In My Dark Dreams (18 page)

Dixant and I walk to the front of her podium. She turns off her microphone so the jury can’t hear our discussion. Leaning over, she asks him, “Why wasn’t this witness on your list? You know the rules.” She’s angry and she wants him to know it.

“We just found out about him last night, Your Honor,” he explains. He’s trying to sound contrite. I don’t know about the judge, but he isn’t convincing me, because I know how low he can go. “He got lost in the jail. You know how that is.”

We all know how that is, which gives his explanation credence. The jail is a city unto itself, except much more uncivilized and brutal. The veneer of order is tissue thin, and the organization can be chaotic. I’ve had clients I couldn’t find for days because the jail genuinely didn’t know where they were located.

I have a sinking feeling I know where this is headed: a jail-house confession, one of the slimiest tricks in the book. Even when they’re legit, they reek. Too often they’re phony, a contract with the devil between a prisoner looking for a break on a tough sentence and a cop or prosecutor too zealous in wanting a conviction. If that’s what’s going down here, I’m going to be very suspicious because of Dixant’s prior attempt to game the system.

“Your Honor …” I begin to protest.

She puts a hand up to silence me. “Go on,” she says to Dixant. She, too, knows how hard it can be to keep track of thousands of transient felons in that vast pit.

“This witness is critical to getting to the truth of this case,” Dixant continues. “I wouldn’t be asking the court’s indulgence if he wasn’t.”

Judge Rosen presses her fingers to her temples. I know what is going on in her mind. On one hand, this is a violation of discovery. All witnesses have to be disclosed to the other side, before trial. On the other hand, if this witness knows something that could be critical to the outcome, it would be a miscarriage of justice to deny hearing his testimony. And of course, she has to look out for her political future. If she doesn’t let this new witness testify, and Dixant goes public with what could be damning information, she’ll be out on the street come next election.

“Your Honor,” I try again, more forcefully.

She shakes her head at me. “Wait your turn.” To Dixant: “What is the crux of his testimony?”

“He was with the accused in the jail the night the accused was arrested.”

I was right. Goddamn it!

The judge ponders her options for another moment, but it’s for show. She has to allow this witness in. “All right,” she says. “I’ll let him testify. But if I see that this is not completely on the up and up, I’ll stop it and declare a mistrial, and I will recommend that the charges against the defendant be dropped,” she warns Dixant. “Is that a consequence you are willing to accept?”

That’s harsh; she’s trying to be fair, as much as the circumstances will allow her.

Dixant doesn’t hesitate. “It is, Your Honor,” he says.

“And defense counsel will be given ample time to prepare her cross,” she adds.

“Whatever you decide,” he agrees. He seems awfully smug, which causes me even more worry.

“Let’s move on, then,” she says, concluding our sidebar.

I go back to the defense table, and Dixant takes his place at the lawyer’s podium. “Call Alfonso Calderon,” he announces. He nods to Ike, the bailiff, who opens the side door that leads to the small holding cell. A moment later Ike emerges with a man who is dressed in jailhouse orange. The man is cuffed, but not shackled. Both of his arms are tattooed from the wrist on up, and there are tattoos on his neck as well. I’m sure his body is a tableau of body art too. Most are jailhouse renderings, crude handmade ink drawings, but some are wildly colorful, professional work. His face is badly pockmarked, a telltale sign of a meth freak. Everything about him has the look of habitual criminal, a man who will spend more of his life in prison than in the free world.

The jurors’ reaction to this new addition to the trial is palpable—they are immediately put off. That’s understandable, because this man’s aura is scary. He looks like a predator, a human coyote who doesn’t give a shit about anything except his own self-preservation.

“State your name for the jury, please,” Dixant instructs his witness.

“Alfonso Juan Calderon,” the man answers in a voice of understated hostility.

I look at Salazar. He is staring at the man, but there is no panic in his face, and no recognition. “Do you know this guy?” I whisper to him.

Salazar shakes his head. “No,” he whispers back. “I have never seen him.”

I turn to the front as Dixant begins his examination. “Where do you reside presently, Mr. Calderon?”

“In the main county jail,” Calderon answers, indicating the direction across the street with a flick of his shackled thumbs.

“For how long?”

