State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (35 page)

Grant had no choice but to sustain and have
the comment stricken from the record.

“Did Maxine Crawford have another opportunity
to identify the defendant?” Beverly glanced at Santiago. He looked
back at her with a nasty glower.

“Yeah,” said O’Dell. “She picked him out of a
lineup.”

Beverly felt that had been another important
step towards building a case against the defendant whose
appearance—similar as it may be to another murder suspect—would
betray him at the end of the day.

Her eyes met O’Dell’s. “Thank you,
Detective.”

Beverly shared an icy glare with Ortega as
they passed each other, coming and going.

“Isn’t it unusual to bring photo lineups to a
witness’s house, Detective?” Ortega asked O’Dell casually.

“Not really,” he hissed. “Depends on the
situation.”

“You mean like if the murder victim happens
to be a judge’s wife?”

Grant jumped in. “I want that stricken from
the record,” he ordered. “We both know, Ortega, that such a remark
is highly prejudicial and uncalled for. Photo lineups are commonly
used under a variety of circumstances. And may I remind you that
Mrs. Crawford was a victim here, too.”

Ortega offered a lame apology.

O’Dell sneered. “And she had to
live
through what your client did to her. In my book, that’s much
worse!”

Grant admonished O’Dell and moved things
along.

“How many other Latino men were in the photo
lineup, Detective?” Ortega asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” O’Dell said. “We don’t
distinguish photo lineups by ethnicity.”

“But didn’t Maxine Crawford claim that the
man who broke into the house and committed these other crimes was
Hispanic?”

O’Dell twisted his body unwaveringly. “Yes.
But we still decided to show her all the photos that were available
and fit the criteria already established.”

“Or, in other words,” Ortega challenged,
“just in case the perpetrator was
not
Hispanic after all.
Isn’t that right, Detective?”

“No!” bellowed O’Dell. “Just standard
procedure.”

Ortega seized the momentum. “And I suppose it
was also standard procedure that there were only
two
Hispanic men in the
human
lineup—and one was ten years older
than my client?”

O’Dell took offense to this. Baring his
teeth, he growled, “The lineup was fair and the men in it similar
in their characteristics. The witness and victim positively
identified your client. Nothing you twist around can change
that!”

The detective was excused, having stood up
fairly well to cross-examination, in spite of the defense lawyer’s
attempts to the contrary.

Court was recessed for the day.

* * *

“What are you doing?” Beverly gingerly opened
the door. Jaime had been holed up in his room ever since he’d
gotten home from school.

“Just playing around on the computer,” he
told her without looking up.

She stepped inside his kingdom that was
usually off limits to her. It had all the things you might expect
in a twelve-year-old boy’s room, much of which was haphazard. The
walls were decorated with posters of athletes and rap and hip-hop
artists.

On Jaime’s desk was the personal computer
Beverly had bought him last summer for his birthday. He seemed to
spend a great deal of his free time on it—maybe too much time for
her comfort.

Looking at the screen over his shoulder,
Beverly could see that Jaime was on Facebook having an instant
messenger chat with someone named Junior Byrd.

“Who’s that?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just a guy I met online,” Jaime said
casually.

Junior Byrd was asking Jaime about some
mystical land called Myztantropolis. Beverly was well aware of
pedophiles trying to seduce young boys and lure them away from
home. Could he be a sexual predator? Though she had used the
parental controls to block unsuitable sites and educated Jaime on
the dangers of cyberspace and child molesters, Beverly was still
concerned about some slick, charming man pretending to be someone
he wasn’t, manipulating her son into doing something wrong or going
somewhere that put Jaime in harm’s way.

“How old is Junior?” Beverly asked,
concerned, as she did not see a photograph of him.

“Thirteen.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s easy.” Jaime clicked on his Friends
list and pulled up the page on Junior Byrd. “Here he is.
Satisfied?”

Beverly gazed at the picture of an
African-American boy with short dark hair and bold brown eyes, who
looked as if he could easily pass for eleven or twelve.

