AHD Kristina Mirkovich
January 13, 1994 • 11:11 a.m.
Oh, Mr. Clark, I knew it was possible, but I still didn’t see it coming. Petrillo says Clark has done every check-in. His court card is signed every time. He hasn’t failed a single drug test. He goes to meetings. The job is legitimate and his supervisor reports have been excellent. So, how in the great blue fuck did they get to him?
Obviously, he’s terrified, and that’s understandable and very sad. The thornier issue, however, is what to do about him perjuring himself six ways to Sunday. If I charge him, I have to consider how it will look to the judge after I pushed her to use a drug court opening to get this trial bumped up, especially when Clark already has a drug court date himself. Ayers would hate that hypocrisy, especially when Clark is doing everything else right, and it’s worth taking into account that she’s got another decade on the bench. I’ll be in her court again. So, do I risk taking a future hit on this, or just throw my hands up and say he did his best but he was scared and he cracked? The latter is the only thing that makes political sense.
Judge Ayers looks to me. “Are we going in order, Miss Mirkovich?”
“Yes, Your Honor. The People wish to call Lucrecia Lucero.”
“Very well. I understand she’s in the hall. Can you get her, Deputy?”
The deputy leaves and comes back pushing a wheelchair with Lucrecia Lucero in it, her dark hair in twin braids on either side of her head, falling onto a dark sweatshirt.
When she is situated on the witness stand, I ask her if she lives at the Josephine Street address where the crime occurred. She does. We establish she was shot three times on December sixth of last year, and I submit images of Miss Lucero’s injuries as the People’s next-in-order.
Judge Ayers makes a note. “Those will be marked People’s seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen.”
I inquire as to Miss Lucero’s gang affiliation. She says she isn’t in one, so I bring up her criminal record: an accessory to robbery guilty plea reduced to time served after she did thirteen months, and current drug possession charges yet to be resolved. She recalls neither, says she’d have to look at paperwork. Willie squeaks in his chair behind me. It’s his way of telling me it’s time to change tack.
“Your Honor, the People wish to treat this witness as hostile.”
“Proceed.”
“Is it true your brother, also a gang member, murdered a member of Mr. Tavira’s gang on June twelfth, nineteen ninety-two?”
“My big bro was arrested for that. He’s fighting it now.”
“Is it true that a code exists in your neighborhood calling for violent retribution to perceived wrongs?”
“No.”
“Do you know Omar Tavira?”
“I recognize him.”
“Is he in the courtroom now?”
“Yeah.”
“Miss Lucero, has anyone made threats of violence to influence your testimony?”
“No.”
“Do you know of any reason why the defendants would want to hurt you?”
“No, cuz they didn’t.”
There it is. The direct contradiction I’ve been aiming her toward. “Do you contend that neither defendant fired the weapon at you on the evening of December sixth, striking you and almost taking your life?”
“Yeah. I contend to that.”
I signal to Ken to turn on the projector. “Your Honor, if I may?”
“You may, Miss Mirkovich.”
Ken puts a copy of People’s twelve on the screen. It has been enlarged to make reading it easier. I briefly summarize how wilas and kites are used, in order to jog the jury’s memory.
“This is a so-called kite confiscated from a prisoner in San Quentin. It has your gang moniker on it.” I underline the word Scrappy on the transparency. “Miss Lucero, why would your name be on this piece of paper?”
“Don’t know. I ain’t the only Scrappy there ever was.”
I press on. “And what does the term green light mean to you, Miss Lucero?”
“Nothing.”
“We heard Detective Montero testify that a green light is code for murder; use of the word is effectively a go signal to would-be killers. In the way that a red light would be to stop, a green light is to go. This evidence confirms you were marked for death, is that correct?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“We have heard evidence from further kites, marked People’s thirteen and fourteen, that make it explicitly clear the motive for shooting you was related to you selling drugs to a rival gang, one full of, and I quote, ‘mayates.’ Miss Lucero, what is the translation of mayate into English?”
“It’s like a bug.”
“What color is it?”
“Some are black.”
“Is it a common Spanish derogatory slang term for African American people?”
“No.”
“Detective Montero testified earlier to that effect, and Deputy Jackson, when he was on the stand, confirmed the same. Would you care to revise your answer?”
“No.”
“Miss Lucero, is your child half black?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Relevance?” Nick knows I have something, and he’s worried.
I face the judge. “Your Honor, if race played a significant role in the green-lighting of Miss Lucero, it’s worth exploring why.”
“I’ll allow it, but be quick, Miss Mirkovich. Please answer the question, Miss Lucero.”
“My child is blaxican, yeah.”
“Would that word be a combination of black and Mexican?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you found this to be a stigma in your neighborhood, for both yourself and your child?”
She shifts on the stand. “No.”
