Presumed Guilty (25 page)

Monday morning, after another night of little sleep, Dallas appeared in court with Jeff Waite. This time there was no press crowd, because this morning it was Jared Hamilton’s appearance.

The judge was a woman, Maxine Novak. Grandmotherly, Dallas thought, if your grandmother packed heat.
“Mr. Hamilton, you missed your court appearance,” she said. “We don’t like that. We issue warrants when people do that, and we put them in jail. You don’t want to go to jail again, do you, Mr. Hamilton?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If it happens again, I’m going to have you put in jail and have you stay there, is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Waite, does your client fully understand he can’t do this?”
Jeff said, “He is fully informed, Your Honor. But another appearance won’t be necessary.”
Judge Novak put on her glasses, which hung by a beaded string from around her neck. “You have filed a demurrer.”
“Yes.”
The judge looked over toward the young DDA, a woman who looked to Dallas like she had just graduated from high school.
“Ms. Heilburn,” Judge Novak said, “do you have a response?”
Young Heilburn cleared her throat. “We deny it.”
“Deny what?”
“The demurrer?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling you?”
Judge Novak took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “Ms. Heilburn, I understand that you’re new around here, but I can’t make the arguments for you. The defense says that the facts as stated in

your accusatory pleading do not constitute a crime. Specifically, the police report taken at face value leaves out the element of driving. As this charge is driving under the influence, you have a little problem there, don’t you?”

“The engine was running, Your Honor,” the DDA said. “The defendant was the only occupant of the vehicle.”
“Not good enough,” Jeff Waite said. “Under
Mercer
and several other cases.”
Ms. Heilburn almost raised her hand. “I would like the arresting officer to testify.”
“And do what?” said the judge. “Contradict his own report? Ms. Heilburn, you know that your complaint must be able to stand on its own four corners. You’ve left out a corner.”
“Then I would like to move to amend the complaint.”
“You would like to?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then make your motion.”
Ms. Heilburn looked around as if seeking a cue card. “The People move . . . to amend the complaint.”
“Motion denied,” Judge Novak said. “Anything else?”
“Your Honor,” she mumbled, “may I have a recess to confer with the head deputy?”
“No. Anything else?”
The young DDA was now rendered speechless.
The judge said, “There being none, I am going to sustain the demurrer and dismiss the complaint. Further, I find that the defect cannot be remedied, and so sustain without leave to amend.”
“Public intoxication!” Ms. Heilburn interjected.
“Too late.” The judge looked at Jared. “This action is dismissed, but I don’t want to see you in here again, young man. And I certainly don’t want to get even a whiff that you and booze are doing anything together in a motor vehicle, is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jared said.
“Then you are hereby released,” Judge Novak said.
Out in the hallway, Jeff explained to Dallas the sudden turn of events. “We were just lucky to get this judge at this time. She loves to put baby DAs through the grinder.”
“Why?” Dallas asked.
“She used to be a prosecutor herself, in charge of training. She thinks the office has gone downhill in that regard since she left. Anyway, if a deputy isn’t doing the job, she trains them from the bench. She’s really pro-prosecution. She just sees herself as making them tougher. The next time Ms. Heilburn comes to court, you know she’s going to be ready.”
“Thanks again, Jeff.”
The lawyer put his hand on Jared’s shoulder. “No more beer in the car, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jared said. “Or any other time.”
Dallas wasn’t sure whether she was more surprised by the announcement or Jared’s apparent sincerity.
“Tomorrow morning,” Jeff said, “Ron changes his plea. Try to get some rest tonight.”

