Chapter Five

I was squirting mustard on my hotdog from the cart outside my office when Chuck pulled up in the immense mid-’70s jalopy he called Ma. One of the ugliest cars on record, all signs of the make and model had either rusted or fallen off long before Chuck acquired it for two hundred fifty bucks and a set of used golf clubs. The lone exception was the faint scripted “ma” on the console, the letters imprinted on the hard vinyl by part of a long-departed insignia.

Once burgundy, it was now multi-colored, with faded streaks of pink on the hood and orange rust spots around the wheel wells. An absurdly long car, the tatters of its black vinyl roof blew in the breeze, a bad haircut atop the wreck.

Chuck said he kept it because he didn’t care if it was burglarized, which made sense as much time as he spent in the sketchiest parts of Oakland. “Hey, watch the interior,” he warned, eyeing my snack.

“Yeah, sorry. I should have noticed you just had it detailed. I love how they infuse that aroma of smelly socks.”

“Ma’s still purring like a kitten,” he said, patting the cracked dashboard as we set off for the E&J Market.

West of downtown, the fast pace of the city abruptly gives way to a sleepy residential dystopia. Garbage is strewn over sidewalks, and black wrought-iron bars on the brightly colored Victorians lend an undercurrent of tension. Paradoxically, churches dot the landscape. For the most part, the streets are empty, save for the occasional gathering at a corner market.

On the way, I ate my hotdog and reviewed the police report documenting the “tentative” identification of Moore by the witness, the proprietor of the E&J, one Vardan Bedrossian. The identification wasn’t recorded, which was annoying, as was the officer’s decision to characterize the witness’ statement as a “tentative” identification.

According to the reports, Mr. Bedrossian had pointed to two photos—one of Moore and one of a “filler”, indicating that the two photos most resembled the shooter. So in fact, this was not an identification, tentative or otherwise. Indicating that a photograph looked like the suspect is a far cry from saying “I think that’s the guy.”

I had yet to receive the witness’ taped statement, which I presumed would cover his description of the shooter and his vantage point. Today, I was curious to ask Bedrossian where the shooter was seated in the car.

I recognized the intersection from the video as Chuck parked his submarine in front of the store. The E&J was a converted one-story, two-bedroom brick home. On the porch, in a high-backed chair to the left of the front door, sat a distinguished looking black man in a fedora. He sat ramrod straight, his left hand resting on the handle of an ornately carved cane, the sleeve of a green cardigan sweater hanging from his forearm.

The window to the left of the front door had been boarded up and painted black. “E&J Market” covered the width of the boards, the white letters hand painted and unevenly spaced. The front door, covered in a metal grate, was open.

With a nod for the man on the porch, I climbed up four steps to the front door. Up close, I saw he was quite old. His expressionless face of hardened leather stared straight into the street.

I paused briefly at the door and turned back to see the view of the street before following Chuck inside. Directly across the street was 454 West Eighth, part-time hangout of the victim’s gang, Cashtown. The home was a blue and white Victorian in disrepair, its intricate molding along the roofline chipped and falling away. The railing of a terrace hung from the second story, partially obscuring a broken bay window. A wrought iron fence encircled an overgrown yard littered with fast-food wrappers, bottles, and probably syringes. In front of the house on the sidewalk, a reddish-brown shape stained the sidewalk, no doubt Cleveland Barlow’s last resting place.

Homicides had become so common in Oakland, there was a protocol for cleaning blood off of public sidewalks. Whatever chemical they used changed the color of the stain but never removed it completely.

Inside the E&J, the store was windowless and dimly lit, with three aisles of mostly liquor and snacks on shelves that nearly reached the low ceiling. Hanging from the ceiling along the back wall, video screens showed an area inside the store entrance and the front counter.

“What you need, guys?” The man behind the counter spoke with a heavy accent, east European, by the sound of it. He looked to be in his sixties, short and stout with a black buzz cut and a moustache that covered most of his face. “You want cigarettes? Liquor? What you need?” he asked, smiling beneath the moustache as we approached.

Chuck took the lead. “Mr. Bedrossian?”

The smiled disappeared as his eyes narrowed. “That’s me. What you want? Who are you?”

“Sir, I’m Chuck Argenal. We’d like to speak with you about the shooting that occurred here recently.”

He paused, his eyes darting back and forth between us. The wheels were turning. Finally, he took a step back and leaned against the wall behind the counter, folding his thick, hairy arms across his chest. “You want to speak,” he said, sticking out his chin, then with a subtle shrug, “So speak.”

We stepped aside as a customer entered the store and approached the counter, placing a tall can of malt liquor on the counter and gesturing for cigarettes. The transaction complete, Bedrossian resumed his mulish pose.

