Read Blind Justice Online

Authors: James Scott Bell

Tags: #Mystery

Blind Justice (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN
FINALLY WE MADE it back home.
Before heading to the apartment, we nabbed dinner at Chipper’s, which Mandy loved. For some odd reason she liked the liver and onions. That must have come from her mother’s side. I can’t stand liver, and onions make me sweat.
After dinner I took Mandy to 31 Flavors and got her a scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I was number one on her hit parade.
Then we stopped at Blockbuster, and she picked out a tape from the children’s section. Back at the apartment we popped it in the VCR and cuddled up on the sofa to watch it. She was in kid heaven.
It was almost like a scene out of
Father Knows Best.
What Mandy wasn’t aware of was the undercurrent of reality. Every now and then I’d get up from the movie—I think it was
The Little Mermaid—
and go into the kitchen where I had a bottle of Jim Beam in the cupboard. I must have taken six shots before the movie ended.
Mandy wanted to play a game after the movie. Because of the drinks, I wasn’t in the mood.
“Please?” she pleaded, stretching out the magic word like a musical note.
“No,” I said. “Watch more TV.”
“I don’t want to. I want to play a game.”
“No.”
“Read me a book.”
“Not now. Go color.”
Her face grew suddenly dark. “You’re mean,” she said.
That was a new phrase, something I hadn’t heard her utter before. And she was hurling it at me. It stung. “Don’t you say that.”
“But you are, Daddy.”
“You color or watch TV!”
She started crying then and threw herself facedown on the sofa. I closed my eyes and thought hideous things about myself, all true.
The phone rang. I picked up and said, “Yeah?”
“Jake?”
“Who is it?”
“Janet Patino. I’m sorry to call you at home.”
My brain was buzzing. “No, no, it’s fine.”
“I just had to know what’s happening. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I saw Howie, and I talked to the DA.”
“And?”
“Nothing yet. Howie hasn’t been arraigned.”
“When will that happen?”
“Probably next week. Look, why don’t you come into my office on Monday morning. We’ll discuss it then.”
“All right.”
I gave her the address.
“Jake?”
“Yes, Mrs. Patino?”
“You can help Howie, can’t you?”
After a short pause, I said, “Let’s discuss it all on Monday.”
“Thank you, Jake. Thanks for everything. We do appreciate it.”
“See you Monday.”
Mandy was still facedown on the sofa. I sat next to her. She kept her head in the cushions. “Hey, Scooter,” I said.
She didn’t move. I grabbed her around the waist and tried to pull her to me. She stiffened. It was like holding onto a petrified frog. I turned her around and hugged her close, and she finally relaxed.
Stroking her hair, I said, “I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry.”
She breathed softly against my chest. "You know what?" she said.
"What?"
"If you were happy it would be the best thing in the whole, wide world."
"Don't you think I'm happy?"
"No, Daddy."
For once the lawyer didn't have an argument.
Monday morning came faster than I expected. That’s probably because I managed a good Saturday with Mandy. It included the park and miniature golf. Mandy seemed to forget all about the incident the night before.
Sunday we went to the beach. To top it off, my ex-wife actually arrived on time to pick up Mandy in the afternoon. I didn’t ask her how her weekend went, so we didn’t argue.
I was in a fairly good mood when I arrived at my office in the Lee Law Building in Encino on Monday. I parked my Mustang in the lot and trudged up the stairs. A new girl was at the reception desk again. Gil Lee had a problem with receptionist retention. He paid minimum wage for the thankless task of answering phones, making coffee, and trying to look interested when anyone came to see a lawyer.
“Hi, Marlene,” I said.

Ei
leen.”
“Sorry. Any messages?”
Eileen moved her head in super-slow-motion to check the message tray. She was supposedly a college graduate. I thought she must have majored in sleepwalking.
“No,” she said.
I smiled and nodded. Eileen closed her eyes momentarily. I took that opportunity to walk down the hall to the coffeemaker. I poured myself a cup, then went to my office.
