Gods Go Begging (25 page)

“Did you see them up there? They were shaking with fear and that jury was hanging on their every word. If the victim did have a gun in his hand, none of those witnesses was going to say it. Your terror tactics made sure of that. This is not Vietnam, Vung. You should’ve told me.”

Hong Ha, the Vietnamese interpreter, reached out and touched Jesse’s wrist. “Calm down, Mr. Pasadoble,” he said gently. “Vung will suffer for his stupidity.”

“We didn’t get at the truth in this trial, Hong,” said Jesse. “Vung should be sentenced for the truth of his crime, not for his stupidity.”

Vung turned to the Vietnamese interpreter. There was a word that he could not say in English.

“Appeal?” said the translator.

“Appeal what?” asked Jesse, now even angrier than before. “Newly discovered evidence? The victim had a gun in his hand? Vung, it has to be evidence that we couldn’t have discovered at the time of trial, even with due diligence. I don’t think it applies to evidence that the defendant himself decides his attorney shouldn’t have. We couldn’t investigate a self-defense because you wouldn’t let us!”

There was a soft overlay of Vietnamese above Jesse’s English as he spoke. Hong Ha’s lips moved no farther than five inches from the defendant’s ear as he translated.

“You told all those witnesses out there not to talk to me or my investigator. You did that, Vung. It was you. You made me try this case in a straitjacket. I know that this jury suspected that something else was happening at that party, that’s why they compromised on their verdict. If we had been allowed to work on this case, who knows what they might have done? You could be free today.”

Vung turned toward the interpreter and whispered a full sentence in Vietnamese.

“He says,” began the interpreter, “that the guns are in the lake in Golden Gate Park.”

Jesse’s head fell into the palms of his hands. Long ago he had learned to respect the tough single-mindedness of men like Vung. Short, small-boned men like him had once ridden down the Ho Chi Minh trail on bicycles, carrying dismantled artillery pieces or enormous bags of rice on their sweating, breaking backs.

“Vung, you number-ten dinky-dau.”

“Vung,” repeated the interpreter, “you are worthless and crazy.”

Jesse turned to face the interpreter. Generalized, diffuse anger was beginning to focus, to acquire direction.

“I want you to translate this word for word.”

The interpreter nodded solemnly.

“Look at me, Vung.”

Vung raised his eyes to meet those of his lawyer. It was the first time the two had ever made eye contact. In the jail the prisoner had steadfastly refused to look at his lawyer’s face. He had spent long, silent hours feigning bored deafness and staring at the Formica tabletop or at the ceiling of the interview room.

“Bao Vung, you are a stupid son of a bitch. And now you are a sorry bastard with a whole lot of time on your hands. I will file your appeal. I will file a declaration saying that I messed up your case. My investigator will file a second declaration of his own. He will say that he failed to investigate the possibility of a second gun. I will prepare a motion for a new trial based on newly discovered evidence and ineffective assistance of counsel.

“I will do whatever I can. I was ready to do just that over a year ago. I want you to know that if it would do any good, I would beat you to a pulp right now for what you’ve done to yourself. It’s what I feel like doing.”

Jesse held a clenched fist in front of his client’s face. There were tears in Vung’s eyes, and he turned away from both the interpreter and his lawyer.

“He’s got to go now,” said Bruce, the bailiff, sternly. Manny Valenzuela, a second bailiff, had joined him.

Just then Jesse caught a glimpse of two forms seated in the back of the courtroom, It was Eddy Oasa, his investigator, and Carolina, his ex-girlfriend, sitting silently and respectfully in the last row of seats. They had heard the verdict and smatterings of the conversation af terward. Jesse waved them forward, but only Eddy rose and walked to the defense table.

“I’m very sorry, man,” said Eddy. “You did the best you could for him. He sunk himself.”

“I must love pain,” said Jesse wearily. “I must really love it. Did you hear what he just told me?” Eddy shook his head, no. As he watched his client being escorted from the room, Jesse spoke in a restrained, controlled voice. “He told me that Ky had a gun. He just told me that the two guns are at the bottom of a lake in Golden Gate Park.”

Eddy slumped visibly as he listened. For this trial he had interviewed scores of terrified witnesses. Over time he had come to believe that Ky had been carrying a gun, but he could never prove it. No witness had answered any of his questions without first having a heated discussion in Vietnamese with his family or the elders of his community. Only a few small merchants had talked, and they had said that Ky ran a protection racket and was never without his gun. Eddy looked to the front of the courtroom and watched as Bruce and Manny took Vung on the very first steps of his twenty-five-year journey.

