Chapter Twenty-One

“This is starting to piss me off, Chuck,” I said, turning on the blue tooth on the way back from the driving range. “I’m starting to think the Bedrossians are playing games.” It’s not like I thought the store video would show old man Bedrossian hiding his submachine gun under the counter. At this point, it was just the principle of the matter.

“I know what you mean, Joe.”

“I’ll have Didery drop a subpoena on them.”

“Any luck speaking to Mr. Jakes?”

“Actually, I just got off the phone with him. He’s not exactly enthusiastic, but he’s agreed to an interview in your office after court on Tuesday.”

“Great.”

“And I served Wendell with a subpoena for trial. He was higher than a hawk’s nest but promised to appear.”

“I have my doubts.”

“Me too, but the threat of jail can be very persuasive.”

“See you tomorrow.”

We were two days from the start of trial, and the video was one of several minor loose ends bothering me. I also hadn’t heard back from the Armenian translator, and there was no sign of the ballistic results on the shell casings. It still seemed inconceivable that Didery had neglected to have them tested, but I couldn’t ask him for fear he would be spurred into action.

—Are we still on for tonight? Can’t wait to finally see your place—

Shit! Eddy’s text caught me off guard. I hadn’t cleaned in…well, ever.

—Absolutely—

—Is 6 ok? I can bring a pizza.—

It was four-thirty p.m. Maybe enough time.

—Sure. I’ll order the pizza. Great place in my neighborhood—

I pressed send as I walked in my front door. A quick survey told me there was not nearly enough time. The cleaning crew came once every two weeks—a mandate by my mother after her first visit. They kept the place clean enough. I just had an issue with tidiness.

I prioritized and got to work. Clean sheets on the bed. Suits hung up. All clothing not in drawers, which appeared to be three quarters of my wardrobe, piled in the laundry room. I’d sort dirty from clean later. Same with the towels strewn about the bathroom and bedroom.

After the third trip to the recycling bin, I was ready to admit a flaw in my extensive reliance on paper plates. The plastic blue container was full, and I still had four grocery bags filled to the brim. I looked around the neighborhood from the side of my house. Satisfied the coast was clear, I dumped the remaining bags in the black container reserved for garbage.

Sue me, recycling fascists.

Next, I vacuumed out the recliner, collecting a startling amount of food. Apparently, the big chair had been a bridge too far for the cleaners. I wiped down the kitchen then began collecting glasses and cups from every room in the house. I had entirely too many of these. Perhaps a move to plastic was in order, but then again, the recycling issue—a decision for another time.

I raked beer bottles off various tabletops throughout the house and made three more trips to the garbage bin. Alley came inside and promptly sprinted back out, clearly freaked out by her changed environment.

I caught sight of my embarrassing five-pound weights. What, Joe, the seven and a half pounders were too heavy? I rolled up my exercise mat and stowed it with the weights in, where else, the laundry room. Note to self: Do not open laundry room door. From there, my efforts were mainly cosmetic. The liquor bottles back in their cabinet for the first time in years. Alley’s bowl off the kitchen counter. At least thirty editions of the New York Times out to the garbage.

I looked around. It definitely had that only-recently-cleaned-up look, and the dining room table I used as my desk remained covered six inches deep in case files, books, and sports pages. That would have to remain, as most of the case files were active, and I had a good idea of the contents of the various piles.

I showered and hustled to the corner grocery. Eddy was teaching me about wine, and I wanted to impress her. She pulled into my drive as I was walking up my stoop.

“I love this neighborhood,” she said. “And what a cute house!” I sensed relief in her voice. After seeing her digs, I had tried to lower expectations as much as possible.

“Thanks. C’mon in.”

She walked in after me and took it in. “It’s charming,” she said holding back a laugh. “And there’s your recliner, as advertised. What is this decorating style, Joe?”

“I’d say sort of a post-modern rustic grunge.”

