“Why would I lie?” he asks. “What would I lie about?”
Nothing that I can think of, so we’re in synch. The only fly still in the ointment is Armando Gonzalez, the phantom thief. Why has this man not shown up? I don’t mean in the physical sense—he has good reason to lie low. But the fact that there is no paper trail, that his very existence is in question, is vexing. I can’t avoid bringing up his name, because he is a critical element in our defense. I know Dixant will home in on that when he cross-examines Salazar. All I can do is mitigate his absence, as best I can.
“See you tomorrow,” I tell Salazar, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. “Make sure all of your witnesses show up,” I remind him. “That’s real important.”
“They will be there,” he promises me. “They are my friends.”
That is reassuring. With friends like his, I think we can overcome the absence of Gonzalez. I wish I had such good friends.
It’s seven-fifteen; the sun is slowly dropping down toward the horizon. I stand at the edge of the bike path, stretching before I start my evening run.
Tonight is the beginning of the last full moon of this cycle. So far, there has not been a murder this month that fits the pattern. If the next twenty-four hours pass without one, it will be two months since the Full Moon Killer last struck. Maybe I was right, back when I had my early morning encounter with Lieutenant Cordova outside that coffee shop, about my theory that he had either quit or moved on. I wouldn’t wish this scourge on another city, but if he is finished here, the women who live on the Westside of Los Angeles will breathe a lot easier. I know I will.
Roberto Salazar is sworn in and takes his seat in the witness chair. He is dressed in a navy blazer, tan slacks, pressed, white Oxford shirt, dark dress shoes, shined but not glossy. No tie, that’s too slick for his image. We went shopping for his wardrobe last week at a Men’s Wearhouse in Glendale, since he didn’t have any suitable clothes for court. Amanda Burgess paid for the new clothes. They agreed it was a loan that he will pay back with sweat equity.
He looks good. Appealing, but not threatening. A couple of the woman jurors, middle-aged Latinas, eyeball him appreciatively. If he weren’t already married and a potential felon, he would be desirable son-in-law material. I file their gut-empathetic response toward him in my memory bank, to be cashed in at the end of the trial, when I will tug at their heartstrings.
As promised, all the character witnesses I’m going to call have shown up. They sit behind us, on our side of the aisle. Amanda Burgess is among them, but I’m hoping I don’t have to use her. She asked me to leave her out unless I think her appearance could tilt the scales. If we were conducting this trial without a jury, I would definitely use her, because Judge Rosen is clearly starstruck with her. But I doubt that any of the jurors know who she is, of her importance in the rarified world they are not part of. The participation of this high-bred Anglo could boomerang on us, causing resentment that would negate the good feelings I want them to have about Roberto.
Salazar recounts the events that led to his arrest. He talks freely about how he had helped deliver stuff for Gonzalez before, with never a problem. I bring out this information because I know Dixant will seize upon it on cross, so I want to blunt the disclosure, my point being that this was nothing unusual, and Salazar had no reason to believe that he was part of an illegal enterprise. He was helping a friend, and making a little extra money. He answers all of my questions calmly and clearly, without any glitches or fumbling. When I’m finished, I feel the jury can justify believing his story, thus providing them the necessary cover to find him not guilty.
Dixant immediately rips into my client. “Didn’t you think it strange that this so-called Mr. Gonzalez was making his delivery at three o’clock in the morning?” he rants. Before Salazar can answer, he adds pugnaciously, “What warehouse have you ever heard of that is open at that time of night?”
I smile—I’ve been waiting for this. Salazar does his job, answering the question precisely as we rehearsed it. “I did not know the televisions were stolen,” he says. “Armando told me he had bought them in Mexico. Legally. So his being in Los Angeles at that time of night seemed reasonable to me.”
Dixant scowls. He was hoping to trip up Salazar, to confuse him into admitting that he knew the televisions came from a warehouse in San Pedro, rather than from Mexico. He’s still smarting from getting his ears pinned back two months ago, and is swinging wildly, trying for a knockout, instead of staying cool and piling up points. Now he will have to do damage control, which is never a situation you want to be in. A lawyer needs to be aggressive, not defensive—not only for real, but also in appearance, which is often the more important of the two. Jurors, like sharks, can smell blood, and a lawyer who is wounded is vulnerable. So is his case.
