JO01 - Guilty or Else (3 page)

The hell with Johnson, Rodriguez is my client now, but the law said I had to pass along the offer. It wasn’t a bad deal, twenty-five to life for a vicious murder. Okay, I did what Johnson asked me to do. I gave him the deal. Now I’ll listen to what Rodriguez has to say—if he says anything. Then I’ll try to figure out what’s in his best interests.

“Mr. Rodriguez, c’mon man, talk to me. I’m on your side.”

“You say you work for me. You don’t want the truth. You work for the judge.”

“No, I—”

His eyes challenged me. “How much you get paid to lie?”

“I’m not lying. I’m just trying to get you the best deal I can.”

“I don’t want no stinking deals. I don’t care what they do to me. I am not going to tell the judge I am a woman killer.”

“Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her. Things just got out of hand—”

His nostrils flared. “You are not listening to me.”

“I’m trying, but you’re not saying much for me to listen to,” I said. “Look, Ernesto, we don’t stand a chance. They have all the evidence they need to get a conviction. They’ll nail you with first degree and you’ll rot in prison. You’ll never get out, but right now they want to settle the case.”

His voice exploded.
“Que?”

“What do you mean why?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why, if they have such a strong case, do they want to settle with me, offer me a chance to be free someday?”

I sat straight back in my chair. Why indeed. “That’s a good question, Ernesto, and I don’t have an answer for it. I just don’t know.”

“Here is something else you don’t know, Mr. Lawyer Man. I would rather die in jail than lie and say that I killed
Señorita
Gloria. Even if they let me go, I would not say I killed her.” Then in a calm voice he asked, “You have any
niños
?”

“No.”

“If you did, could you tell them you are a liar and a killer?”

“I see where you’re going with this, but do you want your kids to know you’re rotting away in a prison cell?”

“They will know I did not kill nobody. That is more
importante
.”

With all the evidence, he had to be guilty. But even so, he had the right to a fair trial. And I was the only person in the world standing between him and a life without hope. Was it better for him to take a deal? Should he accept a reduced charge, or was going to trial the better option? It had to be his choice, but I wanted him to understand the full consequences of going all the way.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to go to trial? We will most likely lose. Maybe it would be better if you got a new lawyer.”

“You kidding me, man? All lawyers work for the judges. I will tell them I did not do it and they can do what they want with me. I don’t need no lawyer.”

“Listen to me, Ernesto, you need a lawyer—believe me you need a lawyer. And, unless you want someone else, I’m it. If you want me, I’ll work for you, not the judge or the system. But I’m obligated to tell you the deal that they’re offering.”

“I told you! I want no deal.”

“That means you’ll have to stand trial. They have a mortal-lock case, means they’ll win and you’ll go to jail forever. We have no evidence to present, no witnesses— nothing—we have no money.
Christ Almighty
, Rodriguez!”

Ernesto Rodriguez continued to sit there with his head down. I wasn’t getting through to him. “Listen to me. The complaint says ‘The People of the State of California versus Ernesto Rodriguez.’ That’s twenty million people against you. How can you possibly win?”

“I don’t care. I already lost. They don’t give a damn about anything. I’m a Mexican piece of shit, just another spic in their eyes. But I won’t lie to make them feel better when they slam that iron door on me.”

There might have been some truth in what he said about the ugly specter of racial prejudice in the system. But in this case, with all the evidence pointing at him, they had the right guy.

“One last chance, guilty or not guilty?”

He shook his head violently. “Not guilty!”

I knew Johnson would be pissed, but I couldn’t plead him down to second degree without his consent. If he wanted to maintain his innocence, then we would go to trial. If that’s the way it’s going to be, then I’d give Rodriguez everything I had. If Johnson doesn’t like it, so what!

“I promise I’ll do the best I can for you,” I said to Ernesto Rodriguez. “I’ll tell them you didn’t do it, and we’ll go to trial.”

The voice of the deputy sheriff followed the metallic sound of the lock being turned. “It’s time to remove the prisoner. His arraignment’s in ten minutes.”

“Ernesto, I’ll see you in the courtroom.” I stood up to leave. The guard untangled the chains binding Rodriguez to the chair. He looked up at me, and his eyes softened. I think he gave me a slight nod before they dragged him away.

