Witness for the Defense (22 page)

I reached to my right and flipped on the overhead light. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“No! No! Turn it off!” he screamed and ran back to where he’d been hiding.

I rushed toward him to see what he was up to. He was huddled on the other side of the bed, head between his knees, shaking violently like a cornered animal. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Please,” he cried out. “They’ll kill me!”

“Who will?”

With the quickness of a cat he jumped over the bed, ran to the open front door, slammed it shut, and turned off the light.

“They can’t know I’m here.”

“Who’s they?”

“Michael Victoria’s gang.” His voice cracked. “You have to help me.”

“Help you?” I mocked and stepped toward him. “You’re the last person I’d ever help.”

He collapsed to the floor, whimpering something I couldn’t understand. There was no doubt the kid was scared. And I had a good idea why. The Michael Victoria he was referring to was likely an ally of Salvador Martinez.

But I didn’t care. The last time Bobby Miles had been scared and needed help, it had cost me my job.

“Not only won’t I help you, I don’t want you here. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you’re the reason I stand a good chance of going to jail.”

The kid’s shoulders began to heave.

“Quit your damn crying.” I grabbed him. “Don’t you understand that you’ve accused me of a very serious crime? Not only my freedom, but my career is on the line because of your lies.”

He sat up while wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m so sorry. You were the only one who seemed to care what happened to me.”

“I did care, but I learned my lesson.”

“You don’t understand. They made me do it.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I snapped. “Now get out of here.”

“I can’t. He’s trying to kill me.” The glow from the lamp highlighted his young features. I was able to make out his tear-streaked face; there was terror in his eyes.

“All right, Bobby,” I sighed, knowing I was sure to regret it. “Who exactly is Michael Victoria.”

“The leader of the West Side Patrol.”

“The gang Martinez belongs to?” I asked, trying to remember.

Bobby paused to wipe his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he said, “at least he used to.”

“I believe I had a run-in with a couple of his buddies the day of my prelim.”

“Then they’re after you, too.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “What makes you think they’re after you?”

“I don’t think, I know….I barely escaped.”

“Escaped?”

“From my grandmother’s….God, I hope they didn’t hurt her.”

“When?”

“Last night,” he stammered. “It all happened so fast. I heard my grandmother yelling at someone,” he said, rambling. “They were inside. Victoria was one of them. I recognized his voice. That’s when I ran out the back door.”

“What about your grandmother?”

“I’m not sure,” he sobbed and then rationalized why he hadn’t stuck around to make sure she wasn’t harmed. “When I ran down the street, I heard their car start and she was still yelling at them. That means she’s all right, doesn’t it?”

“Probably,” I said, unsure of why I would want to ease his conscience. It sounded like the kid was nothing but trouble—not only for me, but for anyone he came in contact with.

“But why kill you?” I remembered the two punks in the rest room had said they would make sure Bobby wasn’t around for my trial. However, I really didn’t think they planned on killing him.

Bobby collapsed onto the bed and covered his eyes with his right forearm as if it would protect him. “He knows I can put him away for good.”

“What are you talking about? Martinez has a double homicide to worry about. He’s not concerned about you and a possible subornation of perjury charge.”

“Not Martinez,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m talking about Michael Victoria.”

“How does he fit into all of this?”

“He’s the one who forced me to lie about you.”

I stood over the bed looking down at him. “Is it because Martinez’s trial was about to start, and they knew he was going down in flames unless they came up with something fast? And you were that something.”

Miles nodded his head.

“The problem was, I wouldn’t go along with your cock-and-bull story, so I told him to forget it,” I said.

“That must have pissed him off.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“Now he wants revenge?”

“I thought that once. But now I see revenge wasn’t his real motive. Martinez and his buddies are too smart for that. He knew without your phony testimony he’d be dead meat if the trial started the next day as scheduled. So he thought of a way he could force me off the case, knowing he would get a new attorney.”

“But what good would that do?”

