Chapter Twenty-Nine

A man can condemn his enemies, but it’s wiser to know them.―Harper Lee

As Chuck and I rode out to the crime scene on Wednesday afternoon, I thought back to Damon’s request for the contact visit and wondered how long the twins had been planning this. I’d been careful not to ask Jesse how they’d pulled it off. As a rule, the less I knew about felony escapes, the better. I had simply treated Jesse as a witness who appeared in my office preparing for trial. And as it turned out, he had been remarkably forthcoming.

“Okay, here’s what happened,” he’d said simply, before describing exactly what he had seen on the day of the shooting.

Chuck eased Ma to a stop across the street from the E&J on Eighth Street, two houses down from the murder scene. I had filled Chuck in last night and we had agreed that Jesse’s story could be supported by confirming a few facts with some photos at the crime scene.

“Keep your head on a swivel, Chuck.” We sat in the jalopy with its top down, surveying the area. If Jesse was right, there was a potential for real danger.

“Joe, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,” he said dramatically, peering out through his car’s filthy windshield. “I’ve never shot anybody before.”

“You’re quoting movie lines at a time like this?”

Apart from a homeless man and his shopping cart, moving along the sidewalk toward the E&J, the area was deserted. The market’s front door was closed, a makeshift “Closed” sign hung from a nail on the boarded-up front window.

Across the street at 454 West Eighth, the blue Victorian appeared vacant. Chuck and I walked to the sidewalk where Cleveland Barlow had perished. I had spent so much time staring at photos of the yard, I felt like I recognized every weed. The yard was still strewn with empty malt liquor cans, bottles, cigarette stubs and rolling papers. A strand of yellow police tape, probably left over from the murder, its end wrapped in a slat of the picket fence, fluttered in the breeze.

Chuck had set up on one knee, directly across the street from the E&J, his camera pointed toward the market when two shots cracked the afternoon silence, their fire-cracker pops merged with a metallic ricochet off a street sign not two feet above our heads.

I dropped to the ground on instinct, but that didn’t seem right, so I was up again, sprinting to the car with Chuck. I dove in the back seat and Chuck was on the gas, plowing through plastic garbage bins in a sweeping U-turn as I buried myself in the floorboard. I stayed there for several minutes, catching my breath as we slalomed through the streets of west Oakland.

“That was awful,” I called from the backseat once my breathing had returned to normal.

“Yeah, if he wanted us dead, we’d be dead,” Chuck said, with a dry mouth.

“Yeah. He hit the street sign as a warning.”

We rode in silence until we reached my office. “Looks like Jesse told the truth,” Chuck said, parking on the street behind my car.

“Looks that way. Did you happen to get any photos?”

“No, but I’ll figure something out. You know Churchill said nothing in life is more exhilarating than being shot at without result.”

I just shook my head. “See you tomorrow, Chuck.” Still shaky when I got home, I poured myself a stiff gin and tonic, outlined a direct examination of my star witness, and outlined my closing argument. Assuming Jesse showed up to Court and managed to seem reasonably credible with the jury, he would give the defense hope.

Before bed, I considered my professional ethical duties. I certainly had no obligation to report Jesse’s appearance in my office. For all I knew, the jail had mistakenly released him. Even if I assumed an escape, I had no affirmative duty to report the crime.

I telephoned the jail, cancelling “Jesse Wendell’s” transportation for his court appearance tomorrow morning. Jesse wasn’t there, after all, so it wasn’t necessary. The witness warrant would be withdrawn after he testified, then presumably the jail would release him, or rather, the inmate who was occupying his cell.

I thought of Damon, about to spend his second night in jail. I assumed he was in there, anyway, having taken the place of his twin. I recalled how much he hated jail and thought about how much he must care for his twin brother.

Chuck greeted me in Department 27 when I arrived. “I didn’t get any photos taken because, well, I was being shot at, but through the magic of the GPS on the Internet…” he said, presenting me with a folder of color images. “I emailed them to you so you can pull them up on the big screen in court.”

“I’ll never call you a Luddite again. Thanks!”

“I saw our boy outside. Good luck.”

I realized I hadn’t been the least bit worried about Jesse showing up.

Three weeks into the trial, dozens of calls to order had done nothing to mute the exuberance of Deputy Hartag’s morning rendition. There was a spring in Ludlow’s step as he ascended the bench, his crimson face betraying his previous-day’s activity.

