I came around in the VA Medical Center on Wilshire. The cops who took me into custody were thorough and ran my background. Fifteen years in the Engineering Corps had gotten me decent veteran’s coverage, and the doc checked me for signs of trauma before clearing me for jail.
Afterward, the cops delivered me to the regional headquarters of the LAPD on 77th Street. The sandstone building looked like something Pharaoh might have built to honor Ra, and it stood out in a run-down neighborhood of low-rent condos, motels, and bail bond offices.
I’d been in jail once before, but they treated me like I was a seasoned ex-con who knew the drill. I was processed and relieved of my few personal possessions: a near-empty wallet, prepaid cell phone, and car and house keys. After a couple of hours in the holding cell, I was finally taken to see my court-appointed attorney.
There are few things more depressing than meeting the lawyer charged with getting you out of a jam and realizing they’re the George Constanza of the legal world. All neuroses, tics, and hang-ups, along with a rapid-fire array of nervous smiles to try to mask the darkness within. My public defender, Mitch Hoffman, looked a little like Costanza, but thinner, as though he couldn’t even find comfort in a good meal. He sat across from me stinking of chewing gum and stale cigarettes, and his yellowing, stub-nailed fingers suggested a nervous fifty- or sixty-a-day smoker. Heavy breathing and an intermittent hacking cough confirmed my diagnosis.
Yellow concentric semicircles spread out from his armpits, old sweat stains on a crumpled short-sleeve shirt. I couldn’t see his trousers because he was seated at a table when I was brought in and cuffed to the anchor point between us, but I just knew they’d be polyester.
I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment as I looked at Mitch, and if it hadn’t been for the anchor, I’d have slouched back in my chair with what my grandma used to call haughty disdain. This guy wasn’t going to get me off. He hadn’t even spoken yet, and I already had a ripe dislike. If he had that effect on the judge, not only would I be back inside serving out the remainder of my six years, but I’d also probably get another six on top for wrecking the sheriff’s car.
If Mitch took offense, he didn’t show it. He barely looked at me and focused on the file on the table. What was a guy like him doing in the public defender’s office? Had he graduated bottom of his class? Angered a higher-up? Career criminals would have chewed him out, and I could just imagine him being steamrollered by a prosecutor and yelled at by a breathless, red-faced angry old judge.
“So, erm, Mr. Collard, we’re looking at a year for resisting arrest, six months for assault, vandalism carries a maximum of three years, and another three years for DUI,” Mitch said.
“DUI?” I interjected. “I went less than twenty yards. It could hardly be called driving, let alone under the influence.”
“Nevertheless,” Mitch replied. “You could be looking at another seven and a half years on top of the three you have unserved on your”—he looked away awkwardly and cleared his throat—“your prior conviction for the accident.”
I was grateful he used the word accident. It went easier on my conscience. A stronger man would have used the correct term: vehicular manslaughter.
“Ten years?” I couldn’t believe it. “You’re telling me I could be facing another ten years?”
“Ten and a half years, actually,” he replied. “You’re in a bit of a pickle.”
Pickle? Was this guy for real?
“Does a pickle extort you with threats of sexual violence?” I asked, and he blushed. “Because that’s what happens in federal prison.”
“Well, no,” he said. “I’m sorry. Pickle is the wrong word. Squeeze or jam would probably be better.”
I glared at him, and he wilted.
We listened to the muffled sounds of the precinct until he finally plucked up the courage to speak. “I, well, I hate to bring bad news, but they’re going to hold you in county until we get a trial date.”
“How long?”
“Well, er, it depends on case assignments and court availability and—”
“How long?”
He looked up and held my gaze. “Three months.”
“Three months?”
“Any time you serve will count toward your sentence.” His tone was similar to the slicked-back salesman who’d sold me the Sebring. Trying to convince me the poison I was being fed was just bitter-tasting medicine.
“What about bail?” I asked.
“Well, you’ve been put in the high rollers’ club. Judge set it at a hundred thousand dollars because of your prior. You’re on probation, Mr. Collard. Probation.”
“A hundred thousand. I don’t even have a hundred bucks.”
“Do you have any assets?” Mitch asked. “You’d need ten thousand for a bondsman.”
“Assets? I’m in here for driving a junker into a cop car while under the influence of liquor and ketamine,” I said.
“Ketamine? I didn’t know about ketamine.” He flicked through the paperwork quickly.
“Do you really think I’ve got more than a gutter-soaked twenty to my name?”
“You shouldn’t see me as an enemy, Mr. Collard. I’m here to defend you to the best of my abilities.” His eyes met mine, and I thought he might cry. “We’ll go for a deal.”
If you’re a square who’s never crossed the line and felt the hand of the law on your throat, you probably imagine a con like me fronting up for his day in court, watching his lawyer deliver an Oscar-worthy speech, cheering when the jury foreperson announces the inevitable innocent verdict, and jumping into his convertible Porsche to race off to a pool party celebration.
In truth, most criminals don’t have the money or the stomach for justice. Run the risk of twenty years in jail, or cop a plea and serve two. Was I going to gamble ten years of my life on the legal skills of the skinny Costanza sitting opposite me? He’d probably screw up the plea deal and get me sent to the electric chair.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Hoffman, but is there anyone else who could represent me?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. “No offense intended.”
He seemed to melt into his seat, but then tried to reassert himself by sitting up straight. “This is an open-and-shut case. A deputy sheriff and two officers of the court witnessed what they describe as a drunken rampage. Deputy Buckman said it was the guiding hand of the Lord that kept anyone from being killed.”
I shook my head with the lazy disbelief of all sinners.
“That’s right, he’s a godly man, and that plays well in court.” Mitch sat forward. “And to answer your question, no. No, there is no one else who can represent you.”
I sighed.
“I might be able to make something of your military service, but frankly, with you still being on probation, we’re going to have to throw ourselves on the mercy of the DA’s office and the court.”
I prayed he wasn’t going to say it, but he did, and as the words left his lips, I wanted to punch him in the face. But my hands were bound, so I had to take the clichéd hack wisdom that would have been rejected from a fortune-cookie factory.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”