Daughter's Keeper (34 page)

Amanda Steele next turned to Jorge's testimony. She went through it, item by item, and then she paused. “The idea of a man testifying against his own girlfriend and accomplice may be troubling to some of you.” Olivia looked at the members of the jury, one of whom, the black businessman, was nodding his head. “I ask you, however, to view this from another perspective. Mr. Rodriguez realized the error of his ways. He confronted his own culpability and determined to take responsibility for his actions. He confessed his crimes to the investigating officers and offered to do what was necessary to make up for his misdeeds. Testifying honestly and forthrightly was what was necessary. Describing the entirety of the events was what was required. That includes implicating his accomplices, including the defendant.”

Olivia looked back at the juror who had seemed to condemn Jorge for turning on her. His face was blank. Olivia licked her lips, her mouth suddenly sticky and dry. She reached for the pitcher of water sitting on the table and poured a few inches into a paper cup. She drank it down in a single gulp. Then she felt Izaya's hand on her arm. He patted it gently, and, when she looked at him, nodded very slightly, as if to remind her that everything was going to be okay. She exhaled with a sigh, conscious for the first time that she had been holding her breath. She wasn't sure for how long.

Amanda Steele ended her closing argument by thoroughly rehashing Gabriel Contreras's testimony. Then she said, “The world of drugs and drug dealers is a murky one, hidden from the light of law-abiding, decent society. In order to infiltrate this society, our law enforcement officers must make use of individuals like Mr. Contreras, whose own pasts have put them in contact with the underworld. There is, unfortunately, no other way to fight these crimes. Mr. Contreras is a valuable and trusted informant for both the FBI and DEA. Again and again, he has participated in sting operations that have uncovered crimes and criminals that otherwise would have gone undetected.”

Finally the prosecutor paused, picked up her stack of notecards, and tapped them together. She replaced them on the podium and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I am confident that you will find that the government of the United States has proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the defendant is guilty of the crimes of drug trafficking, conspiracy, and the use of a communications device in the commission of a drug crime. Thank you for your time and your consideration.”

She returned to her table and sat down, crossing her legs primly at the ankles.

Judge Horowitz shook his wrist with the heavy watch strapped to it at Izaya. “Counsel, you want a break before you start?”

“No thanks, your honor. We're ready to go, aren't we, Olivia?” he smiled at Olivia, and she nodded back. He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. She could not figure out if he did so to reassure and comfort her or to show the jury that she was someone he cared about and thus someone they should care about, too. Perhaps he meant to do both.

Izaya didn't take any notes up to the podium. In fact, he didn't use the podium at all. He loped up to the front of the courtroom, his tripod tucked under his arm. He set it up directly in front of the jury, walked back to the defense table, and picked up the poster with the dollar figure.

“I'm going to set this right here,” he said. He placed the poster on the tripod and stood back for a moment as if to admire it. Then he turned to the jury.

“Three million, five hundred and sixty thousand, six hundred and thirty-three dollars.” His voice managed to be both conversational and confiding, and booming at the same time. “Let me say that one more time, because, honestly, I don't think we can repeat it often enough. Three million, five hundred and sixty thousand, six hundred and thirty-three dollars. In four years. That's about twenty times what I earn. How about you? And let's not forget that that's
tax-free
dollars.

“Now, you and I, we pay taxes on our money or we're looking at a little thing called an IRS audit. Not so for Mr. Contreras. He just doesn't bother with things like tax returns. I guess if you've got a free pass from the DEA, well then, tax returns seem pretty silly. As long as Mr. Contreras can find some poor sucker to buy his line and do his deal, he can do pretty much what he wants. He spends his piles of cash on whatever it is he desires. He drives his beautiful SUV, courtesy of the DEA, the FBI, and you and me, the American taxpayers. He doesn't bother to insure the car, because what the hell, the laws don't apply to him. He doesn't even have to go to jail like the rest of us when he deals cocaine. He's got a ­get-out-of-jail-free card.” Izaya reached behind the poster with the ­dollar figure and pulled out a blowup of a
Monopoly
get-out-of-jail-free card. A few of the members of the jury laughed.