Didery stipulated to the translation of Bedrossian’s remarks on the 911 tape, so I entered the transcript into evidence.

“Mr. Turner, your final witness,” Ludlow said after saying good morning to the jury.

“Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Jesse Wendell.”

The courtroom’s double doors opened, and Jesse strolled down the aisle, cautiously peering about. Didery, immersed in his notes, did a double take upon seeing the witness in civilian clothes. What the fuck? he mouthed.

I gave him a shrug as Jesse took the oath.

“Mr. Wendell, where do you reside?” I asked from the podium.

“I live in Oakland. Currently, I’m homeless. I usually stay with friends.”

“And for how long have you lived in Oakland?”

“I was raised in the foster care system all over the bay area. Mostly in Oakland.”

“Have you ever been convicted of a crime.”

“Yes. When I was ten, I was convicted of murder.”

I didn’t look at the jury but felt them shifting in their seats. “And how old are you now?”

“I’m twenty-three, sir.”

“How about other criminal offenses?”

“Since I’ve been out, some drug offenses, petty theft.”

“Do you recall the events of March twenty-second of this year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you recall seeing a shooting?”

“I do.”

“And where were you when you witnessed the shooting?”

“I was on the corner of Eighth and Maybeck in Oakland.”

I cued up the E&J surveillance video of the intersection that showed Jesse at the intersection just before the green sedan drove past him. “Do you recognize yourself in that video?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing in the area, Mr. Wendell.”

“I, uh, was going to try to buy some weed.”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw a green car coming toward me on Eighth. It was an older model sedan—the one you saw in the video. I saw some young guys on the sidewalk in front of the house across the street from me on the corner. When the car got to the intersection, I heard shooting and saw one of the young guys fall.”

“From your standpoint, could you see if the driver of the green car had a gun?”

“Yes, the driver had a gun.”

“Did you see the driver shoot his gun out of the car?”

“Yes. He stuck the gun out of the car and fired a lot of shots straight up in the air.”

“What happened next?”

“The green car drove past me on Eighth.”

“Mr. Wendell, did you see anyone else shooting that day?”

Jessed looked down at me from the witness stand. Then I saw his green eyes shift to his right, in line with Darnell behind me at the counsel table. The courtroom was silent as he sighed audibly into the microphone. “Yes, sir. Right before the driver shot up in the air, I saw someone shooting out of the second-floor window of the market across the street. He had a rifle.”

I pulled up Chuck’s satellite images on the big screen. On my previous trip to the E&J, I had been so focused on the front porch of the market, I hadn’t bothered to look up, where a dormer window looked out on the street. The window was centered above the porch in what must have been a small attic. Likewise, none of the police photos taken from street level had captured the window.

“Is this the window where you saw the person shooting a rifle?”

“Yes.”

“How many times did you see the person fire from the window?”

“I heard two really loud shots and saw the dude across the street drop. Then right after, I saw the driver shoot up in the air a bunch of times.”

“Did you recognize this person you saw shooting out of the window.”

“Yes, sir. I had seen him a couple days before in the market. I had gone in to buy rolling papers.”

“Can you describe him, Mr. Wendell?”

“Big guy. He was in shape. It looked like he helped out at the store.”

“May I approach, Your Honor?”

I pulled a photograph from a file Chuck had obtained from DMV records.

“Your Honor, I would ask that this photograph be marked as defense’s next in order,” I said, handing Cherlynn the photo. “I’m showing the photo to Mr. Didery.” The prosecutor glanced at the photo and pretended not to care. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

“You may.”

“Mr. Wendell, is this the man you saw shooting out of the window on March twenty-second?”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “That’s him.”

“Your Honor,” I said, walking to my laptop, admittedly drawing out the suspense for the jury, “I will now publish the photo to the jury.” The driver’s license photo of Rocco Bedrossian filled the courtroom screen.

“Mr. Wendell, once again, is there any doubt that the man you see on the courtroom screen was the man who shot out of the window of the E&J Market?”

“No doubt.”

“No further questions.”

Didery sprang from his seat, not waiting for an invitation to cross examine. “Mr. Wendell, you not only committed murder, you did so by bludgeoning the victim with a barbell, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“Were you mentally ill?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you having delusions?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Wendell, you’re asking the jury to believe you today and I’m just wondering if you had any explanation for your committing this incredibly irrational, violent act?”

