Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sometimes it’s better to bend the law a little in special cases.―Harper Lee

“Good morning, Mr. Jakes.” My next witness was waiting outside Department 27 in a dark blue pinstriped suit and gold tie. I sat down next to him on a bench.

“I don’t know why you need me here. I already told you everything I know.”

“Frankly, sir, I don’t think you did. I think you told me what you wanted me to hear.”

“Is that right? And what makes you think I’m gonna say anything different on the stand?”

“Well, I’m hopeful you care about justice.”

“Ha!” His reaction was genuine bemusement.

“Thanks so much for coming,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Justice. That’s what you’re after?” he asked, his gravelly voice dripping with sarcasm. “Justice for who?” He sat staring straight ahead, his hand resting on the brass eagle-head handle of his blue metal cane that matched his suit.

“Mr. Jakes, I’m sorry for your loss. I wasn’t aware last time we spoke that your wife had died recently.”

He nodded silently and continued to face forward.

“Is this the cane that holds whiskey?” I asked.

“No. Left that one at home.”

“Amazing how they can make canes to be anything.”

He turned to look at me, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Mr. Turner, you’d be surprised.” Was this guy taunting me?

“Okay, you’ll be the first witness. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready.”

Damon caught my eye on my way into the courtroom.

“Hey, so Jesse is not scheduled to testify until Thursday morning now?”

“Yeah. Ludlow signed the removal order. He’ll be transported from the jail. Here’s your jail pass,” I said fishing it out of my wallet.

“Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate this. I’m going to do my best to convince him to get out of that pod, even if I have to put him back in the infirmary myself.”

“Good luck.”

Just before Ludlow took the bench, I checked my email and read the translation, considering my options. I was developing a theory that was short on evidence. It would involve going after nice old Mr. Jakes and risk alienating the jury. On the other hand, it was my only theory, and he did seem like he was taunting me.

The judge reminded the jurors that we would hear one witness today, take Wednesday off, then conclude the case with the last defense witness and closing statements on Thursday.

“Mr. Turner, your next witness please.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Elijah Jakes.”

The witness made the long trek down the aisle of the courtroom and up to the witness stand, leaning heavily on his cane with every step. After he took the oath, he settled himself in the witness seat in his customary position with his right hand atop his cane, as if ready to leave on a moment’s notice.

“Good morning, Mr. Jakes.” He nodded a reply.

“Sir, you are quite familiar with the E&J Market, aren’t you?”

“You could say that. I opened it in seventy-five.” Christ, he sounded like everyone’s favorite grandpa. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Yes, and you still spend a lot of time there.”

“I do. Spend most days there on the front porch of the market. I’m friends with the current owner, Vardan.”

“That’d be Vardan Bedrossian?”

“That’s right.”

“You two sit there most days, on the porch talking.”

“Yes.”

“You’re even learning some of your friend Vardan’s language.”

“Yes.” The witness’s eyes narrowed as he paused, surprised by my knowledge. “He’s taught me some phrases,” he said cautiously. “ ‘Hi. How are you. Goodbye.’ That type of thing.”

“Mr. Jakes, when you opened the store back in seventy-five, can you describe the type of place it was?”

The witness adjusted his position in his seat, sitting taller as he faced the jury. “The E&J, when it opened, was a nice little store,” he said with pride. “It became sort of the hub of the neighborhood. Families would come by after church. The First Baptist is just down the block. In the summer, people would congregate on the porch. The kids would play ball in the street. Couples would have a visit…” Jakes moved his focus to the floor for a moment, clearly immersed in a memory. “It was a nice little market,” he said, his voice trailing off.

“How would you describe the market now, Mr. Jakes?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Now, in that neighborhood, people are afraid to be on the street. Gunshots night and day. The market today basically sells liquor, cigarettes, some rolling papers for the youngsters to smoke their dope. That’s about it.” Jakes was speaking in an easy manner and I was sure the jury could picture him sitting on a porch, spinning a yarn.

“And on March 22, 2021, you were on the porch at about six-fifteen p.m.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Were there any customers inside the store?”

“No, it was empty, as usual. Vardan was sweeping out the store.”

“Sir, tell the jury what you saw that evening.”

“Same as I told you earlier. Car pulled up. I heard a bunch of shots. That’s it.”

“And you didn’t see anyone actually shoot.”

“No. It all happened too fast.”

“Mr. Jakes, you sit there most days at that market, like you said, with those gunshots going off day and night. Do you ever have a gun with you?”

For an instant, he stiffened, but then smiled, “No.”

“It would make sense, for your protection, right?”

