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Authors: Michael C. Eberhardt

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BOOK: Witness for the Defense
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“A little.”

“Where does your grandmother live?”

“A couple blocks over from the shooting. She’s lived there for twenty, thirty years. She says it used to be a pretty nice place. Until…”

“Until the gangs took over?”

“Yeah. My grandma says Capp Street used to be one of the quietest streets in the city.”

Despite my pessimism, I started to get the feeling this kid might really know something. I even began to feel guilty that I had begun the interview with such a lousy attitude.

“What was the name of the street where the shooting occurred?”

“Minnah,” he said confidently.

“And what were you doing on Minnah at the time?”

“Taking a walk.”

The kid had me convinced he had a good reason to be in the area. But there was no way he would be walking in that neighborhood after dark.

He must have seen my look of disappointment. “I can’t stay in her house every minute,” he said. “My grandma is really good to me, but I can only take her for so long. Then I have to go out for a while.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous for someone like you?”

“Like me?”

“You know…a young white male taking a stroll in one of the most gang-ridden areas in the city?”

“I can handle it,” he said, not realizing how much his puffy eyes and the dried-up tear marks betrayed his machismo attitude.

“Do you belong to a gang?”

The kid smiled for the first time. “Are you kidding? All the gangs around there are Latino. No way.”

“Then who were you with when you took this walk on Minnah?”

“I was by myself.”

“I’m not buying it, Bobby,” I said placing my pen on the pad. “I don’t think an eighteen-year-old white kid would be out alone in that neighborhood…especially after dark.”

“Well, I was.”

His pouty look hardly convinced me. “Then tell me what happened next?”

“Well, I saw this gray primered Cadillac cruising slowly down the street past me.”

“And where were you at the time?”

“Walking toward the house.”

“The house where the shots were fired?”

“Yeah, I was about five or six houses down, walking toward it.”

“Go ahead.”

“This gray car cruises past me, then drives to the end of the block and turns around. It stops in front of a house where this guy is walking out his front door….” Here he stopped for a moment, looking down at his chained hands.

“Then what happened?”

He looked up at me. “All of a sudden I heard what sounded like two shotgun blasts and the car takes off and races past me.”

“Two shotgun blasts?”

Bobby hesitated.

“Did you hear my question?” I asked.

“There were two people killed, wasn’t there?”

“You tell me.”

He lowered his eyes again. “I think I heard two blasts.”

“You think, or you know?”

“There were two,” he said and shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t counting.”

No, you probably weren’t, I thought to myself. Because you weren’t there. There were two dead bodies; most people would assume there were two blasts. Except in this case the evidence confirmed there had been only one. The shotgun pellets that hadn’t hit the boy had somehow managed to find their way to his sister’s face.

“And after the car sped away, did you see if anyone had been hit?”

“All I saw was two bodies lying on the grass.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I took off running. I ran to my grandmother’s house.”

“At either time—when the car cruised slowly past you the first time, or when it sped past you after the shooting—were you able to see who was in it?”

“I remember three black guys. Two in the front and one in the back. The guy that shot them was in the backseat.”

“And could you identify any of them if you were to see them again?”

“I don’t think so. I wasn’t paying much attention until the shooting. Then it all happened so fast I didn’t have time.”

“But you’re sure they were black?”

“Positive.”

“And you had never seen any of them before.”

“Never.”

“Or the car?”

“No.”

Sighing deeply, I sat back. “You know what, Bobby?”

“What?” he said, looking at me, a hint of desperation in his eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“What do you mean, I’m lying? I’m telling you the truth. I saw it. Just because I didn’t stick around…”

“You didn’t stick around,” I said wearily, “because you weren’t there to begin with.”

“But you have to believe me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“Then tell me, Bobby, what did the house look like? The one where they were shot?”

Again, the kid hesitated and lowered his head. But this time his hands were formed into fists.

“Tell me anything about the house,” I persisted. “The color. Anything.”

His voice rose. “I don’t remember. But I’m telling you, I was staying just a couple of blocks over.”

