Rag and Bone (22 page)

“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” I replied. “While every case has its twists and turns, over time you get a pretty good sense of what particular cases are worth, including homicides.”

“I suppose everything has its measure,” she reflected. “Even the value of a life.” In a low voice, she asked, “Will Vicky go to prison?”

“Very likely,” I said.

She turned away, but a moment later asked, “What do you think bail will be?”

“I don’t know, maybe a hundred thousand. We’ll have to talk to a bail bondsman about—”

“I have it,” she said.

I looked at her. “Elena, where do you come by that kind of money?”

She smiled haughtily. “Oh, really, Henry, do you imagine I spend my evenings drinking sherry and watching PBS? I manage the family investments. We’ve done quite well in technologies. I assume you’ve got a retirement plan?”

I laughed. “My plan is not to retire.”

She looked alarmed and had started to reply when the bailiff rose and shouted over the throng, “Come to order. Department one is now in session, the Honorable Judge Edgar Kline presiding.”

A tall, pale, rather fat young man who wore his judicial robe with the air of a high school valedictorian stepped up to the bench, lowered himself into the highback leather chair and faced the courtroom with an expression that seemed to alternate between contempt and terror.
A brand-new judge,
I thought, tossed into arraignment court by his presiding judge to sink or swim.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Kline said in a surprisingly authoritative baritone. “We have one hundred and ten cases on the calendar and the sooner you settle down, the faster we’ll get through them. Now, I want you all to make sure that you’re where you’re supposed to be. This is a criminal arraignment court. We don’t do traffic tickets or settle small claims. Those of you who are lucky enough to be criminal defendants, a word. I am not interested in your life stories. All I want is to hear a plea. If you have a lawyer, I don’t even want you to talk to me. If you don’t have a lawyer, some conversation is inevitable, but let’s keep it to a minimum.” He smirked. “All right, let’s begin with the guests of the county.”

Ten prisoners were brought out of the holding cells; Vicky was second to the last. I heard Elena’s shocked intake of breath, but it was Angel I watched. He carefully closed his magazine and lay it in his lap. As he watched her being led out in handcuffs and an ill-fitting jumpsuit, his eyes filled with horror and grief and helplessness. How much worse must it have been, I thought, when he had walked into that room at the Hollywood Inn. I understood viscerally, as I had not before, that whatever happened, he would carry the images of these days to his grave, and whatever explanation was finally adduced, it would never be enough to wipe them away.

The plump young judge showed considerably more patience than his snide little speech suggested, and a half-hour passed before he called Vicky’s case.

“Victoria Trujillo,” the judge intoned. “Is Ms. Trujillo represented?”

I went into the well of the court to stand beside her. “Yes, Your Honor, Henry Rios for the defendant.”

Across the room, a tall blond young man in a very nicely cut suit stood up and said, “Kim Pearsall for the People.”

Kline looked at him. “I beg your pardon, counsel?”

“Uh, this is my case. I mean, I’m the deputy assigned to try it.”

“Counsel, this is an arraignment court, not a trial court. You do understand the difference.”

“Yes, Your Honor, I worked misdemeanor arraignment court in Santa Monica.”

Misdemeanor arraignments in Santa Monica? This was the greenhorn Tony Earl had promised me. He had the open, cheerful, rather self-satisfied countenance of someone upon whom life had made very few demands. Santa Monica was easy duty; he had probably gone surfing before work.

Kline was no more impressed than I was. “How very nice for you, counsel. Ms. Trujillo is charged with second-degree murder. Is there a plea?”

“Say not guilty,” I whispered to her.

“Not guilty,” she said.

“You’ll have speak up for the court reporter,” the judge said.

“Not guilty,” she said in a firmer voice.

“Bail recommendation, People,” Kline said, and when the young D.A. did not immediately respond, continued, “That’s your cue, Mr. Pearsall.”

He cleared his voice nervously. “Um, the defendant has a record and no visible means of support and no ties to the community. The People want her remanded.”

“Well, not all thirty-five million of them Your Honor,” I said.

“At the moment, I’m the only one of them who matters, Mr. Rios, so convince me.”

