The Hidden Law (18 page)

I went up and said, “I’ll leave you alone now. Michael, I’ll talk to you this afternoon, before the bail hearing.”

Out in the hall, the camera crews and reporters were gone and it was filled instead with the usual anxious men and women and jittery children. I was on my way to get a cup of coffee when I was intercepted by Edith Rosen.

“Do you think the judge will give him bail, Henry?”

“I’m going for coffee,” I replied. “Come with me.”

Downstairs, in the bleak cafeteria, a crazy woman sat at a table carrying on an animated conversation with someone who wasn’t there. A hung-over lawyer downed an immense breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, potatoes and retried beans. I paid for our coffee and joined Edith at a table by the window that looked out on Temple Street. It was hot and gray outside; only mid-May, but the summer had already set in.

“I don’t know whether he’ll grant bail. The problem’s not Michael’s criminal record, it’s his habit of skipping out of places he’s been put into by the court.”

“I have an idea,” she said, blowing on her coffee. “Have you heard of home surveillance?”

“I’ve read about it,” I said, remembering an article in one of the bar association magazines, “but it’s only used in misdemeanors.”

“Drunk driving cases,” she said, “to relieve overcrowding in the jails. People serve their time at home.” She sipped her coffee. “They wear electronic ankle straps that send signals to monitoring devices in their houses that are connected to the probation office. We’ve had people at SafeHouse who wore them,” she continued. “If they leave the house, a signal goes off and the probation office calls. If they don’t get an immediate response, they send the sheriffs.”

“I might be able to sell this to O’Conner,” I said. “It’s worth a try. What’s going on with your job status at the house?”

“I’m not going to fight it,” she said. “The reason I came downtown was to tell you that, and to tell you that I’m backing off from Michael’s case. I’ve done everything I could for him.”

“You’ve done more than that.”

“I’ve done things I shouldn’t have,” she said. “I don’t want to compromise myself further. I’m leaving him in your hands, now, Henry.”

We sat and drank our coffee. I watched Edith, her kind face tired and drawn. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Michael had confessed to me. I hadn’t told anyone, because I wasn’t certain yet what to do with his confession.

The crazy woman got up and shook hands with the air. Edith watched her, then turned back to me, “Michael didn’t look very good.”

“A couple of nights in county jail will do that to you.”

“I saw Mrs. Peña in the courtroom.”

“Pisano likes to have the victim’s family near at hand,” I said.

“Attractive woman,” she said. “Good-looking kids.”

“Tino seems to have hooked himself up with a live one,” I said. “The blond in the gold lamé halter.”

“I noticed the mother didn’t approve,” Edith replied. “The girl seems very sweet.”

“Yes, Angela.” I had my coffee halfway to my mouth when I said this, and then a picture flashed through my head of Angela looking at Michael. Angela. “Angie?”

“What?” Edith asked.

“The girl’s name. Angela. Angie. Edith, have you ever seen that girl around SafeHouse?”

She put her cup down. “She and her brother used to pick Gus up sometimes. He couldn’t drive. His license was suspended.”

“Did you ever see her talking to Michael?”

“No, as far as I know, they never met.”

“They must have, though,” I said. “Michael said he’d been to the Peña’s house with his father, and he went to school with the son. Edith, do you remember what kind of car Angela Peña drove?”

“Oh, Henry, I don’t notice things like that.”

“Please, try to remember.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It could have been, something like a sports car. It was small. White, I think.”

A
FTER LUNCH, I WENT
back into lockup. Michael was sitting by himself in a holding cell smoking a cigarette. His hand shook badly as he raised the cigarette to his mouth. After watching him for a moment, I realized the shaking wasn’t the result of nerves; he was detoxing. At county, he was locked up in high power, away from the rest of the population, eliminating any chance for him to get in on the drug traffic that ran rampant in the jail house. He’d been completely clean now for almost four days. No wonder he was hurting.

The bailiff let me into the cell. “How are you doing?” I asked him.

He looked at me blankly, then said, “When is this going to be over?”

“Which part?”

“Everything.”

I sat down beside him on the metal bench. “That’s up to you, Michael.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whined.

“Why don’t you tell me about Angela Peña.”

“I hardly know her.”

