The Brass Verdict (23 page)

“That’s it from here. Oh, wait. One other thing. The landlord for the building came in today. Called herself the leasing agent, which is just a fancy way of saying landlord. She wants to know if we’re going to keep the office. Jerry’s death is a lease breaker if we want it to be. I got the feeling there’s a waiting list on the building and this is an opportunity to jack the rent up for the next lawyer who comes in here.”

I looked out the window of the Lincoln as we cruised across the 101 overpass and back into the civic center area. I could see the newly built Catholic cathedral and past that, the waving steel skin of the Disney Concert Hall. It caught the sunlight and took on a warm orange glow.

“I don’t know, Lorna, I like working from the backseat here. It’s never boring. What do you think?”

“I’m not particularly fond of putting on makeup every morning.”

Meaning she liked working out of her condo more than she liked getting ready and driving downtown to an office each day. As usual, we were on the same page.

“Something to think about,” I said. “No makeup. No office overhead. No fighting for a spot in the parking garage.”

She didn’t respond. It was going to be my call. I looked ahead and saw we were a block from my drop-off point in front of the CCB.

“Let’s talk about it later,” I said. “I gotta jump out.”

“Okay, Mickey. Be safe.”

“You, too.”

Twenty-six

E
li Wyms was still doped up from the three months he’d spent in Camarillo. He’d been sent back to county with a prescription for a drug therapy that wasn’t going to help me defend him, let alone help him answer any questions about possible connections to the murders on the beach. It took me less than two minutes in courtside lockup to grasp the situation and to decide to submit a motion to Judge Friedman, requesting that all drug therapy be halted. I went back to the courtroom and found Joanne Giorgetti at her place at the prosecution table. The hearing was scheduled to start in five minutes.

She was writing something on the inside flap of a file when I walked up to the table. Without looking up she somehow knew it was me.

“You want a continuance, don’t you?”

“And a cease-and-desist on the drugs. The guy’s a zombie.”

She stopped writing and looked up at me.

“Considering he was potshotting my deputies, I’m not sure I object to his being in that condition.”

“But Joanne, I’ve got to be able to ask the guy basic questions in order to defend him.”

“Really?”

She said it with a smile but the point was taken. I shrugged and crouched down so we were on an even eye line.

“You’re right, I don’t think we’re talking about a trial here,” I said. “I’d be happy to listen to any offers.”

“Your client shot at an occupied sheriff’s car. The state is interested in sending a message on this one. We don’t like people doing that.”

She folded her arms to signal the state’s unwillingness to compromise on this. She was an attractive and athletically built woman. She drummed her fingers on one of her biceps and I couldn’t help but notice the red fingernail polish. As long as I could remember dealing with Joanne Giorgetti, her nails were always painted bloodred. She did more than represent the state. She represented cops who had been shot at, assaulted, ambushed and spit on. And she wanted the blood of every miscreant who had the bad luck to be prosecuted by her.

“I would argue that my client, panicked as he was by the coyotes, was shooting at the light on the car, not into the car. Your own documents say he was an expert marksman in the U.S. Army. If he wanted to shoot the deputy, he could have. But he didn’t.”

“He was discharged from the army fifteen years ago, Mickey.”

“Right, but some skills never go away. Like riding a bike.”

“Well, that’s an argument you could surely make to the jury.”

My knees were about to give out. I reached over to one of the chairs at the defense table, wheeled it over and sat down.

“Sure, I can make that argument but it is probably in the state’s best interest to bring this case to a close, get Mr. Wyms off the street and into some sort of therapy that will help prevent this from ever happening again. So what do you say? Should we go off into a corner someplace and work this out, or go at it in front of a jury?”

She thought for a moment before responding. It was the classic prosecutor’s dilemma. It was a case she could easily win. She had to decide whether to pad her stats or do what might be the right thing.

“As long as I get to pick the corner.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Okay, I won’t oppose a continuance if you make the motion.”

“Sounds good, Joanne. What about the drug therapy?”