“I don’t make any excuses for what happened.” Jesse said, breathing deeply. He was overtly calm, but I sensed he was struggling to hold it together. “Obviously, sir, if I had it to do over again, I would handle it differently.”

“Meaning, you may not have bludgeoned your father to death?”

“Sir, he was a foster parent,” Jesse said, his voice shaking with emotion. “And he was…” His voice trailed off as he looked to the floor for several seconds.

Finally, he looked up at the prosecutor with moist eyes and a quivering bottom lip. Gone was the sullen face and permanent smirk. Something about Didery’s question had reached Jesse’s core. As he looked furtively at the prosecutor, the jury saw the witness as a helpless, whimpering boy.

After allowing Jesse to recover, Didery skillfully questioned him about whether he was high on the day in question, his vantage point, his ability to recall Rocco’s appearance, and his decision not to contact the police. It was difficult to read the jury’s reaction.

“Mr. Wendell, you saw Rocco Bedrossian one time prior to the day of the shooting?”

“Yes.”

“And when you described him today for the jury, you said, quote, ‘big guy, in shape,’ correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that the extent of your recollection of his appearance.”

“No, he looked like he did in his DMV photo.”

“Recalling when you saw him on the previous occasion, can you point to anything about his appearance that you recall as distinctive in the least? Facial hair, tattoos, anything?

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

Jesse rubbed his face and looked toward the ceiling, concentrating. Then he shifted his focus abruptly down and to the side. He began to nod.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” I broke in. “I believe the witness is still contemplating an answer to the last question.”

Ludlow looked at Jesse. “Sir, do you have an answer?”

“Yes,” said Jesse, still nodding to himself. “I remember when I saw him in the store, when he walked, he had a pretty noticeable limp.”

To my left, I saw Darnell clench his fist and whisper, “Yes!” under his breath. A few jurors nodded in recognition while others wrote notes on their pads.

Ludlow excused the jury for the morning recess. After a brief word with Chuck, I grabbed a hotdog and reviewed my closing, knowing that the case would likely turn on the jury’s impression of Jesse.

Back in court, Didery’s closing argument began with a predictably detailed review of every piece of evidence against Darnell. Finally, he walked in front of the podium to address the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this has not been a trial where the prosecution’s case has been proven with one dominant piece of evidence like a video of the actual crime or a signed confession. Instead, there have been lots and lots of pebbles of evidence. Darnell Moore had motive to kill Cleveland Barlow. Not only was he a rival gang member, his own house had been shot up just two days before he got revenge.

“Mr. Moore’s car was used in the murder. His gun was fired at the scene. He confessed to being there. Mr. Bedrossian identified him as the shooter. And on and on. Eventually, you look over at all the pebbles and they have formed a pile. A big, undeniable pile of evidence that Darnell Moore committed this crime.

“And Darnell Moore knows that he is guilty. And he knows that you know. Why else would he give himself a tattoo in jail? He knows he’s guilty, and he was desperate. He was hoping you all would fall for his trick.

“And against all this evidence—this huge pile of pebbles, the defense has submitted the testimony of one witness—an unreliable prior felon who has made an outlandish accusation against a war hero.

“Who in the world is Mr. Jesse Wendell? Does he have a relationship with the defendant? We know he grew up in Oakland, so it’s entirely possible. And, ladies and gentlemen, where has Mr. Wendell been for the last four months? He didn’t go to the police. There’s no evidence he said anything to anybody about witnessing a murder. And now, at the eleventh hour, he strolls into court and expects you to disregard all the evidence to the contrary.

“That’s not the way it works. You must make your decision based on the evidence. And when you do, I have no doubt you will find Mr. Moore guilty of murder. Thank you.”

I approached the podium to address the jury for the final time. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have people on juries rather than computers for a reason. As I mentioned during jury selection, the truth is found not by adding up the number of witnesses, but in the nuance and subtlety of testimony and evidence.

“When I heard Mr. Vardan Bedrossian testify last week, a detail struck me as odd. He emphasized to you that on March twenty-second, he was alone in the store. Then I reviewed his statement to the police,” I said, playing the audio for the jury:

This is Officer Zuckerman. I’m here with Mr. Bedrossian. It is March 24, 2021. I’m here at the Oakland Police Department. The time is one-twenty-four p.m. Sir, what did you observe on Monday?