“Four months, give or take, I ain’t sure to the day. They took away my Blackberry.”

“So you were in the jail on the night of …” Dixant reads off the date Salazar was arrested.

“Yeah, I was there. They don’t give no weekend furloughs.” Behind his canine smile, his teeth are yellow and rotting.

“Is there anyone in the courtroom today you met in the jail that night?” Dixant asks.

“Yeah.” Calderon points to my table. “Him.”

Everyone looks at us. I turn to my client, whose jaw is slack with surprise. “Uh-uh,” he says under his breath, to himself. “No.”

“Let the record show that Mr. Calderon was pointing to the accused, Roberto Salazar,” Dixant states.

I start to stand to object; then I stop. I need to save my ammo for when it really counts.

Dixant continues. “What were the circumstances you two met under?”

Calderon fidgets in his seat, as if he’s trying to get comfortable. Or else he’s trying to remember his lines. He says, “The night he was arrested, he was put in with me.”

“In your cell?”

Calderon shakes his head like a dog shaking off fleas. “No, man. Fresh fish like him who they don’t expect to keep long don’t get put in individual cells. Jail’s too overcrowded. They bunked him in the cafeteria. Where I was, too. They put up cots there, or sometimes they just roll the mattresses out on the floor.” He scowls, as if thinking about the indignity of not even having a bed to call your own. I wouldn’t like it either.

Dixant nods, as if in sympathy with this poor guy’s plight. “So you were in the cafeteria when the accused was brought in.”

“Yeah.”

“Was he assigned to a space near yours?”

“Real near. Any closer and we would’ve been spooning.”

Next to me, Salazar is in a rage. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him show anger. “That is not true,” he whispers harshly. “This man was not near me. I remember who was. He is lying.”

I can’t answer, because I have to listen to my opponent, who might be mashing my case into pudding, if he’s believable (or truthful). “Later,” I whisper back. “We’ll discuss this later. Keep quiet now,” I hush him, rudely. I’m on edge, and my temper is fraying.

“Did you and the accused talk?” Dixant continues.

“Oh, yeah.” The handcuffed man gives his shoulders a shrug, as if working out the kinks. He looks at the jurors, who are looking back at him in morbid fascination, the way you look at an exotic animal in a zoo. One that’s safely behind bars, which is where they keep people like this. “We had a most pleasant conversation.”

“What did you talk about?” Dixant prompts.

“Everything,” the prisoner replies airily. “The war in Iraq. I got some homeboys over there, it’s scary shit, man. Worse than where I’m at. At least they ain’t shooting at me. Not yet, anyway. So what else. The usual shit. Sports. Pussy. What guys talk about when the ladies aren’t present.”

When he hears the word “pussy,” Salazar turns beet red. I glance behind him to look at his wife, who is staring straight ahead. Her face is frozen. She has never heard her husband described like this. It must be mortifying, especially since this is all happening in public.

I can feel Salazar’s tension building. “Don’t let him rile you up—that’s what they want,” I whisper in warning.

Judge Rosen raps her gavel sharply. “Please instruct your witness to refrain from profanity,” she admonishes Dixant.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” he answers with proper meekness. “You understand?” he puts to Calderon.

The prisoner nods. “Clean up my act. I’m down with that.” He turns to Rosen. “Sorry, Judge. Don’t get to spend much time with decent people. I’ll be good, don’t worry.”

He smiles ingratiatingly at her. She shakes her head in repugnance and looks away. “Keep it going,” she says to Dixant.

“What else did you talk about with the accused?” Dixant asks.

“What he did.”

“The crime he committed?”

“Yeah, the crime.”

“What did he say? As closely to the actual words as you can remember.”

It’s like those old E. F. Hutton commercials. Everyone—judge, jury, spectators—leans in toward the witness chair.

“That him and some other bozos hoisted a bunch of television sets and he got caught with them,” he says. “Plasma Sonys, the fifty-inch model. That they had been running this scam before, but this was the first time he got caught,” he adds. “He was pretty shook up, because he said he had never got caught before.”

Now I’m on my feet. “Objection!” I yell, louder than I want, but I’m steamed. “There has been nothing presented here about any other crimes my client has committed, or attempted.” We’re in water over our heads now, because the precise model and size of the stolen television sets was never made public. Either this douche bag was given that information by the police or Dixant, or he’s telling the truth. Either option is chilling to me.