“He’s a friend of Paco’s, too,” Jaime said,
and clicked on his page.

Beverly blushed, feeling a little foolish,
but unapologetic for being overly cautious where it concerned her
son.

If Stone Palmer’s son is part of this circle
of Facebook online pals, it must be safe. Surely the detective
would not allow Paco to get in over his head on the Internet.

“You want to go out for a bite to eat?”
Beverly asked as her eyes began to grow strained from staring at
the computer screen too long.

Jaime, who seemed to have no problem sitting
practically on top of the computer, shrugged. “Why not? As long as
I get to pick the place this time.”

“You’re on,” she said, wondering where he
wanted to go.

They ended up at McDonald’s.

A chill enveloped Beverly as she remembered
first seeing Manuel Gonzalez at Burger King. She thought further of
how he had followed them home, broke in and stole from them, as
well as sized her up as a kidnapping victim and sexual slave.

She still could not get over Gonzalez’s
likeness to Rafael Santiago. How on earth could there be two such
evil, unrepentant, and unrelated people who looked like they could
be twins?

Oh well, stranger things have happened. At
least both Santiago and Gonzalez are in custody where they can’t
harm anyone in the outside world
.

“I’ve been thinking about it...” Jaime said
mysteriously, between bites of a Big Mac.

“Thinking about what?” Beverly was almost
afraid to ask.

“Grant’s not so bad after all.”

“Oh no?” She smiled at Jaime, happy to hear
him say that. More than he knew. “You mean you’re only now
realizing that?”

He giggled. “Nah. But it’s taken me this long
to make up my mind about him. Just don’t want you to end up hurt by
Grant and left all alone—again.”

Neither do I.
There was no reason to
believe either would be the case. On the contrary, things seemed to
be going very well between her and Grant, ever since they had
admitted they loved each other and gotten over a few bumps in the
road.

Knock on wood.

Only time would tell if what they had would
result in true lifelong bliss and contentment. Or be another bitter
disappointment that could be the hardest yet to stomach.

Beverly took Jaime’s Orlando Magic cap off
his head and playfully put it on hers before wrapping her arms
around his neck from behind. “How did I ever get to be so lucky to
have such a terrific son?”

“Probably because you’re such a terrific
Mom.”

“Yeah, probably.” She chuckled, again
counting her blessings.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Natalie Pena walked steadily into the
interview room. The defense attorney had been appointed by the
court to represent Manuel Gonzalez, who faced multiple murder
counts and related charges. She was there to tell him that the
situation looked bleak at best, in spite of her best efforts to do
what she could to try to at least spare his life.

Under other circumstances the
thirty-one-year-old Latina beauty might have been easily mistaken
for a model. Five-ten and streamlined, her flaxen hair was smartly
cut above the shoulders and contacts made her eyes seem even bluer.
Though she had put on a fresh coat of plum gloss, her lips still
felt dry. She wondered if it had anything to do with taking the
case of a man who Natalie had little doubt was as guilty as he
seemed.

Her client was already seated at the table.
He was still handcuffed and fidgeting, as if he had to use the
bathroom. She often wondered why people like Manuel resorted to
such violence in their lives.

And why others like her managed to escape
lower class beginnings, a dysfunctional family, and ethnic
discrimination to make a life other Hispanics could be proud
of.

Maybe she would never know.

“Hello, Manuel.” Natalie gave him a
much-practiced smile that she used with all of her clients, most of
whom couldn’t afford a private attorney. Often it was to keep from
crying, for usually it was a depressing situation she found herself
in as a public defender.

This time was no different.

“What’s up?” he said, as if they were just
hanging out as old friends.

At first he had sought to ridicule her as his
attorney, insisting that only a man could help him. But gradually
she had gained his trust, and maybe even admiration.

