State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (14 page)

“Poor bastard,” Grant shook his head. “Ortega
is a good attorney, but not good enough to snatch victory from the
jaws of certain defeat. I’m sure you won’t have any problem
convincing a jury of Santiago’s guilt. The asshole’s made to order
for any prosecutor looking to tack up one on the scoreboard.”

Beverly flashed him a look of surprise. “This
isn’t a basketball game, Grant,” she told him. “My only interest is
that justice is served as swiftly and fairly as possible.”

“Of course,” he said apologetically.
“Fortunately justice usually does prevail in cases like this where
everything points in one direction.”

Beverly agreed, though she wished the same
could be said for cases that didn’t involve the murder of a sitting
judge. She’d been in trials where swift and decisive justice seemed
blind or, at the very least, nearsighted.

“I hate having to try and fill the Honorable
Judge Crawford’s shoes this way.” Grant lowered his gaze
respectfully. “But if it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone
else.”

“I’m sure he would have wanted the best
person for the job,” Beverly said. “And clearly that’s you!”

He grinned boyishly. “Thanks for the vote of
confidence, Bev. I think
you
just might be the next one from
the D.A.’s office to move to the bench.”

Beverly blushed, flattered that he should
think so.
Do you really believe that? Or are you just trying to
make me feel good?

“Right now,” she told him, “I’ll settle for
one victory at a time.”

Starting with the State’s case against Rafael
Santiago.

* * *

The arraignment was set to begin at two
o’clock, but it was closer to three before all the parties were
present. Security was extra heavy, as some threats had come in
against the accused and were taken seriously. No one wanted to see
Rafael Santiago gunned down before he had a chance to be convicted
by a jury of his peers and sentenced appropriately.

On the bench was Judge Harriet Ireland. She
was in her late forties, but looked older. Her auburn hair was
stylishly coiffed and she wore tinted glasses. She nodded coolly at
Beverly who nodded back.

Representing the State, Beverly sat at the
prosecution table. The second chair was empty at the moment, as no
other attorney was needed at this stage of the proceedings. Given
the relatively strong case against the defendant, she had more or
less decided to go with one of the younger A.D.A.’s to give them
the experience and credibility she was once afforded.

Beverly looked across the room at K. Conrad
Ortega. He seemed to smile at her. She did not smile back. She’d
heard he was ambitious and looking to make a name for himself.
Showing any signs of weakness could only encourage him.

Next to Ortega was his client. The defendant,
Rafael Santiago, had only recently arrived, shackled and
handcuffed. He wore the standard orange jail attire. Later, she
imagined, he would be in a suit, looking like a Wall Street lawyer.
And his hair, currently disheveled, as if he had been in a
wrestling match, would be smoothed back or to the side. Even the
smug look on his face would be toned down to a look of innocence
or, at the very least, remorse.

Not present was the State’s key witness and
crime victim, Maxine Crawford. It was unnecessary to have her in
attendance at this juncture, only to be gawked at and intimidated
by the monster who hurt her after he shot to death Maxine’s
husband.

Beverly glanced at the front row where Grant
sat in attendance. He said he wanted to come in support, as well as
regard the courtroom setting from his new perspective as a judge.
She was grateful to have him close either way. He smiled at her and
she returned it, while thinking briefly about their dinner date and
having him and Jaime emerge as friends.

“Are we ready?” Judge Ireland asked the
attorneys, as if in doubt.

Both said yes in unison, standing, along with
the defendant.

After going through the preliminary issues,
the judge read the five current charges to the defendant.
Additional charges related to possession and use of an illegal
firearm were expected to be filed later when the murder weapon was
located.

With each charge Santiago was asked
pointblank if he understood.

“Yes,” he responded each time with little
emotion.

Judge Ireland adjusted her glasses and then
asked the defendant, “Mr. Santiago, how do you plead to count one
of murder in the first degree?”

Santiago looked at his attorney, who then
answered without prelude, “My client pleads not guilty.”

