Misdemeanor Trials (8 page)

 CHAPTER TWELVE

MARTY

“My soul is in good shape.”

---Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Marty Stolz stood next to the covered bus stop, which was a few blocks from his rented room, and patted his gloved hands to avoid the penetrating coolness of the morning air.  He was there a few minutes before the bus would arrive, and it always arrived on time.  Next to him at the bus stop was a middle aged lady whose fat feet spilled over the sides of her half high heeled shoes.  She was carrying a cloth grocery bag in her gloved hands.  Marty thought to himself, “The people who ride the bus are the very young, the very old, and the very odd.” Marty considered he had two of the bases covered.  He was mildly old and somewhat odd.  Marty looked up the street to his left and he could see the bus in the distance.  “Right on time,” he thought to himself.  The bus pulled to the stop and its doors opened.  The lady got on first and Marty followed.  He pushed his senior monthly bus pass through the slot, and at the same time looked at the driver and said, “Good morning, Roger.”

The driver replied, “Good Morning, Marty.  Where you headed out to this morning?” Roger was a man of some girth.  He sat in the hydraulic driver’s seat that had a thick cushion.  On top of that Roger had put several more cushions.  Rogers’s rather large midsection was barely inches from the massive steering wheel.  Roger was always friendly over the years, and Marty had spoken to him on several occasions when he had taken the bus to the end of the line.

Marty said, “I think I will drop off at Canal Street and take Number 43 to the docks.  On mornings like this, the docks are quiet, the air smells really good, and I can watch the sun come up.”

“Sounds like a good way to spend the morning, Marty.  Have a good day,” said Roger.

Marty made his way to the middle of the bus.  There were six or seven others in the bus and he could feel the warmth of the bus knock down the chill he had felt at the bus stop.  It would be a twenty minute ride to the connection at Canal Street, and he sat in his seat and watched the street go by.  He watched the bus slow down and stop at each of the bus stops on the way to Canal Street.  He recognized them, and recalled that he had gotten off at every one, and explored the neighborhoods and streets around them.  He had gotten to know the city, the bus routes and bus stops over the years.  Every trip he took was an adventure for him.  He had seen many things change over the years, some he thought were good and some not so good, but it was certainly entertaining for him.  He had watched as the old Garden Theater was torn down on Route Six.  When as a child he had watched the Saturday matinees at the Garden Theater.  Twenty cents and you got to see Roy Rogers and sometimes Flash Gordon.  But they built a small shopping mall there, and it had been a source of trouble almost since the beginning.  The buildings in the neighborhoods were changing, and so were the people who lived there.  But no one bothered Marty in his well-worn, and out of fashion clothes, which made him an undesirable target to any thief.  He had also seen some things he did not like to think about.

Marty got off the bus at Canal and waved good-bye to Roger as he stepped out.  He walked across the street to the bus shelter for bus Six.  He would have to wait ten minutes for it to arrive.  There was no one else waiting for the bus.  At the last minute regular travelers would arrive at the bus stop just in time to get on.  They knew the bus would be on time.  Ten minutes went by and the bus arrived.  Marty didn’t recognize the driver, a fairly rotund black woman who nodded to Marty as he got on the bus.  Marty sat silently.  Most of the passengers were on their way to work or returning from work.  In either case, they were not inclined to pointless conversation, which he found more often on the early afternoon trips when riders loosened up and relaxed on their way home.  The bus pulled over to the curb at 79
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and Bell Road and Marty got off from the rear door.  There was no bus shelter here.  Very few people got on or off the bus, but the bus stopped anyway.  He started to walk slowly towards the dock.  The night had not yet seen the glow of the sun, rising somewhere hundreds of miles away.  He knew it would take him about twenty minutes to reach the docks, which a few years ago had been busy every day from early in the morning until dusk.  It had been exciting then to watch workman load and unload cargo, and hook up twelve hoses blowing grain to the cargo holds of the boats.  But business was not good for the docks.  Slowly he had seen the activity slow down, and fewer and fewer men were working on the docks.  Now it was quiet all the time.  Cargo boxes were stacked in the storage yards, untouched for many months, behind fences that had been cut or rolled back by the curious or the vagrants who wandered regularly around the area.  Marty walked past the fenced yard toward the bay.  The water was calm and quiet.  To his left he saw that the gate to the cargo yard was open and the lock and chain were hanging down.  He walked towards the slightly ajar fence and walked through.  Walking through the cargo containers was like walking through a canyon.  It was darker, and a bit colder than the open yard.  He heard voices and walked towards them.  He slowly rounded a turn in the cargo carrier canyon and saw three men in the distance through one canyon trail.  He could hear that the voices were elevated, but he could not hear the words.  Then one of the men, who he recognized as Carlos Zelaya, raised his arm towards the other man who Marty did not know, and he could clearly see there was a gun.  Zelaya fired the gun once, and the target fell to the ground.  Zelaya then walked over to the lifeless man on the ground, pointed the gun a few inches from his head, and fired again.  The body jerked once, then remained motionless.  Zelaya and the third man calmly walked away from the dead man, and, to the relief of Marty, away from him.  Marty waited a few minutes and then turned the corner and walked to the man lying on the ground.  When he got there he could see that the man had half his head missing.  Marty patted the man’s pants and pulled a wallet from his back pocket and put it into his coat.  He thought to himself, “What’s in your wallet?” He walked away, back to Bell and 79
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where he knew he could catch the bus.  He reached the bus stop corner, and waited, knowing the bus would be by in at least half an hour.  He was shaking as he could see the light blue line of the morning begin to grow.  Soon the sun would be up and Marty would be warm. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAUREEN

Trader picked up the phone.  “Trader, this is Maureen up in sex crimes.  I was told you are the officer of the day, and I have an old witness out in the Foyer who just walked in and wants to talk to me.  I don’t have time.  I am already late for court.  Go to the fifth floor and he will be waiting outside.  His name is Marty.  He is solid.  See what he wants and then let me know when I come back for the noon recess.” “Click” was the next thing he heard.  Trader’s job that day was officer of the day.  He sat at his desk and read misdemeanor police reports.  When he finished the police report, he would determine what charges should go into a complaint against the defendant.  Most of the complaints charged a DUI, or sometimes domestic violence, and sometimes petty theft.  He would fill out the complaint with the charges against the defendant, sign it, and send it to the paralegals.  He had a stack on his desk that day that was two feet high.  They seemed to be all the same.  The police reports said the officer contacted someone walking downtown.  The citizen appeared under the influence of drugs and was arrested.  Or the police stopped a vehicle, the driver appeared under the influence of alcohol, and were arrested.  A guy exposed his genitals to some young girl.  He was identified and arrested.  Unrelated people doing the same thing in different parts of town.  It was like the movie Ground Hog Day, but a lot more boring.  He also waited for phone calls, and walk-ins by the public who wanted to talk to the D.A.’s office.  He would hear what they had to say, and if the issue warranted further attention, he would alert the D.A. who was in the unit handling that kind of crime and transfer the call, or he would direct the person to the police department.  Most of the time he took their telephone number and said someone would call them later.  Trader welcomed the opportunity to leave his desk and go to the fifth floor.  When he arrived at the fifth floor in the public waiting area there was only one person.  He saw a man who seemed like a transient or a hobo.  His face was well tanned brown with his beard stubble peppered with gray.  His skin seemed leathery and his clothes were old and worn.  Trader walked over to him and shook his hand. 

“Hi! You must be Marty.  My name is John Trader.  Maureen is in court and could not see you.  What can I help you with?”  He saw that his hands were clean and he did not have any odor about him typical of the transients he often saw in court.

Marty asked, “Can we sit down and talk for a few minutes.  I won’t take much of your time.”

“Sure,” responded Trader.  He then moved with Marty to one of the closet sized interview rooms away from the public area of the fifth floor foyer.  They went into the room and sat down.  “Okay, Marty, what do we have?”

“Well,” said Marty, “I was over at the docks this morning and I saw a man shoot and kill another man in the Cargo area.”

“When did this happen.  Is the dead man still there?” asked Trader, his voice picking up speed.

“About two and a half or three hours ago.  The dead guy was there when I left,” replied Marty.

“Exactly where is it?” asked Trader.

“It is on Bell Road about 50 yards from the end of the dock.  The gate was open to the cargo container area.  I think you could walk right in, and the dead guy is in an alley between the containers.”

“Do you know who shot the dead man?” asked Trader.

“Yes, I recognized him,” replied Marty.  “His name is Carlos Zelaya.”.

“Do you know who was shot?” asked Trader.

“I don’t know, but after Zelaya and a third man left, I went over and got his wallet, so that you can identify him.”  Marty reached into his coat and handed Trader the wallet.

John picked up the in-house phone sitting on the desk.  He spoke with the receptionist, “Hi, this is John Trader.  Could you connect me with the police dispatch?” John looked at the contents of the wallet while he waited a few minutes for an answer.  “Hello, dispatch.  This is John Trader at the DA’s office.  I just received a report of a shooting that occurred this morning about three hours ago on Bell Road, inside the Cargo Container yard about 50 yards from the dock.  The dead victim is George Chavez, Hispanic Male, 32 years old, Five Feet Eleven inches.  The shooter was a person identified as Carlos Zelaya.  Please send a unit and report back to me.  I have a witness in my office.”

Trader hung up the phone and turned to Marty.

“Marty, why didn’t you call 911 right after you saw the shooting?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.  There are no more pay phones on the street like the old days,” replied Marty.

“Couldn’t you have asked someone to use their cell phone?” asked Trader.

“I’ve tried that before.  It doesn’t work.  I mean, look at me.  People probably think I’m a hobo.  No.”  Marty paused for a moment.   “They just turn away or say, ‘No.’”

“Ummm,” murmured John.  “Okay, but why did it take you so long to get here?”