“And I don’t doubt that for a second. What I do doubt is that you were out taking a walk.”

“You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t do.”

“No, but if I feel this way, a jury will, too. You’d better tell Martinez to prime you a little better next time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was only one shotgun blast, Bobby. Not two.”

“So?” he whined. “I already told you, I wasn’t counting. I thought there was two, but it all happened so fast; there may have only been one. I can testify there was only one. Anything you want.”

“Wouldn’t work.”

“Please believe me,” he said, starting to cry.

“Why?” I leaned closer to the glass partition. “Is it because of what Martinez may do to you if I don’t?”

By now tears were running freely down his face. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me,” he whimpered. “Please help me. I’ll testify to whatever you want. Just tell me what to say. Attorneys do it all the time.”

“Maybe some do. But not this one.”

The young man didn’t respond. I watched as he began to shake uncontrollably. I knew exactly what was going on here; it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. Most urban California jails have an inmate population of eighty percent minorities, and San Francisco’s was no different. When a young white kid is arrested, he’s in for quite a shock. For the first time in his life, he’s the minority. Sometimes he is the only white in his cell block. Unless he manages to get either the Chicanos, the blacks, or the Asians to take him under their wing, he is fair game for all. Obviously, Martinez’s group had been willing to help the kid—and this was their price.

“My client promised to help you if you did him this favor. Am I correct?”

“Listen, man,” his voice lowered to a shaky whisper, “they will kill me in here.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt sorry for him. He might have broken the law, but that shouldn’t mean he had to face what this place had in store for him. More than likely, he would survive his ordeal. But I wouldn’t be able to convince him of that. Not now. Not when he could become some slimeball’s punching bag—or worse yet, wife—as soon as he walked out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Bobby. I wish you could get on the stand and tell the lie of the century.” The kid swiveled on his stool, turning away from me. I threw my pen and yellow pad into my briefcase, snapped it shut, and stood up. “But frankly, you’re not that good a liar.”

Chapter 2

San Francisco County Courthouse is an aging gray stone structure, built in the aftermath of the 1906 earthquake. The elegance of the wood paneling surrounding the long hallways and the magnificence of the carved courtroom doors fail to mask an ever pervasive odor. It is faint, and for years I couldn’t identify it. Then one day the light went on. It was the scent of fear. The smell of the human animal being stalked. The benches along the corridor were peppered with the hunted. Eyes wide as they awaited their turn. The same eyes that often looked to me to save them from their hunter, the criminal justice system.

Division Three’s spectator section was lined with churchlike pews filled with a mixture of bored reporters, retirees, and the worried family members and friends of the day’s featured performers.

Stage whispers and furtive conversations echoed around the room. I slipped inside the gate at the bar, smiled weakly at the bailiff, and sat in one of several wooden chairs on the bench side of the railing. Judge Sherman Kellogg was peering down at me over his wire-rimmed glasses, which were perched precariously on his red bulbous nose. Even though he was presiding over a preliminary hearing in progress, he managed to find the time to acknowledge my presence with a scowl. As he well knew, I was supposed to be there at one-thirty, and it was after two. But knowing Kellogg, he’d probably been late taking the bench anyway. He’d no doubt gulped down several Tanquerays at his favorite watering hole, until his bailiff found him and managed to drag him away.

“You look like hell.” Randy Rogers whispered, leaning into me from the seat to my left. Randy was one of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the county. He was wearing a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit, accented with a red carnation.

“And that’s a hell of a good-looking carnation you’re wearing today, Mr. Rogers,” I said. “I was wearing a nice yellow rose this morning, but I must have lost it in lockup. Just as well. It really didn’t go with my jacket anyway.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Off the rack, you know.”

“Really funny, Dobbs.” Randy smirked. “I meant you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Let’s just say I’ve had a better night’s sleep.”

“Then you should fit right in with Kellogg,” he said, nodding toward the judge. “He not only looks half asleep, but he’s also slurring his words.”

