Peering through thick tortoiseshell glasses, the district attorney, Clarence Haliburton, folded over at the corner the stapled page he had just read and began to read the next one. Without any apparent break in his concentration, he kept reading when the side door opened and the bailiff ordered everyone to rise. His eyes still on the document, Haliburton waited until James L. Thompson was halfway to the bench before he slowly pushed back his chair and raised himself just high enough above it to satisfy the technical requirement that he be on his feet when a judge entered a courtroom.
Grumbling to himself, Thompson glanced around the hushed courtroom, jammed to capacity with reporters come from all over the world to cover the trial of the first murder of a prominent political figure in the United States in more than thirty years.
“Call the case,”he said, nodding toward the district attorney.
Still reading, Haliburton did not look up.
“Call the case,”said the judge again, his gray eyes turning hard.
Haliburton cast aside the document he had been holding and reached for the case file.
“Can't you even remember the name of it?”hissed Thompson.
It had no effect. Haliburton picked up the file and with slow, deliberate movements got to his feet. He buttoned his suit jacket and pushed his tie down inside. He was of medium height, with square shoulders and strong hands. His nose was a little too broad, and his eyes a little too close together. It gave him a look of concentrated pugnacity, of someone who, if he did not go looking for a fight, was always secretly glad when he found himself in the middle of one.
“People v. Jamaal Washington,”
he announced, reading the title on the case file.
Clarence Haliburton had hundreds of assistant district attorneys who prosecuted cases in the criminal courts. This was the first case he had prosecuted himself in more than three years; he tried to make it sound as if it were not any different than any of the thousands of other cases handled by his office every year.
“Thank you,”said Judge Thompson with a dismissive smile. He turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the prisoner.”
Thompson sank back in the high leather chair and, shaking his head, stared at the ceiling.
Dressed in the standard denim jail uniform, Jamaal Washington was brought into court in a wheelchair. In a tribute to the mindless power of prescribed procedure, his ankles were shackled together with a six-inch chain. He was put next to me at one of the two tables at which the defense and the prosecution had their places. We were at the table on the right, facing the bench, closest to the empty jury box.
I wondered what passed through the district attorney's mind when Jamaal was first brought in. This was the young man he had publicly accused of having committed one of the most depraved murders on record, and he did not look depraved at all. I thought I saw him start to stare, as if Jamaal's intelligent eyes and sensitive mouth had caught him by surprise. Perhaps it was only my imagination. And if it had been there, that little look of astonishment, what then? He was there to prosecute, to win, and it would not have taken him any time at all to remind himself that killers come in different disguises and that the most dangerous were often the ones who looked like murder was the last thing they would ever think about doing.
“Is your name Jamaal Washington?”asked Judge Thompson in a thin reedy voice that in moments of anger had been known to break.
Jamaal looked straight at him. “Yes, your honor,”he replied respectfully.
Thompson peered down at him, taken, I thought, with the tone of Jamaal's response. “Mr. Washington, you are here to be arraigned on a criminal charge. That means the prosecution is required to inform you, on the record, the crime or crimes of which you have been accused. This is to give you notice so that you can defend yourself.”
Thompson raised his gray wispy eyebrows and tilted his head slightly to the side. “Is that clear to you? Do you understand all this?”
Jamaal's gaze never wavered. “Yes, your honor.”
“Now, before we begin,”said the judge patiently, “let me advise you that you have the right to be represented by an attorney of your choice at all stages of these proceedings. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your honor.”
Thompson looked at him a moment longer. “I see you have an attorney with you.”He glanced at me, nodded, and then looked down at the court file he had open in front of him. “Joseph Antonelli,”he said out loud.
He looked back at Jamaal. “You wish to have Mr. Antonelli serve as your lawyer, Mr. Washington?”
As soon as Jamaal had assured him that he did, the judge turned to the prosecutor. Haliburton reached inside the case file and extracted a single-page document.
