The Chinese Jars (15 page)

“He's hiding something big in this case, Melba. He got rid of some pages of the Rockwood police report. Those pages showed Rockwood might have been murdered.”

“Take it easy, Samuel,” said Melba. “Don't get too excited about Maurice Sandovich. He's small potatoes. He's been involved in Chinatown graft for a long time. If he did something, he did it on orders from somebody who had him by the balls, or is also involved in one of the rackets he has his fingers in.”

“What d'ya mean, one of the rackets?” he asked.

“Maurice protects a lot of interests in Chinatown. He's on the Vice Squad. It could be prostitution, drugs, but it's probably gambling. You have no idea the amount of gambling that goes on in that small area of the city. He makes a good living doing that. So he owes a lot of favors. But the ultimate person or persons you're looking for isn't Maurice,” explained Melba. “On the other hand, looking in Chinatown isn't a bad idea.”

They drank in silence, she, her beer, and he, the last of his Scotch. He'd promised himself he'd only drink two a day, and this was his second.

“Have you heard from Blanche?' asked Samuel in the most casual tone he could affect.

“Starting tomorrow she'll be here every day. She says that until Rafael's case is settled, she's willing to help me.”

“To clean the bar?”

“No. Rafael is here now, but we don't know for how long. There are a lot of other things he does that I may not be able to count on from him. I need someone to back me up. This isn't a job for a single woman.”

“You can count on me, if I can help in any way,” Samuel offered.

“Yeah. I know I can count on you as soon as Blanche shows up,” Melba laughed.

“Don't make fun of me, Melba. Your daughter treats me like a louse.”

“You have to change the focus, Buster. I heard it didn't go so well when you went running in the park with her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“You need to find a common ground that's not athletics. Something that you both enjoy that doesn't make you look ridiculous.”

“Does she like music?”

“Depends,” said Melba.

“There's the symphony, but that's pretty highbrow,” said Samuel.

“It would be for both of you. How ‘bout the Blackhawk? Dave Brubeck's there a lot and that cat knows how to do it, and Blanche likes him” said Melba.

“I like ‘m too.”

“You'll have to start somewhere. There's also an art theatre near it on Larkin, where they show foreign films. Try that, too. I haven't raised my daughter in a total cultural wasteland, you know,” said Melba.

Samuel walked to his den, thinking of the Tarot cards.

H
IRAM
G
OLDBERG
made all the moves he had in his bag of tricks during the final argument of Rafael's criminal trial. He put on a dark suit and lavender-scented cologne, and he took off his gold chains and cufflinks in order to make the jurors feel sympathy for his client's social class. His enthusiasm made him almost levitate, and at one point he got so close to the jurors that the judge warned him he couldn't sit in their laps. He lamented, pleaded, and cajoled, trying to twist the evidence in his client's favor like a Jesuit would, going so far as to preach the melodrama of the crippled mother, the siblings without a father, and the pregnant wife. He even cried; yet when all was said and done, Rafael was convicted of receiving stolen property.

Rafael had no illusions; he knew where he came from and where his kind stood in the community. Besides, he wasn't a whiner. He was caught with the goods; that couldn't be changed. The probation officer tried in vain to get him to talk, but he wouldn't squeal so that bigger fish up the line could be snagged in exchange for a lighter sentence or dismissal of the charges. Everyone in his community knew that if he did that, the consequences could be fatal.

He stood at the bar with his lawyer, waiting for the judge to pronounce sentence. The courtroom was crowded with his family and friends. He noted that his brother Juan showed up without a pompadour or a chain hanging from his belt, and in a suit and tie. Surely that was on instructions from the lawyer. Sitting with his mother and sisters was his wife, Sofia, who was now big with child. Melba was there with her daughter, Blanche, and Samuel was next to her. Several of his companions from the neighborhood were there to lend him support. They were at once courageous and nervous at having to show their faces, since they were perpetually trying to escape from the police. To them, as to him, honor was more important than the consequences of a public appearance in front of the law, which was hostile to them.

“Hear ye, hear ye, the Superior Court of the State of California, in and for the City and County of San Francisco is now in session, the Honorable Guido Carduloni, presiding,” announced the clerk.

A young man in a black robe came out of one of the two back doors and took his seat on the dais. He was of medium height, had short black hair, and was clean-shaven. He had a strong jaw line of a boxer, but his brown eyes were amiable. Carduloni had presided over Rafael's criminal trial; he knew all the details of the case and had painstakingly read the probation report, which he had in one hand. The court file with all his notes was in the other.

Hiram and Rafael were already at the counsel table, and the assistant district attorney was seated at the table next to the jury box.

“As you know, Mr. Garcia,” announced the judge, “this is the day set aside for sentencing. I assume your attorney has explained the procedure to you and allowed you to read the probation report.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” answered Rafael, standing erect.

“Is there anything you want to say before sentence is pronounced?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Is there any reason why sentence should not be pronounced at this time, Counsel?”

“No, Your Honor, there is none,” answered Hiram.

“Very well,” said the judge. “Mr. Garcia, you shouldn't be here. But a jury of your peers has found that you violated the laws of this state.

“The district attorney offered to agree to a reduction in your sentence; and frankly, I was willing to go along with it, if you would provide information about the person or persons who actually stole the X-ray machine so they could be prosecuted. But you have refused to even discuss the matter. Therefore, the probation department and the district attorney both take the position that you should be given the maximum sentence. Are you aware of their recommendations?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rafael.

“Do you wish now to make any statement concerning others' involvement or provide the district attorney with the requested information? If so, I'll continue this hearing.”

“May I have a moment with my client, Your Honor?” asked Hiram Goldberg.