It was in the back corner of the building. Normally lawyers look upon a corner office as a sign of prestige and success. They usually have a nice view too. My office looked out on a couple of black dumpsters, an alley, and the rear of Bob’s Hot Dog Palace, a one-man operation that was as much like a palace as my office was like a suite. That’s probably why I liked to eat regularly at Bob’s. We both knew what it was like to operate out of a shoebox.
Once inside, I closed the door and stepped over the boxes and files on the floor. I had developed a sophisticated filing system by this time, one that involved random placement and luck. It usually took me half a day to find something crucial, which didn’t matter much at this point because very little on the floor was crucial.
I threw my briefcase on the desk and opened it.
I told myself regularly that I didn’t have a drinking problem. I could control it. However, I didn’t have any files in my briefcase. I had a pint of bourbon instead.
I opened the bottle and poured some in my coffee, then put the bottle in a drawer.
A quick knock on my door. “Come in,” I said.
Gil Lee entered. He was wearing another of his seriously loud ties, this one a mishmash of so many bright colors I was tempted to squint. “Sheesh, this place is a mess,” he said.
“I know where everything is, so don’t say anything.”
“If you know, you know. I only lease the joint. But I hope you don’t see clients in here.”
“Matter of fact,” I said, “I have a couple coming in today. I was just about to clean up a little.”
“A little?”
“You wanted to see me?”
Gil stepped around a box and sat in one of my formerly plush chairs. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to get into a big thing, Jake. You know me. I like you.”
“What’s not to like?”
“I’ve got bills to pay.”
“You need a nice, juicy medical malpractice claim, Gil, or maybe a police brutality so you can sue the city.”
Gil didn’t smile, which indicated that my attempts at charming him off the subject weren’t working. “Jake, I need the rent.”
I knew that wasn’t easy for Gil to say. He liked to look on his tenants not only as lessees but as his charges. He had a tradition of taking each new tenant for a fatherly lunch at Subway where he would informally pass on his wisdom, like Yoda. Gil actually resembled Yoda with his round face, peeper eyes, and gray hair. At our lunch he told me he knew all about my problems and wanted to help me get back on my feet.
That he knew was no surprise. Everyone in the Los Angeles legal community knew about my “problems.” They had been splashed all over the front page of the
Los Angeles Daily Journal,
our legal newspaper. How could they avoid the juicy headline, “Lawyer for Drunk Driver Shows Up Drunk in Court”?
I was a deputy public defender at the time working in the San Fernando office. Without false modesty, I can say I was a rising star. My first year I’d gotten three straight acquittals, which is no small feat. In 95 percent of cases, defendants are convicted, either in trial or by plea. For a public defender to get even one acquittal was noteworthy.
My drinking was steady, but I picked my spots. I’d been doing that since I was nine. I thought I could always pick my spots, but soon after I was married, the spots started picking me.
Drinking started to affect my work. I had to be taken off a few cases. The head deputy had me in his office a couple of times to express his concern. I was put on a mild probation.
Then I got handed the case of Mr. Rudy Noble.
A real piece of work, Mr. Noble. He was an electrician who liked to drink and hit women. He had pleaded to one battery a couple of years before but was not above admitting to me, with a smile yet, that they hadn’t caught him on several others.
But that was not why Mr. Rudy Noble was my client.
He was my client because he got drunk one night with his buddies, then drove his Chevy pickup through a red light at the intersection of Rinaldi and Sepulveda, and plowed into a Ford Tempo. The Tempo was driven by a man named Julio Sanchez who had his three-year-old daughter, Ines, in the back seat. Mr. Noble and Mr. Sanchez sustained minor injuries. Ines died at the scene.
Noble was charged with vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated under Penal Code section 192. I advised him to plead out, which might have gotten him probation and treatment. If he went to trial, he was looking at state prison.
Mr. Rudy Noble told me he was not going to plead guilty. I asked him why. And he said that he wasn’t going to admit any guilt, ever, just for killing a Mexican.
A criminal defense lawyer is obligated, under the Code of Professional Responsibility, to represent his client with zeal even if he appears to be guilty. This obligation had never been a problem with me. I understood and agreed with the United States Constitution and the right of every citizen to a fair trial. The founding fathers knew what they were doing. They just didn’t know Rudy Noble.