“I’m not only the defendant’s lawyer, I’m also her uncle. Her mother, my sister, is in court, too, as is the defendant’s ten-year-old son. So, obviously, she does have family who would be responsible for her. I’d ask you to set reasonable bail.”

“Your Honor,” the young D.A. interjected quickly. “The defendant comes from up north, the San Francisco area, and she couldn’t give the police a local address when she was arrested at a transient motel.”

“I think you mean a motel for transients,” Kline said irritably. “Unless the motel moves around from place to place.” Pearsall, however, had scored a point and the judge’s irritability reflected uncertainty. If he was a new judge, he would be very careful about setting an accused murderer loose and risk having her flee the jurisdiction. He looked at me. “How long has your client been in L.A., counsel?”

“Your Honor, about a month. In addition to me, her mother-in-law lives in Garden Grove—”

“Which is out of the jurisdiction,” he said curtly. “And where does her mother live?”

“In Oakland.”

He flipped a page. “Also out of the jurisdiction.”

“Your Honor, she would live with me. I live in the jurisdiction.”

He looked at me. “Has she ever lived with you before, Mr. Rios?”

“Yes, when she first arrived.”

“And for the rest of the time in the crack motel where she shot and killed her husband,” the prosecutor volunteered.

“Please,” I said. “Save that for the jury.”

“No,” Kline said. “He has a point, Mr. Rios. Your client has no fixed place of residence, no job. You are her only tie to L.A. and it doesn’t seem to be a very strong one. Her record indicates she moves back and forth between here and the Bay Area. I smell a flight risk. No bail.”

“Your Honor, I’m an officer of the court,” I said. “And as such I am representing that I will see that she stays in the jurisdiction.”

Kline said, “It’s not you I’m worried about, Mr. Rios. You can renew your bail request at the prelim. For now, she stays in jail. Let’s set this for a prelim.”

“Since you’ve denied bail, I want the prelim as soon as possible.”

“Fine by me,” Kline said. “How about a week?”

“A week is good,” I said. “I would also like the court to order the prosecutor to comply with discovery on that date. I particularly want him to give me a tape of my client’s alleged confession.”

“So ordered,” he said.

“Your Honor,” Pearsall said. “That doesn’t give me much time.”

“You’re not the one with the constitutional right to a speedy trial, are you, Mr. Pearsall? Discovery compliance is ordered for one week from today. That applies to you, too, Mr. Rios.”

“Understood,” I said.

“Next case, please,” Kline said, turning to his clerk.

I waited for Vicky in the interview room, which, like the holding cells, was located behind the court. The interview room was a narrow rectangle bisected by a counter. At each side of the counter were three metal stools with a glass partition between them. On the counter were phones. When Vicky came in, we sat down on opposite sides of the counter and picked up our respective phones.

“You said the judge would let me go home,” she complained.

“The problem is that the judge isn’t sure where your home is,” I said. “He’s afraid if he released you on bail, you’d leave L.A.”

“I would leave,” she said. “I’d take Angel and get the hell out of here.”

“Please don’t say things like that. It makes my job harder.”

“When can I see Angel?”

“He and your mother can visit you when they return you to the jail. Right now there’s something I have to ask you about. Angel showed me the gun that he said he removed from the room the night you shot Pete. Do you remember him doing that?”

I could tell she was about to lie, but then she nodded slightly. “I didn’t tell him, he took it. He was trying to help me.”

“I know that. The problem I’m having is, it wasn’t the gun that killed Pete. What can you tell me about this?”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Pete was killed with a three-eighty. The gun Angel showed me is a twenty-two. There was a twenty-two-caliber bullet in the wall. It looks like you both had guns and were shooting at each other.”

She shook her head. “He didn’t shoot at me.”

“There were two guns, Vicky. The one that killed Pete is still missing. The one I have locked in my safe was fired that night, apparently at you. What else am I supposed to think?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she equivocated. “Everything happened so fast. I have to think.”

“You might think about telling me the truth, niece.”

The deputy came into her side of the room. “The bus is leaving.”

“Tell Angel I love him,” she said as he led her away. No word for her mother.

Elena and Angel were not in the courtroom when I emerged from lockup. I was on my way out to find them when the D.A., Pearsall, loped over and stopped me at the door.

