Against the Wind (48 page)

The fear goes away and we make love, tenderly, like in the Song of Solomon, she anoints me with her love.

“I was scared,” she says. We’re watching David Letterman, finishing the second bottle of wine. “I couldn’t let you know because it would’ve messed up your head, but I was terrified. I was so happy when I saw you walk out of there in one piece.”

I turn to her; she’s crying, silently, big soft tears running down her face.

“I was so scared,” she whispers.

I pull her close. The telephone rings.

“Is this Mr. Alexander?”

I sit up, suddenly short of breath.

“Yes.”

“It’s Rita Gomez.”

“Yes, I know. I recognize your voice.”

“I saw you tonight. On TV. That was good what you did.”

“Where are you?”

Mary Lou sits up, looks at me, reading my mind. I nod that she’s right.

“In Greeley. That’s in Colorado.”

“I know where it is. Who knows you’re there?”

“Nobody. I’m hiding.”

“Where have you been?” I ask. “What happened to you?”

“I got a phone call …” She’s tentative, scared people get that way, women especially. “The day before I was supposed to come down.”

“Who called you?”

“I … I don’t know.”

I’ll let that pass.

“How did anyone know how to find you?”

“I don’t know,” she says again. “I didn’t tell nobody. I swear.”

Five hundred miles away, the walls still have ears.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, her voice fearful. “For running away?”

“No,” I answer. That’s a lie; how could I not be mad, she’s ruined lives. But that was then; now, I don’t know. In light of everything, what happened with her seems to have been inevitable, preordained.

“What did they say?” I ask. “Whoever it was who called you.”

“That I’d never make it back to testify. That if I tried I’d get killed.” She’s scared out of her mind, I can hear it in her voice, clearly, how can I be mad at her, this call takes a kind of guts I’ve never known.

“You wouldn’t have been,” I reassure her, as best I can. “I promised you that.”

“I was scared.”

“Where you are now—is it safe?”

“I think so. I hope.”

“Okay, look. Do you remember that lawyer friend of mine? The one whose office you gave your statement in, in Denver?”

“Yes?”

“He’s going to come pick you up. He’s going to take you to Denver and he’s going to stay with you until I get there. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be completely safe.”

“I don’t want to run no more.”

“Good. That’s good. You shouldn’t have to.”

“I didn’t do nothing wrong. Except what they made me.” She’s starting to cry.

“You didn’t. That’s right. You’re going to be safe. You don’t have to run anymore.”

“When will you get here?”

“As soon as I can. By morning.”

She gives me her address, a motel, and the phone number. She was smart for once; she registered under an alias.

“My friend will be there in a couple hours,” I assure her, “and I’ll be there, too.”

“I’m not running anymore,” she reiterates, as if repeating it gives her strength. “When I saw you on the television and they said what you’d done, you know, I said to myself, ‘Rita, if he can help them, he can help you.’”

Son of a bitch. It was worth it; it was really worth it.

“That’s right,” I tell her. “Now just hang on, okay? I’ll be there real soon.”

“Listen,” she says, stopping me before I hang up on her, “who called me? I think I know … who it was.”

She’d get there. I knew she would, sooner or later.

“The cop,” she answers. “The nice one.”

“Gomez.” It’s always the nice one who fucks you.

“I know his voice.”

“WE’RE READY, YOUR HONOR.”

“Call Rita Gomez to the stand.”

Five months ago I walked out of the state prison, and got the telephone call from my star witness. Today, we’re finally back in the District Court again with our petition to be allowed to reopen the trial. The wheels of justice may not be frozen, but they do grind glacially slow.

I didn’t know if Martinez would even let me back in; I’d blown it once, you usually don’t get a second chance. I’m sure it was the overwhelming, positive publicity from my handling of the prison situation that swayed him in my favor. It’s all politics in the end; they don’t want the press trumpeting about a miscarriage of justice for these hardened killers who saw the light and saved some innocent lives, and their lawyer who selflessly and heroically brought about a bloodless (only convicts were killed and they don’t count) resolution.

