CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

K. Conrad Ortega showed his I.D., allowing him to enter the area at the police station where attorneys met with their clients. It was a routine he had become quite accustomed to since embarking on a career as a public defender. At thirty-eight, an even six feet, with closely cropped dapple-gray hair, Ortega knew he wasn’t exactly Johnny Cochran when the man kicked ass in the courtroom back in the day. But that didn’t mean he worked any less hard for the people he defended. Even someone accused of killing a popular judge in this town and sexually violating his wife still deserved the presumption of innocence and a fair trial.

If it went that far.

Ortega went over the facts as he knew them pertaining to the accused. Rafael Santiago was a thirty-two-year-old Cuban. He had lived in the U.S. since 1980, coming over in the Muriel boatlift. After serving time for a petty crime, he had raised his criminality a notch by strangling his pregnant girlfriend.

It was Judge Crawford who had sentenced Santiago to life in prison and to whom he swore vengeance, if he ever got out—which Santiago did after serving just over twelve years with time off for good behavior.

Ortega put his briefcase on the table. This was the kind of case all lawyers lived for. Especially those who were trying to make a name for themselves and move into the salary range of the elite defense lawyers of the world where not enough Latino attorneys had made their mark.

But Ortega wasn’t ready to think about having a multimillion-dollar house built from the ground up just yet. First he had to win this case, if at all possible. Then he’d let the chips fall where they may.

The door opened and he watched the shackled prisoner being led in by a burly officer. Rafael Santiago was dressed in orange jail overalls and looked smug, as if he didn’t give a damn what happened from this point on. Or perhaps he failed to recognize the serious implications of his situation.

Ortega had the officer remove the shackles and cuffs, which he did reluctantly.

“You can leave us alone,” Ortega instructed the officer.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he said.

“Thanks.” Ortega turned to his would-be client, who looked him up and down, as if he could do better. He doubted it. Not for what they paid public defenders. “I’m K. Conrad Ortega and I’ve been assigned to represent you.”

Santiago sneered, running a hand through his short, shiny black hair. “I’m supposed to be impressed, or what?”

“I’m not here to impress you, man,” Ortega said, somewhat irritated, but determined to keep his cool for both of them. “Just here to offer you my assistance. Now have a seat and let’s talk about the case against you.”

When the accused seemed hesitant to sit, as if the chair was booby trapped, Ortega sat first. Finally Santiago joined him.

“You’re facing some very serious charges, Rafael,” Ortega said upfront. “If the State has its way, they may seek the death penalty if you’re convicted.”

Santiago seemed unperturbed by this. “That’s up to them, man. Can’t change what’s gone down. Or what’s gonna happen.”

“Are you saying you’re guilty of the charges?” Not that this would come across as a great surprise to Ortega. After all, at least half the people he represented were guilty. And most of them weren’t able to do much to help their own cause, which, in effect, boiled down to the same thing.

Nevertheless, the majority of those he came across swore on their mother’s grave that they were innocent, even when they weren’t. But then lying was usually the least of their problems.

“What difference does it make what I say?” spat Santiago with a flicker of contempt in his dark eyes.

“Could make a big difference,” Ortega responded. “If you are innocent and I believe you, I’ll go to bat for you as if you were my own brother.”

“And if I’m not, what you gonna do then—send me to the white wolves and black bears?”

Ortega smiled humorlessly. “I’m obligated to defend you either way,” he admitted. “All I’m looking for is the truth.”

But with that came a price. Any lawyer would tell you that the wrong truth would make it difficult to generate the necessary enthusiasm to mount a credible defense.

Yet anything was possible.

Santiago shifted uncomfortably. “They’ve got the wrong man!” he said flatly. “They’re trying to railroad me, man, for something I didn’t do!”

Ortega looked him in the eye, usually a sure fire indication of whether or not a person was being straight with him. “You’re telling me you didn’t shoot the judge three times at pointblank range? And then rape and sodomize his wife—?”