Dixant regains some traction when he switches his questioning to “the so-called mastermind Armando Gonzalez,” as he derisively terms Salazar’s Achilles’ heel. I think about objecting to the derogatory expression “so-called mastermind,” but I let it ride.
The less attention brought to this, the better. Let the jury think I’m not concerned, a speck of dandruff to be easily brushed off.
“Have you spoken to him since you were arrested?” Dixant asks.
“No,” Salazar answers.
“Have you tried to get in touch with him?”
Salazar glances over at me. Technically, he hasn’t, as far as I know. Since Gonzalez’s cell phone was out of service, he would have no other way to contact him, because he didn’t know where Gonzalez lived, or whether he had e-mail or any other normal way of communication. But I nod
yes
anyway. I tried, and since I’m his lawyer, it’s as if he did. I want the jury to think he tried as hard as he could to make contact, that he didn’t let that slide.
“Yes,” he says, picking up on my signal. “Me and my lawyer.”
The right answer. He hasn’t impeached himself. He’s smart, he understands subtleties.
“But you couldn’t,” Dixant says.
“No.”
“Because he doesn’t exist.”
So much for hoping to ride this out. I’m on my feet in a jiffy. “Objection!” I call out in the loudest voice I’ve used in this trial. “That’s conjecture on the D.A.’s part. The fact that Mr. Gonzalez has not been located yet does not mean he doesn’t exist. It stands to reason he would take pains to hide from us.”
“Sustained,” Judge Rosen agrees with me. She’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, because she is playing up to Amanda Burgess, subconsciously. I make a mental note to make sure Amanda is present every moment until the jury returns their verdict.
Still, Dixant has succeeded in weaving the issue of Gonzalez’s disappearance into the fabric of this trial: Why haven’t we found him? Why hasn’t anyone found him? As he did in his opening statement, I know Dixant will hammer at that in his summation. And he’ll be smart to do it. Even though Gonzalez would have been a hostile witness for us, his mere presence would have been a big asset for our case. Without him, we’re vulnerable. Those stolen television sets were in Salazar’s truck, after all. If Armando Gonzalez can’t be tied to the theft, then how did they get there? It makes Salazar’s involvement in an organized crime ring, if not convincing, at least plausible.
Dixant keeps hammering away at Salazar’s
so-called,
as he puts it, working relationship with Gonzalez. What other items had he helped his friend deliver? Where did the stuff come from? Did he ever see a bill of sale? Did he ever question their legitimacy? He’s a machine gun of interrogation.
For someone who has never been on the field of a courtroom battle, Salazar holds up well. He stammers and fumbles a bit, but he doesn’t lose his temper or his train of thought, and he doesn’t try to lie his way out of anything. He states that he believes that people are basically good, and he lives his life by that credo.
“Even you, Mr. Dixant,” he says, after answering a particularly harsh question from the prosecutor.
“Even me what?” Dixant asks, taken aback.
“Even you are doing the best you know how,” Salazar answers. His tone of voice is so calm it would be infuriating to me if he were not my client. He must be a true believer—no one can lie this convincingly. “But you are wrong about me.” He smiles at Dixant, almost beatifically. “You are wrong.”
Because Salazar was on the stand for most of the day, Judge Rosen decides that the rest of my witnesses will testify tomorrow. After a hurried consultation with them, all of whom are willing to come back, I nervously acquiesce. It’s a tribute to their devotion to him that they will return. They have already lost a day’s pay. Now they will have to give up another. But they all promise that they will show up, so we agree to adjourn.
I spend a few minutes bucking up my client. I assure him that he was great, and so does his rich sponsor. “You did an excellent job,” Amanda tells him. “I was watching the faces of the jurors. They believed you.”
He smiles shyly. “Thank you.”
That bugs me, her saying that. She has no expertise in this. Even an experienced courtroom observer knows you can’t tell the verdict from the way a jury reacts. Even if they like you, most of the time they will convict you if the facts dictate that they should. My telling him he did well is part of my job. If, worst-case scenario, he is convicted, she will have raised his hopes too high, and the fall will be more painful. But she is who she is, and no one is going to influence her. Definitely not me.