“Looks like you’ve had a few working lunches lately,” she said, gesturing to the buried dining room table.

“Such a smart ass, Ms. Busier.”

“Just getting started early on my campaign to shame you into buying some furniture. It could be a really great place.” She kissed me after I had set down the grocery bag.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Wine. Trying to impress you.”

“Oh wow. Port Lancer Pinot. This is good stuff, Joe. Very well done.”

“Thanks. I was torn between that and a strawberry wine from Kentucky.”

“Can I get the tour?”

“Sure,” I said leading her down the hallway. “Spare bedroom on the right. I assume that’s where you’ll be sleeping.”

“We’ll see how good the pizza is. I was going to bring one from Zach’s.”

“Laundry room is there. I wouldn’t open that. And in here is where the magic happens,” I said, pushing open my bedroom door.

She spanked me. “Very funny.”

“I’ll order the pizza,” I said walking back to the kitchen. “Hey, want to see the Moore video?”

“Absolutely.” I started my video on my laptop and left it on the dining room table.

We talked about the trial over pizza and wine. She had a great memory for facts and seemed to know the case as well as I.

“So, from the photos, it sounds like Darnell is in a gang, but is it weird that he’s never committed a violent crime?”

“It is weird, and it’s one of the reasons I can’t see him murdering someone. I have a feeling he’s all hat and no cattle.” Chuck was rubbing off on me.

“Probably the reason why the gang is afraid he’ll snitch.”

“Exactly.”

“The D.A.’s theory will likely be that this shooting was Darnell’s test to officially be in the gang.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the Iceboyz have very high standards for admittance. Letters of recommendation are important.”

I laughed. “You are the second funniest person I know.”

“Yeah?” she said sliding closer to me on the couch.

“Seriously, Eddy,” I said taking both her hands in mine. “Thank you for caring about my work. It means a lot to me.”

Her azure eyes rested on mine for several seconds. “This is pretty good.”

“Yeah,” I said unable to contain my smile.

“You know, the tour of your bedroom was pretty brief,” she whispered, her hand sliding to my thigh. “I think I need another.”

“Does this mean the pizza was up to your standards?”

She tilted her head under my face and kissed my neck as I inhaled a rush of arousal. “No,” she said, kissing me again, “I just want you.”

****

I sat at my computer early on Monday morning, eating cold pizza and daydreaming about Eddy. Coffee and the Sunday paper in bed had been followed by another round of slow, warm rhythm, our familiar bodies communing on their own, seeking and revealing with nuance, texture, and changing pressures. Subtle glances and carefree murmurs of desire escaping moist mouths, heightening the ache beyond our quivering reach before we had surrendered together in tangled bliss.

I shook myself from my sensual trance and refocused on my task. I had decided to draft a Motion to Suppress the gun found in Darnell’s house. Like most search warrants, the warrant had authorized the search of Darnell’s bedroom as well as common areas in the home. Other bedrooms were off-limits.

The gun had been found in a shoe box inside a hallway closet. Photos of the gun and the shoe box revealed the closet also contained a vacuum cleaner and what appeared to be several women’s jackets. If I could convince Ludlow that the closet was not a common area but instead the private closet of Darnell’s mom, he might exclude the gun from evidence. The motion was not based on sound legal theory, but with Dudlow making the decision, anything could happen.

I printed the motion, dressed, and decided to walk to court. Never one to work harder than he had to, I knew Dudlow would spend the first day essentially planning the trial’s schedule, so I stepped out into the late spring air carrying only the Motions in limine around my shoulder in my leather satchel. With the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air, the day reminded me of the promise of baseball’s opening day. All of the teams were undefeated, and hope was in the air. Darnell, in the eyes of the law, was innocent, at least for now.

As I rode the elevator to the fifth floor, I resolved to stop referencing the judge’s nickname in my mind, lest I call him Dudlow in person. Inside Department 27 at eight-fifty a.m., I quickly scanned the courtroom for Jesse. He had been subpoenaed for today. It was likely an early hour for him, but still I wasn’t optimistic.