“I just got outta the pen, man,” Santiago answered, flipping hands caustically up in air. “You think I wanna go back right away for offing a judge and raping his woman? I ain’t crazy!”

Ortega was not immediately convinced. Far from it. “You were picked out of two lineups by Maxine Crawford, the judge’s widow,” he told the suspect. “One was a photo lineup; you know about the other. What do you make of that?”

“What the hell can I make of it?” Santiago hunched his shoulders brazenly. “People believe that all Latinos look and smell alike. C’mon, man, you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. I guess the judge’s wife saw only what she wanted to see.”

Ortega mulled over his words. He did know from personal experience that some had trouble distinguishing one Hispanic from another. This was especially true when it came to Latinos in trouble with the law. But the reality was that they came in all different sizes, shapes, and shades just like everyone else. If Maxine Crawford identified Santiago as her attacker and husband’s killer, it couldn’t easily be dismissed as a simple case of mistaken identity.

Then there was any DNA evidence the police might have in their possession. It rarely pointed the finger in the wrong direction.

Ortega cast a narrow eye at the suspect in this case. He wasn’t buying Santiago’s weak explanation for why he was in the hot seat.

But what if Maxine Crawford had bought it? What if the witness saw what the cops wanted her to see instead of the real person who attacked her and Judge Crawford?

Was it possible that this could have been a case of mistaken identity? Or was this just a clever con by a man with nothing to lose, except quite possibly his life?

Ortega thought about the evidence he was aware of so far against Rafael Santiago. It was flimsy at best, aside from the eyewitness to the crime who also happened to be the second victim. Being traumatized as Maxine Crawford was could have affected her ability to get her facts straight.

He fixed his eyes on his client. “You swore vengeance against Judge Crawford for sending you up the river—” He left it there to gauge his reaction.

“Man, I swore vengeance against everyone back then,” Santiago claimed. “I was mad as hell about being sent to prison for killing that bitch!”

“You’re saying you were innocent of that, too?” Ortega batted his eyes skeptically.

Santiago snarled. “I killed her, man, all right! But she deserved it. She was two-timing me with my cousin. Went and got herself pregnant and expected me to take care of her and the bastard. Can you believe that?” He furrowed his mouth wickedly. “I’d have killed my homey, too, but he got away before I could put a bullet between his eyes!”

Santiago pretended as if he was doing just that—aiming his hands at Ortega’s face. The attorney was not impressed. “So what about your threats against Crawford?”

“Just empty words, man,” Santiago said tonelessly. “I said what I felt at the time, but it don’t mean I spent the last twelve years of my life just waiting to get out to do in the judge and bang his woman.”

Perhaps not, considered Ortega. Or, he may have done just that, putting the suspect in the unenviable position he was in at the moment. It would ultimately be up to the courts to decide.

And his skills as an attorney.

“I’ll do what I can to help you, Rafael,” he said honestly. “All I ask is that you be straight with me all the way. Deal?”

For the first time Santiago grinned. “Deal.”

Ortega reached across the table and shook the prisoner’s hand. It was cold as ice, much like his eyes. Was that an indication that this one was slated to be a frigid case all the way?

“Can you get me outta here, man?” Santiago looked at him without blinking, as if he believed it was truly possible.

Ortega was all business when he stood and said, “The arraignment is Monday. It’s highly unlikely there will be any bail for you.”

“Why not?” Santiago’s jaw dropped. “What about innocent till proven guilty?”

He was serious. Ortega raised a brow. “You’ve already been down this road,” he advised. “I’m afraid all ex cons are presumed guilty until proven innocent.”

Santiago seemed to have trouble digesting his situation. Ortega found this bizarre, considering he highly doubted the man would be able to raise the money anyhow for what could only be a bail well out of his reach.

“The most we can hope for is that adequate security will be in place at the courthouse,” Ortega told his client candidly. “After all, we are talking about the murder of a popular judge. And many people can be unforgiving—”

He wondered if Rafael Santiago was one of those people.