Anyway, this is only a hearing, a first step. At best what I get from Judge Martinez is the chance to present fresh evidence showing that the original trial was tainted, and that he should grant a new one. Even if we win here, the odds are long that Martinez will ultimately reverse his decision. But the beginning of the process starts here, and it’s vital, because if we strike out this time, it’s curtains.

Robertson fought me tooth and nail; he was bitter when the judge ruled he’d hear the appeal, based solely on testimony from a self-admitted perjurer.

“Last time I was a gentleman,” he told me. “This time I’m not taking any prisoners.”

“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin,” was my flip-the-bird reply.

Privately, I’m legitimately outraged that he’d take such a hard line. This enmity between him and me has gotten too bitter for my taste. We’re lawyers, can’t he remember that? Can’t he remember that the bikers saved his ass, the governor’s, everyone’s, just a few months ago? He’s taken such a stand on this, on a principle floating on quicksand, that if it doesn’t go his way it could do something terrible to him.

We glare at each other as Rita swears to tell nothing but the truth and takes her seat.

There are only a few people in the courtroom. Mary Lou and Tommy are at my table with me; on the other side, Robertson sits next to Moseby, with Gomez and Sanchez in the first row behind them.

I lead her through the deposition that she gave in Denver. She’s scared, but speaks calmly, directly. Occasionally Martinez asks her a question, mostly for clarification. Otherwise, it’s low-key.

Robertson takes over after lunch. He strolls up to her, strikes his aw-shucks pose.

“Have you ever read a book called Alice in Wonderland?” he asks her.

“No, sir.”

“You’ve heard of it though, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Didn’t they make a movie?”

“Probably,” he says dryly, “they’ve made movies about everything. So you know generally what it’s about.”

“Sort of,” she answers tentatively, as if she’s afraid he’s going to quiz her on it and she won’t have the answers.

“Do you know what I think?” Robertson continues, kind of smiling at her, almost in a friendly fashion. “I think that you have read
Alice in Wonderland
, Miss Gomez.”

“No sir. I never have.”

“I think you read
Alice in Wonderland
and thought to yourself ‘doggone this sure is neat, the way everything gets twisted all around in here ’till nobody knows what the truth is, if there is any truth to begin with.’ That’s what you thought to yourself after you read
Alice in Wonderland
, isn’t it?”

“No. I told you. I never read it.”

“What is it they say in that book?” he asks rhetorically. “About black being white and everything’s turned upside down until you can’t tell what’s what … curiouser and curiouser is one of the phrases, do you remember that, Miss Gomez?”

“How could I if I never read it?” she asks, bewildered.

“And you thought, boy, it sure was fun in that book the way truth got stood on its head. More fun than I’ve ever had. I’ll bet it’d be neat to do something like that … to turn the truth on its head.”

“No!”

“Objection!” I say. “He’s badgering her. Furthermore, this line of questioning is ludicrous.”

“Is it?” Robertson roars, turning to me. He turns back, faces the judge. “Is it any more ludicrous than this complete fabrication that this witness has come in here with today? She makes Alice look like Diogenes, your honor.”

“Make your point, counselor,” Martinez chides him.

“My point, sir, is that everything this witness has said here today is a pack of vicious lies, a pack of frightened, evil lies of a paranoid, confused woman. This woman was on the stand for a week at the trial, your honor. She was grilled mercilessly by not one but four separate and distinguished lawyers for the defense. None of this bilge was ever remotely alluded to. And now, more than a year later, she mysteriously materializes and recants everything. On the face of it, it’s impossible to believe what she’s saying.”

Rita Gomez is out of it now; it’s between Robertson and the judge. I watch his face as Robertson illustrates how bogus her entire new story must be.

“If this witness is telling the truth now,” he says passionately, “then the entire District Attorney’s office, and the entire Santa Fe police force, are corrupt from top to bottom. If she’s telling the truth now, I’m corrupt.”

He’s looking up at him, daring Martinez to call his bluff. Martinez has no intention of doing anything of the kind; John’s a fair-haired boy in these parts and an acknowledged straight-shooter.

“Let’s look at what she’s said today,” he continues. “She was told by an assistant District Attorney that if she didn’t lie on the stand she would be arraigned as an accessory to murder. If that statement is true, that man, who is my top trial assistant, who has conducted hundreds of trials, is corrupt.