“Of course,” said the judge. “We'll take a five-minute recess.” He put his glasses on, got up from his cushioned seat, grabbed the two files, and left the courtroom.

Hiram leaned over and whispered in Rafael's ear. “Okay, Rafael, this is it. Last chance to give up whoever it was that got you here. The judge wants to help you, but the D.A. wants information. It's stupid to protect some gangsters. They wouldn't do it for you.”

“No dice. My life wouldn't be worth shit if I opened my mouth,” said Rafael. “These things happen. Let's get on with the show.”

Hiram shrugged and motioned to the bailiff. In short order the judge was back on the bench.

“My client has nothing to add to what's already on the record.”

The judge put his glasses to the side. “The probation department and the district attorney have asked that you be sentenced to four years in state prison. I feel that's steep, since you have no previous record and in all other respects seem to be a good citizen. I therefore sentence you to three years in state prison. Since you did not appeal the judgment against you, you will be taken into custody forthwith, and I instruct the bailiff to do that right now.”

There were gasps from the part of the crowd that wanted a stiffer sentence and moans from his friends and family who hoped for a much lighter one.

“Your Honor,” chimed in the assistant district attorney, “we feel that the sentence is too light. This man has been convicted, and he's shown absolutely no contrition.”

“I know what your position is, Counsel. The sentence will stand. Bailiff, take this man into custody.

“Next case!”

Rafael was carted off. Hiram walked slowly out of the courtroom surrounded by Rafael's friends and relatives.

“That was a pretty stiff sentence,” said Melba, as she tried to comfort Sofia, who had her head down and was sobbing.

“Not as tough as it might have been,” said Hiram. “They had the goods on him, and he wouldn't give anybody up.”

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Samuel, as he and Blanche stood together in the hallway looking downcast.

“Go and visit him once he gets to San Quentin and tell him to give information. That way the D.A. will agree to shorten his sentence,” said Hiram.

Samuel was glad Rafael would at least be close so he could see him, but he knew better than to suppose his friend would ever disclose what the D.A. and the court wanted from him. He tried to comfort Rafael's mother, but there wasn't much he could say. The breadwinner for the entire family, the person who'd kept them out of poverty, had been taken out of the equation for three years. How were they going to survive during that period?

“Why would Rafael stand by his word of honor when he knows what his absence means to all these people?” asked Samuel.

“For these cholos, it's a question of honor,” sighed Hiram, and he walked away.

* * *

San Quentin was already falling apart in 1961. It was over a hundred years old and it looked it. It sat at the foot of the new Richmond San Rafael Bridge overlooking the San Francisco Bay, mostly to the south, where one could see the back side of the Tiburon Peninsula and Point Richmond looking east. On a clear day even Berkeley and Oakland were visible. What a view! The only problem was that it was from behind bars and barbed-wire fences.

Rafael sat with his hands and feet shackled in the San Francisco sheriff 's bus as it wound its way on Highway 101 into Marin County, then turned east on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. While the bus meandered along the narrow road after it left the highway, its motor chugging and the gears grinding, Rafael couldn't help contrasting the abundantly green hills bursting with multicolored wildflowers and orange California poppies with the drab yellow stucco of the prison he saw in the distance. The bus crept to a halt as it approached the main gate, and he saw two boys sitting on the rocks, holding bamboo-fishing poles. He watched the calm bay waters splashing gently against the rocks as the boys threw their lines out and hauled in big striped bass. He thought that one day he would go there with his son to fish like those kids were doing.

The driver, a big burley sheriff 's deputy, commented as he saw the pile of fish next to the pair. “Like shooting ducks in a pond.”

Rafael turned and looked at him through the ten-gage wire cage that separated them. All of a sudden, he felt a sob well up in his chest. He gritted his teeth.

The gate opened slowly. Rafael saw the guard in the watchtower above them pointing his weapon down and looking at them through binoculars. The bus stopped in front of the reception center. There were ten inmates shackled inside the vehicle plus three guards and the driver. On the outside were seven more guards, heavily armed, waiting patiently for the doors of the bus to open.

When they did, the prisoners waddled off as best they could with their legs bound together. Once on the ground, they were put in a single file and patted down then directed to file in the door of the reception center, one at a time.

Rafael was shuffled inside and found himself in a room with three oversized white guards. There were iron bars on all the windows and on the door that he had just walked through. His chains were removed, and he was strip-searched by two of his captors while the other kept a keen eye on the process and a finger on the trigger of his firearm. He was issued the blue denim garb of the San Quentin prisoner with his individual number stenciled on the back of the shirt. He was then photographed and fingerprinted.

“All right,” said the big sergeant behind the steel cage from where the uniform had come. “I don't have to tell you where you are, you know that. We have rules here, and in order to get along, you'll have to follow them. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This here's a pair of earphones, and a sheet, towel, and blanket. The cellblock lights go out at ten o'clock, but not the lights in your cell. That way we keep an eye on you,” he warned, as he pointed his finger at Rafael in an absentminded rote way he had done hundreds if not thousands of times before. “You can listen to the radio all night, if you're one of those guys with a guilty conscious who don't sleep. But tomorrow you'll be interviewed for job placement. And when you get a job, you're expected to show up on time every day and perform. So don't stay up all night listening to bullshit. We collect the sheet and towel every two weeks to be washed. If you don't turn 'em in, you're up shits creek. Understand so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're expected to behave. If you do, you'll get some privileges, like exercise in the yard. If you fuck up, not only will you lose your job, but we've got a special place for you, and it's not nice down there. Understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We're going to put you with another Mexican boy from Southern California. That way there's no excuse for the racial crap that you prisoners are always complaining about. So we don't want any of those problems with you. Get it, Greaser?” he said, as he squinted hard at the prisoner, frowning.