I hadn’t necessarily anticipated cheerful cooperation, but the hostility was unexpected. “Sir,” I began, “we were just hoping to get a better understanding of…”

“You guys don’t show badges. So not cops.” He spoke quickly, in short, staccato bursts with a tight edge to the tone. “Not cops. That means on the other side. I talk to police. That’s it,” he said, punctuating his last two words with the safe sign. “Guys. Sorry for rude, but…”

His eyes shifted past us to the front door, and his eyes widened, a huge smile spreading over his face. “Holy shit!”

He threw his hands over his head and began speaking in his native language. Chuck and I stepped aside as he danced from behind the counter to meet a young man in army fatigues. The men embraced heartily and exchanged cheek kisses before hugging again.

Chuck and I stood awkwardly until the young man caught my eye. “I’m Rocco,” he said without the trace of an accent as he extended a hand. “I just arrived from Afghanistan.”

“This my son. He fights for America,” the elder Bedrossian said proudly. “Haven’t seen in more than one year.” Still beaming, he grabbed his son’s face again and kissed him.

“Okay, Dad.” He smiled sheepishly and said something to his father in their language. “We are Armenian. He gets emotional.”

“Thank you for your service,” I said. “Did you just arrive from the airport? Can I give you a hand with some luggage?” I looked for a reason to hang around a bit, thinking maybe we’d have more luck with Bedrossian with his son around to explain our intentions.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” he replied, quizzically, no doubt wondering who the hell I was.

“Okay, then. We don’t want to spoil your homecoming,” I said awkwardly. “Mr. Bedrossian, if it’s okay, I’ll leave a card.”

“Okay, thanks.” He took it without looking at me, still smiling and staring at his son.

On the way out, I noticed bullet holes and strike marks around the door frame of the market and more on the boarded-up window. I wondered if any of them were fresh and made a mental note to request discovery of all reports of shooting at the location in the past few years.

Back inside Chuck’s heap, he laughed at my lame attempt to ingratiate myself. “ ‘Hey, you don’t know me from Adam, but can I give you a hand with your luggage and maybe join in the family celebration?’ ”

“It was worth a try. The son was at least civil. And by the way, who travels half-way around the world with no luggage?”

“Boy, his dad is tougher than a two-dollar steak, operating a business in this neighborhood. Got the feeling he kept a sawed-off shotgun under the counter.”

“Might make sense to make a run at him in a week or so. Maybe get the kid to mediate.”

“I also wonder about the dime store Indian on the porch. I’ll bet he doesn’t miss much.”

“Did you get a look at the security cameras?”

“Read my mind. I’ll subpoena the video footage. Might shed some light on his vantage point. He sure couldn’t have seen the shooting from inside the store.”

Chuck turned up his favorite Kansas City blues, swaying with the beat as the big car surfed through the pothole-ridden streets of west Oakland. I called the jail to schedule a visit with Moore for the following afternoon.

****

The North County Jail in downtown Oakland is a relic. Built in 1945, from the street the eight-story structure resembles a beige tombstone. High up on the structure, rows of narrow vertical windows encircle the building like arrow slits for archers. The jail houses eight hundred inmates in half as many cells, all either serving a sentence or awaiting trial. Among law enforcement and inmates alike, it is known as the Dungeon.

Inside the jail lobby, rows of seats are bolted to the floor, their fabric torn and frayed. Pay phone stalls line the walls, their phones long since removed. An old television, deeper than its screen is wide, sits dormant on a shelf in the corner above two vending machines.

I exchanged my bar card for a badge on a lanyard that read “Maximum”, turned over my cell phone, and followed the deputy through a metal detector redundantly labeled “Secure Area.” No matter how many times I’d entered the bowels of the jail, I was never prepared for the smell. It was as if body odor and disinfectant formed a fist and punched my face.

Built before electronic locks, every door in the facility is made of gray metal bars, straight out of the old west. Consequently, intermittent clangs of the heavy doors echo throughout the cement walls of the building.

It was my first trip inside a jail since the Dunigan fiasco, but it barely crossed my mind. Darnell Moore had been one of the most cheerful and friendly murder clients. Even if things deteriorated rapidly, I was pretty sure I could protect myself from his spindly frame.

I was greeted by Deputy Spriggs, a veteran of the Dungeon. He led me down an impossibly long hallway that was a study in monotony. The hallway floor, like all those throughout the jail, was unfinished cement, the windowless walls and ceiling of the hallway, painted gun-metal gray. In the distance, the hallway shrank in size until it disappeared, creating the impression that my walk would eventually suffocate me in grayness.

After what seemed like a quarter-mile, Deputy Spriggs arrived at a barred door on the right and opened it with a comically large key. I took a seat at a table inside the eight by eight converted cell and waited for the arrival of my client.

Ten minutes later, resplendent in red and white striped jail togs reserved for gang members, Moore bounced into the cell as if arriving at a party. “Hey, Mr. Turner!” He greeted me enthusiastically as the deputy uncuffed his hands. “I really appreciate you coming. How are you?”