On the morning of September 12, we picked a jury. My strategy was to contest the breath test that showed Noble had a .13% blood alcohol content, the color of the light, and the observations of the prosecution’s witnesses. All standard stuff. I don’t really remember the makeup of the jury because I didn’t care. I was sleepwalking.
Just before the lunch break, as the deputy sheriff was about to return Noble to the lockup, my client leaned over and whispered to me, “You’re the man.”
It was a jock phrase, one that is uttered usually by one teammate to another as an encouragement, an expression of common support. Coming from Rudy Noble, it made me physically ill.
I went to a bar for lunch to prepare for my opening statement. I sat on a stool and stared at a blank legal pad for one hour and fifteen minutes. I did not make a single note, but I drank volumes.
The next thing I remember is sitting at the counsel table with Noble sitting next to me and the jury coming in. I had my eyes closed. Noble leaned over and asked me if I was okay. That’s when I almost threw up.
I heard the judge ask for the lawyers to state their appearances. I think I heard the prosecutor state hers.
I said nothing.
The judge, an ex-cop and deputy DA, called my name a couple of times.
I don’t remember what happened next. From the account in the
Daily Journal,
I apparently told the judge, with the help of a well-known epithet, to leave me alone.
I do remember being hauled back into the prisoner’s lockup by a burly sheriff and having an AlcoSensor shoved in my mouth. The AlcoSensor’s a handheld breath tester that gives a preliminary reading on the amount of alcohol in the system.
It was all over for me as a member of the public defender’s office and almost as a lawyer. Only my admission into an alcohol program and severe groveling kept me from being disbarred.
I might have stopped practicing law altogether if Gil hadn’t rented me an office for less than he usually asked. It was my last hope, a life preserver tossed out to a bad swimmer in a choppy sea.
Gil took no pleasure in informing me that he was about to yank the life preserver back onboard his ship.
“I know you need the rent, Gil,” I said. “I just got a case.”
“What kind?”
“Criminal. A murder.”
Gil rolled his eyes. We both knew that criminal cases provided the worst form of income for a private lawyer unless he represented white-collar criminals or the Mafia. “Well, then, remember the first rule of the criminal lawyer,” Gil said. “Get the money up front. Because if you don’t, they’ll stiff you sure as Richard Simmons sweats. If they’re convicted, they figure you’re worthless. If they’re acquitted, they think, ‘Why did I need him in the first place?’”
The phone buzzed. Eileen, in a voice that gave new meaning to the word
apathetic,
said, “Some people are here to see you.”
With Gil’s help, I shoved all the detritus on my floor to one corner and swept off the top of my desk. Gil bowed out just as Janet and Fred Patino entered my office.
Behind them was the last person I expected to see.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“THIS IS HOWIE’S sister,” Janet Patino explained. “You remember Lindsay, don’t you?”
Openmouthed, I looked at the woman whose car bumped me in the Hinton hospital parking lot. She seemed equally astounded.
I pointed at her. “You’re not . . .”
Lindsay Patino nodded and smiled. “Yep. The bratty kid sister who used to annoy you. I guess I still do, with my car.”
“I never would have recognized you.”
“I’ve grown up a little bit.”
Yes, I thought, in many good ways. Fred and Janet looked the same, just older. Fred was stocky, perfect for the lumber business, and still had a rugged complexion. Janet had the same, soft look about her—very motherly—only now her hair was almost entirely gray.
Then I saw something move in back of Fred. A small body was tucked somewhere behind his thigh. “And this,” Fred said, “is Brian. He’s a little shy.”
Fred lifted the little arm and brought Howie’s son around in front of him. The boy, sandy-haired and thin, put his face in Fred’s stomach. “It’s all right,” Fred said to Brian, but clearly the boy did not feel like socializing.
“Hey,” I said, “would Brian like to see me take off my thumb?”
Smiling, Fred said, “Did you hear that, Brian?”
