Authors: Derek Blass
Upon graduation, Mason faced a difficult prospect—lawyers hardly ever go to court anymore. The days of trying a case were washed away by enormous judgments. Astronomical billing rates for attorneys didn't help either. He knew he'd rather be a janitor than languish in some back room of a stuffy law firm. Facing that reality, he had one of two options. Become a district attorney or a public defender.
There should be no confusion. Those in either camp agree on one thing, and one thing only—one can't be the other. There's nothing so reviling to a public defender as to suggest he or she could be a district attorney. Visa versa. It's a distinction based upon principle, way of life, manner of dressing, patterns of thought, and just about any other human characteristic or tendency imaginable. Yet, Mason found himself wavering between the two until he had a conversation with his professor.
“
Where do you stand on capital punishment?”
“
Appropriate in some circumstances,” Mason answered.
“
That's that then.”
So it was settled. For no self-respecting public defender would ever think, let alone admit, that he or she was amenable to the death penalty.
Mason applied for a job as a first-year district attorney. He met with the county's district attorney in a relatively dingy office. Mason sat attentively across the desk as the district attorney pelted him with probing questions. Questions that went beyond the “what-are-your-qualifications” interview questions. More into the realm of what constitutes you and does that parallel our mission. After two hours of scrutiny, the district attorney bid Mason goodbye.
Mason muddled for the next sixteen days. He saw the district attorney once at a function in that timespan. The district attorney shook his hand as if the two hadn't met before and walked away to get a drink. Some other interviews popped up. One with a law firm that practiced family law. The thought of dealing with infantile adults was unappealing.
Another interview was with a prestigious, national law firm. He remembered looking around at the interviewers, four of them in total, in dark suits with recently pressed, highly starched shirts and power ties. The attorneys told him he would get a much better salary at their firm than as a district attorney, and would even get some court time. They asked him questions about his past, what he expected from himself in the future, and to describe his greatest weakness in painstaking detail. This was his second such interview with a firm of this caliber, and both times it felt like he was interviewing with morticians.
That's when his phone rang—literally, in the middle of the interview. Mason scrambled through his pockets to find out where the startling noise came from. He found the phone, pulled it out and was about to silence it when something in him said, “Answer it.” With a finger held up to the astonished lawyers, Mason turned around and whispered, “Hello?”
“
Mason, this is Jerome Visgil.”
“
Oh, hi, Mr. Visgil.” Mason shot a pleading look over his shoulder to the attorneys waiting on him.
“
You want a job?”
“
Well, yes, of course.”
“
I'm going to give you a chance. I'm not sure if you're really a district attorney, tried and true, through and through, et cetera. But, I'm going to give you a chance.”
“
All right! Thanks Mr. Visgil.” The line went dead. Mason turned around to the interviewers, “I've...well, you see I just got a job, so I've got to go.” They all continued to stare at him and mutter as he gathered his notepad, resume and pen. He walked out of the law firm a district attorney.
In his first three years as a district attorney, only one other lawyer who began at about the same time as Mason was still around. Young district attorneys dropped like leaves off a dead tree. Bad pay, an overwhelming caseload, poor supervision, and the stressful types of cases they were dealing with drove even attorneys with the noblest intentions away.
Mason excelled. He began trying misdemeanors almost as soon as his foot crossed into the state office. Because the cases dealt with small offenses—minors in possession, DUIs—his caseload was voluminous. Probably around two hundred and fifty case files at any time.
His practice developed a cadence of its own. The judges became familiar and mildly receptive to him. The courthouse began to feel more like a comfortable sweater than an ill-fitting suit. He even got along with the public defenders on his cases, although this was something kept quiet.
The rate of attrition had a positive side effect—Mason moved up the ranks quickly. Within a year he was trying felonies. Not murders or rapes, but assault and robbery cases. The stakes changed. His caseload dropped but the ramifications of the cases themselves more than made up for that drop. Mason would have weeks, rather than hours, to prepare for cases now. He got the benefit of investigators and the development of evidence.
This was about the time Jerome Visgil noticed Mason rising through the ranks. He sat in on one of Mason's trials, which racked Mason's nerves. It was a pretty significant case for Mason. Man robbed a store clerk at gunpoint. Despite the nerves, when Mason stepped into the courtroom, he was setting up in his office. Tools were there—pens, pads of paper, exhibits, redwells. The familiar players were there—judge, opposing counsel. Soon the prospective jurors would come in for voir dire. He loved the repartee as he tried to figure out who amongst these strangers would be most receptive to the state's case. This was comfortable to him.
Jerome summoned Mason into his office soon after the trial. “You did well, Mason. You have a calmness and accessibility that jurors like. It was a tough conviction, but you nailed it.”
“
Thanks, Jerome.”
“
I'm getting tired, Mason. Physically, I mean shit, I'm fifty-eight. But, also tired of the gig. It's a wearing, constant grind. I've got two people in the office that I'd like to groom as my successor, and you're one of them.”
Despite knowing Jerome for several years at this point, and being familiar with his directness, the scope of what Jerome said hit like a ton of bricks.
“
Me? There are plenty of other district attorneys that have practiced for a lot longer here. Why me?”
“
Listen Mason, I've stroked your ego as much as I'm gonna. You've either got the nuts to go ahead with this or you don't. I pegged you as the nuts type. Your call, get back to me by tomorrow.”
Mason walked out of Jerome's office in a cloud of possibilities. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. He'd still have to run for the position. But, with the incumbent district attorney supporting him, chances were that he'd get elected. The next day Mason told Jerome he was game. Seventeen months later he was sitting in Jerome's old chair.