“Let the record reflect,”he announced with the routine solemnity that begins every criminal prosecution, “that I am handing the attorney for the defense a certified true copy of the information charging the defendant, Jamaal Washington, with the crime of murder in the first degree.”
Without bothering to glance at it, I laid it face down on the table.
“Your honor,”I said, turning back to the bench, “the defendant wishes to enter a plea of not guilty.”
“A plea of not guilty will be entered,”replied the judge impassively as he made the requisite notation in the court file.
“Your honor, I would ask that bail be set.”
When he wanted to, Haliburton could get to his feet quick enough.
“The People oppose bail in any amount,”he cried with great energy. “I don't think I need to remind the court that this is a capital crime, or that the victim was a respected—no, a distinguished—public servant. The enormity of the crime, the risk of flight—either of those things by themselves, and certainly both together,”he went on, pumping his hand in the air, “make bail or any other form of pretrial release simply unacceptable!”
Thompson did not look at him once while he spoke, and he did not look at him when he finished.
“The court will determine what is and what is not unacceptable,”he remarked as he directed his attention to me. “Do you wish to be heard, Mr. Antonelli?”
“Your honor, the defendant has no criminal record. He is a student at the University of California. He is a lifelong resident of the city. And as you can see,”I continued, pausing just long enough to look down at Jamaal, “he is confined to a wheelchair. There will be months of therapy before he can begin to walk again.”I glanced quickly across at Haliburton. “Flight would not seem to be a very serious risk, your honor.”
The judge seemed sympathetic, but how much of that was because of his obvious irritation with the district attorney I could not tell. He hesitated, as if he were trying to make up his mind.
“I'll set bail,”he said finally, “in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.”
“Your honor,”I started to protest, “this young man has no money; no one in his family has—”
The judge held up his hand, cutting me off.
“I believe you had another matter you wanted to raise with the court, Mr. Antonelli?”
The question of bail had been decided, and I knew better than to quarrel with a decision I could not change.
“Yes, your honor. I filed a motion with the court, and—”
Haliburton was back on his feet. “May counsel approach?”he asked as he began to walk around the table.
We huddled together at the side of the bench, out of earshot of the roomful of reporters. Haliburton had something he wanted to say about my motion, but he did not want to say it in public. Thompson looked at me. When I did not object, he waved his hand, motioning for us to return to our places.
“Court will be in recess,”he announced. “I'll see counsel in chambers.”
I did not know what to expect. I had written twice to the district attorney asking for the personnel files of the two police officers who had discovered Jamaal Washington in Jeremy Fullerton's car and then shot him in the back when he supposedly attempted to escape. When both letters were ignored, I filed a motion to compel. If the district attorney was not going to give me an answer, he could explain to the judge why he was unwilling to give me what I needed to defend my client.
Without a word, Judge Thompson gestured toward the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. As we sat down, he opened the court file, found the motion to compel, and began to read through it.
One side of the judge's desk was shoved against the wall. A three-drawer metal file cabinet stood in the corner behind his chair. On top of it was a stainless steel coffeepot and two white mugs discolored with age and chipped around the edges. Just above it, a grimy wire-covered glass window let in a gray luster-less light.
Thompson tossed the motion onto his desk. “So what's the problem?”he asked.
I was sitting next to the wall. I began to study the corroded sprockets jutting out from the base of the coffeepot, wondering how close the next person to plug it in would come to electrocution.
Thompson glared at Haliburton. “Shall I ask again?”
“No, you don't have to ask again,”replied Haliburton, a caustic edge to his voice. “Antonelli is asking us to provide personnel files on police officers.”
Thompson opened his palms. “I read the motion,”he said, waiting to hear something he did not already know.
Haliburton let his eyes roam around the room, and then, shrugging his shoulders, he laughed. “We're just not going to do it.”
My head began to beat back and forth, as if I were keeping time to a song I had listened to a thousand times before.