“Detective Montero testified earlier that the man who wrote this kite is known to control the portion of Lynwood where Misters Tavira and Safulu reside with a complex scheme of racketeering known as ‘taxation’ or ‘cariño.’ In short, they benefit from his patronage. In other kites seized from this inmate’s correspondence, he has declared war on the streets against black gangs. War on mayates.”
Nick Park rises. “Objection. This is a statement, Your Honor, and one meant purely to inflame, might I add.”
“You may not add it, Mr. Park, but I will sustain your objection. Are we getting to a question, Miss Mirkovich?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Miss Lucero, are you afraid for your life being here today?”
“No.”
“Two gunmen approached you on the night in question. Did you recognize them?”
“No.”
“Your Honor, I’d like to refer the witness to People’s One.”
“Go ahead.”
I nod to Ken, who replaces the kite with Augie’s affidavit. “Miss Lucero, can you please read the underlined portion?”
“I’m not reading that.”
I lean in. “If I may, Your Honor? ‘She was moaning. She was in a lot of pain. She also said “Motherfucking Wizard” because she knew he shot her too.’ Do you recall saying that, Miss Lucero? ‘Motherfucking Wizard’?”
“No.”
“That is what is known as a dying declaration. Did you think you were dying in that moment?”
“You ever been shot, miss?”
“Your Honor, I’d ask that you please direct the witness to answer the question.”
She’s staring right at me, leaning forward in the box. “Miss, I said you ever been shot before?”
“That’s enough, Miss Lucero.” Judge Ayers gives her a look. “I know this is difficult, but you must answer the question.”
Lucero never takes her eyes from mine. “I wasn’t thinking anything. Wasn’t talking. I was just bleeding, that’s what I was fucking doing.”
The judge bangs her gavel for order, and I let quiet take over the room. I watch the jury watch Lucero’s face, the pain on it. I look at my notes so I can drag it out, so the jury can keep looking at her, and then at the wall where Clark’s affidavit is projected, giving the jury the truest narrative breakdown they’re ever likely to see.
“I have nothing further at this time, Your Honor.”
Ken and I have lunch at Smeraldi’s. We take a cab. There’s a table already waiting for us in the back.
Ken scowls over his Tom Collins. “This whole thing is a shit-show, but it was never going to be cut-and-dried. This is rapidly becoming a case of what you can salvage. You might lose Safulu to a hung jury, but can you nail something to Tavira?”
“I don’t know. Nearly every witness contradicts every other witness. There’s no coherent narrative.”
“It’s your job to know. Seriously, now, what the fuck was that with Petrillo? He pursued the Alvarez girl romantically? Jesus.”
What a nightmare. On a personal level, I’m disgusted at the thought of Phillip Petrillo habitually going after young barrio women. On a professional level, I think Park linking the previous complaint against Petrillo to a seriously unethical pattern of behavior that now includes Angela Alvarez looked like the fucking Hindenburg bursting into flames.
“What do you want me to say, Ken? I interviewed him. He never said anything. Why would he?”
Ken looks deep into his drink. “And this girl who saw them at Disneyland, she was buried on page two. We should’ve asked about her.”
“I did ask about Gloriana Nuñez. She was visiting a sick relative. Hadn’t given a statement yet. That was Park’s line a week ago and the judge let it go, so this is what we get.”
“It stinks.”
“It does, indeed. But is it now worth pursuing Petrillo for witness tampering on Alvarez? Go for a mistrial?”
He sighs. “It’s your first case as AHD, Kris. Do you want to gamble that Garcetti will commit resources to another trial? Somehow walking out of this with a conviction nailed on Tavira, despite this hellacious shit-show, might still earn you some credit upstairs.”
Ken’s an old drunk, but my gut says he’s right.
“We knew they were going to make Petrillo look like he had been inappropriate on the job, but we weren’t worried about it then, and I’m not now. Nobody believes junkies and convicts when they make those complaints against custody and parole, and the jury won’t either. The bigger issue is Park taking the Alvarez information and making the leap of logic to Petrillo planting the gun in order to remove any impediments to him dating the girl. It doesn’t matter if that was stricken. He still got the question in about no one being able to see him.”
Ken’s drink is down to just ice. “And now the jury’s heard it. You can’t take that out of their brains.”
“Nope.”
“During first and second closing we’ll have to nail in the fact again that Petrillo has never been formally reprimanded.”
“Are you still taking first and I’m doing second?”
“Yep.” Ken swirls the ice. “We’ll also have to further nail in his commendation for his work with that capture task force. When was that, eighty-nine?”
It’s only occurring to me now that Ken says the word nail a lot.
“It was eighty-eight.”
“Right. Well, the jury is going to need to believe something. That’s why, Petrillo aside, you nail the fact that we’ve got the most reliable witnesses. Shit. Even Clark and Lucero are reliably not telling the truth. Maybe there’s more we can spin from that. Yes, they’re lying, but why? What do they have to gain?”
“Their lives?” I sip my iced tea. “But it’s not what they actually have to gain; it’s what will the jury find believable?”