Misdemeanor Trials (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE WARRANT

“I like cops, except when they are anywhere near me.”

--Baton Compresti from the book Dark Alleys

Once again Trader was picked for his rotation to be officer of the day.  Between phone calls he reviewed police reports and complaints brought over by the police for his signature.  If he signed them, they would go to the Legal Assistants who would draft the arrest warrants or summons, notify the victims and witnesses, and put them into the stack ready for trial.  The DUI police reports had a pattern.  An officer would see a car weaving inside the lines of the freeway, or the driver would blow a stop light, or the driver would run into a tree.  The officer would ask the driver how much he had to drink, and invariably the answer would be “Two Beers,” even though the driver could hardly stand and his blood-alcohol content was .15.  There would be some indecent exposure cases, some drug influence cases, and a shoplift or two.  As John read the police reports and complaints, he heard a knock on the metal door frame of his office.  He looked up from his desk and saw two men in sport coats.  He knew they were police.  He could see the gun holster beneath their sport coats resting high on their hips.

Both men were in their late 30’s, well-built and looked in great physical condition.  They were dressed in sport coats and slacks, well-tailored, with white shirts and tasteful ties.  The taller one had an American Flag in his lapel.  The shorter officer was a bit older and had a buzz cut.  Each carried a thin black cloth briefcase.  They both had sandy hair and almost appeared cookie cutter similar, except the taller one had a tan that was of a George Hamilton quality.  He spoke first.  “Are you the officer of the day?”

“Yes,” answered John.  “I’m John Trader.”

“I’m Officer Sprinkles and this is Officer Miles.  We’re from the Robbery and Assault unit.”

“Have a seat,” said John.  There were two metal chairs across from John’s desk in his small office.  One of the chairs he had purloined from a nearby unoccupied cubicle.  With the two men in the chairs, there was no more room for anyone.  “What can I help you with?”

“We’ve got a strange situation.  Early this other morning an officer pulled over a van that was weaving slightly in the street of a business area.  He thought it was a typical DUI, but when he approached on the driver’s side, he could see the driver was the only person in the van and he was covered with blood.  The officer called for uniformed backup and then gave a call to us in the Robbery and Assault Detective unit.  We got there just as the uniforms were having the driver exit the vehicle in a felony stop.  When the driver stepped into the street we could tell he was injured.  He fell down and the blood patterns on his clothes told us he had an injury to his chest area.  When the medics arrived they confirmed what they believed was a gunshot to the chest.  He was taken away by the paramedics.  When we called the hospital later, they confirmed a bullet wound to the chest.  He was taken to surgery.  After he had been taken to the hospital we conducted an inventory search of the van.  We found blood all over the inside of the driver’s compartment.  Forensics came down and gathered blood evidence.  On the floor on the passenger’s side we found a suppressed and loaded .38 revolver.  There was one expended 9 mm cartridge from a gun which was not the .38 gun we found.  We ran a trace on the serial number of the firearm, but it had never been registered.  We contacted Smith and Wesson and they said that serial number was part of a multimillion dollar firearm purchase by the Army and was shipped in bulk to Afghanistan ten years ago.  The van was registered to a Than Aseb Saeed, but the address on the registration was an empty lot.  We couldn’t find anyone with a driver’s license by that name.  The guy in the hospital had a wallet that identified him as a 22 year old named Omid Bahman Madani, date of birth November 8.  His address is in the local Iranian community.  We drove over there, knocked on the door, and identified ourselves.  After a few minutes a man answered through a crack in the opened door.  He identified himself as the senior Madani.  We told him Omid Bahman Madani had been shot and was in surgery.  He told us he did not want to talk to us, and closed the door.  We tried to contact him several more times, but he would not answer the door.  We ran the senior Madani and he had no rap, no wants, and no warrants.  Later today the hospital called and said Omid was okay to talk to.  We met Omid in the hospital room.  He seemed okay.  Seems the surgeons pulled out a single 9 millimeter slug that didn’t injure any of his organs.  The slug was not from a .38.  The hospital expects to discharge him tomorrow.”

“So, what can I do to help you?” asked Trader.

“We need to charge him to keep this guy in custody.  Something bigger is going on here.  He was shot by a different gun than he had in the van.  His family won’t talk to us.  The van ownership is unknown.  We need time to run the blood DNA in the van to see if there is some that does not belong to him.  We need time to run forensics on the nine millimeter as well as the .38 and put an inquiry in the nationwide system.  If we let Madani go, he could be in the wind tomorrow afternoon.  And all the players are Middle Easterners.”

“What did this Omid say when you talked to him? Asked John.

Officer Sprinkles said, “He told us who he was, but said he didn’t want to talk right now.”

“Where’s the crime?” asked John.  “It isn’t illegal to be shot.  Painful, but not illegal.”