“No.”

“Sir, are you ever bitter about what these young thugs have done to your neighborhood?”

“I am, but I don’t need no gun.”

“The gang members have ruined the neighborhood, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ruined your store.”

“They have.”

“And Mr. Jakes, these young violent men who ruined your store are also responsible for your wife’s death.”

The witness stared hard at me, and I was glad he wasn’t armed now. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Sadly, she was struck by crossfire on—”

“November 3, 2020,” he spit out the words, cutting me off.

“Gang members again, right?”

“Yes.”

“You opened the E&J with your wife, correct? Named it the E&J. Elijah and Julissa.”

“Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“My point, Mr. Jakes, is that on March twenty-second of this year, you had a lot of anger inside you directed at those gang members who rode into your neighborhood and shot up the place, ruined the store you founded and killed your wife.”

“I understand,” the witness said, smiling. “Your client is guilty. You got to do something, right?”

“I get to ask the questions, Mr. Jakes. Now, if a person were to shoot a gun off that porch at someone across the street standing near the sidewalk, you’d be shooting at a downward angle, correct.”

“I guess so,” he said smugly.

“Well, don’t guess, sir. Look at these photographs,” I said taking the photos of the E&J off the Clerk’s desk. “People’s Exhibits fifteen and sixteen. That’s the E&J, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you have to climb four steps up to the porch to the front door, correct?”

“Yes.” He was barely listening now, the smug smile still in place.

“So, the porch is about four and a half feet up from the street, right?”

“If you say so.”

“So a shot across the street would have to be at a downward angle.”

“If you say so.”

“You own a great many canes, don’t you, Mr. Jakes.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He was becoming agitated, looking at the judge for help with his palms up, then sitting in silence, shaking his head.

“Your Honor,” I said after twenty seconds of silence, “I would ask the witness to be ordered to answer the question.”

Ludlow arose from a mini-slumber, clearing his throat. “Mr. um, Jakes, is it? You are ordered to answer the question.”

“Yeah, I got canes. What of it?”

“You have a cane that holds two ounces of whiskey, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve seen a cane sword, right?”

“Yes.”

“Before Court today, in the hallway, you said to me, with a smile, that it was amazing what they could do with canes, nowadays, didn’t you?”

He stared daggers at me, nodding, like I had betrayed a sacred trust.

“Do you own a gun that’s disguised as a cane, Mr. Jakes?”

He forced a laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jakes, did you not hear the question? Do you own a cane that shoots?”

“You got it all figured out, don’t you?” he said with a sneer. The forced smile was gone.

“I’m starting to, Mr. Jakes.”

“Objection!” Didery sprang from his seat. “Your Honor, Mr. Turner is testifying.”

“Withdrawn,” I said quickly, not wanting to kill the momentum.

“Mr. Jakes, you say you heard these shots,” I said, using air quotes. I was all in now, after all. “You must have run into the store with Mr. Bedrossian.”

“No, I told you, I got off that porch and hobbled my ass down the street.” He glanced at the jury, smiling at his joke.

“Now, Mr. Jakes, the only way off that porch is down the steps toward the street, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So you heard these shots coming from the street in front of you and what you decided to do was run toward the shots?”

“I told you what I did.”

“Sir, the truth is you went inside the store with Mr. Bedrossian.”

“No.”

“Mr. Bedrossian saw you shoot, so when you got inside, he said, ‘Go! You have to leave. Now!’ ”

“No!” yelled Jakes angrily through clenched teeth. He had finally lost his cool.

I paused, walking from the podium to my computer, letting the jury digest his rage while I cued up the 911 call. “Mr. Jakes, I’d like you to listen to Mr. Bedrossian. This is once he’s inside the store, having already dialed 911.” The jury listened as the market owner spoke in his native language for less than ten seconds.

“Mr. Bedrossian, speaking his language is telling you, ‘Go! You have to leave. Now!’ isn’t he?” I said, reading from the transcript on my phone. I noticed that Didery didn’t object, which meant the weasel already had the translation.

“How would I know what he said?” The witness had regained his composure.

“Well, you had been learning the language, right? You told us that earlier in your testimony.”

“I told you I knew phrases. Not words like that.”

“Well, Mr. Jakes, you said yourself, the store had been empty, right? So when Mr. Bedrossian said ‘You have to leave. Now!’ was he talking to himself?”

“Objection, argumentative.”

“Sustained. Save the sarcasm, Mr. Turner,” chimed in Ludlow.

“Mr. Jakes, after you heard the shots, you used your cane to get off the porch, correct?”

“I always use my cane when I walk. Yes.”