Natalie sat across from her client. “I just
talked to the D.A.,” she said levelly. “I’m afraid the news is not
very good, Manuel. I tried to get the charges reduced to
first-degree sexual assault and second-degree murder, which could
have allowed you to avoid the death penalty. But he insisted that
the charges stand.”

“Meanin’ what?” Manuel kept his eyes planted
on her like they had nowhere else to go.

Natalie avoided his stare, focusing instead
on the dreary wall behind him. “Meaning that unless there is
something else you can give me that might influence their position,
we’re looking at an almost certain death sentence...if you’re
convicted—” She knew that given his confession and solid evidence,
this was a more or less forgone conclusion. But she owed it to him
and her profession to do whatever she could, which wasn’t much at
this point.

Manuel continued to gaze at her attentively.
“Maybe I do have somethin’ else to say—”

“I’m listening.” Natalie tried to read his
mind, but couldn’t see anything that might give her a clue as to
where this was headed.

Manuel moved restlessly in the seat, as if it
were vibrating. “You heard about that judge that was killed last
October, right?” He paused, adding, “His old lady was raped—”

Natalie mused. Of course she had heard of the
case. Who hadn’t? She had actually been considered to represent the
accused, since Hispanic public defenders were in short supply in
the state of California. But the case went to another lawyer named
Conrad Ortega.

Personally, she believed they had a problem
with a Latina representing a Latino male accused of killing a
criminal court judge. The same judge the suspect had threatened
years earlier.

Was this case any less? Natalie wondered,
while knowing the answer spoke for itself.

She locked eyes with her client. “Yes. I’m
familiar with it. The trial is underway right now.”

Did he know something about that crime?

Manuel gave her a deadpan look and said as
though it had been weighing heavily on him, “I was responsible for
it—”

“What do you mean
responsible
?”
Natalie separated her lips. “Were you
involved
in the
attack?”

A half grin formed on his mouth. “I killed
the judge and raped his whore of a wife!”

Natalie sat back, stunned. Was he trying to
manipulate his way out of a really tight jam? Or was he being
straight with her?

“Manuel, there’s a man on trial for his life
right now,” she said, her voice on edge. “Are you saying he’s
innocent
? Or did you commit the crime together?”

Manuel did not flinch when he met her gaze.
“He didn’t do it,” he responded succinctly. “I did—period!”

Natalie swallowed, her mouth gone dry.
“Assuming you’re telling the truth, what do you want me to do?”

“Use it to cut me a deal,” he said
bluntly.

“What kind of deal?” She elevated a brow
warily. Multiple murderers were not in much of a position to
bargain. Adding more murders to his resume was hardly worthy of a
commuted sentence.

Manuel reached across the table and took her
wrists, holding them tightly between his cuffed hands. Natalie’s
first thought was to scream. But something made her feel that it
was not his intent to hurt her. Maybe he just wanted her to
listen.

“I decided I don’t wanna die,” he muttered
with trepidation. “Not till I reach the ripe old age of
ninety-nine. Even a hundred. Maybe I can sell my life story and be
a millionaire in prison.” He loosened his hold on her. “You can
save me. And
him
—”

Natalie sank back as he removed his hands
from her wrists. “Can you prove this?”

Manuel leapt up so fast, shackles and all,
that for an instant Natalie thought he was attempting to escape. Or
assault her before anyone could stop him.

Instead, he yanked down his pants like they
were ablaze. Staring across the table at Natalie was Manuel
Gonzalez’s erect penis.

She actually flushed at its enormity.

“What are you doing, Manuel?” she asked for
lack of more appropriate words to come to her.

“Just showin’ you somethin’.” He crossed to
her side of the table in two steps before the guard could come
rushing in. He forced down his penis so she could focus instead on
the area above it. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty in your
life?”

Natalie’s eyes widened with surprise. His
pubic hair had been shaved. In its place was a beautiful
multicolored tattooed lizard.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Beverly recalled Maxine Crawford to the
stand.

She wasted little time in getting to the
hardest part of her testimony, but it was the part that would most
likely resonate with the jury.