“I have a little girl,” I said, “and she’s your age, Brian. She likes to see me take my thumb off, too.”
Slowly the tiny head turned, just enough so one eye ventured a look my way.
“Here I go,” I said. I held up my left hand with the thumb in the air, then put my right hand over the thumb. Just before closing my fist, I sent the left thumb down into my left palm. I pulled my right hand upward and
voilà,
no thumb!
The boy’s head came all the way out, and his mouth dropped wide open.
“I’d better put it back,” I said, and with a quick move, I brought my right hand down on my left again and shot the thumb back up. No one will ever confuse me with Houdini, but I’m perfect for a five-year-old audience of one.
Brian broke out in a huge smile. He looked up at Fred and said, “Did you see that!”
“I sure did,” Fred said. “Mr. Denney is a pretty clever fella.”
“I’ve got something else for Brian,” I said. I reached in a drawer and pulled out a couple of Dr. Seuss books I kept for Mandy. “There are some funny pictures in these.” I held them out for Brian, and he took them eagerly. Fred told him to sit on the floor by the door, and Brian did so, spreading the books in front of him.
I motioned for the others to sit. There were only two chairs, so Fred remained standing.
As I spoke, I kept looking over at Brian, making sure he wasn’t listening. Fortunately, he was lost in the Dr. Seuss books and had easily tuned out the adult talk.
“How’s he taking things?” I said softly.
Fred and Janet exchanged pained looks. “He doesn’t know,” Fred said. “We just haven’t . . .”
A quick sob escaped Janet’s mouth. Fred put his hand on her shoulder.
“I understand,” I said. “Let me try to lay this out as easily as I can. This is, of course, a serious charge. If we go to trial and lose, Howie is facing twenty-five years to life in prison.”
Brian was still looking at pictures.
“That’s the punishment for first-degree murder,” I continued, “but I don’t think they can get that. It’s possible, of course, and we’ll know more as the evidence comes in. I don’t think they can do it, however. The most they can hope to prove, in my opinion, is second-degree murder.”
“And what would happen then?” Fred asked.
“That carries a term of fifteen to life.”
A thick silence filled my office. Quickly, I said, “But there’s good news.”
Janet Patino sat up a little in her chair. Lindsay folded her arms.
“I talked to the prosecutor up there, and I think there’s a good chance this case can be settled before trial if Howie pleads to manslaughter. Don’t know yet whether they’ll go for voluntary or involuntary, but either way, it’s going to be significantly easier on Howie.”
“Will he still go to prison?” Fred asked.
“I’m afraid so, but his term will be a lot less than for murder.”
“When will we know?” Janet asked.
“I’ll keep you posted as negotiations continue.”
Suddenly, Lindsay Patino jumped to her feet. “I can’t believe this!” she said. “You’re all assuming Howie’s guilty!” She turned and faced me directly. “And you’re already negotiating like he’s some sort of pawn in a great big game!”
“Lindsay!” Fred said.
Brian looked up from his books. “Whatsa matter with Aunt Lindsay?” he said.
“Doesn’t this bother you, Dad?” Lindsay said.
“I’m sure Jake knows what he’s—”
“This is Howie’s
life
we’re talking about!”
“Whatsa matter?” Brian said with increasing urgency.
Janet got up from her chair. “Let me take him outside.” She gathered up the books and took Brian by the hand.
“But whatsa matter?” he asked once more as Janet guided him out.
After the door closed, I said, “I understand Lindsay’s point.” I was going to talk her down. She looked at me like she knew exactly what I was doing. I went ahead anyway. “This is a tragedy, a terrible tragedy for a family to face. Believe me, if there were a better way to go, I would.”
“What about he didn’t do it?” Lindsay said. The green eyes that had been so friendly and understanding in the parking lot now smoldered.
“As I said, if there were—”
“I’m telling you, he did not do this.”
I thought for a moment that she had some bit of inside information or a piece of exonerating evidence. But I quickly realized that this was a sister talking more out of love than rationality.
“Lindsay, I—”
“And you’re just going to let them take Howie and put him away. He’ll die if he goes to prison. He’ll die there!”