“So you would have no reason to wave the cane or point it at anybody, would you?”

“No.”

“And if a witness says that they saw that, they would be mistaken?”

“Yes, they would.” The witness was back to smiling, with a “get a load of this guy” look to the jury.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Didery matched Jakes’ relaxed smile as he arrived at the podium for cross examination.

“Mr. Jakes, I’ll be brief. We’ve taken enough of your time today. Can I get you a drink of water?”

“No, thank you.”

Didery was in full smirk for the jury. “Sir, do you own a cane gun?”

“No.”

“Have you even heard of one?”

“No.”

“Did you have any idea what time Darnell Moore was going to drive through that intersection that day?”

“No.”

“When you said you had learned some phrases, does that mean that you understand the spoken language when someone is speaking to you?”

“No.”

“How many shots did you hear, Mr. Jakes.”

“I heard two. They seemed really loud. Then I heard a bunch of other shots that were not as loud.”

This guy was unbelievable. Was he taunting me again? Were the first two shots louder because he fired them? This would make sense. First the two shots that killed Barlow, then Darnell’s ten shots in the air.

Didery clearly didn’t know what to make of the answer. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

As Jakes hobbled down from the witness stand, I had no idea what the jury was thinking. The cross examination had gone well enough, but I knew my theory was Swiss cheese, especially compared to the prosecution’s case against Darnell.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began Ludlow. “The defense has one more witness. As we discussed, we will not be in session tomorrow. We will reconvene Thursday morning, complete the evidence and hear closing arguments. Thank you.”

****

Damon’s heart pounded in his ears, a cadence syncopated with echoes of his footsteps on the tile floor of the long jail hallway. He couldn’t believe he was heading back into the jail, but he needed to do this for Jesse. His twin had almost died, and he was mad at himself for not taking action sooner. He should have pressured Joe to let him out. He had asked politely, but he hadn’t pleaded. And what had he been doing working on the case? The case was the reason why Jesse was in custody in the first place. He’d been selfish —trying to impress the attorney while his brother suffered in jail. It had almost cost Jesse his life.

And now his twin was back in that pod, a sitting duck for his assassin. Jesse would be in there at least another two nights, even longer if there was another delay. Damon owed his life to his twin: his family, the fun in college, his career. Everything.

And Jesse was right. Damon didn’t understand why he wouldn’t seek protection in jail, but that didn’t matter. He needed to get him out of that pod. Damon didn’t look forward to what he knew was coming. He’d never laid a hand on Jesse, not in anger. He knew he was still healing from the attack, but these were desperate times.

He arrived at the door with “Contact Visit” painted in black stenciled letters and pushed a button to its right. The door with the small window of opaque glass buzzed open and he went inside the windowless room, took off his jacket, and waited for the arrival of his twin.

Jesse entered the interview room followed closely by a deputy. As twins, they had always sensed each other’s feelings—joy, sadness or, like now, pent up hostility.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jesse looked menacingly at Damon, while the deputy removed his handcuffs. “Ain’t you supposed to be a law student. How is it you can’t get me the fuck out of here?”

The deputy looked at Damon. “You all right in here?”

Damon nodded, and the deputy was gone, his footsteps fading as he retreated down the hallway. Jesse stood rubbing his wrists, then walked behind Damon, smiling as he removed his twin’s jacket off the back of his chair.

“Let’s do this, D. I know you’ve wanted to smack me around before,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “God knows I have.”

Damon stood, hands at his sides, and approached his twin. He was shaking and felt a pit in his stomach. Jesse turned away and tossed the coat upwards with both hands, hanging it over the video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. Damon’s hands were still down when Jesse spun around, his fist catching his twin flush in the nose.

****

After the jury was excused, Ludlow announced a fifteen-minute recess before the jury instruction conference in his chambers. I texted with Eddy. We were planning a getaway in the wine country after the trial, and I had left the details to her. If there was a guilty verdict, I wondered if I could go.

“Gentlemen,” Ludlow said, waving us in from the doorway of his chambers. “I’ve read your requested jury instructions. Let’s make this brief.” Didery and I sat on the leather sofa as Ludlow collapsed in his chair behind his desk, reclining to stare at the ceiling. “I didn’t see any discrepancies except for one of you asked for the Aiding and Abetting instruction.”

“That was me, Your Honor,” said Didery. “Obviously, it applies. I assume Mr. Turner must have just neglected to include it in his proposed instructions.”

“No, actually, I don’t think the instruction is appropriate.” I knew full well the instruction was appropriate. If given, it would allow the jury to convict Darnell of murder even if he wasn’t the shooter. Now, it was my turn to take advantage of Ludlow’s incompetence.