I was alone in the store.

“So when asked what he saw, Mr. Bedrossian said that he was alone in the store. Then I reviewed Mr. Bedrossian’s testimony in the preliminary hearing in this case.” I opened the file and the transcript appeared on the courtroom screen.

Mr. Didery: Sir, what did you observe that evening?

Mr. Bedrossian: I was alone in the market, sweeping.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it was imperative for Mr. Bedrossian to convince everyone he was alone in the store. Now we know why. He was protecting his son.

“The prosecutor would have you consider Mr. Wendell’s testimony in a vacuum—an unreliable, drug-addicted felon who can’t be trusted. But I’m asking you to consider his testimony in the context of the trial.

“Mr. Wendell told you he recognized the shooter, Rocco Bedrossian, in part, because of his pronounced limp that we all witnessed here in Court when he took the stand. He told you he saw Rocco Bedrossian shoot from the upstairs window, and this would explain the downward angle of the shots as described by the pathologist. He described the two louder shots of the killer’s rifle followed by others, which matches Mr. Jakes’ description.

“Jesse Wendell told you that he saw Darnell Moore fire up in the air, which is why the ten shell casings were in the street, but no bullets could be found. Mr. Wendell’s identification of Rocco Bedrossian explains his father’s statement in his native language captured by the 911 call. ‘Go! You have to leave. Now!’ he told his son.

“And finally, I’d ask you to use your common sense. Does it make sense that Darnell Moore, who had never been convicted of a gun offense in his life, could fire two precision kill shots with one hand while operating his vehicle? Or does it make more sense that those shots came from a trained army marksman, firing the deadly accurate shots from an elevated, stationary position?

“Certainly, there are unanswered questions. How did Rocco Bedrossian know that Darnell Moore was coming, or was the timing just fortuitous for him? But these are questions, perhaps, for a future trial of Rocco Bedrossian.” I closed, as I usually did, discussing the legal standard, “beyond a reasonable doubt”—the highest in the law.

I told the jury it was natural to want justice for Cleveland Barlow, especially seeing the heart-rending photos of the young man. I told them that it was obvious that Darnell Moore was not a saint—that he had been up to no good that day, and probably had thought better of his bad intentions at the last minute.

“But your question is discrete. It’s not whether young Darnell Moore is a gang member or a bad guy. It’s whether he shot Cleveland Barlow. The answer is no, and the only just verdict is not guilty.”

I was greeted back at the counsel table with a subtle fist bump from Darnell. Exhausted, I half-listened to Ludlow’s jury instructions and tried to read the jurors’ faces and predict who among them would be elected foreperson. At three-forty-five p.m., the jury filed out to decide the fate of Darnell Moore.

My phone buzzed. It was Eddy.

—How’d it go, Counselor?—

—Glad it’s over—

—Can’t wait to see you. Free for lunch tomorrow? I’ll be in Oakland—

—Goodness yes!—

On the way out of court, I found Jesse waiting at the bus stop.

“Hey, Jesse. I want to thank you. You were great.”

“Thanks, Mr. Turner. That D.A. is kind of a prick.”

“Kind of, yes. You know, you had me worried for a while that you’d testify for the prosecution.”

“Naw,” he said with a smirk. “I was just playing the angles. I know what it’s like to do time for something you didn’t, uh…have planned.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Sure. Hey, Mr. Turner. Can you tell me when there’s a verdict? I’d like to be there.”

“Sure.”

I went to my empty office and began the long process of catching up on my other cases that followed every trial. Cherlynn texted at five p.m. to tell me the jury had gone home, and I did the same. After pizza and most of a bottle of an expensive Cabernet recommended by Eddy, I was drifting to sleep in the recliner by nine p.m. with Darnell, Didery, and Ludlow crashing my thoughts of Eddy and the wine country.

I awoke early, went for a run, and convinced myself not to try to speculate about the jury. Years of trying had proven useless and stressful. After more work in the office, I walked to the courthouse to see how Darnell was holding up.

“Hey, Mr. Turner,” he said, shaking off the effects of a mid-morning nap. “Sorry, they got me up at four-thirty a.m. this morning. Any news?”

“No. Just came by to say hi. You doing okay?”