I was not in the least surprised to find Didery sitting ramrod straight at the counsel table. Three boxes —what I assumed was his entire case file—were stacked to his right. A clean legal pad was directly in front of him on the counsel table. Above it one black pen rested, centered and precisely parallel with the notepad’s top.

We exchanged greetings, and I took my seat to his left at the counsel table. We both wore dark blue suits and white shirts, his rigid with extra starch. After twenty minutes of waiting, I took out my motions. “Here you go, Nathan,” I said, sliding copies of my motions down the table. “We may as well have something to read while we wait.”

“Um, I would rather, uh, wait until you’ve filed them with the clerk. That way we can exchange file-stamped copies, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Uh, sure.” This guy must squeeze out shits the size of marbles. After another ten minutes of sitting in silence, I carried my motions to the clerk’s desk with a wry smile. “Morning, Cherlynn. Apparently, I need to file my motions.”

“Hi, Joe,” she said, rolling her eyes. A statuesque African American woman in her forties, Cherlynn Robinson was regarded as the most competent clerk in the courthouse. Her pairing with Ludlow was not an accident. Many times, I had witnessed her deftly “reminding” the judge of things that had never crossed his mind in the first place.

As I waited for my motions to be file stamped, I heard a door close, signaling the judge’s arrival in his chambers, nearly a half hour late. Seconds later, the clerk’s phone rang. “Gentlemen, the judge will see you now.”

I followed Didery into chambers. It was richly furnished with burgundy leather sofa and chairs atop a Persian rug. The dark wood-paneled walls were decorated with golf memorabilia and photos of the judge with various political luminaries. Behind his desk, covering most of the wall, hung an enlarged photo of the judge taking the oath at his swearing-in ceremony. The shot taken from below, a soaring tribute to the jurist’s grandeur.

A large, ponderous man in his late fifties with longish hair of a suspicious shade of auburn, I had never seen him out of his robe, which he kept zipped tight, his fleshy jowls spilling over his collar. He sat at his ornately carved cherry wood desk, barely looking up from a law book as we entered.

“Good morning, Judge,” said Didery about to approach the desk for a handshake.

With a dramatic wave, Ludlow stopped Didery cold, a traffic cop’s signal as his eyes remained glued to the page. I was skeptical about the level of the judge’s concentration, having heard him enter his chambers less than twenty seconds ago. Ludlow slowly took off his reading glasses and held their edge to his lips while reclining in his massive leather chair to frown at the ceiling.

“Well this was quite a show,” I thought to myself, now thoroughly convinced he was acting. Didery and I stood awkwardly for several more seconds as the judge did his best to impress us with his spoon-bending concentration.

“Fascinating reading,” he finally said. “Truly fascinating legal concept. Sorry fellows, I tend to get wrapped up in the law.”

“What was it, Judge?” I couldn’t resist.

“What’s that?”

“What was the fascinating legal concept?” I asked, hoping I sounded genuine.

“Oh, uh, no matter. Let’s get to the matter at hand,” the judge replied gruffly, suddenly in a hurry. “I assume you have some in limine motions to file today?”

Didery and I explained that we both had standard boilerplate motions. In the way of actual decisions, the judge would have to exercise his dizzying intellect to decide which of Darnell’s prior theft convictions would be admissible should he decide to testify and which of the grisly photos of the victim’s dead body would be excluded as more prejudicial than probative. The only hearing required would be in ruling on my motion to exclude the gun.

“Gentlemen, I expect the gun issue to be fully briefed,” the judge said with emphasis. This was code for, “In your briefs, please assume I know nothing about the law,” which I had done.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Didery and I replied in unison, exchanging knowing looks.

“Any issues with witness availability?”

I explained that I was still tracking down an Armenian translator and would add him to my witness list as soon as I knew his name.

