Eastside (24 page)

Next Day
Bexar County Courthouse

Travon was taken before a county judge for arraignment. The court clerk called his name.

“Robinson, Travon!” the clerk bellowed.

A sheriff's deputy walked to where Travon was seated in the jury box, uncuffed him from the twelve other prisoners that he was shackled to, and escorted him to the center of the courtroom.

“You are aware of your rights?” the judge asked.

Travon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You are charged with unlawful carrying, a Class A misdemeanor punishable by up to twelve months' incarceration. Mr. Robinson, to this charge, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“You are charged with murder in the first degree, a Class A felony punishable by life imprisonment or lethal injection. Mr. Robinson, to this charge, how do you plead?”

Travon was stunned into silence. The first thing that came to his mind was the pawn shop.

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Travon stammered.

“Mr. Robinson, do you have an attorney?” the judge asked.

“Uh, no, sir. Your Honor, what's this about a murder charge?” Travon asked.

The judge lifted his finger. “Just one moment,” he told Travon. He turned to a group of attorneys standing in the corner to his left. “Which one of you is the least busy?”

None of the attorneys spoke.

“Mr. Kaufman, can you take this case?” the judge asked.

A tanned, trim lawyer with graying sideburns stepped forward. “Ah, yes, Your Honor. I can take it.”

The judge nodded, handed the lawyer the case file, and then squinted. “Here, get with Mr. Robinson and go over things with him. Do it right now, while we're all in the courtroom.”

The lawyer frowned as he stared at the judge and accepted the case file. “Yes, sir.”

The judge turned to Travon. “Mr. Kaufman will go over things with you, young man. I'm sure he'll be able to answer all of your questions. This trial is set to begin thirty days from now.” The judge banged his gavel and turned to the clerk. “Call up the next defendant.”

The deputy escorted Travon back to where the rest of the orange jumpsuit-clad defendants were, and reshackled him to the group. He then moved on to unshackle the next prisoner that had to go before the judge. The attorney walked to where Travon was seated and extended his hand.

“Hi, I'm Gary Kaufman and I'll be representing you for this case.”

Travon extended his hand and gripped the lawyer's firmly. Kaufman handed Travon a business card. It was thick, tan, and custom-made with raised gold letters. It read: The Law Firm of Schuster, Goldberg, Kaufman, Jacobs, Steinberg, and Spiel. Another lawyer approached.

“Congratulations, Gary,” he told Travon's attorney. “I hope that you're appointed.”

Three more attorneys approached.

“Stop kissing butt, Greg,” one of them teased. “He isn't on the bench yet.”

“Can we still call you Gary, or do we have to call you O Great One?” another asked.

“Will we have to bow when we approach from now on?” asked the third.

“O Great One will do, and yes, a slight genuflection would be appropriate,” Kaufman told them.

All four attorneys laughed and bowed.

“Congratulations, Gary, you deserve it,” the first attorney told him.

Another winked his eye at Travon. “The judge must like you.”

The attorneys departed, and Travon turned toward Kaufman.

“What was all of that about?” he asked.

“Oh nothing.” Kaufman shrugged. “I'm on a very short list for a federal judicial appointment. I'm not even a prosecutor; I just got a call from the White House's lead counsel, telling me that I'm the leading candidate out of the remaining three.”

“Shit, that's cool. So, what is all of this murder stuff about?”

Kaufman seated himself in the empty chair next to Travon and began rifling through the case file. After a couple of minutes of silent reading, he turned to Travon.

“Okay, the unlawful carrying is bad,” Kaufman told him. “The DA's office should have rejected that case outright. It's a bad search. You weren't in the vehicle, it was parked, and you were buying a soda. There was no probable cause, no nothing. They're just trying to stack shit on you, that's probably what pissed the judge off and made him give me the case. He doesn't like it when one side doesn't play fair. They're going to come to us and say that they'll drop the unlawful carrying and drop the first-degree murder to a manslaughter, if we plead guilty right away and save them a whole lot of trial preparation. You know how the game is played.”

Kaufman shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Well, I can tell you this, they'll be wasting their time. For one, the judge is gonna throw this unlawful carrying so far out of his courtroom, they'll have to send their secretaries into the parking lot to look for the case file. As for this murder charge, well, they are accusing you of shooting a Tyrone ‘Baby T' Warfield in the face with a shotgun at some nightclub. No murder weapon, no nothing. Just a single eyewitness who saw you firing a shotgun the night of the shooting. It's weak, but you have a gang jacket and since this guy was in a rival gang, they are betting that a jury will buy it; which they will.”