“Now?” she asked. They were just about to pull onto the freeway.
“Now,” Jared said. “Please.”
She passed the on-ramp and drove down Grand to Cesar Chavez, where she pulled to the curb. “What is it?”
“Mom, I have to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“Something that happened to me in jail. You’re not going to believe it.”
“At this point, I think I can believe just about anything.” She hoped it was good news this time.
“I was put in a cell with five other guys.”
“Five? In one cell?”
“Yeah, unbelievable huh? Five white guys, and four of them were supremacist types.”
“Oh, Jared.”
“One of ’em wanted to scare me into making a pledge to him, and when I wouldn’t he tried to slit my throat.”
Dallas knew about the conditions at the L.A. jail, the overcrowding, the gangs. But throat slitting? Her own son?
Thank you, God, that he’s alive!
“I don’t know if he was just posing,” Jared said, “but it sure seemed real to me. He was going to do it, and I dared him to.”
“You did
what
?”
“That’s part of it, Mom! I was ready to die, I wanted to die — ”
“Jared — ”
“No, listen. That’s what I was thinking, you have to know that. But there was this other guy in there, an older guy, and he warned me. He said he knew Dad, or knew all about him, and that these guys wanted me in hell. It was crazy sounding.”
Dallas couldn’t help thinking of Roger Vernon. Talk of hell was not so crazy.
“So this one skinhead holds a shank to my throat. He had this look in his eyes that was so freaky, Mom. I think I know why.”
She waited.
“I think there was a demon thing going on.”
“Jared, I’m certain of it.”
“He’s holding the shank to my throat and then this old guy orders him to turn around. And he does, and this guy starts saying, ‘In the name of Jesus and by his blood’ and the other guy says his name is Bel — ”
“Bel?”
“Yeah. And now I am freaking out. He tells the guy to confess that Jesus is his conqueror, and the guy does! He admits it. And then he screams, Mom. He screams so loud! And the other guys, the guys who were part of his set, they’re all standing against the back wall like they want no part of this. And me, I’m ready to run right through the bars and get the — get out of there.”
Dallas could not speak. The torrent of his words covered her.
“And then a guard comes, and I tell him what’s going on, and now he is looking freaked out and orders that nobody move, and calls for help, but the old guy and Pal, that’s the guy with the shank, which he’s dropped at this point, they keep looking at each other. And then the guy commands that this demon, Bel I guess, go to Jesus to be dealt with. And the guy screams
No!
and then falls right to the floor. Boom. He’s out.”
Jared took a deep breath. “Mom, it was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I believe that, Jared.” She put her hand on his arm. “Do you have any doubt God protected you?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Last night, Cara and I were praying for you. We both knew you were in trouble. We had no idea this was going on. We just knew you needed help, and look what happened. It’s time, Jared.”
“Time for what?”
“To reclaim your position in Christ.”
Looking at her, eyes searching, he said, “I feel like it’s too late.”
“That’s a lie and you know it. You know your Bible. You were raised in it. ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us.’ ”
“ ‘And purify us from all unrighteous ness,’ ” Jared said.
She took his hand. “You do remember. That’s God’s Word, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t guess. Believe it. Like you used to.”
“I can’t just turn it back on, Mom. Maybe in time — ”
“Your time is now.” She squeezed his hand. “Don’t wait. Faith is a decision. Trust comes in when you’re not sure. You’ve got something inside you that’s never gone away. Now turn it back over to God, Jared.”
She was shaking. Her prayers for him had been so fervent for so long she wasn’t about to let him go. She’d wrestle him all day if she had to.
“What do you want me to say, Mom?”
“You know what to say. Just go to God, right now.” “Mom — ”
“Try.”
He sighed deeply. Then closed his eyes, still holding Dallas’s hand. “Just do it, God,” he said. “Just do it, okay? Whatever you know to do. I’m sorry. For everything. I really am. I been away from you so long and I want you back, I want . . .”
Dallas looked at him. Tears were streaming down his face. And then he cried out, loud and mournful. She took him in her arms, held him close as he sobbed, the wetness becoming a baptism of forgiveness.
He kept his head buried on her shoulder until his crying softened and his breathing steadied. Dallas kissed his head and pressed her own wet cheeks on his hair.
They stayed like that for several minutes, Dallas stroking his back the way she used to comfort him when he was little.
Finally she said, “Through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Jared whispered, “Amen.”

Tomorrow, my life changes forever.
It has already changed.
Tomorrow, I take what is to come, whatever it may be. I trust in the Lord.
I trust in the Lord for me.
For Dallas.
For Cara.
And for Jared.
Cover them all, Lord.

Jared gunned his truck up Interstate 5, pushing the outer edge of the speed limit, staying within the spirit if not the letter of the law.

Spirit. That’s what had changed. Maybe it wasn’t too late for things to come out right.
In three hours he was knocking on Guillermo’s door.
“What happened to you, dude?” Guillermo said.
“Where’s Tiana?”
“She’s gone, man.”
“Where?”
Guillermo shrugged. “She didn’t say nothin’. Took the kid and left.”
“What did she leave in?”
“She walked. I don’t know what she did after that.”
“Why didn’t you try to stop her?”
“I’m not no nanny, man. She said she was leavin’. What’m I supposed to do?”
“Did she say anything about where she might go?”
“Nothin’.”
“Where’s your mother, maybe she knows.” Jared started to go inside.
Guillermo stopped him. “She doesn’t know. She’s asleep. What are you comin’ around for, man? You’re trouble.
Loco.
Leave us alone. Go bother somebody else.”
“I got to say something, Guillermo.”
Guillermo eyed him skeptically, but at least he didn’t slam the door.
“I’m sorry, man,” Jared said. “You’re right, I was
loco.
You remember that time in the church, when I put paint on Jesus’s face?”
“Oh, man, how could I forget that? I thought lightning was gonna come, man, fry all of us.”
“I made peace with him,” Jared said.
“Jesus?”
“Yeah.”
With a narrowed gaze, Guillermo cocked his head slightly.
“I know,” Jared said. “Coming from me it still sounds
loco.
But I did it, and I’m sorry for how I treated you.”
“Hey, man, you were just a little whack, you know? I never thought you were a bad dude.”
“I am a bad dude, but I got something working on the inside to change that. That’s what I hope. I’m betting my life on it.” He put out his hand. “Thanks for taking us in.”
Guillermo shook it, smiled. “My mama, she woulda killed me if I didn’t.”
“Mama knows best.”
Jared got in his truck and left.
He knew about a couple of homeless shelters in downtown Bakersfield. He checked them, but no one answering to the description of Tiana and Jamaal had been in either one.
He went to the bus station, but the cashier — who probably wasn’t on duty at the time they would have purchased tickets anyway — wouldn’t give out any information. Nobody gave out information anymore. It was too likely to result in a lawsuit.
Where would they have gone?
Maybe back to L.A.
He hadn’t prayed in a long time, before that prayer of repentance in the car with his mother.
He sat in his truck outside the bus station, closed his eyes, and whispered,
God, help me find them.

