The phone rings. If it isn’t Joe, I’m not going to pick up. Whoever it is can wait until tomorrow.
I check the caller ID. Amanda. Calling to praise me for my performance today, no doubt. I can’t duck her. I pick up the receiver. “Hello, Amanda. How are you?”
I listen; then I start to shake. I reach out a hand to steady myself, and lower my big body into a chair. “When?” I croak. I listen. “Where is she?”
Salazar’s wife tried to kill herself. She took an overdose of sleeping pills. She’s been on them since her husband was arrested the second time. Luckily, a friend found her in time and called for help. The paramedics took her to Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center, the main hospital for East L.A. She is in intensive care.
“I can’t go down there,” I tell Amanda. “I’m jammed, and it’s too late.” And I don’t want to. That’s not my job. Defending her husband is my job, and it’s full-time work. Whatever energy I have left over is for me and my unborn child. I won’t be guilt-tripped into taking on any more emotional burdens.
Amanda can’t go, either. The publicity would be totally negative, totally devastating. She will make sure Mrs. Salazar gets the best medical attention available. She will call me if anything changes. Otherwise, we’ll talk in the morning.
I hang up. This is horrible. I feel terrible for that poor woman. That she would do such a thing speaks to how desperate and isolated she must feel.
And something else, something more sinister. Her doing this tells me that she has lost faith in her husband. A devoted wife would not try to take her life. She has been so humiliated, so cut apart from everything in her life, that she doesn’t feel there is any way out. And that is bad news for her husband.
I’m at the office by seven-thirty in the morning. Earlier, I talked to Amanda. Salazar’s wife is out of danger. The suicide attempt was more a cry for help than a real effort to end her life. Amanda will keep me up to date. She won’t be in court today, it wouldn’t be appropriate.
“Does Roberto know?” I asked her, when we spoke at six in the morning. “Was he informed?”
She doesn’t know if he does or not. That will be my first order of business today, before we go back into trial. If he hasn’t been told, he’ll be devastated. If he was, he’ll be more remote and angrier than ever. By his lights, the system has completely fucked him over. Now that cesspool of evil has spread to his family. He has been harder and harder to reach. Now he’s going to dig himself into a hole no one will be able to penetrate.
Salazar knows. I read it on his face as soon as he is brought into the courtroom. One of his jailers must have told him. They love to rub in the misery. His face is ashen, his expression cut in stone.
“She’s going to be all right,” I say, trying to reassure him. I had called the hospital to make sure for myself. She will be moved out of intensive care later today, but she will be closely watched to make sure she doesn’t try to off herself again.
He shakes his head in disagreement. “She will never be all right again,” he contradicts me.
Shit. Just as I predicted. He’s in a funk blacker than the dark side of the moon. I look around. The courtroom is filling up. We have almost no time to talk before the judge and jury come in. Joe had text-messaged me that he wouldn’t be here until right at the appointed time, so Salazar and I are alone—as alone as you can be when dozens of people, all hostile to you, are watching your every move. That includes Loomis and his entourage, who can’t help but stare in our direction. Obviously, they know.
“Listen up,” I whisper to him. “This is bad news, but you cannot show that. No one on the jury is going to know about it, they’re not allowed to read or hear anything about this case or you. So if you hang a long face today, they aren’t going to know why. They’ll think it’s because you’re feeling guilty, and they’ll carry that impression through the rest of the trial and into the jury room. So buck up. I know it’s hard, Roberto, but you have to take care of you. Comprende?”
He stares at me, as if he’s looking through me. Then he gives a curt nod. “I understand.”
“We’ll get through this. She’s going to be all right,” I say again, as much to hear it for myself as for him. If his wife had died last night, there would have been hell to pay. Almost certainly there would have been a postponement of the trial, which could have had all kinds of unknown ramifications. Even this unsuccessful suicide attempt might cause a delay in the proceedings for a few days.
Joe bustles into the courtroom and flops his briefcase on our table. I had called him earlier this morning to give him the news, so he’s on board. He cocks an inquisitive eye at me, and I nod: yes, Salazar knows.