“It’s illegal to carry a loaded gun in the passenger compartment of a car.  It’s a misdemeanor,” said Sprinkles.

 “Sure.  I’ll sign it.  He’ll probably bail out tomorrow and this whole exercise will be pointless.  But I’ll do it.  You will have to carry it over to the Judge to get a warrant signed right now if you plan to take him into custody today.” Trader filled out the complaint form, handed it to Officer Miles and said, “Let me know what happens.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

OMID

“If you look at terrorists, they really have no sense of humor,”

--Al Franken from the book,
The Intelligence of Liberals

A few days later John checked his interdepartmental mailbox on his way to his cubicle.  There was a form that said, “Inmate Interview Request.” He had never seen the form before.  He walked over to Melinda the paralegal and asked if she knew what it was.

“It’s a form inmates fill out when they want to talk to a D.A.  It is a pointless form.  The inmates have an attorney and we can’t talk to them, and even if they don’t have a lawyer, none of the D.A.’s ever go over to the jail anyway.”

“Thanks,” replied John.

He looked closely at the form.  Under the “Reason for the Interview” portion of the form, he read that the inmate wanted to talk to the Deputy District Attorney who signed the complaint against him.  It was signed by Omid, but Trader could not read the last name.  The inmate’s booking number was on the form.  John remembered Omid from earlier when Detectives Sprinkles and Miles had asked for a complaint on a guy who had a loaded gun in a vehicle and had been shot.  John decided to go see him that afternoon.  In the morning he reviewed a new stack of case files he had received from Tom Benton.  He also looked up the statute about carrying a loaded gun in a car.  He also read the part about how long a misdemeanor defendant can be kept in jail before he is arraigned in court.  Three days.

After a quick pomegranate sandwich at the building cafeteria, John walked the three blocks to the jail.  He walked into the jail at the Public entrance.  There were two deputies and no one else in the entry area.  He said, “I’m a D.A., and I would like to see an inmate.  I have never been here before, so if you could tell me what the procedure is, that would be good.”

A deputy said, “Give me your I.D.” John handed him his newly minted District Attorney Identification Badge. The deputy gave him a large red badge with a clip.  The Deputy told him to clip the badge to his chest area and walk through the metal detector.  The Deputy told him he could pick up his I.D.  on the way out.  Once again John set off the metal detector and had to go through a pat down.  After he was cleared, the deputy told him to walk through the metal door at the end of the hallway and follow the i
n
structions. 

At the end of the hallway the door had its own notices.  “You are entering a no hostage area,” and “Denim pants not allowed inside the jail except for inmates.” John looked for, but did not see the notice that said, “Have a nice day.”

As he approached the door, he heard the buzz as the door was electronically unlocked.  When John walked through the door he saw a window enclosed area to his left.  Through the window he could see a deputy behind an array of panels and above the panel a battery of video display terminals.  It looked like an air traffic control tower.  In front of him were three large elevator doors with a yellow line before the doors.  The deputy leaned over and spoke through a microphone, “Who do you want to see?”

Trader replied, “Inmate 97864.”

“Omid Bahman Madani,” said the deputy.  “Walk up to but do not cross the yellow line.” John did as instructed.  “When you enter the elevator look up at the corner on the ceiling and signal with your fingers which floor you want to go to.  Madani is on the third floor.”

The middle elevator door opened and John walked in.  Everything he had seen so far was metal and concrete.  The air was a bit cold and the odor was mild antiseptic.  There was nothing fresh about the place.  John looked up at the ceiling and saw a camera.  He raised his hand with three fingers pointed at the camera.  He wondered how long he was supposed to hold his hand up to the camera, but when the doors begin to close he lowered his hand.  The floor of the elevator jerked and then lumbered to the third floor.  The doors of the elevator opened.  John saw the same setup behind a window he saw on the first floor.  A voice over the loudspeaker said, “Follow the red line through the door to your right.” John walked to the door, and again heard the click of the electronic lock.  When he walked through the door he was greeted by a deputy who directed him to an area on the floor where there was painted a two foot by two foot square.  The deputy said, “Wait here for the inmate.  It should be just a minute or two.”

John looked to the right and behind a window he could see four or five inmates in denim shirts and pants playing pool.  They did not look up at him.  In front of him he saw three small doors and on the door were the words “Interview Room”.  Each door had a small window and was marked with number, IR1, IR2, or IR3.  No one was in any of the interview rooms.  A few minutes later, true to the deputy’s word, an inmate was brought out of a door on the other side of the area.  He was in denim and he wore leg chains and handcuffs.  His head was down as he shuffled towards the interview room.  He had a scruffy dark beard, black hair and the skin of a middle easterner.  He was a young kid in his early twenties.  The inmate was put in room IR3.  The deputy turned to John and said, “Room three.” John walked into Room three.  It was no more than 6 feet by 4 feet, with a metal table and a bench on both sides.  John sat in one across from Madani. 

