Misdemeanor Trials (6 page)

Jurors who were acceptable to the Prosecution and the defense were obviously not the best and the brightest.  They were the grand compromise.  They would make their decisions on the way the felt about the defendant, how much they liked the prosecutor, or how the defendant looked. 

In law school, Trader had learned about the origin of the 12 member jury system.  Jurors in tenth century England were selected from people in the village, who knew the defendant, so they probably had a good idea if the defendant was guilty or not before the trial started.  If he were a previously convicted felon, the accused could not even testify in those days, because everyone in the village knew that felons lied and cheated.  The village jurors were not impartial and definitely had a stake in the outcome.  In the early development of juries in the American colonies, only men who owned land could be on a jury.  They too, had a stake in the outcome.  The jury pool Trader looked at did not have a stake in the outcome.  None of them would ever be the next victim of the defendant they exonerated.  Today jurors were called from people who paid property taxes, or had a driver’s license, or had registered to vote.  Generally the pool was drawn from people who had established lives, who were responsible and generally played by the rules.  There were no felons in the jury pool.  The defendant lived in a different part of town than they did, and he was not part of their social or economic circle.  They had no tangible stake in the outcome.  But the jurors would make a decision and it would be regarded as justice.

A person from the jury pool was seated in seat number 12 to replace the excused juror and the process continued.

After a few more questions, Trader and the Public Defender agreed on a jury.  Trader presented his opening statement, which was short and parroted the police report.  Vanessa was walking home alone from school on a residential street.  The defendant drove by slowly, and when he was a little bit ahead of her, he stopped the car, got out.  She saw that he had no pants on, and was sporting a fully erect penis.  She screamed.  The defendant got back into the car and drove away.  Vanessa was able to see the license plate and she gave that to the police along with a description of the car and of the defendant. 

Then Casey gave a short opening statement.  He said that Vanessa may have seen what she described to the police, but that his client was not the person who committed the crime.  He said the identification was flawed and that at the end of the trial they will see there is not only reasonable doubt about his guilt, but a clear and unambiguous doubt.  When he sat down the Judge looked at Trader and said, “Call your first witness.”

“The Prosecution calls Vanessa Kayla Carlson.” Trader walked to the courtroom door and called for Vanessa to come inside.  He directed her to the witness chair where she was sworn in by the Clerk.

The Clerk asked, “Do you swear, under penalty of perjury, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Vanessa responded, “I do”.

Trader wondered what happened to the swearing in of witnesses like he had seen and heard in the movies and on television so many times.  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” But God was no longer in the admonition, and apparently was no longer in the courtroom.  Trader realized any moral consequence to lying on the stand was lost in political correctness.  He knew that perjury was rarely charged, and very difficult to prove.  Lying witnesses were home free.

As Vanessa finished her oath John felt a body sitting in the chair next to him.  It was a young girl, blond, and dressed in a very distinct red dress.  She leaned over and whispered to John, “Tom sent me over to help.  Casey is a pig.  Whenever I hit your leg with mine, say 'objection'.”

“Okay,” whispered John.

Judge Crawford looked at Vanessa and said, “Please tell us your name.”

“Vanessa Kayla Carlson.”

The Judge turned to John, “Your witness, Mr. Trader.”

John stood up, put his outline of questions on the podium next to his table, and asked, “How old are you, Vanessa?”

“Fifteen”.

“I would like to ask you about events that occurred last October 12.  What did you do that day?”

“I went to school.”

“When school was over, what did you do?”

“I walked home.”

“When was that?”

“Right after school.”

“What day of the week was it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked John.

“Yes.  I had piano lessons at four, so I had to get home.”

“How far away from the school do you live?”

“I don't know.  It's not far.  It takes about ten minutes.”

“When you walked home were you alone, or with someone?”

 “I was alone.”

“What happened while you were walking home?”

“Objection,” blurted Casey.  “Question calls for a narrative.”

“Sustained,” said the Judge.  “Ask your next question, Mr. Trader.”