“Okay, I’ll hear the motion tomorrow morning, then we can begin jury selection. I’ll be on the bench to put this on the record in a few minutes.”

Back in the courtroom, Darnell had taken his seat at the counsel table, watched closely by the bailiff, Deputy Hartag, a short man who took his job of protecting the public very seriously. Nicknamed “Hard Ass”, he sat behind the defendant at his desk, his hand resting on his holstered pistol.

I was happy to see Darnell dressed in civilian clothing for the trial. As I had requested, his mother had supplied khaki pants, dress shoes, and a blue oxford shirt. With a new closely cropped haircut, he looked like he belonged behind a rental car counter. The bulky bandage underneath his shirt would not be noticed by the jury.

He looked warily around the courtroom, squinting under the fluorescent lights. “So, did that witness show up?”

“Doesn’t look like it. The judge will issue a warrant for his arrest, and hopefully we can find him.” Darnell shook his head with a look of disgust.

Judge Ludlow took the bench. “Good morning. We are here for the People of the State of California versus Darnell Moore. Appearances, please.”

“Nathaniel Winston Didery for the People of the State of California, Your Honor.”

“Joe Turner for Mr. Moore.”

“Gentlemen,” the judge began with confidence, “We have discussed the trial schedule in chambers. Counsel are to file their motions, which I will rule on tomorrow. Jury selection to begin tomorrow.” Then, turning to his clerk, “Cherlynn, please call the jury commissioner. We’ll need fifty jurors for tomorrow morning.”

“Only fifty, Judge?” the clerk asked, then attempted unsuccessfully to mouth a silent message to her boss.

Didery and I looked at each other. In most criminal trials, the attorneys had at their disposal ten opportunities to excuse jurors without regard to their ability to be fair. However, in trials where the potential punishment was life in prison, the law bestowed twenty such opportunities, known as juror challenges. So, Ludlow’s request of only fifty total jurors would likely be inadequate to accommodate the trial. His error was not surprising, given that he had spent the past few years hearing traffic and misdemeanor cases.

“Your Honor,” Didery began, sounding as officious as ever, “Perhaps the Court is not aware of the rules of court as it pertains to jury challenges. Pursuant to Penal Code section—”

“Mr. Didery,” the judge’s booming voice broke in. By now, I saw that Cherlynn’s note had reached His Honor’s desk. “I am fully aware of the Penal Code. And I intend to request one hundred jurors,” he barked, jowls jiggling from the force of his words.

It was another of Ludlow’s less than endearing traits. To mask his incompetence, he often lashed out at attorneys, hoping bombast would somehow obscure mistakes. Didery had just experienced it first-hand. I shared a smile with Cherlynn. We both knew the courtroom’s capacity was ninety.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor stuttered, in full backpedal, “of course, I certainly, um, by no means did I mean to imply that you did not know…”

“Mr. Didery,” the judge interrupted again, having regained his composure. “I’m sure it won’t happen again. Anything else, gentlemen?”

I stood. “Yes, your Honor, I subpoenaed for this morning a William Jesse Wendell. He is a material witness for the defense and therefore I would ask the Court to issue a warrant for his arrest.”

Ludlow’s vacant stare told me he had no idea he had authority to do any such thing. “Your Honor,” I continued, giving the judge an out. “I should have indicated this request is being made pursuant to Penal Code section 881.”

“Ah, yes, 881,” came the predictable response from the jowls. “In that case then, I’ll sign the arrest warrant, Mr. Turner. Gentlemen, I’ll see you two tomorrow. We have a murder case to try,” he said proudly, fittingly capping off the morning’s tour de force of incompetence with yet another gaffe.

It was a homicide case. It would be up to the jury to decide if it was murder. Although seemingly a minor matter to those outside the world of criminal trials, the difference was fundamental, and assiduously adhered to by all reasonably intelligent judges.