“Hey, Mr. Rios,” he said pleasantly. “Kim Pearsall. About that discovery? I was wondering if informally you would give me a little more time to get it together—”

I turned on him. “You send my niece back to jail in full view of her ten-year-old son and now you’re asking me for a favor? Let me give you the short answer. Fuck you.”

He looked as if I’d struck him. “Hey, dude, I’m just doing my job.”

“Hey, dude? What do you think this is, a sitcom? If you don’t produce discovery on the day of the prelim, I’ll ask for sanctions. Understand? Dude?”

I left him standing there composing a retort. Out in the hallway, I saw my sister and Angel talking to a short stocky man with jet-black hair. He was wearing an old but carefully pressed dark suit, a once white shirt yellowed with many washings, and an unfashionably skinny tie. On his lapel was pinned a silver crucifix. He had stolid, Indian features and he could have been any age between forty and sixty. When I approached, he looked at me with eyes so black they appeared to be without irises.

“Henry,” Elena said, straining to be polite. “This is Reverend Ortega. He said Vicky went to his church.”

“You mean La Iglesia de—what was it called?” I said.

“La Iglesia de Cristo Triunfante,” he said. “I came to try to help our sister but the bus was late.” He spoke with a heavy accent. “I’m sorry.”

“Help her how?” I asked.

“Maybe for bail—if the judge hears a minister, he says let her go and these people will take care of her.”

“I was explaining that she has family,” Elena said.

“We’re all family, sister,” he said, smiling.

“How did you know about the arraignment?” I asked him.

“Vicky called me from the jail. She asked me to come.”

I could see by the expression on Elena’s face that she wanted me to get rid of him so we could talk.

“Well, thank you for coming, but the judge denied bail.”

“Maybe I can talk to him?”

“Vicky’s already on her way back to jail,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really need to talk to my sister and nephew now.”

Reverend Ortega smiled at Angel. “You gonna come and see us on Sunday, Angelito?”

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“His mother wants him to worship in our church.” He studied me like a doctor making an off-the-cuff diagnosis. “All are welcome, brother.”

“You know, this isn’t the time or place to discuss this,” I said. I handed him my card. “Call me this afternoon and we can talk then.”

He took my card. His lips moved slightly as he read it. “It makes me proud to see a Latino be a lawyer. It’s a good thing to know man’s law, but don’t forget there’s God’s law, too.” His glance fell back on Angel. “This boy’s mother, she sacrifice everything. All she wants is her boy raised Christian.”

“Reverend, please, we really have to go.”

He laid a hand on my shoulder. It was a strong hand, a laborer’s hand. “God bless you, brother. I know you’re doing your best. Good-bye, sister. Angelito, you come and see me, okay?”

Angel responded with a surprisingly warm, “Okay, Reverend.”

After he left, the three of us sat on a bench worn to the wood by all the fidgeting bottoms that had occupied it before us.

“What happened with bail?” Elena said.

“You heard the judge. He was afraid she’d take off if he released her. Look, I’ll ask for bail next week at the prelim. That preacher might actually be helpful.” I looked at Angel. “How do you know him?”

“He came to see us,” he said. “He’s nice.”

“Came to see you where?”

“The motel,” he said. “He came and prayed with my mom and then he took me for ice cream. Is my mom coming home?”

“Not today. She sends her love,” I added, not making it specific to Angel, but I saw from her face that Elena was not fooled.

“Can we see her?” Elena asked.

I nodded. “Let me just check my phone messages and we’ll go down to the jail.”

“I’d like some coffee,” Elena said. “There was a cafeteria downstairs. Come on, Angel, let’s leave your uncle to make his call.”

“Bring me a cup, too,” I called after them. “Black.”

I dialed my machine on my cell phone and listened twice to the message, then called the return number. I was still speaking to the woman who had left the message when Angel and Elena returned. I took the cup my sister offered me without looking at her, ended my phone conversation and slipped the phone into my pocket.

“I can’t go to the jail with you,” I said. “I’ll drop you off and you can take a cab to my house. Angel has house keys.”

“What happened?” Elena asked.