“I don’t want this guy acting out again, even in Men’s Central.”

“Look, wait till they bring him out. You’ll see, he’s a zombie. You don’t want this to go down and then have him challenge the deal because the state made him incompetent to make a decision. Let’s get his head clear, do the deal and then you can have them pump him up with whatever you want.”

She thought about it, saw the logic and finally nodded.

“But if he acts out in jail one time, I’m going to blame you and take it out on him.”

I laughed. The idea of blaming me was absurd.

“Whatever.”

I got up and started to push the chair back to the defense table. But then I turned back to the prosecutor.

“Joanne, let me ask you something else. Why did Jerry Vincent take on this case?”

She shrugged and shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, did it surprise you?”

“Sure. It was kind of strange, him showing up. I knew him from way back when, you know?”

Meaning when he was a prosecutor.

“Yeah, so what happened?”

“One day — a few months ago — I got notice of a competency motion on Wyms, and Jerry’s name was on it. I called him up and said, ‘What the hell,’ you know? ‘You don’t even call to say, I’m taking over the case?’ And he just said he wanted to get some pro bono in and asked the PD for a case. But I know Angel Romero, the PD who had the case originally. A couple months back, I ran into him on one of the floors and he asked me what was happening on Wyms. And in the course of the conversation, he told me that Jerry didn’t just come in asking for a PB referral. He went to Wyms first in Men’s Central, signed him up and then came in and told Angel to turn over the file.”

“Why do you think he took the case?”

I’ve learned over the years that sometimes if you ask the same question more than once you get different responses.

“I don’t know. I specifically asked him that and he didn’t really answer. He changed the subject to something else and it was all kind of awkward. I remember thinking there was something else here, like maybe he had a connection to Wyms. But then when he sent him off to Camarillo, I knew he wasn’t doing the guy any favors.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, you just spent a couple hours with the case and you know how it’s going to go. This is a plea. Jail time, counseling and supervision. That’s what it was before he was sent to Camarillo. So Wyms’s time there wasn’t really necessary. Jerry just prolonged the inevitable.”

I nodded. She was right. Sending a client to the psych ward at Camarillo wasn’t doing him any favors. The mystery case was getting more mysterious. Only, my client was in no condition to tell me why. His lawyer — Vincent — had kept him drugged up and locked away for three months.

“Okay, Joanne. Thanks. Let’s—”

I was interrupted by the clerk, who called court into session, and I looked up to see Judge Friedman taking the bench.

Twenty-seven

A
ngel Romero was one of those human interest stories you read in the paper every now and then. The story about the gangbanger who grew up hard on the streets of East L.A. but fought his way through to an education and even law school, then turned around and gave back to the community. Angel’s way to give back was to go into the Public Defenders Office and represent the underdogs of society. He was a lifer in the PD and had seen many young lawyers — myself included — come and go on their way to private practice and the supposed big bucks that came with it.

After the Wyms hearing — in which the judge granted the motion to continue in order to give Giorgetti and me time to work out a plea — I went down to the PD’s office on the tenth floor and asked for Romero. I knew he was a working lawyer, not a supervisor, and that most likely meant he was in a courtroom somewhere in the building. The receptionist typed something into her computer and looked at the screen.

“Department one-twenty-four,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

Department 124 was Judge Champagne’s courtroom on the thirteenth floor, the same floor I had just come from. But that was life in the CCB. It seemed to run in circles. I took the elevator back up and walked down the hall to 124, powering my phone down as I approached the double doors. Court was in session and Romero was in front of the judge, arguing a motion to reduce bail. I slid into the back row of the gallery and hoped for a quick ruling so I could get to Romero without a long wait.

My ears perked up when I heard Romero mention his client by name, calling him Mr. Scales. I slid further down the bench so I had a better visual angle on the defendant sitting next to Romero. He was a white guy in an orange jail jumpsuit. When I saw his profile, I knew it was Sam Scales, a con man and former client. The last I remembered of Scales, he had gone off to prison on a plea deal I’d obtained for him. That was three years ago. He obviously had gotten out and gotten right back into trouble — only this time he hadn’t called me.