Kaufman patted Travon's knee. “So, we're not gonna let this get to court, are we? The case is weak because she saw you firing a shotgun, but not who you were firing at. In other words, she didn't actually see you shoot the guy. As your attorney I need to know, did you shoot the guy?”

“Hell no!” Travon said. “I was there and I was blastin', but not at him. I was tryin' to get my cousins out of there and save my own ass. But dude got blasted by somebody else.”

“And you wouldn't be willing to tell the State who, because then you'd be a snitch, right?”

Travon nodded. “Right.”

“If it comes down to your ass or his, we are going to give them his,” Kaufman told him. “I don't like losing. In fact, I never have. You're being railroaded so the judge wants me to make sure it's fair.”

“Yeah, me against the State of Texas.” Travon snorted. “How is that fair?”

Kaufman shook his head rapidly. “No, no, no, my dear boy.” He laughed. “You don't understand. We're your attorneys now. The law firm of Schuster, Goldberg, Kaufman, Jacobs, Steinberg, and Spiel. All one thousand two hundred and seventy-three of us. Plus our secretaries, paralegals, researchers, investigators, writers, and money. The State of Texas doesn't stand a chance.”

Kaufman laughed again. “Now, what I need from you is a list of witnesses and a few other things. I'll set up a motion to suppress hearing for two weeks from now, and see if we can squash this thing before it gets in front of a jury. Juries don't like guns and gangs. I'll get back to you in a few days; right now I'm going to go and talk with the judge and get rid of this unlawful carrying. I'm also going to get us a discovery hearing.”

Kaufman rose. “Have my list ready when I come and see you in a couple of days. And see if you can dig up some dirt on Tyrone Warfield. I'll get my investigators to start doing the same. We gotta make this guy out to be a real scumbag. I'll see you later, Mr. Robinson. If you need anything, you have my card. Try not to get into any trouble in the meantime.”

Bexar County Jail

“Travon Robinson!” the guard shouted.

Travon climbed out of his bunk and hurried over to the officer's desk. “What?”

The guard smiled at him cynically. “Pack your shit, you moving to the sixth floor!”

“Fuck!” Travon exclaimed. “Why are they moving me again?”

“You're moving to the gang floor,” the guard said with a smile.

Travon walked back to his bunk, pulled off his sheets, and folded them along with his other meager jailhouse possessions into his blanket. He then folded his blanket into a ball, tossed it over his shoulder, and returned to the officer's desk.

“I'm ready,” he told the smiling guard.

“Walk to the elevator and wait,” the guard told him as he reached beneath his desk and pressed a large red button.

The massive steel door that controlled entry into the jail pod slowly slid open. Travon walked out of the unit and down the hall to the elevator, where he stood and waited for its arrival. Soon, the elevator's doors slid open, and Travon boarded the empty lift.

There were no numbers to press, he noticed upon climbing on board. Only a single, steel-covered speaker mounted into the wall and a large camera encased in steel occupied the elevator with him.

“What floor?” a gruff male voice with a deep Southern drawl asked over the crackling speaker.

“Sixth,” Travon answered.

The doors slid closed and soon the car began to move. When the doors opened once again, Travon was greeted by an overweight Hispanic guard.

“Robinson?” he asked, while checking the name on his clipboard.

“Yeah.” Travon nodded.

“Six D.” The guard pointed. “Go down that hall, right up to the door at the end of it, and ring the buzzer.”

Travon followed the directions given, and waited patiently as the massive steel doors next to the buzzer slid open. They were slower than the doors on the floor from which he had just come, and seemed infinitely more ominous. Hesitantly, he entered the pod, approached the officer's desk, and presented himself.

“Robinson?” the guard asked, without looking up from his crossword puzzle.

“Yeah.”

“Take twenty-eight,” the guard told him. “It's upstairs and it's empty.”

Travon turned and walked past the telephones, where all of the guys were either yelling and cursing, or talking baby talk. He strolled past the card tables where there were a variety of games being played, with guys doing even more yelling and cursing. He went up the stairs with his oversized bundle of bedding, and surveyed the numbers painted on the steel door of each room, until finally he arrived at number twenty-eight.

