lock up the bad guys and throw away the key, so when the opportunity presented itself to sharpen her law skills as a federal prosecutor, she grabbed the bull by its horns and tackled it like a matador.
         
Connie’s shoulder length hair was black as night and her dark eyes were looking across the room at Lydia and George who were seated at a round conference table in her office.  She pushed her hip off the edge of her oak desk and said, “Your client has no idea who we’re dealing with.  Those are some very dangerous people --”
       “I’ve been trying to get that through Lydia’s head all week.” Frustration brushed across George’s rugose features.  He wore a grey jacket, a yellowy button down shirt, navy polyester pants riddled with pulled threads, and those dreadful diabetic sloshing shoes.
       “I’m not abandoning this case.  Or Dawn.  She’s not guilty, Connie.   I really believe that. I’m not afraid of some hoodlum drug dealers either.  I grew up in a neighborhood with drug dealers on every corner.  Heard gun shots in the middle of the night.  Lived in fear that one of my brothers could turn out to be one of them. “  Lydia rocked a new navy pants suit and a pair of Louboutin heels.  She was no older than forty, although the bags under her eyes told a different story.  And Lydia in heels?  Now, there was a first.
         
What a complimenting pair, Connie thought and, like every other law professional in the city, she would never have guessed in a million years that those two would work so successfully as a team, especially with all of the racist rumors floating around about George.   Many figured hiring a black, and a woman at that, would put an end to the rumors.
         
She paced the floor in front of them.  “Amos Jones may be a hoodlum, a thug, or even a gangster, Lydia, but the people he’s been running dope for, are the epitome of evil.”  Connie exhaled and paused for a moment.  “Emilio Sal Chávez has been evading the FBI and the DEA since the 1980’s.  It’s believed that he has even undergone plastic surgery to alter his image.   Not many know what he looks like, except for the men who work for him.  We don’t know if Amos Jones even knows what he looks like – “
         
“What about Delacroix?  Could he know?”
         
“Delacroix is the last person on
this
side of the fence who will divulge any information, much less anything he may know about a drug lord.”  George huffed.
         
“I think he may know more than you think and with the right persuasion, he
may
talk.”
         
“How can you be so sure?”  Connie queried.
         
“I went to his office a few days ago --“
       “You what?”  George scowled.  He looked like he was about to have a panic attack.  “What on earth were you thinking going to the office of such a monster?  We discussed this, Lydia!” he stood up and sauntered toward the window, as if the short walk and distance from her would do him some good.  He turned around, pointing a finger.  “He’s going to think I’m an imbecile!  Our office will be the laughing stock of the city! What were you thinking?”
         
Just when she thought she’d seen George furious, she was looking into the face of an enraged man.  But by the time he was gazing out of the window, he’d calmed down.          Lydia looked at Connie, “Do you think Dawn Miles could help your case?  She says she didn’t see much, but she may just be afraid.  And scared to talk. 
That
, I do believe.”
         
Connie pulled out a chair at the table and sat across from Lydia.  Her back faced George.  “I do, actually – “
       George whipped around, looked at Connie as if confirming she’d spoken those words, then at Lydia, and then back at Connie.
         
“Taking Amos down will hurt Sal Chavez’s operations in Houston.   But it will anger him, too.  And put your client and her family in grave danger.  We can only protect her for so long.  You know that.”
         
“Then I’ll advise her to move around.”
         
“It doesn’t matter where she may go, they will eventually find her.”
         
“Well, that’s reassuring.” George languidly walked back to table, taking his seat.  “What about us?  How safe are we?”
         
“As with any case, we take our chances every day.  Just depends on the sanity of the defendant.”
         
“What are you offering, Ms. Nguyen?”  Lydia asked.  She didn’t care one way or the other about the impending threats from a drug dealer.  As far as she was concerned, they needed to worry about
her
.  Not the other way around.
         
“Well, I’d like to talk to your client and find out what she knows before I make that determination.   Probation at worst.  She
was
at the scene.  Drove Mr. Jones here from Louisiana.  In her own car.  There’s a lot one can speculate about those facts.”
         
“Only because she needed the money.  Bank records prove that.”
         
“Then she should have sold the car.”  Connie shifted in her seat.  “Look, let’s not get technical here.   She made a bad decision to involve herself with Amos Jones in the first place.  I highly doubt Judge Pope will believe that she didn’t know Jones was a drug trafficker nor will he believe she didn’t know about his criminal record.  She needs to own up to what she knew, and start talking if she ever wants to go home again.”
                                                                        ¤     ¤     ¤
       Lydia and George left the prosecutor’s office and drove east down Franklin Street toward Hamilton.   Neither spoke a word in the car, although Lydia already knew what he was thinking. 
I can’t believe she’s actually considering making a deal with Dawn Miles.
  Nor did he mention her secret visit to Delacroix’s office.  Maybe he was starting to agree with her presumption that Dawn Miles was indeed innocent and at the wrong place at the wrong time…. And in the wrong company.  Had he finally figured that people did make mistakes?  Especially naïve teenagers?
       Probably not.
       George finally spoke and what he said surprised Lydia in a good way.  “I’m sorry for shouting at you back there.  It’s just that --,” he sighed.  “I’m getting too old for this shit. “
       “Too old for what?” her forehead creased with perplexity.
       “I’m ready to retire, Lydia.  I’d like to travel and see the world before I die.”
       She stopped at a red light, turned to George and gave him an apologetic gaze.
       “If you retire, then who’s going to fuss at me when I decide to defend a stupid teenager?”
       They laughed.  And that was the first time, in a long time, that she’d seen him smile.  Happiness -- oh no, hell no!   That old bastard wasn’t happy.  Didn’t know the meaning of the word.
      