“No one wants—”
“They’ll kill him. He’s gentle . . . he’s . . . he could never have killed Rae, even though she deserved it.”
“Lindsay!” Fred said.
His daughter didn’t stop. “I know Howie, and I know he could not have done this thing, never, ever. And if you just sell him out, you’re not worth a thing.”
“Stop it!” Fred Patino yelled. Lindsay, perhaps realizing she’d gone too far, shook her head and stopped talking. “Jake,” Fred said, “I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” I said. “Forget about it. Look, there’s something you should know. When I went to see Howie, he told me he did it. He told me he killed his wife.”
I looked at Lindsay. She was glaring at me, the seething emotion still all over her face. Her eyes were moist.
“We just have to deal with that,” I said.
Silence filled the room for a few moments. Then Fred spoke. “What about being insane? Is there a possibility?”
“I wish there were,” I said, “but it’s practically impossible to prove. We would have to show that Howie was incapable—
incapable—
of knowing right from wrong at the time of the act. Is there anything in his recent past that would show this?”
Fred shook his head. “What about, you know, mental retardation?” Fred said.
Nodding, I said, “That would be an issue at trial on whether or not Howie could actually form the requisite intent for murder. It wouldn’t be a complete defense though.”
“It’s all so mixed up,” Fred said.
“And traumatic,” I said, “for all of us. Howie was my friend.”
Lindsay huffed. I was starting to get ticked off at her.
I continued, “I’d like to get him the best deal we can. If we take this thing to trial and lose, his punishment will be much worse.”
“Then don’t lose,” Lindsay said.
“We’ll do whatever you say, Jake,” Fred said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Let’s talk after the arraignment.”
After they left I poured a healthy shot of bourbon in my coffee cup and drank the whole thing down in a gulp. Then I sat and crumpled blank legal paper into fist-sized balls and tossed them against the door.
All the while I kept thinking about Lindsay Patino.
Mostly I was angry. Where did she get off telling me I wasn’t “worth a thing”? I could understand a little emotion, but this was an insult delivered right between the eyes. The fair side of my mind told me she had only said it because she thought I was going to sell out Howie. But I didn’t want to be fair, I wanted to be angry.
I wanted to continue being angry because I realized there was more than a little truth in what she was saying. I
didn’t
really want to dig deeper into this case. It looked like a dead bang loser, only with a check attached. Janet and Fred Patino had left me a fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer even though Lindsay had protested the payment. She wasn’t only questioning my ethics, she was trying to take away my next meal.
There was something else going on inside my besotted brain. It was simple, straight, pure, physical attraction for Lindsay Patino.
She wasn’t beautiful in the Hollywood sense, but there was something about her. Maybe it was the spark in her anger. She was passionate, and she had perception. She could see right through me and didn’t mind saying what she thought.
One thing I knew—I wasn’t going to leave things like this. I was going to see Lindsay Patino again soon and set her straight on my motives and abilities.
I was also going to do a little more digging in the matter of the
People of the State of California. v.
Howard Patino,
just to show her and to justify the check.
I picked up the phone, flipped through my Rolodex, and dialed. I got the following deep-voiced message: “Hello, this is the office of Carr Investigatory Services. I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’ll leave a detailed message, I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Beep.
“This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I said. “We have reason to believe you are engaged in consumer fraud, advertising yourself as a service, when it is well-known that you couldn’t find your way out of a paper—”
“Jake Denney!” said Cyril Cornelius Carr on the other end of the line. “Now why’d you want to go and spoil my day like that?”
“Why, Triple C, how’d you know it was me?”
“Who else hath neither wit, nor words, nor the power of speech?”
“Thanks, pal. What’s that,
Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“Julius Caesar.
Paraphrased.”
“So you want to get off your . . . quotes and do some real work?”
“How much and how much?”
“Not much and what I can afford,” I said.
“Meet me at my outside office in half an hour. Your treat.”
“Wait a minute––”
“Put money in thy purse.
Othello.
Act one, scene three.”
He hung up.
I checked my wallet to make sure I had some bills, then made for my Mustang.

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