We walk away from the defense table and caucus against the wall. “How is he doing?” Joe asks, glancing back at Salazar, who is sitting motionless at the table, his back stiff, as if he had a coat hanger inside his coat. “Should we ask for a continuance until tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “If anything, this incident is going to cause him to retreat deeper into his shell. We need to push everything forward.” It isn’t my job to instruct Joe on how to run this case, but I’m going to do it anyway. “I think we should get their witnesses off the stand as fast as we can. Limit our cross-examinations to what’s absolutely necessary, and no more.”
“Umm,” Joe ponders. “You’re probably right. We’ll play it by ear.” He shakes his head dolefully. “Let’s hope the jury doesn’t find out. I’ve been checking the media. So far, nothing in the papers or radio. Maybe we can finesse it. It isn’t newsworthy unless they connect the dots.”
“Or someone does it for them,” I say, cocking my head in the direction of the prosecution table.
“We can’t control that. We do what we can. Don’t worry about the rest, it’s bad for your health.” He gives me a friendly belly pat. “Take care of you. The hell with the rest of them.”
Judge Suzuki, in shirtsleeves, calls us and the prosecution into his chambers before the jury is brought in. “Are you going to ask for a continuance?” he asks Joe and me. “Any objections?” he puts to Loomis, before Joe can answer. He knows about Salazar’s wife, and he knows Loomis does, too.
“A day or two, no,” Loomis answers.
Continuances are given all the time, for reasons important and mundane. A scheduled visit to the dentist is cause to push back. Not a big deal. It will only become a big deal if the reason leaks out.
“We’re not going to ask for a continuance,” Joe tells the judge. “Mrs. Salazar is out of danger, and our client wants to move forward.”
Suzuki shrugs. “Fine with me.” He raises a cautionary finger. “If I find out this information gets out any more than it has, I will impose strong sanctions on whoever does it.” He directs his remarks at Loomis. “That includes the jail personnel. I’m holding you responsible for them. I know they already told the prisoner, which was against the rules. I’ll let that pass, this one time. But not twice. Understood?”
It is rare for a judge to chastise a lawyer for an infraction he didn’t directly commit. Suzuki wants to make sure this case stays buttoned-up tight. Not only because he’s a stickler for protocol, but because he doesn’t want to give us grounds for appeal. A reversal from a higher court because the trial judge screwed up is like a lash across the back—it leaves permanent scars. Suzuki wants to sail into his retirement unblemished.
“Understood, Your Honor,” Loomis says. His muted tone of voice signifies that he means it.
Suzuki shrugs into his robes. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
So much has happened to me in the past year that Salazar’s first trial seems as if it took place in another life, until the cop who arrested him that night takes the stand, and then it all comes back in a flash. As he swears to tell the truth, he is staring daggers at me, as if to say, you got me last time, bitch, now it’s my turn for payback. I return his glare with a Mona Lisa smile.
A third member of the prosecution team, Meg Rawlings, conducts the examination. I guess they figured that my performance has been so stellar they need to balance the equation with a female from their side. Meg is not pregnant, so I’ve got a leg up on her on that score. However, she is a very good lawyer. We’ve done trials together, and I like going up against her, she doesn’t take cheap shots, the way her compatriot Dixant did in that earlier trial.
“Officer Talbert,” she says, “tell us what happened the night of April 13, 2006.”
I had forgotten his name. Michael Talbert. A name I had hoped not to hear again.
Talbert wriggles around in the witness chair. He’s a beefy guy—getting his ass into a comfortable position takes a bit of shifting. He flicks open his notebook, runs a pudgy finger down the page, reads to himself (his lips move), then shuts the book and looks up.
“I was on night patrol in the Brentwood-Westwood section of Los Angeles. There had been a rash of burglaries, so the force beefed up its presence there to show the colors and to be nearby in case we got a call. Around three in the morning I was driving down Sepulveda, north of Sunset, when I saw a vehicle that aroused my suspicions.”
“What was it about this vehicle that caused you to be suspicious, Officer Talbert?” Meg asks. “What kind of vehicle was it?”
Another glance at his notes. “A GMC cube truck. Small.” He pauses, then remembers the other half of the question. “It ran a stop sign. Also, one of its tail-lights was flickering.”
“Did you pull it over?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you asked the driver for identification.”
“Yes.”