The moon is no longer full. No murders have been linked to the Full Moon Killer, so the streets are safe for another thirty days. The scuttlebutt around the courthouse is that if another month passes without a killing, the task force will be shut down.
If that happens, it will be a bittersweet conclusion for the police, particularly for my new friend Lieutenant Cordova. The cops want the residents of the city to be safe, of course, but they will be left with an emptiness in their gut, because they didn’t bring the case to the needed conclusion: the killer won’t face justice. Detectives exist to solve crimes. When they don’t, they feel hollow, useless. I’ve heard of cops who ate the gun, sometimes years after they retired, because of an unsolved case that stymied them for their entire career.
I got a late start on my run this evening, but since the window of danger is closed, I’m not worried. My route is a combination of the old and new, along Palisades Park, then through the leafy blocks north of Montana Avenue, up to San Vicente, then back on a zigzag course through various quiet residential streets. As I run I mentally rehearse tomorrow’s program. Now that Roberto has finished testifying, I’ll put on my character witnesses. They are an appealing group, solid citizens the jurors will be able to identify with.
Back at my house I stretch, shower, throw a beef Stroganoff Lean Cuisine in the microwave, pour myself a glass of Syrah, and talk to Jeremy while my dinner is heating up. Next week’s concert will be the end of the season. After that, the orchestra goes on tour for six weeks, Europe and Asia. I plan to go over and spend a few weeks with my man after I run the marathon. I’ve never been to Europe, Asia, anywhere. Jeremy, in contrast, has circled the globe. I’ve been going over the itinerary, where they’ll be when I’m free. Prague, Vienna, Saint Petersburg, Kyoto, Sydney, among other locations. This is going to be the vacation of a lifetime.
We’ll get together tomorrow or the day after, as soon as I’m done with the trial. I drink my wine and enjoy the best microwave dinner I’ve ever had.
I want to win this trial. My client is innocent; he should not go to prison. But I also know there is life outside the walls of the courtroom. I want it. I’m going to have it.
A
LL MY CHARACTER WITNESSES
have returned as promised, and each one is a champ. To a man and woman, they have nothing but praise for Salazar. Dixant doesn’t even bother to question most of them. He sits at his table, scowling darkly, making a show of looking at his watch, as if he has a more important date following this one, and doesn’t want to be late. Some of the jurors notice his boorishness, and it seems to annoy them. It reminds me of the televised debate between Bill Clinton and the first Bush, when the older man kept looking at his watch, as if he couldn’t wait for this crap to be over. Some people say that cost him the election. Maybe Dixant’s rude behavior will help me win this contest.
I don’t call Amanda Burgess as a witness. She doesn’t fit in with the other witnesses, and her appearance might be off-putting to some of these working-class jurors. Dixant would certainly exploit the noblesse oblige angle. I also don’t call Salazar’s wife. She is overwhelmed by the workings of the state’s vast machine, which are Kafkaesque to her. Dixant would rip her apart if I put her on the stand. It’s also been my experience that spouses often do more harm than good. In their desire to help, they exaggerate, overdramatize, or flat-out lie. If they are caught in a lie, an entire case can go down the tubes. And juries view family members more skeptically than they do other witnesses, because the personal stakes are higher. If I had needed her to provide a critical piece of information that only she could testify to, I would have put her up there. But it wasn’t necessary, so she sits in the first row behind us, rigid with nerves. Amanda, next to her, calms her from time to time with a warm pat on the arm and a sympathetic smile.
“This concludes my case,” Your Honor, I tell the judge.
A questioning look crosses her face, as if she’s surprised (and disappointed) I’m not calling Amanda Burgess as a character witness. That passes quickly, and she turns to Dixant. “Any rebuttal?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I have one additional witness.”
Rosen gives him a sour look. If he is springing a surprise, she’s going to be one unhappy lady. But not as unhappy as me.
“Is he on your witness list? I’m assuming it’s a man.”
“It is a man, Your Honor,” he confirms, “and he isn’t on the list.”
Now she’s even more irritated. “Approach,” she orders us.