Inside were two empty bunks made of steel, bolted to a steel wall. There was a sink and a toilet built together out of a single piece of steel, bolted to the corner wall just to the right of the door. A steel desk and a built-in stool occupied the left side of the room, where it was also bolted to the steel wall.

Travon threw his linen on the top bunk, and proceeded to make up the bottom one. When this was done, he ventured out of his room, and down the stairs to examine his new surroundings.

At the card tables inside the day area, the prisoners were playing dominoes, tonk, spades, blackjack, and gin. Other prisoners were standing around talking, some were reading books. Travon spied the book cart to his right, and it was there where he headed.

Most of the books on the cart were old, which mattered little because he had done little reading in the last year or so. This would be the perfect time to catch up. He lifted
The Color Purple
and
Whore Son
from the book cart, and turned to go back to his room to begin his reading, but was surprised by two familiar faces that had been standing just behind him. Alonzo and Lil Texas.

“What's up, Tre?” Lil Texas greeted him with a smile. “I knew that we would run into each other again. That was some fucked-up shit you pulled in the Courts that time.”

“Whatever,” Travon told them. He brushed past them and walked back up the stairs to his room, where he fell onto his bed and opened the first book. A shadow danced across the page of the book, causing him to leap up. Lil Texas was standing in his doorway.

“When you least expect it, expect it,” Lil Texas told him, and then turned and walked away.

Travon took the small bag of personal hygiene items that he had been issued and poured them out onto his bed. He took the shaving razor and bit the plastic until he could remove the blade from the plastic handle. Then he used the razor to carve the end of his toothbrush into a sharp point. Travon took the sharpened toothbrush and began scraping it against the concrete floor of his cell.

After an hour of scraping, Travon took his newly created weapon, placed it beneath his pillow, and returned to his novel. If they tried anything, he would be ready for them, he told himself. If they tried anything, he was going to kill Lil Texas.

Bexar County Courthouse
Two Weeks Later

“Y
our Honor, our suppression issue is intertwined with our discovery motion,” Kaufman told the judge. “Unless we have full disclosure, how can we prepare? The whole case revolves around this witness they say exist. We need to be able to investigate this witness in order to examine her credibility. We don't know if she wears glasses, and if she does, how old the prescription is? We don't know whether she's on some type of medication, and if that could have impaired her vision on the night in question. Was she drinking, and if so, how much? What was her exact location at the scene, and how does that affect her perception of what really happened? Is she in a rival gang, and does she have some type of grudge against my client? There are many things we have to know, and the State has provided us with absolutely nothing.”

The State's Attorney rose. “All of that can be obtained under direct examination, Your Honor. The State has to protect the witness. Mr. Robinson is a member of the notorious BSV gang. Her safety is our primary concern.”

“She is going to testify for the State, Your Honor, so she will have to come forward eventually,” Kaufman told the judge. “If she is in fact in such grave danger, then why have her testify at all? My client is incarcerated, he can do no harm. He has never professed to being a member of any gang, nor does he have a history of violence. In fact, he has never been convicted of anything!”

Kaufman pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Your Honor, we don't want to know what she's going to say, we only want to know about her judgment on that night. There was a lot of panicking going on all around her. People were trampled, there was shooting going on all around; was she panicking? Was she running around? Your Honor, it is imperative that we be able to depose this witness. If she proves to be not credible, then her testimony should not be allowed, and furthermore, the statement she gave to the police should be suppressed.”

“Your Honor, her credibility is for a jury to decide,” the State's Attorney said. “It's obvious that Mr. Kaufman does not want our witness to get in front of the jury to tell her story. He wants to depose her, so he can tear her down and destroy her credibility. He's reaching, Your Honor. He's trying all of his fancy lawyer tricks so that his client can go free and kill again.”

Kaufman bolted from his seat. “I object to that last remark, Your Honor! In fact, I object to Mr. Coonts' last statement!”

The judge waved his hand in a settling motion. “What are you objecting for?” He waved his hand around his nearly empty courtroom. “There is no one here. The Motion to Suppress is fair game, counselor, you know that. You can say what you want, just like the State can say whatever it wants. But I warn both of you, in my courtroom, when that jury is seated in that little box over there, you'd both better watch what you say!”