John said, “My name is John Trader.  I got a message that you wanted to talk to a DA.  Do you have a lawyer?”

“I don’t have a lawyer,” replied Madani.

“Have you been assigned a Public Defender?”

“They tried to give me a Public Defender, but I told them I did not want one.  I have friends who have had Public Defenders and my friends tell me they are nothing but trouble, and not to trust them.  I’ve seen enough TV to know the only people I might be able to trust are D.A.’s.  Listen, I haven’t got time for this legal bullshit.  I’m American and I'm Iranian and I have a problem and you do too.”

“Get to your point.  No promises here.”

“My father came here in ’85.  He is old school Muslim.  I used to go to the Mosque occasionally but I’m just not into the strict Muslim stuff.  I don’t go at all since I started college.  Why should I wait for 72 virgins in heaven when I can have them now on a Saturday night after a few beers? If God is such a strict guy, why do we have alcohol, hot chicks with wild ass libidos, and football schedules that conflict with evening prayer?”

“I’m not here to talk about your social calendar.  What is it you want to talk about?” said John.

“There is some kind bombing planned.  It is some kind of attack that is going to kill a lot of people.  You got to stop it,” said Madani.

“How do you know that?” asked John.

“My father supports those radical groups.  Every year a few of them would visit us, talk to us, and try to bring us along to be martyrs.”

“Who is ‘us’?” asked John.

“My brother and me,” replied Madani.  “You remember that guy that blew up the basement of the Federal building four years ago?”

“They never figured out who the guy was,” said John.

“That was my brother.”

“Oh, shit,” thought John.  “This is over my head.”

“They want me to bomb something.  I don't know what, but I think they want me to go the way my brother did.  They always talk about martyrs and I don't want to be a martyr.  I tried to take off, but these Iranian goons took me.  I tried to get away and they shot me.  That's how I caught the bullet,” said Omid.

“When is this attack you’re talking about?” asked John.

“I don’t know, but Tuesday night there is a meeting at my Dad’s house with the Imam who is supposed to be my contact.  I am supposed to be there.  I don’t know what my role is, but I can assure you it is not pretty.  He goes by the name of Darby Rhodes.  I don’t know his Iranian name, but he has been to my house and spoke to me and my brother at least once a year for the last seven or eight years.”

“Today is Tuesday,” said John.

“You lose track of time in jail.  It is tonight,” said Madani.

“What does he look like?” asked John.

“What do you think he looks like? He’s Iranian.  He looks like an Iranian.  Nothing special.  He dresses in suits.  He’s about forty five and looks like he is in fairly good physical condition.  He speaks Farsi and perfect English.  He is smooth and persuasive.  He scares me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.  I’ll get back with you.”

“You got to get back with me right away.  You can’t let me out yet.”

“I will get with you.”

John got up and opened the interview room door.  He signaled to the deputy that the interview was over.  He waited at the elevator.  When the door opened he got in, and put up his index finger.  He considered putting up his middle finger, but thought better of it.  John needed to know more.  How did he know this guy was telling the truth? Madani could be crazier than a loon, trying to cover his tracks to get out of a tough situation where he is accused of having a loaded gun, complicated by a cartridge in the van from a gun other than the one he had in his possession.  John got back to the office and called up the file on Madani’s charge.  He reviewed the file and copied the address of his college dorm and his emergency contact.  He named his father as the emergency contact and gave his address.  He copied down the address.

After work he went home, brewed some coffee, grabbed his binoculars, changed into his jeans and parka and drove to the address of Madani’s emergency contact.  It was late in the evening.  He parked down the street, poured himself a hot cup of Peet’s coffee, and watched the house.  Lights were on in the house.  He didn’t expect anything, but he had to determine if what Madani was telling him was anywhere near the truth.  John waited for two hours when he saw light in the front doorway as the door was opened.  Three men appeared on the porch.  John reached for his binoculars.  One man went back into the house and closed the door.  The two others walked to a black Ford parked on the street.  John watched it all through the binoculars.  The man who went back into the house was fifty years old or more.  He sported a trimmed salt and pepper beard, with a receding hairline, and had a noticeable paunch.  “That’s dad,” thought John.  Of the two men who walked to the car, one was dressed in a blazer and a sport shirt.  He too had a well-trimmed beard.  The other man was obviously Darby, if it were true that Darby was there.  He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and tie.  He was clean shaven and definitely had Middle Eastern features.  He was a good looking man who probably was a ladies man outside of Iran, and he walked with an air of worldly confidence and superiority as he got in the door of the car that had been opened for him by the other man.  John had an uneasy feeling he had seen the man before, or had a premonition that their paths would sometime cross in the future.  John copied down the car license plate.