After Romero finished his bail argument, the prosecutor stood up and vigorously opposed bail, outlining in his argument the new charges against Scales. When I had represented him, he had been accused in a credit-card fraud in which he ripped off people donating to a tsunami relief organization. This time it was worse. He was once more charged with fraud but in this case the victims were the widows of military servicemen killed in Iraq. I shook my head and almost smiled. I was glad Sam hadn’t called me. The public defender could have him.

Judge Champagne ruled quickly after the prosecutor finished. She called Scales a predator and a menace to society and kept his bail at a million dollars. She noted that if she’d been asked, she probably would have raised it. It was then that I remembered it had been Judge Champagne who had sentenced Scales in the earlier fraud. There was nothing worse for a defendant than coming back and facing the same judge for another crime. It was almost as if the judges took the failings of the justice system personally.

I slouched in my seat and used another observer in the gallery as a blind so that Scales couldn’t see me when the court deputy stood him up, cuffed him and took him back into lockup. After he was gone, I straightened back up and was able to catch Romero’s eye. I signaled him out into the hallway and he flashed five fingers at me. Five minutes. He still had some business to take care of in the court.

I went out into the hallway to wait for him and turned my phone back on. No messages. I was calling Lorna to check in when I heard Romero’s voice behind me. He was four minutes early.

“Eenie, meenie, minie, moe, catch a killer by the toe. If his lawyer’s Haller, let him go. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. Hey bro.”

He was smiling. I closed the phone and we bumped fists. I hadn’t heard that homespun jingle since I was with the PD’s Office. Romero had made it up after I had gotten the not-guilty verdict in the Barnett Woodson case back in ’ninety-two.

“What’s up?” Romero asked.

“I’ll tell you what’s up. You’re guzzling my clients, man. Sam Scales used to be mine.”

I said it with a knowing smile and Romero smiled right back.

“You want him? You can have him. That’s one dirty white boy. As soon as the media gets wind of this case, they’re going to lynch his ass for what he’s done.”

“Taking war widows’ money, huh?”

“Stealing government death benefits. I tell you, I’ve repped a lot of bad guys who did a lot of bad things, but I put Scales up there with the baby rapers, man. I can’t stand the guy.”

“Yeah, what are you doing with a white boy anyway? You work gang crimes.”

Romero’s face turned serious and he shook his head.

“Not anymore, man. They thought I was getting too close to the customers. You know, once a vato always a vato. So they took me off gangs. After nineteen years, I’m off gangs.”

“Sorry to hear that, buddy.”

Romero had grown up in Boyle Heights in a neighborhood ruled by a gang called Quatro Flats. He had the tattoos to prove it, if you could ever see his arms. It didn’t matter how hot a day it was, he always wore long sleeves when he was working. And when he represented a banger accused of a crime, he did more than defend him in court. He worked to spring the man from the clutches of gang life. To pull him away from gang cases was an act of stupidity that could only happen in a bureaucracy like the justice system.

“What do you want with me, Mick? You didn’t really come here to take Scales from me, right?”

“No, you get to keep Scales, Angel. I wanted to ask you about another client you had for a while earlier this year. Eli Wyms.”

I was about to give the details of the case as a prompt but Romero immediately recognized the case and nodded.

“Yeah, Vincent took that one off me. You got it now with him being dead?”

“Yeah, I got all of Vincent’s cases. I just found out about Wyms today.”

“Well, good luck with them, bro. What do you need to know about Wyms? Vincent took it off me three months ago, at least.”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I know. I got a handle on the case. What I’m curious about is Vincent taking it. According to Joanne Giorgetti, he went after it. Is that right?”

Romero checked the memory banks for a few moments before answering. He raised a hand and rubbed his chin as he did so. I could see faint scars across his knuckles from where he’d had tattoos removed.