“A new attorney would need several months to familiarize himself with the case and prepare for trial. That time would give Martinez the chance to come up with some other lie. One that a jury would more likely believe. Or,” I added, knowing this was likely the real reason, “he thought his new attorney would be more willing than I was to help him shade the evidence in his favor.”

Bobby had stopped crying. I don’t think anything I said made him feel any better, but it seemed he felt safer just being with someone else. Even if it was unreasonable to assume I would be much help if those hoods really did show up.

“It makes sense now,” I said, using the kid as a sounding board. “Martinez isn’t the one who’s afraid of you. Even if you ran to the cops and told them what happened, it would mean nothing to him. Because he’s not the one who asked you to lie. Only the person who contacted you is at risk.”

“And that’s Michael Victoria.”

But there was still something I was having a hard time buying.

“Assaulting me in the rest room and now trying to kill you. No way,” I said, shaking my head. “Victoria would have too much to lose. Why would he do all that just because some kid, who no one would likely believe anyway, may say he committed some small-time felony. Even if he was convicted, all he would get would be a couple months in jail and probation.”

“Not if he already has two strikes.”

“Victoria has two strikes?”

Bobby nodded his head. “Now you see why he’s so afraid of me?”

“I sure do,” I said. In California another felony conviction, no matter how petty, would mean he would get twenty-five years to life.

Bobby was standing now, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. I knew he was probably right. Victoria did have too much to lose. He couldn’t take a chance that Bobby would hold up during my trial. If the kid were to snitch him off, Victoria would be facing life in prison. That’s why they wanted me to stop Sarah’s cross-examination of Bobby at my prelim. They were afraid Bobby was close to breaking.

“Mr. Dobbs!” Bobby was at the window, holding the curtain slightly aside, looking in the direction of the highway. “I think it’s him!”

The wind and rain had temporarily subsided. I could hear the familiar sound of the gravel driveway surrendering itself to Sarah’s Lexus. I prided myself that it had taken me less than a month to tell by just the sound of the crunching gravel, the difference between her Lexus and Avery’s Blazer.

“Calm down. It’s Sarah Harris.”

“Bullshit!”

I ran to the window to see for myself.

We both stood frozen as we watched an early 1960s model Chevrolet slowly drive past us. There were two men in front and two in the backseat. All four were looking straight ahead as they stopped in front of the main house and illuminated it with the high beams of the car’s headlights.

“Do you recognize anyone?” I was whispering, even though I could see their windows were not only up, but the car was so far away they couldn’t have heard the bark of a Saint Bernard.

“I’m sure it’s Victoria.”

The car backed up, turned around, and rolled back down the driveway. It was quiet. I could hear each of us taking short rapid breaths, inhaling and exhaling in unison.

“Don’t move,” I said, when suddenly the front passenger looked directly at our window.

“That’s Victoria! He’s gonna kill us!” Bobby screamed and let go of the curtain.

I heard the car come to a sudden, sliding stop, followed by footsteps in the gravel. They were approaching the front door.

“We have to get over there,” I said to Bobby, pointing to the Christmas trees on the other side of the driveway.

We were crouched at the side of my car, hiding. The wind was howling again and the rain was so heavy it stung our faces. If we could get to the field, we’d find a place to hide. Between the darkness, the ferocity of the storm and thousands of trees as our cover, there was no way they could find us.

Squatting as low to the ground as we could, we waddled through the rain-soaked gravel to the back end of my car. I was grabbing the bumper to help propel me around the corner when I heard Bobby crying. He was facedown with his knees buckled under his stomach, bawling like a baby. Standing over him was the man Bobby said was Michael Victoria. He had a gun. It was pointed directly at my face.

Admittedly, I was scared enough to lose all control over my bodily functions. But as afraid as I was, I was just as mad. Mad because of how helpless I felt at that very moment. Mad because some gun-toting punk had the power to decide whether I lived or died. I was mad enough to know that I wasn’t going to let him kill me without putting up a fight.

I slowly raised both hands and placed them behind my head.