“You can’t be serious, Joe. You know the instruction applies,” Didery whined, then addressed the judge. “Your Honor, if the jury finds that Moore was the driver and someone else was the shooter, then he’s guilty on an aiding and abetting theory.” Didery shot me a plaintive look, knowing that quoting the law to Ludlow was a losing battle.

“Your Honor, the prosecution’s theory from the beginning of the trial has been that my client was the shooter. The prosecution is now, all of a sudden, switching theories? It’s an ambush!” I said dramatically, slamming my legal pad on the floor.

Didery rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Turner. You know full well that the instruction applies.”

Ludlow was losing patience. “I warned you two to sort this out before today!”

“Your Honor. Let’s be real,” I told him. “The prosecution’s case is airtight and unfortunately, my client will be on his way to prison soon whether or not you give the Aiding and Abetting instruction. But if you do give the instruction, there will certainly be an appeal. Frankly, I’m surprised that Mr. Didery believes the instruction is worth jeopardizing his conviction.”

My argument would have been valid if there was any chance of a successful appeal. Where the likelihood of conviction was strong, judges often shied away from jury instructions that might form the basis of an appeal for the defense. In this case, however, an appeal would be unthinkable because the instruction applied. But I was preying on Ludlow’s incompetence and insecurity. His decisions had been reversed on appeal in record numbers, so he was vulnerable to my argument.

Didery began to panic, realizing that Ludlow was actually contemplating not giving the Aiding and Abetting instruction. “Your Honor, please. This is absurd. It is perfectly appropriate for me to argue to the jury that Mr. Moore was the shooter, but on the off chance that he was merely the driver, he’s still guilty of murder. It’s called arguing in the alternative. It happens all the time!”

“Your Honor, if you give this instruction, I will begin drafting the appeal now.”

Ludlow put his elbows on his desk and covered his face with both hands. His worst nightmare was at hand. A legal decision. After several seconds, he stood. “Mr. Didery, as Mr. Turner points out, this instruction is not essential to your case. You’ve proven that Moore was the shooter six ways from Sunday.”

“Your Honor, please. Let me brief the issue this afternoon. I’ll spell it out for you.” I cringed, as his words hung in the air. Didery had gone too far. We knew Ludlow was incompetent; he knew that we knew. You just couldn’t say it. The prosecutor hung his head, knowing he had no chance to win the argument now.

The judge stood, glaring at Didery. “I need nothing spelled out for me! I’ve made my decision. I will not be giving the Aiding and Abetting instruction. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have some work to do,” he said, grabbing a random book from his bookshelf.

“Tough one,” I chided Didery, as we packed up our files in the courtroom.

“That was a joke, Turner, and you know it.”

Joke or not, it was a significant victory. Now, to convict Darnell of murder, the prosecution would have to prove that he was the shooter.

****

The two deputy sheriffs were playing poker in their guard station when they heard the panic buzzer from the interview room. They hadn’t noticed the camera to the room had gone black. They arrived to find Damon and Jesse grappling on the floor, cursing each other as they wrestled on the cold cement.

The deputies pulled them apart, flinging the inmate against the wall before handcuffing him. Jesse’s body was sore. He was pretty sure the wound in his side was seeping, but he was determined not to show it.

“You don’t fight bad for a suit.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The twins traded a quick smile as Damon was escorted out of the room.

****

As I sat at my desk after court, I admitted having secretly harbored high hopes for the E&J market’s long-anticipated surveillance video that captured the inside of the market. Perhaps Bedrossian would be caught on the video, saying, “I couldn’t see a damn thing without my glasses,” or in light of recent events, Elijah Jakes would be caught reloading his cane gun.

But it was not to be. The footage showed only the area surrounding the counter. At one point, what looked like the top of Bedrossian’s head was seen in the foreground flashing across the screen after gunshots rang out.

I heard the office door open in the lobby. “Hi, Damon, Joe’s in his office.” I heard Lawanda’s greeting shortly before my door was pushed open.

I glanced up. “Have a seat, Damon. I’m just finishing up here. Hey, nice hair-cut.”

I looked up from my files, focusing on him for the first time. If it weren’t for his eyes, I may not have noticed. If I would have looked closely, I may have seen that his button-down fit more loosely in the shoulders and that his khakis had to be cinched at the waist. Physically, though, the discrepancies would have gone unnoticed. But it was his sad, sunken eyes that had the realization washing over me moments before he spoke.

“Hi, Joe. It’s Jesse.”