Beyond Justice (8 page)

"My question was, how long have you been practicing?"

"About four years."

"What firm are you with?

"Actually," she said.  "I’m a solo operation."

Our eyes locked.  Neither of us blinked.

"I’m sorry, but...how many criminal cases have you actually won?"

"One hundred percent of them."  Rachel stood tall, her lips glistened, reflecting fluorescent overheads.

"How about a number instead of a percentage?"

She and Dave looked at each other.  Dave spoke close to my ear. "She’s really good, Sam.  Trust me."

"How many?"  I tried to keep my voice down.

"One."

The smile fell from my face.

"And it was one heck of a trial," Dave said.

"One!"  I nearly missed my chair as I sat back down.   I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, but the thought of my future resting in the hands of someone with practically no experience gave me pause.

"Mister Hudson," she said, in a calm voice.  "If I can get you released on bail or O.R., will you trust me?  You can always fire me if you’re dissatisfied."

I blew out a long breath and thought about it. 
"All right.  Let’s do it." As if I had a bevy of attorney’s to choose from.

Chapter Thirteen

During the search of Sam Hudson’s house and car, Anita Pearson seized a personal laptop along with documents from his file cabinet.  His car was impounded for evidence.  Analysis would take some time.  Just as she thought, she found a CD in his briefcase with copies of the same kiddy porn images found in his network folder.  This sicko was going down.

When she got back to the station, Detective Batey approached her like a boy who had stolen loose change from his mother’s coat pocket.

"You what?"

"Come on, Anita.   The guy’s been in there all day.  Letting him eat wasn’t going to hurt the case."

"He’s scum!  And you treat him like some kind of VIP?"

"Keep this up and we’re all going to be in trouble."  Technically Batey was right.  But that didn’t excuse him undermining her.

"All right, go on, get outta here."  Sitting at her desk, fiddling with the coiled phone cord as she waited for Larry at the District Attorney’s office to pick up, Anita kept her eyes on the clock.  6:25 PM.  Uniformed officers were now escorting Hudson from the interrogation room to the squad car.  Maybe a night in San Diego Central would make him more willing to confess.  She glowered at Batey and he cringed in his chair.

"Pick up, dammit," she muttered at the phone.  Again she glared at the clock.  Finally the call connected.  "Larry Finkel, DDA."

"Where is it?"

"On its way.  Hello to you too, Ani—."

"You said you’d have it here before noon."

"No.  You demanded it by noon.  I said I’d do my best."

"I called you this morning to remind you.  Again!"

Larry stayed silent for a while, probably thinking up some lame excuses.  Finally, in a hushed tone, he said. "In case you've forgotten, I'm up to my ears in paperwork for the Walker trial."

"How could I forget?  You cry about that every chance you get." Granted, the infamous Coyote Creek Middle School shooter case was important.  And the irony of his connection to Hudson was not lost on her.  Leonard Walker shoots two students, nearly kills Hudson’s daughter.  Hudson finishes the job.  Anita started to chew on a pencil eraser.

"On top of that," Larry said, "I’m managing a caseload the size of Montana and my calendar’s busting at the seams."

"Made your bed.  Not my problem."

"Why’re you always busting my balls like that?" 

"You owe me, that’s why."

Silence.  He hated when she called him on that.   After they broke up last year, when she caught the little prick cheating on her, he’d promised to always use his position at the D.A.’s office to help her.  Anita hung that over his head like a fetid salmon.  And she would likely do so for the rest of his natural life.

"Come on, Anita.  It’s on its way."  Even as they spoke, the warrant arrived, hand delivered via courier.

"It’s here.  Bye."

As she read the warrant a low-pitch growl emerged from her throat, threatened to break out into a scream.  She crumpled the warrant and threw it into the wastepaper basket, kicked the door and sat down at her computer, typing up all possible justifications for what she had done.  None of them had strong enough legs on which to stand.
She had gotten too eager to put Hudson away, too arrogant, and too careless.

Detective Batey fished the wadded-up search warrant, smoothed it out on Anita’s desk and whistled.  Now he knew why she was so upset.

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, Rachel and Dave brought me a clean change of clothes—black slacks, white dress shirt, and a red tie for my arraignment. Deodorant would’ve been nice, as I wasn’t given the luxury of a shower down at the San Diego Central Jail.

Tax attorneys typically don’t get to see the seedy side of the criminal court system.  My wrists chafed under the white plastic tie-wraps.  Ankle chains scraped the floor.  When I entered the courtroom, my ears and cheeks burned.  The gaze of every person in the courtroom drilled into my skin.  I felt like a pig led to the slaughterhouse.

Behind a wooden table, I stood next to Rachel.  Dave sat right behind me in the gallery.  The honorable Judge Matthew Crawford awaited the reading of the docket number.

His Honor was a short man with a balding pate, delineated by two white strips of hair on each side of his head.   Every now and then he wiped his glasses with the sleeve of his robe.  The scowl permanently etched into his features testified to the fact he was not as impatient as he looked. 

He was much
more
so.

Across from Rachel was Thomas Walden, the District Attorney.  He stood at least a head taller than her.  A robust man in his fifties, he wore a dark suit, a bright yellow tie and spoke with a haughty New England accent.

When the case number was announced, my attorney stepped forward.  "Rachel Cheng for the defendant.  Waive reading and enter a plea of not guilty.  I’m requesting that the charges be dropped."

"Thomas Walden for the State, your honor, and is counsel joking?  The State would request that the defendant be held without bail."