“Whew,” he said shaking his head. “It’s like whenever I walk into that courtroom, I’ll either find out that tonight I’ll be with my fam eating my uncle’s barbeque or I won’t ever taste that again.”

“I know, Darnell. I wanted to sort of prepare you for either scenario, though. You know, if you’re convicted, there’s a path to the quickest parole. It will involve you renouncing the gang and doing a good program in prison. With your youth, you’ll have a good chance at parole after twenty-five years.”

“Yeah, I’m prepared for the sentence and all. I’ll be strong for my family. But if I’m in prison, the gang will be my protection, so I don’t know.”

“Yeah, Darnell, I get it.”

“Now, if it goes our way, I’m not messing with them anymore.”

I smiled, knowing that keeping his word would be difficult. On the streets, having kept his mouth shut in the face of murder charges, his standing in the gang would be at an all-time high.

“We’ll see,” he said reading my mind.

I walked back out in the courtroom to find Didery reading the paper at the counsel table.

Cherlynn hung up her phone. “They have a verdict,” she said calmly. “The judge is at lunch, so we’ll convene at one-thirty p.m.”

Didery practically skipped down the aisle on his way out of the courtroom. There would be no hung jury, so I was sure he was brimming with confidence and no doubt off to recruit his colleagues for the grave dance. The D.A.’s office kept up the somewhat morbid tradition of attending each other’s verdicts, which usually involved reveling in the victory amidst the defendant’s family’s devastation. I tried not to let Didery’s reaction influence my thoughts. We still had a chance.

I had already texted Darnell’s mother, Chuck, Jesse, and Eddy. They were all present, along with a dozen D.A.s when Deputy Hartag belted out the call to order for the last time in the trial.

“Juror number five, Mr. Samuels,” Ludlow said, “I understand you are the foreperson?”

The software engineer from Berkeley was not my favorite juror. “Yes.”

“Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have.”

As it was purely ceremonial in nature, it was no surprise that Ludlow knew the drill. “Then please hand your verdict form to Deputy Hartag.” The deputy took the form and handed it up to the judge without looking at it. Ludlow then read the form to himself. Expressionless, he handed it to his clerk. “The defendant and his counsel will please rise. Ladies and gentlemen, please listen to the reading of the verdict.”

I stood next to Darnell and heard his heavy breathing. His stress was unimaginable. Cherlynn cleared her throat. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, please pay attention while I read your verdict. In the sole count of the criminal complaint, we, the jury, find the defendant, Darnell Jackson Moore, not guilty of murder.”

Darnell collapsed in his chair, his head in his hands. I sat down and turned behind me to see his mother, sobbing tears of joy. Ludlow was droning on to the jury about the importance of jury service when Darnell looked up, his face streaked with tears.

“Thank you, Joe,” he said, showing the smile he wore the day I met him, still collapsed on the table. “Thank you so much.”

I patted his back. “Enjoy that barbeque, Darnell.”

When the jury had filed out for the last time, I turned to find Jesse behind us in the first row. “Congratulations, Joe.”

“Thanks again, Jesse.”

Darnell stood and turned to face Jesse, greeting him with a slight raise of his chin and a look of respect. “Good lookin’,” he said quietly. Jesse returned the gesture as Darnell was escorted away uncuffed for his ride back to the jail where he would be released.

Eddy greeted me with a kiss, my first ever in the courthouse, and Chuck walked with us to the Oaktown Brewery to celebrate.

“So, your truth detector instincts are still intact, babe,” she said, as I set a pitcher of beer on our table.

“Thank goodness. I was beginning to doubt myself.”

“Well,” Eddy said with a smirk, “I believe I recall telling you that I thought the killer might be Rocco?”

Chuck frowned. “Really? This is the first I’m hearing of this.”

“It’s true,” I said, clinking her glass. “You called it. And as long as we’re passing around ‘I told you so’s,’ I believe that I happened to question who travels half-way around the world without a suitcase.”

“Very true.” Chuck tipped his glass toward me. “He was obviously already in town.”

“But it’s not quite the same as naming the killer, now is it?” Eddy chided.

“Well, not to throw shade on your prediction,” I said, still smiling because she had called me ‘babe,’ “but I believe as part of your ode to cartoon sleuths, you basically accused everyone.”

“I don’t remember that,” Eddy deadpanned.

“Yeah, remember your theory that Damon was the killer? You said his eyes were hollow and creepy.”