I had been summoned to a hearing regarding the request to reduce bail for the two defendants, Ronald Van Cleave and Paul Henderson, to be held in California Supreme Court Justice Terence Hiller’s courtroom in San Remo.
Hiller, a buttoned-down jurist in his late fifties, was generally regarded as a no-nonsense magistrate who brooked no fools.
I arrived early and found a seat in the rear of the spectator gallery. As a boy I had visited the courtroom countless times and always stood in awe of its majesty. I admired its rich mahogany gallery and jury box, its stately witness stand, the august judge’s bench, and the ornate crystal chandelier from which bounced twinkling speckles of reflected light that winked wistfully at those whose attention it caught. To my boyhood eyes, everything about the courtroom looked imposing and prodigious.
Through the eyes of age, however, its size and majesty came into question. It appeared timeworn now and cramped, its once-vibrant benchmark showpieces grown lackluster; the chandelier dusty and slightly askew; the filtration system barely camouflaging a stale and fusty atmosphere.
Funny how time changes perspective. Nothing seems what it was. The only constant is inconsistency. I was teetering on the threshold of depression when the courtroom burst into life.
Assistant District Attorney Skip Wilder barged through the swinging doors, lugging an overstuffed briefcase, present on behalf of the prosecution.
He was followed in short order by a pair of court-appointed defense counsellors, along with the parents of the defendants.
I watched as Ronald Van Cleave and Paul Henderson were led into the courtroom by two armed police officers, both boys dressed in dark suits that lent them each an air of undeserved respectability. They had fresh haircuts and were clean-shaven. Contrariwise, however, they brandished leg irons and their wrists were shackled. Once seated at the defense table, each was attended to by his parents.
Van Cleave’s father was a tall man, wearing a blue-checked suit and purple tie. His wife wore a black evening gown-like dress that was more formal than the proceedings warranted.
Paul Henderson’s father, a senior version of his absurdly musculared son, wore a tight-fitting gray suit. His head was shaved. He flaunted a red ruby earring.
Henderson’s mother, small in stature, was in what my mother would have described as a housedress, neatly pressed and clean, but skimpy, too paltry for the occasion.
I noticed Paul Henderson staring at me through dark, virulent eyes. I flashed him my most appealing grin. He scowled.
His father was standing in front of the defense table talking with one of the attorneys. “He’s a fucking liar,” I heard the elder Henderson exclaim as he pointed in my direction. “My boy didn’t do squat to them girls.”
“All rise,” Judge Hiller’s bailiff, Ken Scott, called out.
Judge Hiller entered the courtroom and quickly took his seat at the bench. He glanced briefly at the court stenographer and nodded to Ken Scott, then banged his gavel. “Please be seated.”
Skip Wilder approached the bench. “Good morning, Your Honor,” he said with a sideways glance at Mr. Henderson who was still on his feet glaring at me. Aware of Wilder’s attention, Henderson tore his eyes from me and sat.
“We’re here in response to defense counsel’s petition to establish a lower bond for the defendants,” Wilder said.
The judge stared at the two boys over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. Then he focused his attention on the lawyers. “Mr. Clarkson,” he said to the lead defense counsel, “please begin.”
Bob Clarkson, a San Remo local who had defended a number of miscreants on behalf of the County, spread several sheets of paper on the lectern and began to read aloud from them.
My gaze wandered to the families. The Van Cleaves were paying close attention to Bob Clarkson. Henderson Senior, however, leaning back in his chair, was alternately picking at and then biting an errant fingernail. His son, Paul, was slumped in his seat looking bored.
Following Clarkson’s statements, his colleague, Royal Morris, stepped to the lectern and began praising his clients as upstanding members of the Freedom High School sports program who had been unfortunately corrupted by Henry Carson.
He extolled the athletic prowess of both boys, pleading with the judge for a reduction of their bail so they could immediately return to the field of play and continue their quest for college athletic scholarships.
Had I not known better, I’d have come away thinking these two meatballs were upstanding members of society, deserving of lesser bail, perhaps even an immediate release from custody, both of them candidates for a bright and shining future.
But I did know better.
When Skip Wilder called me to the podium, I adjusted the microphone and nodded my greetings to the judge. “I beg to differ with the defense attorney’s appraisal, Your Honor. These two defendants are a cruel and heartless pair of merciless thugs. They preyed on any number of young girls and wreaked upon them the kind of emotional and sexual havoc that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.
“As an officer of the law here in San Remo County, I implore Your Honor to not be misled by counsel’s florid presentation. There’s no way these two sexual predators should be allowed back into society. The record speaks for itself. They threatened and terrified every member of the Freedom High School swim team. And they show every indication that, were they to be released from custody, they’d do it again. They need to remain incarcerated until such time as a jury determines their ultimate fate.”
At that point, the elder Henderson bolted to his feet. “How can you listen to this crap, Judge?” he shouted. “Clearly, this guy’s not telling the truth. Paulie’s a wonderful kid. So is Ronnie. And this so-called officer of the law is nothing but a fucking liar.”
Ronald Van Cleave’s father jumped up and shouted, “Amen.”
Judge Hiller glared at them. To Bailiff Scott, he said, “Please remove these men from the courtroom.”
As Scott took hold of his arm, Mr. Henderson lashed out at him. “Don’t touch me,” he yelled. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
He placed both of his hands on Scott’s chest and shoved him, momentarily knocking him off-balance.
Then he pointed to me. “You’re a stinking sack of shit,” he exclaimed.
By then Ken Scott had recovered. He drew his S & W semi and leveled it at Henderson. “Hands where I can see them.”
Henderson stared first at the gun, then at Scott. He slowly raised his hands.
Scott motioned to the elder Van Cleave and with his pistol still trained on Henderson, escorted both men out of the courtroom.
Judge Hiller, shaken, immersed himself in thought for several moments. Then he studied both defendants. After a while, he slammed down his gavel. “Bail request denied. Court is adjourned.”
Hiller gazed briefly at the assembled, then headed for his chambers.
As we were filing out, Skip Wilder joined me. “What did you make of that?”
“The tree isn’t far from the apple.”