"My client is innocent."

"All right, Ms...Ms..." Crawford narrowed his eyes at Rachel and glanced down at his notes.

"Cheng, your honor.  Rachel Cheng."

"Right."  He cleared his throat. Let’s continue."  My heart pounded.
Where was the real killer? 
He
needed to be here, standing before this judge, not me.

"My client is not a flight risk."

Walden scoffed.  "You think he’ll sit around waiting for his conviction?"

"His four year old son is lying in a coma at Children’s hospital right now."

Crawford’s shoulders slowly rose, then fell.

"Your honor," Rachel said, "I respectfully request O.R."

"Are we even talking about the same case?" Walden said, with a sneer.  "You know the severity of the charges, and you want him released on his own recognizance?"

"Do I even get a chance to make an argument, your honor?"

"All right, all right, fine," Crawford said, barely interested.  "Does the defendant have strong ties to the community?  Relatives, extended family?"

"His in-laws."

A grunt and the judge scribbled something, no longer looking at Rachel.  "And how long has he resided in his community?"

"He’s lived in Rancho Carmelita for four months."

"Not very long."

"But he’s lived in San Diego for about five years."

"Current employment?"

"Unemployed.  But he was a tax attorney for a reputable law firm—"

"From which he was recently fired for possession of child pornography," Walden interrupted. 

"Alleged possession," Rachel said.

Walden huffed.  "Your honor, seriously.  This man should be held without bail.  God forbid he kills again, before the trial.  The child pornography alone—"

Unable to contain myself, I bolted up from my chair and said, "It wasn’t mine!"  The chair fell back and hit the floor.

"Bailiff," Crawford said.  The deputy leaned in my direction with his hand conspicuously resting on his gun.  I sat back down in my chair after Dave propped it back up.

"Sam, please.  Keep calm," he whispered.

Rachel glanced over to me.  Then back to Crawford.  "Your honor. My client denies the allegations.  There’s no definitive proof that the downloaded images are actually his."

Walden smiled.  "It was in his own network directory."

"Sticking to the case at hand," she said, "my client has no priors."

"One out of four," Walden said, containing the chuckle.  "Not bad."

"All right," said Crawford.  "Bail is set at three point five million dollars." He lifted his gavel and just before he rapped it down, Rachel interrupted.

"Your honor, the Eighth Amendment requires that the bail not be excessive."

"Excuse me?" His left eyebrow cocked upwards.

"Bail should not be used to punish a person for being
suspected
of committing—"

"Believe it or not, Counsel, I am familiar with the Eighth Amendment," Crawford said, his pitch rising.

Walden stood there, resting his chin in the sling between his thumb and index finger, his elbow on his other hand.  He was smiling as Rachel rolled out more and more rope to hang herself with. 

Rachel went on.  "But the purpose of bail is to afford an arrested person freedom until actually convicted of a crime, and the bail amount must be no more than is reasonably necessary to keep him from fleeing, before a case is over."

Crawford, leaned forward, lowered his bifocals and glared.  "You’re obviously a little wet behind the ears, Ms. Cheng, and that’s all right..." No, it’s not, I thought.  I’m dead.  "But let me give you a bit of advice—would that be okay?"

Rachel nodded.

"Do not lecture the court on the Constitution!"

She kept her head up with a hint of defiance. Swallowed.  "I apologize, your honor.  But it seems to me that you're setting bail as preventive detention."

Walden struggled to keep a straight face. 

Eyes widened again, the judge glared at her with incredulity.  "Keep this up and I’ll bump it to four million."  Crawford raised his gavel.

"At this time," Rachel said, wincing as though the gavel was about to land on her head, "I would like to move for a probable cause hearing."

Both Walden and Crawford threw their hands up, rolling their eyes.  "Oh for the love of—"

"Ms. Cheng," Crawford growled and then drew a long breath.  "I am not known for my patience."

"Oh my God," I murmured.  The void in my chest was matched only by the sinking feeling in my gut.  I put my head down into my arms on the table, but Dave reached over the rail and yanked me back up by the elbow.

"Keep your head up," he said, releasing me before the bailiff noticed.

I plastered on my ‘dignified’ face.

"Prosecutorial misconduct, your honor," said Rachel.  "My client’s Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights were violated."

"You have evidence?" Crawford said.

"Yes."

Walden turned around and looked at Detective Pearson, who sat expressionless.

"Go on, then," Crawford said.

Rachel came back to the desk and pulled some papers from her briefcase. "Trust me?" she whispered.

Did I have a choice?  I nodded, tentatively. 

She patted my arm and approached the bench.  Walden rolled his eyes again.  I wondered if they might roll right out of his head.

Rachel took a deep breath, then began. "Though my client was read his Miranda rights, he was not given access to a phone or an attorney for several hours.  At least two attempts at interrogations were made, despite the fact that my client had in fact stated that he wanted an attorney.  The District Attorney’s office sent Kenneth Dodd, DDA, in an attempt to extract a statement by knowingly and willfully misrepresenting himself as a State appointed
defense
attorney."

Walden cleared his throat.  "A simple misunderstanding, Your Hon—"

Rachel clicked her tongue.  "Give me a break."  As she fired off her list of improprieties, the D.A. could barely get a word in edgewise.  With each item, the smugness on his face faded.  The judge’s scrutinizing glower gradually shifted to Walden.

"My client was detained for over eight hours before he was booked in the San Diego Central Jail."

Arms crossed over her chest, Detective Pearson tugged on her earlobe.