Trader thought to himself, that instead of allowing Vanessa to tell her story without interruption, he would have to go through the events inch by inch.  “Immediately after you got out of your last class, and walked out of the classroom, where did you go?” He asked.

“To my locker.”

“What happened next?”

“I went over to my girlfriends' lockers and we talked for a while.”

“What happened next?”

“I said goodbye to them and started walking home.”

“Do you follow the same route home every day?”

“Yes, but not anymore,” she replied.

“How many months or years have you been walking home from that school?”

“Since the sixth grade.”

“On Wednesday, October 12, did you see something unexpected or unusual happen on your walk home?”

“Yes.”

“On that day, how long had you been walking home before this unusual event occurred?”

“I was about half way home.”

“At that point did you see something?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a car in the street traveling really slowly.”

“What happened next?”

“The car pulled next to me.”

“What direction was the car traveling?”

“It was going in the same direction.”

“Which side of you was the vehicle as you walked home?”

“My left side.”

“So the closest part of the car was the passenger door?” asked John.

“Yes,” replied Vanessa.

“Then what happened?”

“The car went by and ahead of me on the street.”

“Could you see how many people were in the car?”

“Yes.”

“How many people were in the car?”

“I saw one.”

“What happened next?”

“He stopped the car and got out.”

“Where did you see him go?”

“He walked around to the back of the car.”

“How far away from you was that person?”

“I don't know.  Maybe a car length or so away.”

“What happened next?”

“He stopped on the street in back of the car.”

“What was he wearing?”

“He had one of those tank top shirts, like underwear, and no pants.”

“Did you see anyone besides that person in the residential area?”

“Objection,” said Casey.  “States a fact not in evidence.”

“Sustained,” said the Judge.

Trader asked himself, “What fact was not in evidence.  Then he recalled.”

John directed a new question to Vanessa.  “What sort of neighborhood was it that you were walking through?”

“It was a street filled with houses.”

“Did you see anyone besides that person in the residential area?”

“No.”

“Can you describe that person?”

 “He's sitting right over there,” said Vanessa, as she pointed at the defendant.

“I know, but could you describe what you saw when you looked at that person?”

“He was a Mexican with a big belly, black hair and a mustache.  He was an old guy, maybe 40 or so.”

“What else can you describe about that person?”

“He was wearing shoes, but no pants.  He had really skinny legs.”

“Did you see his hands?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“He had his right hand on his penis and he was moving his hand.”

“Can you describe his penis?”

Vanessa paused.  She put her head down and began a quiet sobbing sound.  The clerk got up from her chair and passed a box of tissues to Vanessa.

After a moment, Vanessa said, “It was big, and it was long, and it was pointing at me and it was covered with black hair and it was awful.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

“No.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“What did you do after you saw the defendant outside his car?”

“I screamed.  Then I thought I should get this guy’s license plate number, so I memorized it and ran home.  My mom called the police.”

“I have no further questions, your Honor.”  John returned to his seat at the table.

The Judge turned to Casey and said, “Your witness.”

Casey stood up from his chair and walked around so as to be closer to Vanessa.  He asked, “Ms.  Carlson, on that day what were you wearing?”

John thought the question wasn't related to the crime, but he was not sure what to do.  Then he felt his leg being bumped by the D.A. sitting next to him and he said, “Objection”.

“Sustained,” said the Judge.  John had no idea what he had just done, but he felt a sense of accomplishment.

“How short was your skirt?” asked Casey.

Once again John felt his leg being hit.  “Objection,” he said.

“Sustained,” said the Judge. 

John thought to himself, “This could be fun.”

Casey went on.  “Were you wearing makeup?”

By now John had the hang of it realizing that how she looked was not relevant to how the defendant acted.  That she was a girl was important, and maybe that she was young, but not how she was dressed. 

John was about to object when Vanessa said, “At Catholic school we wear uniforms.  We are not allowed to wear lipstick or eye makeup until we are sixteen.”

Casey stood up, looked at the Judge and said, “Your honor, may we approach.”

CHAPTER NINE

PROBATION

“The phone rang in John’s office.  He answered, “John Trader.”