“Michael, you were seen with her,” I told him. “She dropped you off at the house in her little white sports car. You kissed her. I saw the way she looked at you this morning.”

“Bullshit, bullshit,” he muttered, but his head quaked. I touched his face. It was ice cold. He jerked away from me. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“I’m going to have them take you back to county hospital.”

“This isn’t shit,” he said. “I been through a lot worse.”

“What about Angela?”

“What about her?” he said, slumping against the wall. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“But you know her,” I said.

He nodded. “She came to a party my dad gave,” he said. “My mom made me go to talk to her. She’s all right.” He came back to the bench. “She came to SafeHouse to pick her dad up one day and we talked. That’s all.”

“The ride? The kiss?”

“She saw me walking and she gave me a ride. You think a bitch like that would let me touch her?”

“Lonnie Davis told me you talked to her on the phone,” I said. “You told him she was your girlfriend.”

He snickered. “I just told him that so he’d keep his hands off of me, that faggot. You’re crazy if you think she wants me.”

“Did you want her?”

“All I want is to get high,” he said. “That’s my sex.”

“You sticking to your story about shooting Peña?”

“You want me to lie?”

“Why would you want to kill Gus Peña? He was practically a stranger to you. Did he find out about you and his daughter?”

“Fuck you,” he said.

“I’m going to try to get you out on bail, Michael,” I said. “There will be some pretty strict conditions. You’ll be confined to your parents’ house.” I explained the home surveillance program. “No drugs, no alcohol. If the court goes for it, it’s going to cost your parents a lot.”

“Can’t I stay with my grandma?” he asked, in a little-boy whine.

“I don’t want you back in that neighborhood.”

“You might as well leave me in jail,” he said angrily.

“You might get your wish yet,” I told him.

I got to court a few minutes before three and went over to the clerk. I requested a meeting with O’Conner in chambers as soon as Pisano arrived. She went back and returned a couple of minutes later to tell me the judge would see us. Pisano showed up with Tino Peña in tow.

“I’ve asked the judge to see us in chambers,” I told him, when he got to counsel table.

His black eyebrows darted upward suspiciously. “About what?”

“He’s expecting us,” I replied, and headed back, Pisano hurrying to catch up.

O’Conner sat behind his desk in shirtsleeves, a half-eaten banana at his elbow, papers covering his desk. Having seen how uncomfortable he had been that morning, I was gambling that he would let us argue bail here, out of the public eye, make a disposition and present it as a fait accompli on the record. Otherwise, there was a good chance that the presence of the press would make him skittish, and I was afraid he would deny bail just to get the matter out of his court.

As soon as we sat down, I started, “Your Honor, the defense has a bail proposal that I wanted to run by you here instead of out there in that zoo.”

“Wait a minute,” Pisano broke in. “I want this on the record.”

“We can go on the record at any point,” I said. “But I’d like you to hear me out.”

O’Conner rubbed his chin. Beyond him, a picture window looked out on the
Los Angeles Times
building, looming like a mausoleum in the smoggy heat. “Well,” he said, “as long as you’re here.”

“I object to this procedure,” Pisano said, slapping his hand on the edge of O’Conner’s desk.

O’Conner said, with great delicacy, “Mr. Pisano, don’t damage the furniture.”

“Why are we having this secret hearing?” Pisano insisted.

The judge frowned. “I don’t like the implications of that,” he said. “There’s absolutely nothing improper in my discussing this matter with you in chambers.”

“The cameras will still be there, Tony,” I put in. “You’ll get your chance to make your speech.”

He glared at me. “Are you accusing me of impropriety?”

“Oh, please,” O’Conner said. “Let’s just get on with it. What’s your proposal, Mr. Rios?”

“Over lunch,” I said, “I did some research on a program run by the probation office called home surveillance.” I explained the details. O’Conner seemed intrigued. “If you were to grant bail in this case, my client would be willing to accept home surveillance. That way, any concerns the court might have about risk of flight would be satisfied. Not,” I added, “that my client poses any such risk. It’s just that, understanding this is a high-publicity case, I thought the court would be more comfortable with releasing him under these conditions.”

Pisano said, “If your client weren’t such a bad risk, you wouldn’t have had to resort to home surveillance. And anyway, there’s the public safety factor to consider. He did murder someone, after all.”