“Count two, of criminal sexual battery?”

“Not guilty,” Ortega responded.

“Count three, of sodomy?”

“Not guilty.”

“Count four, of forced oral copulation?”

Ortega sighed. “Not guilty.”

Judge Ireland eyed the defendant as if to
read his mind. “And count five, of breaking and entering?”

“Again, my client pleads not guilty, Your
Honor.” Ortega spoke without looking at Santiago.

This did not surprise Beverly at all. Few
defendants facing murder charges ever pleaded guilty, at least not
at the arraignment. She fully expected Santiago, or Ortega on his
behalf, to seek a deal in which some degree of guilt would be
admitted so long as it was less than the current charges and a
softer sentence as a result.

Beverly knew there wasn’t a chance in hell
she would ever accept a plea bargain. Not in this lifetime. Not if
she valued her future in the D.A.’s office.

And her possible future as a judge.

The preliminary hearing was set for two
weeks, at which time the prosecution would have to present just
enough of its case to show probable cause that Rafael Santiago had
committed the crimes for which he had been charged. By then Beverly
expected to have put together the pieces of the puzzle necessary to
send this one to trial.

The issue of bail was now raised.

Beverly tugged on the ruffled cuff of her
teak jacket as part of the silk suit she wore, along with matching
mules.

“Your Honor,” she began, “in light of the
serious nature of the charges against the defendant and the fact
that he has already served time for similar crimes, there should be
no consideration of bail whatsoever!” She knew that the issue
itself was a mere formality to which each defendant was entitled,
no matter how heinous the charges. She also realized the importance
of making it clear from the start just how strongly the prosecution
felt against such.

Judge Ireland seemed determined to show no
favoritism as she faced defense attorney Ortega. “Counselor, what
do you have to say regarding bail?”

Stepping slightly away from his client,
Ortega glanced at Beverly and back to the judge. “Your Honor, we
realize that Mr. Santiago has been in hot water before,” he said
lamentably. “And he paid the price for it. But that was then, and
this is now! All my client wants is to have a fair bail set and
then be given a chance to prove his innocence of the charges.”

Judge Ireland glared at Santiago. “He’ll get
his chance to do just that,” she said forcefully. “But not in this
court. Bail is denied!” She slammed the gavel down and court was
adjourned.

Beverly turned to Grant who gave her a thumbs
up. A tiny smile crossed her lips.

She looked at the defendant as he was being
led from the court by bailiffs. He seemed to make a point of giving
her the dirty eye all the way out. Or was she only imagining it?
Wouldn’t she be just a little pissed off, too, if someone stood
between her and freedom?

Perhaps Santiago should have thought about
that when he decided to enact his vengeance on the judge and his
wife. But that was what separated vicious criminals from
law-abiding citizens. Often the former did not think about the
consequences of their actions—not until it was too late.

And someone was dead and another sexually
assaulted.

Well if I have it my way, you’ll never
have the chance to harm another living soul, Santiago.
Beverly
was determined to see that justice prevailed in this case.

* * *

Grant watched the arraignment come to an end,
pleased to see that Rafael Santiago would be headed back to jail,
just where he belonged. He wished the asshole hadn’t killed Judge
Crawford and sexually assaulted Maxine Crawford. No one wanted to
see the judge dead and his wife traumatized.

But it had happened and now they had to deal
with it, even if things could get ugly along the way.

I would have preferred to take Judge
Crawford’s spot on the bench another way, but it wasn’t my call. I
just have to make sure I keep my eye on the ball and not mess
things up any more than what’s already gone down
.

Grant smiled brightly as he watched Beverly
approach. She looked as stunning as ever. Being with her was enough
to make him believe that good things really could happen even when
things went bad.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Manuel smoked the crack, intensely savoring
the high that penetrated every fiber of his body. It made him feel
alive again. There was no feeling like it. Not even sex.