“Your Honor, the State wants to put their witness up on the stand and let her cry her heart out to the jury,” Kaufman argued. “We won't be able to question her about gang affiliation, because then they will be able to bring that gang stuff into play. They are going to say, ‘Well, since you brought it up,' and they are going to use that to prejudice the jury against my client. They say that I'm the one using fancy lawyer tricks? My client won't stand a chance in hell then. Gang affiliation is another crime in and of itself and it has no reason being brought into this trial.”

The prosecutor leapt to his feet. “Wait a minute, you want to question the witness about her gang affiliation and now you say that it has no reason to be brought up? Which is it, counselor? We plan to bring forth witnesses to testify to that fact that Mr. Robinson is a gang member, and that this was a gang-motivated shooting! Bexar County Sheriff's Department records indicate that Mr. Robinson and Mr. Warfield were both gang members.
Rival
gang members.”

The prosecutor seated himself with a smile on his face that would make the Grand Canyon seem like a crack in the pavement of a quiet residential street.

Kaufman rose. He harbored a rather large smile of his own.

“Mr. Coonts, I'm glad that you agree with me,” Gary Kaufman told the State. “This was a gangland murder, and all of the participants are possibly gang members. It is imperative that we be able to question your witness as to her knowledge, motive, and gang affiliation. That's what this entire trial is basically going to boil down to, isn't it? That's what you're basing your entire case on; using gang affiliation as the motive. So what gang is your witness affiliated with, and what is her motive?”

Kaufman turned and winked at Travon. “These are the things we would like to find out, Your Honor. And to play this out in front of a jury would only confuse matters. This issue is a loose cannon, and it really needs to be resolved beforehand.”

The prosecutor turned beet red. “Your Honor, our position is simple. The defendant and his fellow gang members are a threat to society, and to our witness in particular. We feel that her life would be in danger if we bring her forward.”

The judge cleared his throat and leaned forward. “There are many confusing issues in the trial, and one thing in particular is most bothersome and confusing to me,” he told them in his high-pitched, nasal tone. He turned toward the prosecutor. “So, let me see if I understand this correctly. The State is saying that the witness is in danger if she testifies at this hearing, but that she is not in danger if she testifies at the trial? She will be okay after the trial? These gang members are dangerous now, but they will not be dangerous during or after the trial? Or, is the State saying that after she testifies, it no longer cares if she is in danger?”

The judge frowned, Kaufman smiled, and the two DAs turned even redder.

“That's not what we're saying, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, as he rose from his seat. “The State is concerned about the safety of all its citizens. That is why we are here today, trying to get Mr. Robinson off the streets.”

The second DA rose. “Your Honor, we do feel that her life is in greater danger now, if she comes here and testifies. Studies have shown that the danger subsides substantially after the person has been convicted.”

“There are remedies, Your Honor,” Kaufman told the judge. “We can close the courtroom while she testifies, for one.”

The judge turned to the DA. “How do you feel about that? I think that it is logical, if you are worried about her safety. And we won't use her real name. The defense gets to depose the witness, we protect her identity, and everything is fine.”

A clerk approached the judge and whispered into his ear. The judge nodded and leaned forward again.

“Gentlemen, another matter has come up, that demands my attention. We'll have to reschedule this hearing, how does Monday look? No, make that Wednesday of next week. If your calendar is full for that date, call my office and let the clerk know. I want this out of the way on Wednesday though, so you'd better be ready. Keep in mind that this is a murder trial, and because it is, I'll be granting wide latitude to both sides, to let each of you prove your cases.”

The judge eyed the attorneys sternly. “But before anything is said out of line in front of the jury, I want you to think carefully. I want to see every piece of evidence and know every witness' testimony, beforehand. No wild and loose stunts from either of you.”

The judge cleared his throat. “Now back to the issue at hand. Both sides have your witnesses here and ready to take the stand on Wednesday. If you have to cut holes in a paper bag and place it over your witness' heads, then I suggest you do so. But be ready on Wednesday! This goes for both sides. This hearing is adjourned!” The judge banged his gavel, rose, and exited the room through a door to the rear of his courtroom.

Kaufman, standing in the center of the courtroom in his three-thousand-dollar Brioni suit, wheeled and walked to where Travon was seated. “We got this in the bag. We'll tear her apart and discredit her when she gets on the stand. We'll either get it suppressed, or have the State so scared to put her on the stand that they'll dismiss it.”