Laughter … yeah, laughter
looked good on the old man.
       Traffic seemed to be at its worst in downtown Houston.  Every stop light and asshole attempting to make a right turn on the one-way streets seemed to elevate her growing agitation.   When she and George reached the jail, she felt like she needed a libation in the strongest form.
       Lydia and George entered the jail through a set of heavy double doors, only to walk a few paces, climb a set of steps, enter another set, and then another.  The waiting area was a pretty substantial size – gritty cement floors and concrete boulder walls painted puke peach.
       An officer sat high behind a fortress of bullet proof glass that stretched to the ceiling, Formica and hardwood. He peered down at Lydia with his beady eyes and puffy jaws, then gave a nod.  Small holes drilled in the glass allowed her to hear him ask: “How can I help you?”
       “Attorneys Lydia Hall and George Nielson to see our client Dawn Miles.”
       The officer slid two visitor badges through a slit beneath the glass and pressed a button that sounded, unlocking a door on the right.  A sign read:
INMATE COUNSEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT
         
George took a seat at the wooden table while Lydia shuffled through her attaché case, removing a legal pad and pen.  Dawn was entering in handcuffs before Lydia took a seat.
       “How are you today?”  Lydia asked, noticing the puffiness around Dawn’s eyes.  She’d been crying.  A lot.
         
“Not too good.  I wanna go home.”  Dawn struggled to hold back an outburst, but it seemed when she said the word
home
, she was overcome with anxiety and couldn’t help but wail.  Her handcuffs clanging, Dawn buried her face in her folded arms on the table.
       When he thought she could hear him, George said: “The state’s willing to cut you a deal.”  Seeing the girl in anguish, George took the liberty of speaking.  The old man did have a heart after all, Lydia thought.  “If you testify, your bond will drop considerably and you can go home.”
         
Dawn lifted her head, her hair in disarray, and her face wet with emotion.  “How much?” her glassy eyes glanced back and forth between Lydia and George. “Twenty-five-thousand,” Lydia answered.
       “But isn’t my bond a million?”
         
“Right now, yes, but if you agree to this deal, it drops considerably.”
         
“How much time do I have to make a decision?”
         
George and Lydia exchanged perplexed gazes.
         
“I thought you wanted to go home?”  Lydia asked.
         
“I do, but … a couple of the girls in my cellblock saw the incident on the news.  One of the girls knows the beeper shop owner.  He’s the father of her children.  She told me last night that Amos works for some big drug cartel in Mexico.  When I get home, I’ll be watching my back for the rest of my life.  My parents will be in danger, too.  And my brother.  Do I have another option?”
       “Yes.  Prison.  The state will try you along with your codefendants.  Because right now, that’s what they are.”
       “I just don’t know— “
       “What’s there not to know? You’re facing life in prison for something you didn’t do.  George and I are both aware of that. We are here to help you, but you have to meet us half way.”
       “What happens after the trial is over? I go home and wait for the cartel to come after me?”
       An eerie silence came over the room.  No one was looking at anyone.  Each just found something to stare at as if the answer was buried there.
       After a moment, George spoke.  “When Lydia decided to take your case, I was furious and confused.  I hate these types of cases.  I mean, drug cases.  Although they are plentiful here in Houston, they are just not the kind of cases I like to defend.  Until now … after meeting you in person, I take back what I thought.   I see the pain in your face.  Lydia told me about your parents.  That your father is a great cook and that your mother is worried sick about you.”  His voice broke into a hoarse whisper.  “Take this deal.  Go home and pick up the pieces of your life.  Sure, people will talk and that’s normal, but that should be the least of your worries.   Amos Jones is not getting off, Ms. Miles.  He’s looking at forty years.  At least.”
         
Lydia gave him a thankful gaze and added, “Your parents are prepared to pay a twenty-five-hundred-dollar surety bond to get you out of here and I’ll put the twenty-five-thousand bond on my credit card.  Your parents will get that surety bond back at trial.
         
“Your parents urge you to take the deal.   With your testimony, Amos is looking at sixty.  He won’t be around to bother you.  At least for another twenty years. And who’s to say where you’ll be in twenty years.”
         
“So, what do you say?”  Lydia asked.
         
“Sure.  I’m dead either way.”
                                                                        ¤     ¤     ¤
       “She’s lying.”
       George was still sitting in the chair as he shook his head.
       Lydia was staring at the puke-green metal door that had just closed behind Dawn and the security guard.  “You really think so?”
       “Lydia,
that girl
knew about the drug deal,” he pointed at the closed door as if Dawn stood there.  “I’m certain of it.”
       “I don’t think so, George,” she stood and paced the small room, then returned to the chair, dropping herself onto it.  She frowned at the hideously painted door.  George had a point.  Dawn’s involvement
was
questionable, but guilty of actually being part of the drug deal?  Not a chance.  The girl was broke.  She worked at a hotel for minimum wage and drove a luxury sports car, but the means to purchase the vehicle had been proven with bank statements and the bill of sale signed by Dawn Miles herself.  It hadn’t been a flashy cash sale.  She’d traded her first vehicle in for the hot rod.  An impulse buy.  Nothing more.  Amos Jones had absolutely nothing to do with Dawn’s red Mitsubishi 3000GT.  That, Lydia was sure of.