The Perk (22 page)

The audience consisted of one older Anglo couple
and a dozen or more Latinos, mostly females—the male inmates' mothers, Beck
figured. They sat as if they had long been accustomed to sitting in courtrooms
waiting for their sons' cases to be called.

By statute, state district courts had original
jurisdiction over all felony criminal cases, divorces, contested elections, and
civil cases exceeding $200 in damages. In the urban counties, those cases were
filed in specialized courts: criminal or civil, family or probate. In the
rural counties, all cases came to the same court before the same judge. Today,
District Judge John Beck Hardin would execute the court's original jurisdiction
over felony criminal cases.

It was sentencing day in Gillespie County.

On the desk in front of Beck sat a laptop
computer showing that day's docket and thirteen red file folders stacked high.
Mavis had color-coded the cases: civil cases were in manila folders, tax in
gray, child custody in blue, child support in green, divorce in gold, and
criminal in red.

Each red file represented one human being's life
history: employment, family, and criminal. Each file represented a life gone
awry, usually because of alcohol or drugs, a few because of dark hearts. Beck
had read their files and learned their lives; some seemed destined to end up in
court before a judge with the power to send them to prison from the day they had
been born poor or illegitimate or to a father who had beaten them or a mother
who had abandoned them. Others seemed to have no luck in life except bad. Beck
looked at the defendants sitting before him. How had their lives led them to
this courtroom?

The D.A. walked up and set a file on the front
of the bench.

"Mr. Eichman."

"Judge."

Niels Eichman, Jr., was dressed as well as any
lawyer in Beck's Chicago law firm, and he had that same big-firm lawyer look about
him. Had he not dropped out of the race, he would be sitting in Beck's chair
at that moment. He knew that, and Beck knew that. But when they eyed each
other across the bench, and the D.A.'s lips formed a thin smile and then he winked
at the new judge, Beck knew that the D.A. knew something that he did not.

Mavis called the first case: "Cause number
forty-two thirteen, State of Texas versus Ignacio Perez. Possession of a
controlled substance and driving without a license."

Beck had inherited these cases, defendants who
had pleaded guilty or had been convicted at trial before old Judge Stutz but
had been awaiting sentencing when Stutz had abruptly retired due to a heart
condition. Beck had read the case files, the briefs, and the trial transcripts;
he had learned that these defendants were not criminal masterminds, drug lords,
murderers, rapists, or even Enron executives. They were just small-time
offenders who had turned to drugs because they were down on their luck or to
salve life's wounds or just because they were bored. The D.A. wanted the new judge
to pick up where the old judge had left off and sentence them to the state
penitentiary in Huntsville.

A young Latino in a jail uniform with his hair
cut like a Marine stood in the jury box and shuffled over as well as he could
with his hands and feet shackled. He stood directly in front of Beck and to
the left of the D.A. One of the lawyers stepped forward and stood next to him.
Unlike the D.A., this lawyer was not well-dressed; his rumpled suit looked like
the cheaper one in a two-fer sale at a second-hand store. He was bald,
paunchy, red-faced, and breathing through his mouth like a heavy smoker. Beck
inhaled the strong scent of German lager.

"Henry Polk, Your Honor," the lawyer
said. "For the defendant."

Henry Polk was a beer-and-bratwurst-for-breakfast
man.

"Mr. Polk, what's your client's first
name?"

"Who?"

Beck pointed at the defendant. "Your
client, Mr. Perez—what's his first name?"

Polk turned and gazed at Perez as if they had
never met. Then he looked to Mavis for help.

"Ignacio," Beck said. "His first
name is Ignacio."

Polk broke into a big smile. "You knew all
along."

"Have you been drinking this morning, Mr.
Polk?"

"I'm German, Judge."

"If we can attend to the matters at hand, Judge,"
the D.A. said. "Mr. Perez pled guilty to possession of a controlled
substance and driving without a license. The state seeks the maximum
punishment, two years in the state penitentiary."

Beck opened the red file for Ignacio Perez. He
was a Mexican national. He had come here to work in the turkey plant. He was
nineteen years old and charged with possession of less than one gram of
cocaine. He had no prior criminal record.