“The judge seemed like he was on our side,” Travon told him.

“Well, he doesn't like the shit they're trying to pull. They really don't have a case, plus, he doesn't like the DA who's trying the case. Coonts is a pompous ass.”

Kaufman gathered his materials. “Last but not least, the judge and I went to law school together, we worked in the same law firm together, we play golf together, and we live two blocks away from each other. Besides that, once I get on the bench, I'll overturn every God damned case he sends to me.” Kaufman threw his head back in laughter.

“If I was paying you, how much would it cost me?” Travon asked.

Kaufman squinted. “This is such an easy case…probably about three hundred grand.”

“Shit!” Travon exclaimed. “What in the hell were you doing here that day? I mean, what made you take this case?”

“I was here visiting Judge Weitzer,” Kaufman told him. “I'm not even on the list to do pro bono work. So, when the judge asked me to take it, I knew that there was probably something fishy about this case. Judge Weitzer doesn't like it when somebody is getting run over. And he doesn't like prosecutors who try to convict everybody, whether they are guilty or not. A lot of these DAs are just racking up convictions so that when they run for office, they can say how tough they were on crime. The judge doesn't like that.”

Kaufman patted Travon on his back. “You're very lucky, because he's a good judge and a fair man. So, now that I have answered your question, why don't you answer mine? You seem like a smart kid; why are you out there getting into trouble? I'm going to get you outta this one, but the next time you might not be so lucky. Next time, you could end up with one of these hanging judges, and some court-appointed lawyer who doesn't give a shit. Make sure that there isn't a next time, kid. Anyway, I'll see you on Wednesday. Stay outta trouble.” Kaufman rose, slapped Travon across his back, and left.

The Weekend

A heavyset Hispanic guard hung up the telephone and shouted: “Robinson, visitation!”

Travon was already dressed and groomed. Tamika told him that she would be coming today, so he had risen early to prepare. He walked to the massive metal door as it slid open, and strolled down the hall to the elevator. When finally it arrived, he climbed on board. There were three others already inside.

“Visitation?” asked a gruff voice over the loudspeaker.

Travon nodded. “Yeah.”

The elevator was already moving.

“That's where we're going,” one of the other men told him.

The elevator came to a stop and the door opened. A guard was standing at the elevator door with a clipboard in his hand.

“Robinson, number five; Johnson, number eight; Washington, number fifteen; Garcia, number three,” the guard barked, reading from the clipboard.

The prisoners walked to a room with numerous glass booths inside. On the other side sat identical booths for each of the visitors. The thick, industrial-strength glass, had thick strands of steel wire running through it. Inside each booth sat a telephone handset for communication with the visitor. Travon lifted his handset and waited.

Tamika strolled into the visiting room, examining each booth as she passed it. Finally, she arrived at Travon's booth. She lifted her telephone handset, wiped it off on her blouse, and placed it to her ear. She could see Travon's lips moving, but could not hear him. She lifted her hand and told him to wait.

Tamika left her booth and walked into an adjacent stall, where she unplugged the telephone and carried it back with her. She plugged it into the wall and smiled as it came alive.

“What's up, baby?” Travon asked.

“Nothing. How are you?”

“I'm okay,” Travon replied. “Why do you sound so sad?”

“I don't know.” Tamika shrugged. “I guess I just miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby.”

“What is the lawyer saying about you coming home?” Tamika asked. “What was all of that stuff about in court yesterday?”

“My lawyer wants the witness to testify at the suppression hearing, but the prosecutor doesn't want her to. The judge says that he wants her to testify, so we gotta go back this Wednesday. I can't wait to see who this bitch is.”

“What did I tell you about calling women bitches all of the time?” Tamika admonished him. “You picked up that habit hanging around with those boys over there in the Denver Heights.”

“But, baby, this time I'm right. She is a bitch. A nosy, lying one at that. I didn't shoot that dude!”

Tamika nodded. “I know. But you know what? I told you not to go. I had a feeling that it wasn't going to be nothing but trouble. Especially when they said that it was going to be at a nightclub.”

“I know, I should have listened to you,” Travon told her. “But I will next time. My lawyer says that we are gonna beat this case.”

“Tre, they always say that. What am I going to do with two babies and a man in prison for life?”