How am I? Well, not in jail, I wanted to answer. Instead, I said, “Good. How are you holding up?”

“I’m good. I’m eager to tell you what I know. In the court interview room, you know, I didn’t feel like it was totally private.”

This was a very good sign—a tacit acknowledgement that he’d been less than forthcoming.

“I’m happy to hear that, Darnell. I’ve copied the basic police report for you.” I slid the half-inch stack towards him. “I’ve redacted the names and addresses of your family in case the report falls into the wrong hands.”

“Good lookin’.”

‘Good lookin’. One of my favorite street terms, both in sentiment and economy of words. Shortened from “good looking out,” it’s a concise expression of thanks for looking after another’s well-being.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself so I can get to know you.”

“Sure. I grew up in west Oakland, but we moved around a bit. I graduated from Franklin High three years ago. I stay with my mom and my little brother.”

“How old is your brother?”

“Ray is fourteen. He got a scholarship to go to a prep school back east next year. I forget the name of it.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Yeah,” he said, broad smile on his face. “He paid attention a little better than me in school.”

“Were you working at the time you got arrested?”

“I was doing warehouse work, but I got laid off.”

“Okay,” I said, shifting gears, “About why you’re in here. Can you start by telling me your activity on the day of the shooting? That would have been last Sunday.”

“Okay, let’s see.” He stared at the wall, somewhere above my head. “So, from what I remember, I had been out the night before, getting my groove on with the ladies,” he said, flashing his smile, “so I slept ’til about noon. Then, I just chilled with some friends and that’s about it.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

“Darnell,” I said calmly, conscious of maintaining my composure, “in order for me to do my job and help you, I need to know the facts. I know we just met and I’m a white guy in a suit and you have no real reason to trust me. The problem is, I’m all you got.”

“Mr. Turner, believe me, I know you’re on my side. I just truly don’t know anything about that murder.”

I stared at the floor for several seconds and decided to cross examine him. Maybe I would trip him up or at least show him the hopelessness of his position.

“Darnell, why don’t we try it this way. Do you have any idea why your car, a very distinctive looking green mid-sized sedan made from junkyard spare parts was at the scene of the murder when it happened?”

“Hey, who’s side are you on?”

“Why was your car there?”

“People borrow my car all the time. If that car was at the scene, I wasn’t in it.”

“Is there more than one key?” I started asking questions at a fast pace, deliberately giving him no time to think.

“No. I lost the spare.”

“You usually keep the key with you?”

“Always in my pocket or in my bedroom, why?”

“You were home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So your mom can verify you were there all evening.”

“I’m not sure she was home.”

“Well, it was Sunday. She was probably at home at six on a Sunday night, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you own a gun, Darnell?”

“No, sir. I’ve never touched a gun.”

“Other than the semi-auto you were posing with in that photo, you mean?”

His smile faded. “We was just messing around. I don’t own a gun.”

“So when I get the search warrant inventory, it won’t list a gun found under your bed?”

“No.”

“Who borrowed your car last Saturday evening?”

“That I couldn’t tell you.”

“They had to get the key from you, right?”

He paused. He was stuck and he knew it. “Man, you got me all confused.”

“Do you know who might have wanted to kill Cleveland Barlow?”

“No, I don’t even know that dude.”

“Not even someone in Iceboyz?”

He was shaking his head now, frustrated. “What? I don’t know about no Iceboyz.”

“Darnell, please. If you live in west Oakland, you know Iceboyz.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t know the gang.”

“Five seconds ago, you told me you didn’t know about the Iceboyz. In the last minute, you’ve lied about someone borrowing your car, never touching a gun, and being clueless about the Iceboyz. You are wasting my time, kid.”

He paused again, retreating to his well-practiced smile, but it looked forced. “Mr. Turner, this case against me is just circumstantial, right?”

Standing to face away from him, I didn’t want to yell at him on day one. I was afraid I’d found Darnell’s misplaced confidence in the strength of his defense. There are two types of evidence: direct and circumstantial. The law treats both types exactly the same. The problem, however, was that somewhere along the way, circumstantial evidence had become synonymous in non-legal circles as inferior or weak evidence.

I hit the buzzer to summon the deputy and retook my seat across the table. “Here’s the thing,” I began in a more relaxed tone. “There are two ways to prove that it’s raining outside. The first is for someone to testify that they were just standing outside, and it was raining. The other is to come into court wearing a raincoat and carrying a wet umbrella. Both ways work.

“So it’s true that so far, no one has said they saw you shoot Mr. Barlow. However, the jury will learn that you had motive, and that someone shot him who looks similar to you and was driving your car.”

“But. Mr. Turner, I didn’t do this!” he pleaded as my escort arrived.

For the first time I heard a tinge of panic in his voice. At least I had accomplished that.

“You know, Darnell. I actually believe you.”

I stood and walked out, leaving him there alone with his thoughts.