“Look at him, SA,” Victoria said to me while waving his gun at Bobby. “I suppose you’re going to cry, too?”

“Never!” Just then I threw a handful of gravel at Victoria’s face and butted my head into the heart of his chest. Taken by surprise, he fell backward, slamming the back of his head against the steel rim of the tire.

Dazed, he lay on his back, moaning. I grabbed the gun, but he had too firm a grip on it.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Bobby cried. He’d replaced me at the rear of the car.

Still struggling, I heard male voices yelling something in Spanish, followed by several loud popping sounds. I looked to see if Bobby had been hit. He was gone.

More rapid gunfire.

Standing outside the front door were three men with their arms outstretched. I could see bright silver flashes bursting from the tips of their hands, which were pointed at Bobby running across the driveway. With each popping sound the gravel exploded at his feet. He was an easy target.

Then I heard Bobby scream in pain. He was stumbling, staggering, using his hands to help him stay up. Finally, he collapsed into the first row of trees. I had no idea how badly he’d been hit.

One thing I was sure of—I’d be next if I didn’t do something fast. Victoria was still on his back, vainly trying to focus. I pulled on the gun again, but it was as if his hands were cemented to it. I couldn’t believe it. He was only half conscious.

Straddling each side of his stomach with my knees, I hit him on the cheek with everything I had. His body went limp and the gun dropped from his hand. When I grabbed it, I heard what sounded like an explosion. I covered my head as glass shattered all around me. Victoria’s face was covered with it. I looked up; the back window of my car was gone.

Then the gunfire stopped. With the noise from the wind and rain, I couldn’t hear what they were up to. I peeked over the trunk of the car. I saw them talking as they repeatedly pulled something from their pockets. They were out in the open, reloading.

I thought about picking them off one by one. But who did I think I was fooling? I had never even shot a gun before. I barely knew the barrel from the handle.

But I had to do something quick.

Still down, I held the gun firmly in both hands and reached over my head, making sure it was above the trunk of the car. I pulled the trigger repeatedly, firing indiscriminately into the air. I wasn’t trying to hit anyone—that wasn’t my plan.

At least a dozen bullets streaked into the darkness, and all three scattered for cover. By the time they realized I’d stopped shooting, I’d sprinted across the driveway and was several rows deep into the trees.

I paused behind a tree, out of breath. As I squatted there, I decided to go back and see if there was anything I could do for Bobby. I searched, frantically darting from tree to tree when I heard the sound of car doors closing, followed immediately by the starting of an engine. I didn’t move. I was hoping they’d given up and were leaving.

Suddenly, the trees were awash in light. Then from behind me, “Dobbs,” a man’s voice shouted, and I was forced to the ground with someone on top of me. Instinctively, I cocked my arm to lash out at the attacker.

“They can see you,” he said, wiping his face. It took me an instant to realize that under all the mud was Bobby.

“Are you OK?”

He was holding his right bicep, shaking violently. “It just grazed me.”

I nodded toward the center of the field. “Can you keep going?”

Bobby’s response was drowned out by the sudden roaring of the car’s engine. It sounded like it was on the driveway only several yards away. We both froze, the rain pelting our heads.

“We have to make a run for it,” I yelled.

Bobby took off running, serpentining in and out of trees. I followed, sprinting as fast as I could. We had a good start and could hopefully outrun them and stay beyond the reach of their bullets. But the trees were small. They could probably see our every move.

The roar of the car’s engine got louder. It was coming straight at us, plowing its way through the field, knocking down trees as it went. Every time I made a turn in some direction, the car would imitate me.

Up ahead, off to my left, were the taller, more mature trees. There was no way a car could drive through them.

“Bobby,” I yelled and pointed. “Over there.”

We had no more than a hundred yards to go. But the car, with huge rooster tails of mud and debris gushing from its side, was no less than fifty feet behind us. And I was tiring fast. My legs were getting weaker with each stride. Out of breath, my heart was about to burst, each movement was labored, painful, but I wasn’t going to let them catch me.