"Mr. Eichman, in Chicago this case would
never have gone to trial. The defendant would have been fined and
released."

The D.A. shrugged. "We don't have a lot of
crime here, Judge. We have to make do with what we've got."

The D.A. smiled; Beck didn't. He turned to the
defendant.

"Mr. Perez, you've been charged with
possession of a controlled substance, a state jail felony, and driving without
a license. I want to confirm that you did in fact knowingly and voluntarily plead
guilty."

"Yes, Your Honor," Lawyer Polk said, "he pleaded
guilty."

"I didn't ask you, Mr. Polk. I asked your
client." To the defendant: "Sir, your name is Ignacio Perez, is
that correct?"

The defendant stared
back at Beck blank-faced. After a brief pause, he abruptly nodded and said,
"
Sí
."

"Mr. Perez, did you plead guilty to these
charges?"

Beck's question was met with the same blank
face.

Then, another nod. "
Sí
."

Beck thought he had seen Lawyer Polk's body twitch.

"And you pled guilty because you did in
fact commit this crime and not out of any fear?"

Another little twitch
from Polk and another "
Sí
" from the defendant. Beck stared at
Ignacio Perez and saw Miguel Cervantes. He pointed to a spot three feet to Lawyer
Polk's left—three feet farther away from the defendant.

"Mr. Polk, please stand over there."

"Why's that, Your Honor?"

"Because I don't think your leg is that
long."

Lawyer Polk took two steps to his left. The
defendant's eyes darted to Polk, then back to Beck.

"Mr. Perez, do you understand
English?"

A nervous look from the defendant; he glanced at
Polk.

"
¿Sí?
"

"Mr. Perez, do you understand the charges
against you?"

"
¿Sí?
"

"Mr. Perez, did you go to Harvard?"

"
¿Sí?
"

Lawyer Polk rolled his eyes. "Your Honor—"

"Your client doesn't understand
English?"

Polk shrugged. "He's Mexican."

"Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Polk?"

"Nope."

"Then how did you communicate with your
client?"

He shrugged again. "Not so good."

"Your Honor," the D.A. said, "Mr.
Perez was caught red-handed. The cocaine was found in his car."

"Pursuant to a consent search?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Eichman, how did Mr. Perez knowingly
consent to the search of his vehicle if he can't understand English?"

The D.A. frowned. "Well …"

Polk's bloodshot eyes lit up. "Good point,
Judge."

"Thank you, Mr. Polk." To the D.A.:
"Mr. Eichman?"

"I'm thinking."

"While you're thinking, think about this: The
car was registered in the name of a"—Beck flipped through the pages in the
file—"Juan Hermoso. Was Mr. Hermoso apprehended?"

"He fled the jurisdiction. He was a
Mexican national."

Illegal aliens could not legally hold jobs in
the U.S., but they could legally own cars in Texas.

"Perhaps the cocaine belonged to Mr. Hermoso just as Mr. Perez
claimed."

"Yeah, and maybe Ignacio here is the son of
Santa Anna."

"Careful, Mr. Eichman. And please address
the defendant as 'Mr. Perez.' "

The D.A. gritted his teeth and glared at Beck.

"Mr. Eichman, have you thought of anything sustaining
Mr. Perez's ability to give an informed consent to search his vehicle?"

"Maybe the cop spoke Spanish."

Polk: "That's a thought."

Beck flipped through the file to the arrest report.
"The arresting officer—a city cop, I see—his name is Gerhard Goetz. Mr. Eichman,
you think Officer Goetz is fluent in Spanish?"

"Well …"

Polk, with a big grin: "Gerhard, he's
still working on English."

"Anything else to add, Mr. Eichman?"

The glare again: "No … Your
Honor."

"The court finds that the search of Mr.
Perez's vehicle was illegal due to an invalid consent and thus the cocaine
found in the vehicle is inadmissible as evidence."

The D.A.: "But he confessed."

"In Spanish? The court also finds that his
confession is inadmissible due to inadequate counsel. His guilty plea is not accepted.
The controlled substance charge is dismissed."

Polk: "Thank you, Your Honor."

"You're welcome. Mavis, when is the next
available trial setting for the driving without a license charge?"