“
This
is what you need if you're a coke-dealing Cuban. Because without this here get-out-of-jail-free card,” Izaya whacked the card with his hand and Olivia jumped at the sharp noise, “our Mr. Contreras would be looking at indefinite detention.
Indefinite.
A life sentence. Like, until he dies. Or Castro dies. Whichever comes first.

“Let's put ourselves in Gabriel's shoes for a moment, as despicable a thought as that might be.” Izaya gave a little shudder. “You're a drug-dealing Cuban. You bust out of an insane asylum, come to America, and start living the cocaine high life. But you're not too bright, and you get yourself arrested. We all heard from our friend at the Immigration and Naturalization Service what happens to coke-dealing Cubans.

“Remember what happens?” He gazed at the jury for a moment and a few of them nodded. “They go to jail. Forever. Why? Because we don't want them here. We don't need any more coke dealers in our country. We want to send them back where they came from.” Izaya shook his head and sighed. “But we can't. We can't send them back to Cuba. And we don't want to inflict them on the rest of decent society. So we put them in jail, where they belong, and we hold them. We hold them until they can go back to their own country. Now, Fidel Castro may be a dictator, but he isn't a fool; he doesn't want these drug-dealing criminals any more than we do. He won't take Gabriel Contreras. So Gabriel goes to jail. For the rest of his life.

“Except he doesn't, does he? Because the FBI and the DEA get this bright idea. Let's take this mental patient, this drug-dealing criminal, and let's
hire
him as an
informant
. Let's promise him that if he sets people up, he can
get out of jail
. Hell, let's fill his pockets with gold and give him the good life, as long as he keeps setting up folks.

“And do the DEA and the FBI care who he sets up? Nope. They do not. Do they care if he sets up people who would never have considered doing a drug deal if it weren't for Gabriel? Nope. Hell, it's another notch in the belt, a conviction on the board. Who cares if the person we arrest is a young girl with no criminal past who's never done anything like this in her life. Go for it,
hombre
. Set up an innocent girl. Here's your free pass.” Izaya lifted the get-out-of-jail-free card up, shook it, and set it back down.

“And do you know the saddest thing, my friends?” Izaya said, shaking his head. He paused, and the courtroom was silent for a moment. Olivia watched a few of the jurors lean forward in their seats. “The saddest thing,” Izaya said, finally, “is they don't even care if he
lies
. And man, oh man, does this guy lie. He lies to the folks he sets up. He lies to the cops. Hell, he lies to the judge. And worst of all, he lies to you. We sat in this courtroom for hours, very
long
hours,” he smiled at them ruefully, “and we played tapes of this criminal's perjury.” Izaya reminded them of a few of the more egregious examples. “But does he care about committing perjury? No, he most certainly does
not
care about committing perjury. He couldn't care less. And do you know why not? Do you know why he doesn't care?” He turned to them and spread his arms as if waiting for an answer. Then he said, “What has he got?”

The jurors looked at one another and then back at him.

Izaya pointed at the poster of the
Monopoly
card. “He's got a get-out-of-jail-free card.” The young Asian woman on the jury mouthed the words along with him, and Olivia felt something akin to delight shiver through her. She clamped her lips together to keep from smiling.

Izaya then moved on to talk about Jorge, “the pathetic and dangerous boyfriend.” “My friends, that miserable excuse for a man wants
his baby
to be born in jail just so that the prosecutor over there will carve a few years off his prison sentence. And she is only too willing to do it. Because to the
government
,” Izaya spat the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, “it doesn't matter
who
goes down for the crime, as long as
someone
does. And the more time the better. If the real culprit will agree to testify against an innocent bystander, by all means! Give him a deal, by all means, and let's drag as many other people along as we can, by all means! Let's get us the poor girlfriend. You know the one? The one who didn't call the cops on her boyfriend when she should have? That one. The pregnant one, whose crime consists of answering the phone and getting a ride home after a hard day at work. Let's get her!