C H A P T E R 
4

I walked into Division III
somewhat concerned about the arraignment, wondering if Johnson would explode when I announced the not guilty plea. Placing my briefcase on the defendant’s table, I glanced at the prosecutor’s station.

Roberta Allen hadn’t arrived.

Because of the extra security required in a prominent murder case, only one arraignment would be held in the morning session: The People versus Ernesto Rodriguez.

Two guards entered with Rodriguez handcuffed between them. They brought him to the defendant’s table and sat him down next to me. He sat stiffly, turning his head, looking in all directions with wide eyes, like someone caught in a trap in a strange land.

Roberta Allen finally entered, checked in with the clerk and walked briskly to her table. She wore a no-nonsense prosecutor’s outfit: a charcoal jacket and a slim skirt, but somehow she made it seem feminine. Without acknowledging my presence, she sat and arranged several documents in front of her.

My client looked like he might break in two if he bent over. I turned to the bailiff. “Can’t you remove his cuffs during the proceedings?” I asked.

“We have our orders—security. You know better than that.”

“I’ll take responsibility.”

“No way, forget it.”

A small green light flashed above the chamber door, a cue to the bailiff. He moved to the front and turned to face us. “All rise. The court is now in session. The Honorable Robert B. Johnson presiding.”

Johnson strolled in, adjusting his black robes as he ascended the steps to his throne. “Clerk, call the case,” he said.

“Docket number 72-3852, the People of the State of California versus Ernesto Rodriguez, section 187, Penal Code. Murder in the first degree,” the clerk said and took her seat.

“James O’Brien, counsel for the defendant, Judge.” I placed my hand on Rodriguez’s shoulder.

“Roberta Allen for the People, Your Honor,” she said, then sat and adjusted her skirt.

The Judge glanced from Roberta to me. He paused a bit too long when he looked at me. Finally, he said, “Mr. Rodriguez, you are charged with murder in the first degree. Shall the court read the complaint?”

“Reading waived,” I said.

“The People move to reduce the sentence, second degree, if the defendant pleads guilty today,” Roberta said, half standing.

Johnson nodded at her. “So ordered.” Then he turned back to Rodriguez and me. “How do you plead to the charge? Guilty or not guilty?” The arraignment: just another routine matter, all in a day’s work.

The critical moment had arrived. I leaned into Rodriguez.

“Last chance, still not guilty?” I whispered.

His silence answered my question.

I took a deep breath. “My client, Ernesto Rodriguez, pleads—not guilty.”

Johnson leaned forward, frowning. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

I glanced at the prosecutor’s table and saw Roberta stuffing papers into her briefcase. I turned back to Johnson. “Not guilty, your honor.”

The plea obviously confused Johnson. He swung his head from me to the prosecutor’s table and back again. “Approach the bench,” he ordered.

The deputy D.A. and I walked forward. Johnson put his hand over the mike fixed to his desk. “What’s this all about, O’Brien?”

“Deal’s off. Like I said, not guilty.”

“You can’t change the deal.” He glanced at Roberta.

“Didn’t we agree on a deal?” Before she answered, he faced me again. “You were supposed to bring in a plea.”

“Rodriguez refused it.”

“Just what are you trying to pull?”

Roberta jumped in. “Judge, the People made an offer. Mr. O’Brien and his client refused the deal. We’re ready to go forward. We’ll take the case to trial.”

Johnson gave her a dismissive wave and continued to stare at me. “Have you explained to Rodriguez that he’ll lose his case and die in prison? Did you tell him there’s no way he can win?”

“Judge, he says he didn’t do it.”

Johnson’s confusion turned to anger. “That’s bull and you know it. I don’t think you tried to get a plea, I think you saw dollar signs, six to nine months of steady work. Talk to your client again. Get the guilty plea!”

“Won’t do any good. His mind is made up.”

“I want to talk to him myself.”

I felt my face getting hot. “You’re going beyond your authority. My client says he didn’t do it, and maybe he didn’t. He has a right to a trial. I signed on as his lawyer. I’m staying.”

Roberta broke in, cool and calm. “Your Honor, Mr. O’Brien has agreed to represent the defendant. I suggest we set a date for the prelim.”