For once, I was grateful for Pisano’s hotheadedness. If he had insisted we go out on the record, O’Conner might have felt trapped by the cameras.

“Charging someone with murder isn’t evidence that he did it,” I said. “My client’s clean except for one juvenile incident which, of course, the court can’t consider now that Michael’s an adult.”

“Oh, I see,” Pisano said. “We’re supposed to overlook his armed robbery conviction.”

I had anticipated this. “Another instance of overcharging by your office,” I said. I opened my briefcase and pulled out the arrest report of Michael’s juvenile case. “My client walked into a 7-11 with a toy gun,” I said, “under the influence of drugs, and was stopped before he could get out the door. Your office called it armed robbery, but the juvenile court saw it for what it was. Michael went to a camp, not even CYA. He was put on a long probation for purposes of helping him get off drugs. That’s the real heart of his problems.” I pushed the arrest report across O’Conner’s desk.

Pisano started to speak, but O’Conner cut him off. “Let me read this.” When he finished, he handed it back to me, saying, “Hmph.”

“My client has a problem with drugs,” I said, seizing the advantage, “not violence. He has a loving family willing to put up their life’s savings to bring him home where he can continue to receive psychological counseling.”

“Bring on the violins,” Pisano muttered, shifting restlessly in his seat. “May I remind the court that this drug-addled ex-armed robber is charged with murdering a state senator.”

“Let me stop you there,” O’Conner said. “The victim’s identity is not really relevant. The value of a human life isn’t measured by a person’s prominence.”

“That’s true,” Pisano said, “but this man was a public official who was assassinated—”

O’Conner held up an admonitory finger. “Counsel, as you well know, the People could have alleged special circumstances in this case if they believed they could prove Senator Peña’s murder was related to his official capacity. Those circumstances were not alleged—”

“Our investigation is ongoing,” Pisano said.

“Well,” the judge replied, “I have to deal with what’s before me. Special circumstances are not alleged.”

“No doubt,” I suggested, “because the People know their case is weak enough without going for the death penalty.”

“Weak?” Pisano said incredulously. “We’ve got an eyewitness.”

“You have a tentative make,” I said. “Which reminds me, the defense will also be asking the court for an
Evans
lineup. My client’s not your man, and a live lineup will prove it.”

Pisano muttered, “We’ll see.”

“You must be pretty sure of yourself,” O’Conner said.

“Or bluffing,” Pisano added sourly. “Where was he the night Peña was killed?”

“You know better than to ask questions like that.”

O’Conner said, “You still haven’t talked numbers, Mr. Rios, unless you’re serious about that $100,000 offer you made out there.” His tone implied that I was not.

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” I said, “and that’s more than it’s worth, given the decrepit state of the case against Michael. That’s just to feed the frenzy out there.”

“Jesus,” Pisano said. “You can’t be serious. Judge, you let him out on $500,000 and the court of appeals will writ you so fast, the ink won’t have time to dry on the order.”

I glanced at O’Conner. This was clearly the wrong thing to say. “You may not know this,” O’Conner said tightly, “but I spent nine years as a writs attorney for the court of appeals. Not once in those nine years did we ever second-guess a bail disposition.”

Pisano knew he had lost, so he went for broke. “Always a first time, Judge.”

“I have considered the bail request,” O’Conner said from the bench, “and based on discussion which I had with counsel in chambers, I will order bail. You’ll get your chance to make your record,” he said to Pisano, who had half-risen to his feet. “Bail will be set at $750,000.” A murmur went through the crowded court. They didn’t know the extra $250,000 was O’Conner’s cover-your-ass money. “With a number of conditions,” he continued. “Defendant will be released to his parents under the probation office’s home surveillance program. He will be required to wear an electronic monitor at all times and he will be confined to the family home. He will continue to receive psychological counseling. He will refrain from the use of any drugs, including alcohol, and he will be subject to random drug checks to test for compliance. He will obey all laws and comply with any terms of any earlier probation. His bail status will be reviewed at the preliminary hearing which will be,” he paused and glanced at his calendar, “in Division 59 before Judge Schrader. Now, Mr. Pisano.”