“Sustained,” Judge Rosen says. “Please stick to the issue at hand, Counselor,” she tells Dixant.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he answers, barely covering his smirk, the little shit. “What else did the accused say about these television sets he stole?”

“That he got stupid and didn’t watch his butt closely enough,” the career convict says. “That he had made a dumb mistake, and that he’d be more careful the next time.”

“More careful the next time,” Dixant repeats the phrase. “In other words, he was saying he was going to do it again?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation,” I call out.

This time, Rosen doesn’t answer immediately. Finally, she sustains me. But I feel that I’m losing her.

“Did you say anything to him about what he should do?” Dixant asks his witness.

“Get a good lawyer,” the scumbag answers, as he looks over at me with a lascivious smile on his cracked lips.

I have been mentally undressed before, but never so rawly. My skin is literally crawling, as if I have been invaded by a horde of bugs.

The witness runs his tongue across those putrid lips. “Looks to me like he picked a winner.”

As I slowly get to my feet to begin a cross-examination that is going to be scattered with land mines, any one of which could blow me up, Judge Rosen throws me a life preserver. “We’ll recess for lunch,” she declares.

Dixant jumps up in dismay. “Judge, can’t we finish the cross-examination before lunch?” he complains. “How long can it take?”

She looks at him archly. “I didn’t have breakfast this morning, and I’m hungry, Mr. Dixant.” She turns to me. “Any objections from the defense?”

As if I’m going to object to a gift that is all wrapped up in a pretty bow. “No, Your Honor. No objections.”

“Cross-examination will begin when we come back, at one-thirty,” she pronounces. “After that, closing arguments, unless someone else decides to pull another rabbit out of a hat. I want to charge the jury so they can begin their deliberations before the end of the day,” she informs Dixant and me. Meaning, keep your summations short, this isn’t the trial of the century. She hoists herself out of her chair and quick-steps through the back door.

I turn to my client. “The truth. Did you ever talk to this man? Anything, one word?” My tone is harsh, but I can’t worry about mollycoddling his ego. Time is flying.

“Never,” he insists, taken aback by my abruptness. “I never talked to him, I never laid eyes on him.” He’s really worked up. “You told me not to talk to anyone, and I didn’t.”

I warned you about that
after
you were arrested, not the night of, I think. But I have to trust him. I’ve believed him so far; I can’t crap out on him now, or on myself. I have too much invested in this case to let a slimeball like Dixant pull a stunt like this and get away with it.

“I need to get back to my office and do some checking up on this situation,” I inform him. “I’ll see you back here at one-thirty. Don’t be late.”

As I’m leaving, Salazar joins his wife, who is huddled in Amanda Burgess’s protective shadow. Amanda says something encouraging to him, and gives him a reassuring hug. He smiles bravely. The three of them leave the courtroom together. Salazar and Amanda are talking. His dutiful wife follows, half a step behind.

We’re back in court. I stand at the podium and face Dixant’s new star witness. My first question is a grenade thrown right at his head. “How much did they pay you to lie?”

Dixant erupts from his chair. “Objection!” he screams.

“Sustained!” Rosen is livid. “Approach the bench, both of you.”

Dixant and I walk to the side of her platform that is opposite the jury box. Judge Rosen stares daggers at me. “Ms. Thompson …” she hisses.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I jump in quickly, before she can really lay one on me. “I got carried away. I won’t do that again.”

“See that you don’t.” She has been trying to help me ever since Amanda Burgess made her regal entrance into this courtroom, but she’s making it clear that I’ve exhausted my chits now. “Don’t make me hold you in contempt,” she warns me.

I don’t have to look at Dixant to know he’s lapping up my smackdown. “I won’t, Your Honor,” I promise, sounding properly chastised.

“All right. Resume.”

I take my place at the podium again. “I’ll rephrase my question,” I say to the prisoner in the dock. “Did the District Attorney’s office offer you anything in exchange for your testimony?”

Calderon tries to look puzzled, but his performance won’t win him any Oscars. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, fumbling for a tolerable answer. “They ain’t paying me a dime, if that’s what you’re asking. Not one thin dime,” he repeats himself.