“What was the name of the driver of the truck you stopped on Sepulveda Boulevard in the area of Los Angeles between Westwood and Brentwood at three o’clock in the morning of April thirteenth?”
Talbert doesn’t have to refer to his notes. “Roberto Salazar.” He points at us. “The man sitting at the defense table, wearing the blue blazer.”
Joe is in a brown suit, and I’m the wrong sex, so there is no doubt as to whom Talbert is pointing at. Everyone looks where Talbert is pointing. I feel as if a klieg light is shining on us, the kind they use at Hollywood premieres and used-car dealership openings.
“You are certain the driver and owner of the truck you stopped was Mr. Salazar, and you are also certain of the time and location?” Meg rephrases for him.
“Absolutely. The time and place are in the records, and I testified …”
Joe is on his feet as if he has a rocket up his ass. “Objection!” he thunders.
Suzuki’s gavel comes down like a sledgehammer. “Sustained.” He glares at Meg, then past her to Loomis. Turning to the bailiff, he orders him: “Remove the jury.”
The jurors, who seem confused, are ushered out. When they are gone, Suzuki looks down from his perch. “We will take a short recess,” he declaims in a loud, angry voice. To both teams of lawyers: “In my chambers. The witness will remained seated where he is.”
“I swear that was not our intention,” Meg pleads before Suzuki. “We specifically told him he couldn’t do that.” She looks to Loomis for support, who nods. He steps forward, to take whatever brunt of criticism the judge will level at them, a hallmark of a good leader. “The witness did that on his own, I swear it,” he says, turning to Joe and me.
“We believe you,” Joe says with easy, almost insouciant equanimity. “It was a slip of the tongue.”
“So you’re all right to proceed with this witness?” Suzuki asks. He sounds surprised. Loomis looks surprised, too.
“Yes, we’re fine with him.” To Loomis: “How much longer are you going to have this witness on the stand?”
“We’re done with him,” Loomis answers. Talbert is radioactive to them now. “Two minutes to recap, tops.”
“Good by me,” Joe says. “Jessica?”
“Good by me,” I parrot. I’m anxious to get my hands on Officer Michael Talbert, the sooner the better.
I’m as chipper as a chipmunk with a cheek full of acorns. “Officer Talbert. Long time no see.”
I am standing at the podium in my new, unstylish but comfortable shoes. I had forgotten how piglike his eyes are, two little red beads in a sea of flesh. His entire face is swinish. If ever a cop deserved to be called a pig, it would be Officer Michael Talbert, LAPD.
“Counselor,” he replies guardedly.
“Do you recall the last time we met face-to-face?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer; instead, he looks over at the prosecution table, as if he wants instructions from them. Loomis, a worried and puzzled look on his face, gets to his feet.
“Your Honor. May we approach?”
Suzuki nods. Loomis and Meg Rawlings come out from behind their table and walk to the side of the judge’s bench that is opposite the jury box. I follow them; Joe joins me.
“Your Honor, you stipulated that Mr. Salazar’s previous arrest and trial could not be introduced into these proceedings,” Loomis complains. “We agreed to that. So why is the defense bringing it up? That is clearly a violation of the agreement.”
Joe steps forward with a devilish look on his mug. It’s an act of will that he isn’t literally licking his chops.
“The
prosecution
agreed, Your Honor. Not the defense. Telling the jury that our client had a previous arrest record would be prejudicial against us, we all agree about that. But no one, including you, Your Honor, ever said the defense couldn’t introduce it. Now we have to, because the jury is going to figure it out regardless of what officer Talbert didn’t say. He opened the door, and now we’re walking through it. We have every legal right to do so,” he adds. His tone is calm and even, but his attitude is aggressive.
Suzuki looks at Loomis. “This is highly unusual, but I’m going to have to rule for the defense,” he tells the senior deputy D.A. “Officer Talbert gave them the opening to bring up that arrest and trial. They’re right—the jury will figure it out. So I’m allowing Ms. Thompson to continue her line of questioning.”
Loomis scowls, but he doesn’t protest. He could still get benefits from this. Salazar was arrested for a serious crime less than a year ago, in the exact place and time where a Full Moon victim was found. He’s more upset about being trumped.
I take up my position at the podium again. “Would you repeat my last question?” I ask the court reporter.