Before I stood, Darnell, perceptive as ever, leaned over, whispering, “Yo, uh, seems like this judge don’t really know what he’s doing.”

“We’ll just have to educate him,” I whispered back. “See you tomorrow.”

In fact, Ludlow was going to be much worse than I had thought. The first glimpse of the judge in action had me genuinely concerned he could keep the trial on the rails.

On the way out of court, Didery handed me a CD. Apparently, still shaken from his tongue lashing, he didn’t request that I sign for it at his office. I was pretty sure it contained ballistics results from the shell casing comparison.

“This is bad for me, isn’t it, Nate?” I asked as he stepped onto an elevator.

The gangly prosecutor stood with his fingertips together, hands at his chest, savoring his answer. “I wouldn’t describe its contents as helpful to the defense, if that’s what you are asking,” he answered, breaking into a smile before the doors closed in front of him. I was beginning to dislike Nathaniel Winston Didery.

I walked to the office imagining myself explaining to the jury how it was that Darnell’s gun had been used in the shooting.

“Nathan Didery called,” Lawanda said, handing me two notes as I entered the office. “Something about signing for the CD he gave you. Also, some law student says he wants an unpaid internship. Free labor, right?”

“Yeah, it usually ends up being more trouble than it’s worth,” I grumbled, tossing my satchel on my desk.

“You’re in a mood. Bad day in court?”

“Let me guess. You got Dudlow’d?” Andy called from his office.

“Yeah. That and the truckloads of evidence against my client lining up outside the courthouse. Jury selection tomorrow,” I said as he reached my doorway.

“Well then you’d better pick some idiots. Just get some of your old clients on the jury.”

“Sadly, most of them can’t vote. Being felons and all.”

I collapsed into my chair and slid the CD into my computer, bracing for a ballistics report matching the shell casings found at the scene to Darnell’s gun. Instead, the index listed only a video file labeled 466 9th Ave. The address was about a quarter mile from the murder scene.

I clicked and digital quality video of a parking lot filled the screen. It appeared to be the half-empty lot of a convenience store. The time in the left-hand corner of the screen read 5:58 p.m. I watched for twenty seconds before a very familiar vehicle entered the parking lot. The olive-green sedan parked in front of the store, centered in the surveillance video. The car had no front license plate, but there was no mistaking the lighter shade of green on the car’s hood.

I paused the video, not exactly knowing why. I knew what was coming but I just didn’t want to see it right away. “Anyone for a hotdog?” I asked, walking out of the office, hearing no response.

Alone on the elevator, I assessed. The good news was that it wasn’t the nuclear bomb that the ballistics results would have been. Still, assuming Darnell was about to appear on my computer screen, driving his car less than twenty minutes before the murder, no longer could the jury realistically conclude that someone else had been driving Darnell’s car at the murder scene. I supposed it was likely inevitable anyway, what with his admission that he may have been in the neighborhood. Still, another escape route had been sealed tight.

Also, to some extent, the video validated Bedrossian’s identification. He had been correct in his identification of Darnell as the driver. Now, I would be left to argue that he must have been mistaken about seeing him shoot out the window.

Back in the office, hotdog in hand, I grabbed a beer out of the office fridge, resumed my position in front of my computer, and clicked play. Within seconds, the driver’s door swung open and Darnell hopped out, as big as life, carefree smile in place. He even seemed to pause in front of the camera before entering the store. Three minutes later, he emerged from the store carrying a small paper bag.

I played the video clip from beginning to end several times, trying to determine if there were occupants in the back seat of the vehicle, but it was too dark. I heard Didery’s adenoidal voice in my head. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the defendant clearly purchased at least one item in the store. Does the video show him distributing items to the back seat or communicating with them? No, because he was alone in that car.”

I walked home with considerably less bounce in my step than I had in the morning. While the air remained sweet with the smell of spring, my client seemed a little less innocent.

All in all—an opening day loss for the home team.