A Killing in the Valley (18 page)

“Nice and firm,” Juanita instructed her. “Tell him he’s a good horsey.”

“Good horsey,” Sophia said, rubbing the old horse’s flank. “Good boy.”

Juanita took one of Sophia’s hands in hers. “You don’t need gloves for now, but let’s see how you and I match. Put your hand on mine.”

Sophia touched her palm to Juanita’s.

“Close enough,” Juanita said. She reached into her back pocket and dug out a pair of worn leather gloves. “Try these on.”

Sophia pulled the gloves onto her hands. They felt like silk. She flexed the fingers.

“How’s the fit? Nice and snug, but not too tight?”

“They feel good,” Sophia said. “These are really nice gloves.”

“These were mine, when I was your age.” Juanita ran a hand over them. “You can use them whenever you come here.”

There was a low mounting block in the center of the ring. Juanita led the horse to it. Sophia hugged her shoulder.

“Get up on the block,” Juanita told her. “I’ll hand you the reins. Take them in your hand and grab the saddle horn. Stick the ball of your left foot in the stirrup and help yourself up by pulling on the horn, then swing over. Pecos will stand nice and steady for you. Watch me.”

As if she were a jockey, Juanita mounted the old horse. Then she swung her right leg over and slid off. “Now you do it,” she told Sophia.

Sophia climbed up onto the block. She took the reins in her hand as Juanita had told her. She grabbed hold of the saddle, slipped her left foot into the stirrup, pushed herself up, and was sitting pretty.

Forty-five minutes later, when Sophia’s first riding lesson was over, she had not only walked her horse by herself, but had stopped, started, and turned him in a circle. Before they were halfway done, Kate had shot an entire roll of film.

Sophia followed Juanita’s instructions for taking off the horse’s saddle, blanket, and bridle. She watched as Juanita coiled the bridle and mounted it on a hook on the wall. Then she did it herself, getting it perfect the first time. She brushed the old horse down, cleaned his hooves as Juanita showed her, and filled his water bucket.

“Good job,” Juanita said as they left the stable and walked over to Kate, who was waiting outside in the shade. “Any time your mother can bring you out here I’ll give you more lessons. You’ll be a good rider lickety-split.”

“I have my own car,” Sophia said with proud authority.

Juanita smiled. “Then you don’t have to wait on mom. Call to make sure I’m here, so you don’t waste your time. Tomorrow, if you want.”

“I have play practice tomorrow,” Sophia said, almost apologetically. “But I can come on Saturday.”

“Saturday it is, then.” She looked over at Kate. “If that’s all right with your mother.”

Kate’s smile was so broad it almost hurt. “That’s fine with me,” she said. “Perfectly fine.”

“Y
OU’RE LOOKING PARTICULARLY SHARP
this morning,” Riva told Luke, as he stood at the island in the kitchen. He was reading the L.A.
Times
Sports section and drinking a cup of coffee. “The great Luke Garrison must be nervous,” she teased him. It was barely sunup, but Luke had been awake for almost an hour. After a hard run through the hills around his house, he’d shaved, showered, and put on his number-one court outfit, a dark gray Oxford suit with a subtle blue pinstripe. It was a holdover from his D.A. days. He wanted to look extra-sharp this morning, and solidly pro-establishment.

“I’m concerned,” he admitted. “We drew Judge Yberra for the bail hearing. He’s tough on bail. And he’s been hearing footsteps.”

“Because the victim was a Latina, and so is he.”

Luke nodded. Riva had good instincts, and she was tough. She had lived with a drug dealer before they’d gotten together; she’d had to be strong to survive in that world.

“Yberra’s up for re-election next year,” he told her. “He doesn’t want to piss off a big chunk of the electorate, particularly his core. And Alex is fighting it like a demon.”

“For the same reason?”

“Partly. He wants to look tough on crime, and he wants to make a statement. You’ve got these poor Latino and black kids in jail waiting on their trials because they can’t make bail, even if it’s only a few grand. Along comes a privileged white one who can write a big check. So you decide he’s going to play the game with the same equipment.” He tried his coffee. It was hot—he blew on the rim. “I can’t fault Alex. I don’t like the way the field is tilted, either. And if Steven McCoy really is guilty…”

“Is he?” she interjected.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, at least not yet. But if he is, or if he thinks he’s going to get convicted, he might take off. You can wrap electronic bracelets on every limb of his body, but if he wants to bolt, he’ll figure out how to do it.”