“Answering the phone and taking a ride home. That's what Olivia did, folks. When the father of her unborn baby suddenly decided that standing on a street corner looking for an honest day's work wasn't good enough for the likes of him, that he was going to go into the drug business, she did her best to convince him to stop. She yelled, she screamed, she cried. Hell, the creep himself admitted that she tried to make him stop. But he wouldn't listen to reason. He wouldn't listen to her. There was nothing she could do to make him stop. Nothing short of calling the cops and turning him in. And she didn't do that. Maybe she should have. But she didn't. What
did
she do? She took a phone message. And she went along for the ride late one night. She got in the car, because it was late, and she was tired, and she wasn't sure how else to get home from work. From working at a job, by the way, that she used to support the good-for-nothing. A job that let
her
earn the money he was too
good
to earn.

“The prosecutor is asking you to convict this poor, young mother-to-be of conspiracy because she committed the crime of
love
. She loved this man. Was it foolish? Probably. Does she have lousy taste in men? Most certainly. But what was it that she did? She took a phone message and a ride. Yet her most egregious offense was one of omission. She didn't call the police. She didn't turn the father of her baby in to the cops. And for that, the prosecutor wants you to send her to jail.

“Jorge? He's getting a sweet deal in return for setting her up. Gabriel? He's walking around with three and a half million of your dollars. But Olivia? What's going to happen to Olivia?”

Izaya looked over his shoulder at Olivia, his eyes damp as if he were about to cry. He was carefully positioned so that the jury could see both his face and hers. He smiled at Olivia tenderly and shook his head. Then he heaved a sigh and turned back to the jury.

“The prosecutor wants you to send Olivia to prison. What do
you
want to do?”

***

Amanda Steele's rebuttal argument was a brief restatement of her case against Olivia. Then it was the judge's turn. For once, he managed to keep his eyes off his watch. He described the offenses in the indictment and told the jury what they would have to find in order to convict Olivia. He instructed them as to the meaning of reasonable doubt. The jury finally filed out of the courtroom shortly before noon. Izaya told Olivia, Elaine, and Arthur that the jurors would most likely order lunch before even beginning their deliberations.

“I don't expect to hear from them before three at the earliest. And they might stay out longer than that. Or even until tomorrow, although I doubt it. Juries like to go home at the end of the day. It's a powerful incentive to compromise. So, I'd suggest you stay close, but not too close. Go get some lunch.”

“Would you join us, Izaya?” Elaine asked. “I think we should all go out somewhere special. Like Marcel's. The French place? It's right around the block.”

“I'm afraid I can't let you take me out. Federal public defenders aren't allowed to accept anything from clients. Not even lunch.” He smiled apologetically.

“Oh, that's a shame,” Elaine said.

“Will you join us, anyway?” Arthur asked. “We'll let you pay for your own lunch.”

“Sure, why not?” Izaya said.

Olivia turned away from them and began walking down the hall.

“Olivia?” her mother called.

“Um, I have to use the bathroom,” Olivia said.

“Why don't Arthur and I head over and get a table, and you two can follow. Do you mind waiting for Olivia, Izaya?”

“Not at all. I've got to run my stuff up to my office, anyway.”

Olivia took a long time in the ladies room. She desperately had to pee, but the baby seemed to be sitting on her urethra or bladder, preventing the stream from being anything more than a trickle. She hoisted up her belly in her hands and, after a moment or two, felt the relief of a rush of urine. She sat for a while, even after she was done, thinking about Izaya in the courtroom. His performance had been impressive; had it been on someone else's behalf, she might even have burst into applause at the more dramatic moments. But his oration had been on her behalf. It was for
her
that he had strode around the courtroom impressing the jury with his honest outrage, his concern and tenderness. It had
seemed
so real, felt so real; yet she knew that it was also contrived.