Tuesday morning in court, with a buzzing press gathered in anticipation, Dallas watched as her husband’s future was decided — where he would be housed and for how many years. Prison was a reality.

For her as well. Someone was about to get away with murder, and if that someone was never found, Ron would remain incarcerated for a crime he did not commit.

Ron was brought in, dressed in his orange jail coveralls, hands shackled. He looked at Dallas as the deputy unlocked his restraints. His face was peaceful, his body seemingly at rest.

Judge Harvey Carson entered the courtroom, and everyone stood. He looked fair but firm. He would have presided over the trial, had there been one, and Dallas thought he would have been a good choice.

“The court has considered a motion by the defendant to change his plea,” Judge Carson said. “Is that still the defendant’s wish, Mr. Waite? ”

“Then I will advise your client. Mr. Hamilton, has your counsel talked to you about this change of plea?”
Ron’s voice shook a little when he spoke. “Yes, he has, Your Honor.”
Dallas bit down on her lip.
“You wish to withdraw your plea of not guilty?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And plead nolo contendere?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Did your counsel explain to you that a plea of nolo contendere has the exact force and effect as a plea of guilty?”
“Yes, sir.”

“And that you will be waiving your constitutional right to a jury trial?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you will also waive any evidentiary challenge to the truth of the underlying offense?”
“Yes.”
“Do you also understand that a nolo plea to a felony offense
is
admissible in a civil action against you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you wish to waive your constitutional rights as I’ve described?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well. The court finds that the defendant understands the consequences of his change of plea. Withdrawal of the not-guilty plea is granted. Mr. Hamilton, to the sole count of murder in the second degree, how do you plead?”
“No contest,” Ron said.
“All right. I find that the defendant has entered a plea of nolo contendere, knowingly and advisedly. Do the People wish to be heard?”
Mike Freton, the DA, said, “No, Your Honor.”
“Is there any reason why sentence should not be imposed at this time?”
Jeff said, “No, Your Honor.”
Mr. Freton said the same.
“Very well,” Judge Carson said. “Mr. Hamilton, your plea is accepted by the court. You are hereby sentenced to state prison for the term of fifteen years to life. The facility will be decided by the sentencing authority. We are adjourned.”
Judge Harvey Carson pounded his gavel on the bench. It exploded like a gunshot in the quiet courtroom.
Ron looked at Dallas one last time before he was ushered out. He mouthed the words
I love you.
Before she could react the press was on her, several reporters seeking comment, shouting questions. This time she was ready. Having appeared nationwide on Hank Dunaway’s show, she was a public figure. God would use this moment.
“I will be happy to make a statement,” she said. “I will make it outside on the street.”
The press moved like a well-rehearsed army. In ten minutes she was standing in front of a knot of microphones and with the lights of several cameras directed her way.
“The decision made today by my husband is not an admission of guilt, though that is no doubt what many people will think. I can only tell you that I continue to believe my husband is innocent of murder, and that what’s happening here is something far more insidious, and that the guilty party still walks the streets.
“I leave it to you to do your jobs. This story is not finished yet. But my husband and I have reached this decision together, because we believe that God is in control. I know that sounds like a cliché to many of you. Be that as it may, that is how we choose to live our lives. From this, our faith, there is no turning back. Thank you.”
A flurry of shouted questions burst toward her. She shook her head and turned her back to the microphones, nearly bumping into a serious young woman.
“Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Tracy Harrington. I clerk for Mr. Freton. He sent me to ask if you’d like some help in getting your husband’s things.”
“Things?”
“I mean the evidence that was seized. Sheesh. I’m glad he didn’t hear me say
things.
Usually this stuff — darn it,
evidence
— all goes back to the police station, but he has the box upstairs and wanted to save you the hassle of waiting.”
“Where do I go?”
“Eighteenth floor. I’ll take you.”
Good. Someone else to usher her through the maze. She hoped she’d never have to be here again.
Just before entering the building, Dallas looked back at the dissolving swarm of reporters. It was like a fog clearing.
Then, through the fog, coming into clear focus across Temple Street, she saw an unmistakable face.
Chad McKenzie was looking directly at her.
He smiled. And clapped his hands.