* * * *
“
Who's the district attorney again?” Sandra asked.
“
Mason West.”
“
Ay cabron
, I've heard some terrible things about him.”
Cruz thought about his impression of Mason before responding. “He's tough, and any district attorney is going to hate a case against a cop. But, Mason is...well...he's principled.”
“
Principles or not I don't trust the blue or the men behind the blue, and that's the district attorneys.” He knew what she meant. Cruz was uneasy about the suggested partnership too.
Mason called Cruz earlier that morning to see if he wanted to be a part of Shaver's prosecution. It was an unprecedented, seemingly magnanimous overture. Cruz couldn't figure out what Mason's motives were. Did he want to seem like he was including the Latino community? Would that make a circus of the prosecution?
“
I mean, aren't you supposed to hate each other? Ex-public defender and current district attorney? Lions and hyenas, no?”
“
That's the way it's supposed to be,” Cruz said, “but, that's not the way it always works out.” Cruz stood up and paced around his office, lightly clapping his hands together from time to time. “Our community is usually left out of the big decisions. Why would I turn my back, and the back of the community, to a request like this?”
“
I don't know, Cruz—I'm telling you I don't trust them. I'd worry this is a trap.”
“
Yeah...I just don't think that's Mason's style.”
After a pause, Sandra said, “I've got to get down to the station. We're developing a multi-segment story to air next week on this case.”
“
You covering all of it?”
“
Every last detail.”
“
You know, that's fine, but be careful about how you treat the video. I'm not sure you even mention it exists.”
“
How could I not? It's the key to the case against Shaver.”
“
Exactly. Between you and me, and off the record, the prosecution is gonna have some hurdles to clear with introducing that video into evidence. I mean, the damn thing was all over the place, bouncing from hands to hands, in a motorcycle chase, on a train, in a hospital. Chain of custody will be an issue. If you report there's a video out there, someone is gonna pay enough money to have it leaked. I can promise you that won't be good for the case against Shaver.”
“
I hadn't thought of all that...I'll talk to the news editor and see what he wants to do.”
“
Okay.” Cruz waited as Sandra stood up and grabbed her coat from beside the door. He held his hand just off her back, escorting her outside. As she stepped out of the door she turned around to hug him. She slipped her arms under his and clasped them behind his back.
“
You've done a great job, Cruz.”
The show of affection made Cruz's heart jump into his throat. All he could muster was, “You too.” Sandra let go of him, hopped into her car and drove away.
Cruz looked up and realized it was a beautiful day outside. He decided to take a walk to clear his mind. The streets were full of mid-day bustle. People entranced, perhaps entrapped, in their own worlds. They sped down the sidewalks in their impenetrable bubbles, annoyed if they had to dodge other people or if someone dared make a verbal connection. Cruz wondered—like he always did—how the world had come to this sanitized, headphones-in-ear loneliness. He also wondered how Shaver's trial would change their city, if at all. Martinez was sure it would. “That video!” Cruz could hear Martinez exclaim. But a nagging feeling had Cruz concerned that people were too far gone. Disconnected from life and excessively connected to their iPods or their reality television shows. Cruz heard a car's brakes squeal lightly beside him.
“
Hey! Hey, you Cruz?” Cruz looked at the car. It was a clean, Grand Marquis-looking car. Blacked out windows with two guys inside.
“
Yeah.”
“
Hop on in.”
Cruz laughed and kept walking. “You've got to be kidding me.”
The car sped ahead a bit and then stopped abruptly, chirping the tires. The bubble people paid the regular city sound no mind. Cruz slowed down, drawing the ire of a woman behind him. He watched as a bulky white man got out of the passenger side of the car. The guy was wearing a black, leather trench coat with a white shirt and blue jeans underneath. He smiled and gestured to Cruz.
“
Cruz, come on. Stop being such a fucking pussy.”
Cruz halted a few steps from the man. “Some brute asks you to get into his car and you're a pussy for saying no?”
“
Listen, you little shit,” the man said, lowering his voice, “Get into the fucking car. I ain't playing.” The man flipped open the right side of his trench coat to reveal a gun. “One word, one raised voice, and I'll bury you in your own shit to die. Get in.”
“
Guess I don't have much of a choice. I'd rather not have to shit that much, honestly.”
The man grinned. “No, you wouldn't.”
T H I R T Y-T W O
__________________________________________________
M
artinez watched from the dark as Sandra prepared to go on air. Cameramen scurried around. A woman brushed off Sandra's suit while another put the finishing touches on her makeup. Screens glowed around the room. The parts and players moved in unison, their tempo hidden under a heavy silence.
“
Thirty seconds Sandra. Don't forget what I told you,” said a man seated right in front of the news desk. Must be the producer, Martinez thought. The dark enveloped him too. His shrill voice was all that identified a person. Someone else shouted out, “In five...four...three...”
Sandra took dead aim at the camera in front of her and began her report.
“
It has been just over a month since Sergeant Colin Shaver allegedly shot Livan Rodriguez in his home—the victim of a horrible incident of police brutality. In the time since, I have been covering the chase, the hunt for Sergeant Shaver.” The broadcast switched to a pre-prepared piece.
“
That wasn't what I told you to say!”
“
I'm not going to bring the video up.”
“
What? You're going to deliver this story like I fucking tell you. That video is what matters, all right?”
“
No, the
innocent victim
is what matters, you jerk.” Sandra seemed stunned by what came out of her mouth. She shuffled the papers in front of her and adjusted her suit jacket. The man stood up and strode to the news desk.
“
Forty-five seconds till we're back on,” someone else said.