Mavis turned to her calendar, but stopped short
when the D.A. said, "Your Honor, the state drops all charges."

Beck now glared at the D.A. "You wanted me
to sentence the defendant to two years in prison, now you're dropping all
charges?"

"Not worth the expense to try him on the
remaining charge, Your Honor. Besides, he'll be back. They all come
back."

Beck shook his head. "Case dismissed. And
Mr. Eichman, don't bring me drug cases predicated on searches of vehicles pursuant
to consent given by Latinos who can't speak English."

"Why, thanks, Judge, you just cleared my
docket. Guess I'll go play golf."

The D.A. shook his head; he and Lawyer Polk went
over to the prosecution table. Ignacio stood alone in front of the bench; his
face was that of a man about to be led to the firing squad. He recoiled
slightly when Deputy Clint came toward him, but smiled broadly when the deputy spoke
to him in Spanish and unlocked the shackles. Ignacio Perez was crying when he
turned to Beck.

"
Gracias, el
jefe. Mucho gracias
."

"Good luck, Mr. Perez."

The other inmates suddenly perked up, as if they
had witnessed a miracle. They exchanged glances and spoke excitedly in
Spanish. Beck wondered what had happened to Miguel Cervantes.

Mavis called the next case, but Beck's thoughts remained
on Miguel. When he returned to the moment, he was staring at the D.A., another
brown-faced defendant, and the same defense lawyer.

"You again, Mr. Polk?"

Lawyer Polk shrugged. " 'Fraid so, Your
Honor."

Beck leaned down to Mavis and whispered,
"What's the deal with Polk? Does he represent every Latino
defendant?"

"Most. 'Cause they're poor and he works
cheap. It's him or the public defender. If their folks own land, they can
hire a good lawyer, but he'll take their land for his fee. Lawyers here,
they've acquired a lot of land that way." She shrugged. "Deed your
land over or hire a drunk. That's how things work here, Judge."

Beck turned back to
Polk, who said, "But, Jesús"—
Hay-Zeus
—"here, he speaks
English real good, Judge."

The D.A. added, "And he signed a written confession."

Jesús Ramirez was a short wiry Mexican national.
He was not a county inmate; he was neatly dressed in jeans, boots, and a work
shirt. Beck opened the red file. Jesús was charged with assault with a deadly
weapon. He had gotten drunk on a Saturday night and battered his wife. The
deadly weapon was a burrito.

Beck looked up at the D.A. "A
burrito?"

"It was frozen."

Beck turned to the defendant.

"You hit your wife with a frozen
burrito?"

"Yes, sir."

He spoke with a heavy Latino accent.

Beck glanced at Lawyer Polk, who quickly said,
"I didn't kick him, Your Honor. I swear."

Back to the defendant: "Why?"

"Oh, Macarena,
she has the mouth. Sometime, she drive me
loco
."

"Is she here?"

"Yes, sir."

Jesús turned and pointed to a Latino woman
sitting in the audience with six young children.

"Are those your children?"

Jesús smiled.
"Yes, sir, those are my
niños
." He pointed. "Marita,
Manuel, Maribel—"

The D.A. sighed. "Your Honor …"

Beck held an open hand up to the district attorney.

"Marco, Miguel, and Marvin."

"
Marvin?
"

"After the landlord."

"And what do you do, Mr. Ramirez?"

"Kill line at the turkey plant. Hang the
birds by their feet and cut their scrawny necks, to let them bleed out."

"And you go home and drink?"

"Judge, I see now the dead turkeys in my
sleep … Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and now we work the
Saturday because of Thanksgiving coming. Twelve hours each day I kill the
turkeys. I must drink to forget the turkeys."

"And you are still employed?"

"Oh, sure."

"Has your wife filed for divorce?"

"
Macarena?
No, she no file for divorce. She love Jesús."

"But you hit her with a frozen burrito."

Jesús turned his
palms up. "I was drinking, she was yelling, the
niños
, they were
screaming, I was watching the
fútbol
on the satellite,
México y
Brasil
… I throw the burrito, but I did not mean to hit her. She call
the
policía
."

Macarena Ramirez stood in the audience.

"
Señor
Judge, I love Jesús!"

"Mr. Ramirez, do you love Macarena?"