He tried his coffee. It was drinkable now. “And if he did manage to get out of the county,” he said, “it would be hell to pay getting him back. When you have a potential death case, which this could be, most countries won’t extradite. Neither Yberra or Alex Gordon wants to be the dumb ass who let a murder suspect get away. Hasta la vista career, baby.”

“You’ll figure something out,” she told him supportively. “If you can’t pull it off, ain’t nobody can.”

As they sat at the defense table waiting for Judge Yberra’s appearance, Luke looked around the courtroom. On the prosecution side of the aisle, Maria’s family had taken up their posts in the first two rows. Behind them were several girls and a few boys, Maria’s age. Friends who had come in support of the family, Luke assumed. Hector Torres was also among the spectators. Maria’s uncle sat apart from the others, his eyes locked onto Steven’s back. Luke could almost feel the heat from Hector’s intensity.

On their side, the representation was sparse. Kate Blanchard, a few reporters, and the McCoys, Juanita and Steven’s parents. They sat in a tight cluster behind the railing that separated the actors from the audience.

“All rise.”

Judge Yberra, a stocky man in his fifties, sporting a luxurious salt-and-pepper mustache, strode into the court and up to the bench. He nodded to both sets of attorneys, first Alex and Elise, then Luke. Sitting down, he looked at the open folder in front of him.

“People
v.
McCoy,”
he read aloud. He set the file aside. “Since both parties have agreed to waive the preliminary hearing and bind the defendant over for trial, this hearing is about request for bail. Are you prepared to proceed?” he asked the prosecution.

“We are, your honor.” Elise was going to do the honors today.

Luke stood at the defense table. “Request defendant be released on his own recognizance, pending arraignment and trial.”

Elise popped up like Carl Lewis leaving the starting blocks. “That’s preposterous, your honor! This defendant shouldn’t be granted bail under any circumstances, particularly not on a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“I see that’s your position,” Yberra said, glancing again at the material on his podium. “I should warn you that if bail is granted, it’s going to be high,” he told Luke sternly.

That’s encouraging, Luke thought. At least the door was open now. “How much, your honor?”

“Well, Michael Jackson’s bail was three million dollars, and he was charged with a lesser offense in this county,” Yberra said.

Luke’s jaw almost dropped. He had thrown that number at Steven’s parents to make them understand how serious this was, but he would never have expected an amount remotely that high. Michael Jackson was one of the most famous people on the planet, and a multimillionaire. His Santa Barbara County ranch alone was worth over forty million dollars. Luke had been out of the local loop for awhile, but he didn’t think that bail for over a million dollars had ever been set for a regular person in the county.

“That’s if I grant it,” Yberra said. He turned back to Elise. “Make your case for denial.”

So I can agree with it, Luke thought with anger, his earlier optimism fading away. This was a prime example of why judges should be appointed, not elected. All those aggrieved people sitting behind the prosecution’s table were potential voters.

Elise ticked off the reasons why Steven McCoy should not be granted bail. The flight risk, first and foremost. Steven was a poster boy for that. He had money and motive. And there was another factor, she added mysteriously. An extenuating circumstance that might be added to the murder charge, which could elevate the charge from life without parole to execution.

“We aren’t prepared to add that charge yet, your honor,” Elise said, standing tall in her four-inch heels. “But it’s going to be one of the first things we will get into once the trial date is set and all the charges are formally filed. You can certainly deny bail until then.”

It has to be rape, Luke thought. He had been worried about that—now, even though it wasn’t yet stated, it hung over their heads like a huge, menacing thundercloud.

In California, murder by itself isn’t enough to warrant the death penalty. Another crime has to have been committed along with the murder. Armed robbery is often the case. Kidnapping. Killing a police officer also qualifies, which Luke had never agreed with, even though he was a former prosecutor. Why was a cop’s life more important than a civilian’s? A policeman knew that being in harm’s way was part of the job.

It was all about politics, and an institution that was way too sensitive and insular. A kid gets gunned down in south-central L.A., his mother cries. A cop gets killed, the funeral parade of uniformed policemen is five miles long.

If Steven had raped Maria Estrada, his DNA would show up. DNA was the gold standard now. If Steven’s DNA was found in the victim, Luke wouldn’t be trying to win an acquittal; he would be fighting for a sentence of life without parole, rather than the death penalty. It would be an uphill battle.