“If what this admitted perjurer says is true,” he presses on, “if what is true now was false then, they fed her information. They made the case for her. If that’s true, those men are guilty of obstructing justice in a murder case. They could go to jail until hell freezes over if that is true.”

I’m watching the judge; he’s paying close attention to what Robertson says.

“How much coincidence are we willing to believe?” Robertson asks him. “How is it that this admitted perjurer, who knew the men that were subsequently convicted by an impartial jury and are now awaiting the properly and soberly arrived-at carrying out of their sentence on Death Row for this heinous crime, how is it that she knew them, she was with them on that night, she was with the victim on that night, the convicted murderers knew the victim and were seen with him on that night, she was raped by them, on that night, the victim was murdered by them in the same location where they raped her, on that night, all of this is indisputable, it isn’t being called into question here today, how is it with all that coincidence, somehow they didn’t kill him? It’s impossible to believe that. As I stand here and recount it for you now it’s impossible to even consider. Listen to what she’s saying.”

He turns and looks at her.

“According to her, someone got to her. She says, now, not then, but now, more than a year later, that it was the police, the prosecutor’s office. Well, she’s lying.”

He leans in to her. She jerks back in her chair.

“Maybe she’s telling the truth,” he says. “Partially. Maybe someone did get to her. But I warrant it wasn’t the police or my deputy. I’ll stake my reputation on that. I’ll put my career on the line. If someone did get to her,” he says, “it was someone from the Scorpions, the outlaw bikers who committed that murder. They found her and they threatened her and they scared her to death. They’re a hell of a lot scarier than Mr. Moseby, I guarantee you that.”

“They did not!” she yells.

Martinez pounds his gavel.

“Please restrain yourself, Miss Gomez,” he admonishes her. “This is not a trial, but a hearing.”

“Objection, your honor,” I say.

“On what grounds?” he asks me.

“This is a summation, your honor, and a damn fanciful one at that.”

“And this is a hearing, Mr. Alexander. Not a trial.”

Having put me in my place, he nods to Robertson to continue.

“Isn’t it much more logical to conclude, your honor, that what I’m saying now has the ring of truth, and that this witness’s testimony today is a frightened attempt to save her skin? Isn’t that where she’s coming from, if you look at this with any objectivity at all?”

He walks back to his table, leans up against it, calm now, in control (not that he always wasn’t).

“The point of this hearing today is to decide whether there is a
compelling
reason to grant a new trial. I repeat, a compelling reason. And there isn’t. You know it and I know it. All we’re being presented with here today is one solitary witness who’s saying one thing now and another thing at another time. That’s over, if it may please this court. That’s what the trial was about. Whether her testimony, and that of dozens of other people, was truthful or not. The jury made its decision. It’s over now. It’s history. This petition must be denied or we will all be party to a terrible miscarriage, not only of justice, but of our entire legal system.”

Martinez takes a half-hour break. He asks Robertson and me to join him in his chambers.

“Your argument’s great, John,” he tells Robertson. “But if she really was lying then, four innocent guys are going to die. Do any of us want that on our conscience?”

He turns to me. “Do you have any other witnesses, any other evidence, anything to present, that will bolster your position?”

Read between the lines, he’s saying. You’re a hero, you helped the state, but you have to give me something else if I’m to help you now; if this is all you have it’s thin gruel, he can’t go against the District Attorney after he’s put forth such a compelling argument.

Before I can answer, the phone rings. Martinez picks it up, listens a moment.

“Yes, I am,” he replies to whatever question’s been put to him.

He cups the receiver, peers over it at us.

“The governor,” he says quietly.

He listens again.

“Yes, I know,” he says at length. “I’m fully aware that these men saved eleven lives. I agree with you—they deserve consideration.” He listens again for a moment, shakes his head. “No. I won’t go so far as to say I think they’re innocent, not even to you in private. They probably aren’t, the case against them was strong and compelling. But I tend to agree with you that if there’s any possibility, any shadow of a doubt that this witness could have perjured herself earlier, then they deserve to be given another chance.”