“I had to take three different buses, the 76, the 143, and the 531.  It can take a long time when you haven’t planned your route, and I usually plan my route.  I also had to wait about a half an hour downstairs because they couldn’t find Maureen right away.  She is a really nice person.”

John looked at the wallet.  It had traces of dried blood.  “There seems to be blood on the wallet.”

“Yeh,” replied Marty.  “They guy was bloody.  I tried not to get blood on me, but I guess I got some.  Sorry.”

“What were you doing out on Bell Road, Marty.”

“Not too much.  I live over on 93
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avenue in a room.  I rent it.  I really can’t afford much, so I spend the days exploring.  When I cash my Social Security Check, first thing I buy at the beginning of the month is my monthly bus pass.  I used to spend it all on booze, but not anymore.  I get the bus senior discount.  Four or five days of the week I will go down to the bus stop near where I live.  Usually I have a good idea of where I am going.  Over the last few years I have gone just about everywhere the bus goes.  I get off and walk around.  I really have learned a lot about the city.  Even though I have been to many different places, when I go back a year or so later, it has changed.  It is always changing, sometimes good to bad, sometimes bad to good.  The dock is a place where it has gone from good to bad.  There used to be so much going on down there.  A lot of ships came in.  Cargo was loaded and unloaded.  I often wondered what was in those Cargo Containers.  Now the dock is boarded up or fenced off.  I see a lot of drug sales going on, but no one bothers me.  The airport has also changed over the last few years.  It’s bigger, and there is a lot more traffic.  The bus takes me right there.  Sometimes I sit in the terminal and watch the people going somewhere with their suitcase, or briefcase.  I wonder where they are going, and if they want to go, or if they have to go.  Are they going to meet someone they love, or are they going to the funeral of their childhood friend.  I let my mind’s eye take me to some of the places I think they are going.  I know I’ll never go to those places, but it is an adventure in my mind.  Sometimes when I go over to the east side of town, I see things that are not good.  It even smells differently over there.  It has gone from bad to worse over the years.  I have seen some things.  The dogs, the police, what people do in the rain, the naked ladies, the weddings, the churches.  That’s what I was doing over on Bell Road.”

Trader’s phone rang and he picked it up.  “John Trader.”

“John, this is Gladys in police dispatch.  I have an officer on the radio who wants to be patched into you.”

“Okay,” replied John.

“D.A. Trader, this is Detective O’Reilly at the docks.  Can you give me your extension and I will call you right away.”

“2418,” replied Trader.

“Roger, out!” said O’Reilly.

A few seconds later Trader’s phone rang again.  “Trader, this is O’Reilly.  I am at the container yard on Bell Road.  We have not found a body, but we did find a large and very fresh blood pool.  Forensics is here gathering evidence.  That’s all we have from this end.”

Trader said, “I have a wallet from the victim that was given to me by a witness to the shooting.  It has blood on it.  The wallet has a driver’s license for a guy named George Chavez.  The witness says he recognized the shooter as a guy named Carlos Zelaya.  If you could send someone by to take a statement from the witness and pick up the wallet then I can turn the whole thing over to you.”

Detective O’Reilly responded, “I will have another detective come over to the D.A.’s office right away.  What floor are you on.”

“The fifth,” said Trader.

“We are familiar with Zelaya,” said O’Reilly.  “He is a fairly important street boss in the drug trade.  He is associated with a gang that controls this area.  Chavez we know too.  He is a small time drug distributor.  If your witness holds up, and the blood comes back to Chavez, we’ll put a BOL on Zelaya.  We would really like to get this guy.  He is bad.  He shoots people, or has them shot.  Nothing sticks, so far.  He has a slick lawyer.  Also, keep your witness under wraps.  Zelaya has a history of intimidating witnesses.”

Trader took Marty out into the Public Area and told him an officer would be back shortly.

About four PM Maureen called.  “John, did you talk to Marty.”

“Yeah.  He witnessed a shooting over by the docks.  The cops found a blood pool, no body, but Marty could I.D.  the shooter.  Who is this Marty guy, anyway?”

Maureen said, “We spent a lot of time together on a rape case two years ago that he witnessed.  He used to be an accountant twenty or more years ago.  He had a wife and two kids and a big home.  One day while backing out of the driveway he ran over and killed one of his children.  He never recovered from that.  He started drinking.  He lost his job, his wife divorced him.  The years went by, and his one daughter stopped talking to him.  No one could blame her.  He was a drunk.  He started a job playing piano at one of the bars in town, but he couldn’t even hold onto that.  He became a transient, spending nights in the shelters and days with a bottle of whatever he could beg, borrow or steal.  About five years ago, he just stopped drinking.  He told me he just got tired of it.  Since then he rents a room and spends his days traveling the city by bus.  He has been all over the city.  Apparently made friends in different parts of town.  He was a solid witness in my case.  The rapist was convicted in thirty minutes.  Whatever he told you, you can take it to the bank.”