Yberra seemed to be in agreement with Elise. “Your argument sounds reasonable.” He turned to Luke. “Another week or two shouldn’t be that much of a hardship, should it, Mr. Garrison?”

Luke was still standing. “It isn’t about time, your honor,” he said. He walked a few steps closer to the bench. “Let me remind the court, and my colleagues across the aisle as well, that Mr. McCoy voluntarily returned to Santa Barbara when he was requested to do so by Mr. Gordon. Would a flight risk have done that? If he was going to run, your honor, he would have done it then. But he didn’t, and he won’t now.”

Yberra sat back. “There’s a point there,” he conceded. Back to the prosecutors: “What about that?”

Elise shook her head in strong disagreement. “McCoy wasn’t a suspect then. He thought he was going to waltz through a beauty contest and skip on home. That isn’t the situation now. He is going to be tried for first-degree murder.”

Yberra nodded as if giving the matter his grave attention. “I’m inclined to go with the prosecution on this one, counselor,” he said to Luke. “One or two more weeks to sort this out isn’t going to make that much of a difference.”

Luke nodded tightly. There are times to fight a judge, and times not to. This wasn’t the time to waste a bullet. He leaned over to Steven. “It’s going to be another week,” he whispered. “This judge is too scared to do the right thing.”

Steven covered his face with his hands. “Where would I run to?” he whispered back.

Luke had no answer.

“I’m going to deny bail at this time,” Yberra announced. “You can reinstate your request at the arraignment next week,” he said to Luke. He prepared to gavel the session closed.

“May I say something, Alberto?”

Yberra looked up at the woman in the back of the room who had called him by his first name—a major breach of protocol in a courtroom. But he couldn’t call this woman on that. She was too important.

“Yes, Mrs. McCoy?” He didn’t want to sound deferential, but he couldn’t help himself.

Juanita came forward until she was at the railing, behind her grandson. “It’s always been Juanita, Judge Yberra,” she said with a thin smile, “but we should be formal here, I agree.” She put a hand on Steven’s shoulder. “This is my grandson.”

“I know that,” Yberra answered uncomfortably.

“Do you think a grandson of mine would run away?”

Yberra almost swallowed his tongue. He turned toward Alex Gordon as if for guidance. Both Alex and Elise were rigidly at attention, deliberately not looking at Juanita. Alex’s hands, gripping the tabletop, were almost white from pressure.

“My grandson will not run away,” Juanita promised Yberra. “I will be responsible for him.” She locked eyes with the judge. “Is my word not good enough for you, Judge Yberra?”

“Your word is good with me anywhere and at any time, Juanita,” Yberra said tightly. He looked at Alex and Elise, as if to say, “This is a force too strong for me to resist.”

“And please,” Juanita pressed on. “Three million dollars? You would think Steven was O.J. Simpson or Ted Bundy. Be reasonable, judge. Be fair. Especially since I’m putting up my own money,” she added sharply.

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Yberra said tightly. Anything less and he’d be pilloried. He slammed his gavel down. “Formal arraignment this coming Tuesday. Court is adjourned.”

Luke clapped Steven on the back. “Congratulations,” he told his stunned client. “You’re out. They’ll keep you in a holding cell for a couple of hours, until we do the paperwork.” He looked back at Juanita, who had retreated to the rear of the courtroom with Kate and Steven’s parents. Kate grinned as she gave Luke a quick thumbs-up. “You owe your grandmother big-time, Steven,” Luke said. “Don’t make her regret what she did for you.”

“I won’t,” Steven promised. “I’ll do everything right from now on.”

As he prepared to leave, Luke glanced back at Maria’s family. Hector Torres was having an animated conversation with Maria’s mother, his sister. As Luke headed out, he and Hector locked eyes for a moment. Hector’s look, and the stark emotion behind it, was pure venom.

A
FTER HIS KIDS WERE
born Luke stopped collecting, restoring, and riding classic motorcycles. His wife had been a hard-core biker mama, but now she was a mother of two small children. And he was their father, hopefully for a long time. After months of cajoling and pleading from Riva, he gave in. His days of riding against the wind were over. Marriage is, among other things, a series of negotiated compromises. This one hurt more than most, but he’d had his decades of hard riding. Maybe when the kids were grown and he was a doddering geezer he’d ride on two wheels again.