Mr. Trader,” said the voice on the other end,  “This is Burt Mosby from pre-sentencing in the Probation department.  I have a young gal in my office for a pre-sentence interview and she wants to speak to you about meth trafficking.”

“I'm a D.A. doing misdemeanor trials.  Are you sure you are talking to the right person?”

“She says she met you some time ago during a bomb scare at the Courthouse,” said Mosby. 

“That happens so often these days I couldn't nail down any particular day.  What's her name?” asked John.

“Susan Owens.  She seems to know some things about trafficking, and she wanted specifically to speak to you.  She gave me your number.  In fact she gave me the D.A.'s office generic card with your name and number written on the front.  It seems fairly important and she only wants to talk to you.  I don't know what her deal is.  We're right around the corner from the D.A.'s office.  If you could come down at least you might know what to do with the information.  She won't go to the cops.  She says if she is seen at the Police Station her life would be over.  That seems a little dramatic, but she won't talk to me,” said Mosby.

“Be right over.”   John hung up the phone, realizing immediately he had no idea where the probation department was.  John got up from his chair and walked over to Melinda and asked, “Where is the probation department?”

“When you go out the front door of this building, turn to the left and walk to the corner.  Then turn left and walk about a hundred yards.  Look at the building to the left and you should see the sign that says 'Probation'.  That will be a dead giveaway.”

“Thanks,” said John with a wry smile, glad that Melinda was using some sarcasm with him.  Maybe she was finally warming up to him.

John walked to the probation department.  There was one deputy at the metal detectors and John was the only other person in the small entry way.  John asked the deputy where he could find Mosby.

“I'll buzz you in,” said the deputy.  He walked over to the door and put a card on a card reader next to the door.  John heard a buzz and the deputy opened the door.  “Mosby is down the hall on your left.  His name should be on the door, but I think he is interviewing someone right now.”

John walked down the hall and found Mosby's office.  He walked in and recognized the girl he had spoken to during a bomb scare.  He recalled the encounter, and thought that this might be a second chance to help her.  After even his minimal time in the office he knew more people in the police department, and he knew who might help.  The girl looked a little healthier, most of the sores on her face were gone, and her eyes were a little bright.  “Hello,” said John, and put out his hand.

“Hi, Mr. Trader.  My name is Susan Owens,” she said.

John looked over at Mosby, a fat black man in his fifties, sitting on his ergonomically structured chair that could barely hold all of Mosby, and introduced himself.  John looked for a place to sit, but there were no more chairs in Mosby's office, which more closely resembled a closet than an office.  Mosby got up, slowly and heavily, offering John his chair.  “I’m going to step out for coffee,” said Mosby.  John appreciated that he could have some time alone with Susan to figure out what this was all about.

“Now I remember you.  You looked unwell then.  You look a little better today,” said John.  She was fairly tall.  Her blond hair now had brown roots.  Her brown eyes were clearer than before.  She was attractive by any standard, but had a touch of hardness in her voice.

“I'm trying to do better,” she said.  “I just want to go back home.”

“Where's home?” asked John.

“Iowa,” she said.  “Fort Madison actually, the eastern border next to Illinois.  That's where I was raised and where my mom and dad live.”

“What brought you out here?” asked John.

“When I graduated from High School I got some work in town.  It was just waitress work, but I was just going to be there a little while.  We get a lot of truckers and bikers traveling through.  It's a cute small town.  Plus, Iowa State Penitentiary is in town, and people visiting inmates had to eat.  On day a guy came in, older than me, and we started talking.  He was from out of town, probably visiting a friend in prison, but he never admitted it.  He said he came through almost  every month.  And it was true.  He did come through every month after that, and he always stopped to see me at work.  He was really nice and drove a big motorcycle.  Every time he came in we talked a lot, and the last few months he would hang out all day during my shift and we got to know each other.  One thing led to another, and one day we just took off.  I was so tired of Fort Madison I just wanted to get away.  I haven't been back since.  It's been two years now, and I miss the town more than I thought I could.”

“Why didn't you go home?” asked John.