Johnson looked at Roberta one more time, then sighed. “All right, O’Brien, it’s your case. Don’t come back later and try to get released and don’t think you’ll get any money from the county. You won’t get a lousy dime. If Rodriguez wants you, you’re stuck.”

I turned to my client and watched him stand with his head bowed. I hoped he was praying silently for a miracle. He had to know the consequences of his decision. Going to trial, murder one, no money and the deck stacked against him. A sure trip to oblivion.

“Trial is set for sixty days from today in Norwalk Superior Court,” Johnson said, biting his words. “Preliminary hearing in ten days, also at Norwalk. Does that suit the People, Miss Allen?”

She nodded.

“Okay, court’s adjourned.” Johnson picked up his gavel.

I figured I’d push it a little. “Wait a minute, Judge, let’s keep the date open.” Without consulting Rodriguez, I said, “My client waives time. It’ll take longer to be properly prepared.”

“You will be in Norwalk Superior Court in sixty days ready for trial. Is that clear?” Johnson raised his gavel, ready to slam it down. “And, remember, not a dime from the county. I’ll see to it.”

“Judge, I want to discuss my client’s bail—”

“Bail denied. Now get the hell out of my courtroom.” He banged the gavel. “Court’s adjourned.”

He jumped up and bolted from the room. Any ideas I had about getting future favors from Johnson left the room with him.

The guards started to march my client back to the courthouse cell, where he would wait for the return bus to the central jail. I asked them to hold up for a moment.

“Ernesto, I’ll see you downtown tomorrow. In the meantime, I want you to think about everything you did on the day before you were arrested. Go over in your mind every second of that day. We need to fill in the blanks. And for God’s sake, don’t talk to anybody. And I mean about anything.”

The guards pulled him away. In mid-step, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. “
Su muerte no era a mi mano
,” he said in a voice choked with emotion. She did not die by his hand.

Roberta walked hurriedly down the aisle toward the exit. I caught up with her just as she reached the rear of the courtroom. “I need to see you, go over the case, evidence, autopsy report, stuff like that,” I said.

“The judge was pretty hard on you just now. I won’t make it any harder.” She pushed the doors open. “I’m tied up the rest of the day and I’m due in court in the morning. You open for lunch tomorrow?”

I looked at her face and inhaled, exhaling slowly. “Where and when?”

“The Regency in Downey. Twelve-thirty?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take care of the reservations.”

“See you tomorrow.”

She rushed through the doors, down the hall, and glanced back at me. Did I imagine it? Or did she give me a warm smile before she disappeared around the corner?

C H A P T E R 
5

I cruised east on Firestone
Boulevard, drove over the Long Beach Freeway bridge and heading to my office, a two room storefront on Second Street in the neighboring city of Downey.

Rita Flores, my law clerk and secretary, worked at her cluttered desk in the outer office, which doubled as our lobby. Bills, junk mail, and personal mementos cluttered her desk. A small stuffed bear with a big red paper heart pinned to it rested close to the phone. Pictures of her mother and her boyfriend sat next to the bear along with a white rose from an anonymous admirer—the young salesman at the business next door. I didn’t know what the bear was all about.

“Hey, Rita, do me a favor. Call the Regency and make reservations, lunch tomorrow, booth for two.”

Rita, in her final year at Western States Law School, had been with me for six months. With her petite and shapely figure and innocent face, she appeared young and naïve and acted a little ditzy at times. But Rita was bright, one of the few Hispanic women in the school, and the only one to graduate in the top ten percent of the class. She studied night and day and had taken the bar exam a month ago. The results would be published later in the year.

“Okay, Boss. Hey, you had a call while you were gone, told him you weren’t here.” She looked at me with a playful pout on her face. “But he wouldn’t leave a message.”

“That’s fine, Rita,” I said.

“Probably trying to sell you something. More insurance, maybe. For heaven’s sake, we can’t pay the bills now. I’m glad he hung up.”

Rita flashed me one of her winning smiles. She had dimples in her cheeks, and rich dark hair flowing softly to her shoulders. I never asked her about her age. I wouldn’t, and anyway the new employment rules disallowed asking personal questions. She looked nineteen, but she had to be at least twenty-three or twenty-four.