“So what else is new,” I said and turned to survey the courtroom. There wasn’t a seat to be had in the entire spectator section. Many, including some reporters, were forced to stand in the back of the room.

“Why all the press? They arrest O.J. again?”

“James Chandler’s prelim,” Randy said, as if that was something I should have already known.

“Chandler?” I really didn’t care, but I was trying to take my mind off Bobby Miles and the terrible look of fear in his eyes.

“It’s been on TV and in all the papers,” Randy said out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s the president of Chandler Industries. You must have heard of him. He owns half the damn shopping centers around here.”

“Sure,” I whispered, not having the foggiest. “What’s the charge?”

“Murder. Killed his only child.”

“How old?”

“Six months. Can you believe it?”

“You work in this armpit of the world long enough, nothing surprises you,” I said.

In front of us, Jerry Lipton, Division Three’s deputy D.A., was questioning a patrol cop. He was establishing that the officer found fresh blood in the baby’s crib.

“I hope they fry the bastard,” Randy muttered.

I chuckled to myself. It always amazed me how most defense attorneys—and I was no exception—prejudged every other attorney’s case, yet got very indignant when the press or anyone else did the same thing to one of theirs.

“Well,” I said, “it sounds like Mr. Chandler has a lot of explaining to do….”

Suddenly we both stopped talking. Our attention was arrested by a beautiful pair of legs passing directly in front of us on their way to the court clerk.

I slowly surveyed the rest of her. She was small, but not fragile. Slim, yet perfectly shaped. The lighting in the courtroom seemed to center on her to the exclusion of all others, adding golden highlights to her shoulder-length hair. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with a world-disarming smile that she managed to flash for the old goat on the bench.

When she turned to look for a seat, I instantly returned to earth. She was Sarah Harris, the daughter of retired Superior Court Judge Avery Harris. I had the misfortune of being assigned to his courtroom immediately upon being hired by the public defender’s office. Avery Harris was arrogant and gave no one, especially the lowly public defenders, any quarter. Always on the attack, he viewed me as nothing more than a minor nuisance the law forced him to tolerate before he could send one of my clients off to prison—whether they deserved it or not. One of the happiest days of my life was when he left the bench.

As Sarah walked to an empty seat several chairs to my right, she gave me a big smile. Before she sat, she paused, waiting for me to return it. I didn’t.

Randy nudged me with his elbow. “Who the hell’s that?”

“Sarah Harris.”

“Of course. I had heard she was a knockout.”

“Don’t let her looks fool you. After all, she is Judge Harris’s daughter.”

“I thought she was an investigator for the State Bar,” Randy said as he continued to eye her. “I wonder why she’s here.”

“No idea.” I glanced at my watch. It was getting late, and I still had to break the news to Martinez that I wasn’t going to use the kid’s testimony. I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled with my decision, and I wanted to get it over with.

“You in a hurry?” Randy asked.

“I get tired of all this hurry-up-and-wait crap,” I said anxiously. “All I have is one lousy arraignment.”

“What’s the charge?”

“Statutory rape.”

“But I thought you were handling most of the death penalty cases for your office.”

“Normally,” I said. “But I requested this one specifically. Change of pace.”

“Why? Stat rapes are a dime a dozen.”

“Not when the defendant is a female grade-school teacher accused of having sex with her seventeen-year-old neighbor.”

“A female accused of stat rape…Never heard of that before.”

“Somehow the boy’s father found out and reported it to the cops. The D.A. is asking for fifty thousand bail.”

“Well”—Randy smiled—“have to keep those rabid child molesters off the streets.”

In front of us, the prelim was winding down.

“We have no affirmative defense,” the defense attorney said, after which Kellogg sat up and shook his head violently like he’d been asleep. It was time for him to make a ruling; predictably, he bound Chandler over to Superior Court for trial.

Finally, the day’s custody arraignments were escorted into the jury box for their two or three minutes in court. I wasn’t surprised when I saw Bobby Miles at the end. He caught my eye and gave me a scared half smile. Seated next to him was my client, Janice Cappell.

BOOK: Witness for the Defense
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