Susan looked pained and said, “If only it was that easy.  It turns out he was a Prince in a motorcycle gang that were into meth manufacturing and distribution.  He had lots of money and bought me nice things, and we stayed in nice places, and we were always high.  Before him, I never had any money, ever, and it was amazing at first.  Then things went downhill.  We were doing too much meth and he lost focus.  Money became tight.  We were homeless, and now I'm a meth addict.  A couple of months ago we came through here on one of his trips to make a delivery to a small time dealer in town and to visit the meth labs he was responsible for here.  Turns out he wasn't responsible for the lab anymore.  Bigger more powerful guys who weren't tweakers had moved in, and he was out of the game.  There was no severance package when he got turned out by meth gangs.”

John nodded, “Yeah, corporate greed.”  Susan smiled.  She had a nice smile, a sweet, innocent smile, hidden beneath the hardness she could not avoid from the sordid life she had been living.

“We were binging big time, and one day a cop spotted me and arrested me for being under the influence.  I was so out of it, I don't even know where I was.   I was off by myself.  I had an eight ball of meth in my pocket.  They never let me hold product, so I don't even know why I had it.  Did I steal it? God, I don't know.  Anyway, the cop could have busted me for sales, but it was my first time, so the D.A. offered me probation and a drug program.  Since I got arrested, I've done well in rehab, but with no money and no friends I just want to go home.  I'm scared, Mr. Trader.”

“Where's your boyfriend now?” asked John.

“I don't know.  I don't want to know.  No one tried to find me, or help me.  I think something is going down locally.  I don’t want any part of it.  I have to get out of here”.

“Why are you talking to me about this? I'm a D.A., a prosecutor, not a cop, and I have nothing to do with serious drug crimes.  How can I help?” asked John.  And John wanted to help.  He hoped that this girl, barely out of High School, might be spared the raw and ugly life of the criminals he saw every day.  He hoped he could help.

“You have that face.  You have the kind of face that women are drawn to, except there is something more.  You want to help people, even though you try to hide it.  I knew immediately you would help me.  I know faces, Mr. Trader”.  John was taken aback.  He felt his stomach drop.  This girl, a girl who could be his little sister, could see deep into him.  His face actually felt flush.

“What I need to do,” Susan continued, “I have to do myself.  But I got some stuff you might like.  I am going to do the right thing, even though I'm scared.  I'm going to do the right thing and then go home to my parents and live a normal happy life again.”

“I want that for you,” John stated, surprised those words came out of his mouth, to a woman he had no desire to spend the night with.

“There are fourteen meth labs in six western states.  I’ve been to each one at least twice.  I need to tell someone who can do something about it.  But no one can know it came from me, or I'm dead.  I can't just walk over to the police department.  I would be seen and probably killed.  They have eyes everywhere around here.  My boyfriend could come back and off me just because I know too much, even without spilling my guts, or he could subcontract the hit to a local.  But maybe I can get away.  I will tell you what I know.”

“This sounds too big for me.  It might be too big for the local drug task force at the police department.  It may even be federal.  But I know someone who can help you.  He is a drug cop who has been around a long time.  He is easy to talk to.  If you have a number, I will have him call you and arrange to visit you somewhere other than the police department.  He is the one who can get things started either with the local cops or the feds.  His name is Jim Murphy.”

“That seems okay, but can you do it quickly?” she said.  “When I get sentenced next month the D.A. said I could continue the drug program and probation in Iowa, because there is some kind of exchange agreement between the states.”

John stood up.  “Thanks, Susan.  This takes a lot of courage.  You are doing the right thing.  I hope you get back to Iowa.  I hope you get back and see your parents.  You are going to get through this.  I will keep in touch with Jim Murphy and make sure everything is going well.  Be careful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Trader.” she replied.  “I knew you would help.  I told you, I know faces.”

John left and called Murphy.  After John told him what had happened, Murphy said he would get right on it.  John felt redeemed.  He failed to act when he first saw her, but now had come full circle, found her again, and now there was the possibility of a happy ending.  It felt really good to help people.  Maybe Susan was right.  He may be a good guy after all.