Murdering somebody was a high all its own.
But that could only come when the time was right. The circumstances
were conducive to killing. And the trap was laid out precisely so
the predator backed the prey into a corner with no chance of
escape.

With crack cocaine, the thrill could come
anytime, anywhere. And its potent effects always left him feeling
like he was on Cloud Nine. Manuel emptied the pipe of its contents,
allowing the stuff to filter into his system, before leaving the
bathroom.

Downstairs he warmed some leftover chicken to
go with red beans. By the time his old lady walked in the door from
another day and half dollar on the job, he was feeling horny,
hungry, and mellow.

“How was work?” he asked routinely, not
really caring, as long as she kept a roof over their heads.

“Okay,” she said unenthusiastically, looking
worn out.

Manuel wrapped his arms around her from
behind. They were back on speaking terms after their last fight. At
least he had forgotten about it. There were more important things
on his mind.

“I missed you, baby,” he said, pouring it on
a bit thick.

“Since when?” Her voice echoed with
skepticism.

“Since every time you go away,” he lied.

She turned around, still in his arms. Her
gaze explored his face, as if looking for something hidden. “You’re
high, aren’t you?”

“A little,” he was willing to admit. “Ain’t
no big deal.”

“You promised me you were gonna get off the
crack, Manuel.”

“I am off it,” he lied again. “Just smoked a
little weed. That’s all.” He kissed her chapped lips.

“I’m not really in the mood right now,” she
muttered.

He grabbed one of her breasts through her
dress. “I’ll get you in the mood.” He kissed her again while he
cupped her breasts and squeezed them like pillows. “I need you now,
baby.”

He could feel her beginning to warm up to the
idea. Her nipples had turned hard and her breathing had
quickened.

“Oh...” she purred.

“Let’s go to bed,” he told her. “I’ll give
you what you need...and a lot more.”

She did not protest.

Upstairs in bed, he orally stimulated her
till she came in waves. Then she returned the favor and he squeezed
his eyes shut. The dual stimulation of the crack and her active
tongue had him pumped up and trembling till he relieved himself in
her mouth.

Afterwards he put himself inside her body and
slammed against her repeatedly until he ran out of steam.

All the while Manuel was thinking about that
whore he had killed.

And the whore before her.

Even the next whore who would meet his blade
made Manuel’s blood boil and his imagination run wild.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Conrad Ortega sidestepped used hypodermic
needles and other drug paraphernalia scattered across the pavement
and patches of brown grass at the apartment complex like ants. It
was home to mostly poor Hispanics and African-Americans. He had
also once lived in such a drug-infested community, but through hard
work and determination had left that life behind.

Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Rafael
Santiago. Ortega entered the dark hallway that reeked of marijuana
and urine. Like most felons, Santiago had been sent back to the
very environment that put him in prison in the first place and had
landed him back in jail.

Stopping in front of apartment 314, Ortega
listened in for a moment. There was shouting, but he determined
that it was from the apartment across the hall.

He knocked on the door. This was where Isabel
Santiago lived. And where her son, Rafael, was placed after his
release from prison. According to Santiago, at the time Sheldon
Crawford was being shot to death and his wife raped and sodomized,
he was at home and had been all night. His mother was his witness
and alibi.

Ortega’s visit was routine as Santiago’s
attorney. The police had obviously dismissed his client’s claims.
He had his own doubts about the alibi, all things considered. But
at this point, if he was to present a credible case at all, he had
to give Santiago the benefit of the doubt.

And his mother.

The door opened slowly with a squeak,
stopping because of the chain lock being fully extended. An elderly
and frail Hispanic woman peered out cautiously.

“Ms. Santiago?” asked Ortega.

“What do you want?” she responded
suspiciously.

He detected fear in her umber eyes that had
heavy bags beneath them.

“My name is Conrad Ortega. I’m representing
your son, Rafael Santiago.”

Her gaze widened, almost in disbelief. “You
mean you’re his lawyer?”