“You're 'just not going to do it'?”Thompson repeated the phrase as if it were the refrain of the most frequently indulged stupidity he had ever heard. Picking up a pencil, he drummed the eraser on his desk, a tight, cramped smile on his face. “You're 'just not going to do it'?”
“No, we're not. A United States senator was murdered, but Mr. Antonelli here wants to distract everyone with a little sideshow about the police. Apparently he's decided the way to defend his client is to make everyone believe his client was the victim instead of Jeremy Fullerton. Police personnel files don't have anything to do with whether or not the defendant committed the murder, and that, I thought, was the whole reason we were here!”
Judge Thompson tossed the pencil on the desk, threw himself back against his chair, and rolled his eyes. “ 'And that, I thought, was the whole reason we were here.' Listen, Clarence, we both know the reason you're here. But if you think I'm going to let you use my courtroom to start your campaign for governor, you're out of your mind!”
I stared down at my black tasseled loafers. They needed a shine. Stretching out my legs, I rubbed first one shoe, then the other, against my pant cuffs.
Thompson moved forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Who do you think you are? First you announce you're not going to comply with a motion on which no ruling has yet been made; then you give me a lecture on relevance?”
He picked up the pencil and began to tap the eraser against his thumbnail, staring hard at the district attorney.
Haliburton stared back but then, perhaps realizing that he had gone too far, tried to laugh it off as a simple misunderstanding. “Let's not get off on the wrong foot. It didn't come out the way I meant it. What I meant to say is that the People oppose the motion because—”
Thompson threw the pencil down on the desk. “Forget the motion.”
I looked up from my shoes.
“Forget it. Let's just settle this thing right here and now.”
He turned to me as if we were the only two people in the room. “Why don't you plead him to second-degree murder?”he asked calmly. “Apparently he had the victim's wallet. If it was a robbery and the gun went off in the struggle, then there was no premeditation. It's a good offer.”
Stroking the bridge of my nose, I tried to give the impression that I was thinking it over. Judges were not always very fond of prosecutors, or lawyers generally, but I could not remember seeing anything quite like this. They hated each other. Thompson was trying to use me to make some point at the district attorney's expense. I was not there to be fair; I was there to win. I did what he wanted.
“Take it,”he urged. “You won't be able to do any better.”
“Well,”I replied as if I were still a little uncertain, “you may be right about that.”I looked him straight in the eye. “If you think this is the best way to resolve this, then yes, I'd certainly be willing to talk it over with my client.”
“A wise decision,”said Thompson, a shrewd glint in his gray eyes. He turned to Haliburton. “Then we have a deal?”
The district attorney was beside himself. “No, we do not have a deal,”he said between clenched teeth. “There isn't going to be a deal, not unless he pleads to first-degree murder, and even then the People are going to seek the death penalty.”
Judge Thompson shut his eyes and shook his head. An instant later his eyes shot wide open and he threw up his hands.
“That's it, then. No plea bargain, no mercy, nothing! You want to have your trial—have your circus—you're going to get it!”
He sat straight up, grabbed the pencil, and jabbed it up and down.
“On the question of Mr. Antonelli's motion to compel the production of … let's see, here.”
Leafing quickly through the document, he found the language he was looking for.
“Yes. 'All documents, papers, memoranda, and reports, including, but not limited to, the official police department personnel records, pertaining to the conduct and performance of San Francisco police officer Marcus Joyner and San Francisco police officer Gretchen O'Leary.' ”
With a grim, defiant smile, he looked at Haliburton. “Sounds about right to me. Motion granted.”
Haliburton started to object but realized that anything he said now would only make matters worse.
“We'll do everything we can to make sure you have everything you want, Mr. Antonelli,”he said frostily, his eyes still on Thompson.
“That's what the order says,”was the judge's terse response.
Thumbing through a black leather-bound calendar that sat on the corner of his desk, Thompson asked how long we thought the trial would take. Haliburton was the first to reply.