Soon enough this courtroom, the color of the oak paneling, and the dry taste of the recycled air would be lost in the mists of his diminished life, a life that would become a grinding gray monotony of restraints, manacles, hobbles, Cyclone fences, razor wire, and bars. Over the years, time would distort everything that had happened today.

Bao Vung’s recollections of this trial would be reduced, boiled down to a few faint flashes: a tearful witness, a standing foreperson, the fearsome, echoing words of a court clerk, and the brown and red face of an angry lawyer. Awash in an ocean of years, he would soon forget the insignificant slice of an instant when an index finger tickled a hair trigger, that single drop in a swelling sea of time when a firing pin moved forward to strike a center-fire cartridge.

The bailiffs were leading him toward a world without butter, forks, knives, or shoestrings; a world devoid of spices, French coffees, or Vietnamese food. It would be almost three decades before he would slurp a bowl of noodles or savor the taste of lemon grass and mint. The heavy door slammed behind Bao Vung and he began to move through a dark maze of cramped, barred rooms, through a quarter century of stainless-steel commodes, waxy single-ply toilet paper, stupid tattooed cellmates, and televisions with tiny nine-inch screens. Before he next saw the sunlight he would smoke twenty-three thousand packs of Salems and Kools, receive six thousand letters, and write five times as many.

A man who may well have fired a gun in self-defense had made the fateful decision to let his chain-smoking, Elvis-haired hoodlum friends intimidate all the witnesses. Appeals would be filed in vain. On the day of his release from prison, he would qualify for Social Security.

“What’s happening, Eddy?” asked Jesse, who was also staring toward the holding cell. The image of Bao Vung disappearing into the jail elevator was now burned into his memory.

“You know how the cops have been trying to find Little Reggie Harp?” said Eddy excitedly. “Well, they found him.”

“Where?” asked Jesse, suddenly diverted from his sadness. “Was it the Hayward cops? He has a cousin in Hayward, doesn’t he?” As he spoke he glanced toward the back of the courtroom where Carolina sat silently. She is so beautiful, but demanding, excessively demanding, thought Jesse. She wants a normal, healthy, loving relationship. Her presence in this part of his life made him uncomfortable.

“No, man,” continued Eddy excitedly. “They found him in the projects. He never left Tourette’s Hill.” There was an incredible intensity in his voice.

“Has he given a statement?” asked Jesse, suddenly unaware of Bao Vung, who was now four floors overhead and sobbing in his cell. “Did he mention Calvin?”

“He ain’t never going to talk again.”

“Oh no!” shouted Jesse. “How long?”

“A week, maybe ten days. It was hard to tell. The homicide inspectors think there were four or five generations of insect predation present. He could have been put into the ground two days after the killings at the Amazon Luncheonette. But get this. He had a note on his body from someone we both know and love. It was a death threat. they found it in one of his pockets.”

“Biscuit Boy can write? Calvin writes notes? Did you see the paragraph he sent me about the book he’s reading? He’s on his third rewrite. The spelling and penmanship are below high school level.”

As he spoke Jesse removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to Eddy, who glanced at it briefly.

“He sure wrote this one,” said Eddy, “and he signed it for good measure. The lab found his fingerprints all over the note. I’ve heard from the cops that it says Little Reggie is a dead man. Unless it was smuggled out of the jail, Calvin must have written it before his arrest. But listen, Jesse, you ain’t heard the best part. They’re digging up the whole damn hill. Tourette’s Hill looks like Swiss cheese.”

“Where is this Tourette’s Hill?” asked Jesse impatiently.

“Potrero Hill, man,” said Eddy. “Ain’t you down with the new lingo?”

“Are they looking for the murder weapon, the gun?”

“No, man. It’s bigger than that. Someone called in a bomb threat. The anonymous caller said that there was a pipe bomb buried near a wrecked car just below the projects, so the bomb squad brought in a metal detector, a robot arm and a dog. There wasn’t any bomb, but the dog started digging behind a Dumpster and found Little Reggie. While homicide detail and the coroner were securing the first crime scene, the dog went running up the hillside about thirty feet or so and found another one. They’ve found three bodies so far and they’re looking for more.”

“Jesus, let’s go!” said Jesse. “Any identities on the other two?”

“Not yet, but they’re all young NMAs, Negro male adults. It’s strange that no one ever reported any of those boys as missing. Word up on the hill is that kids have been disappearing up there for several months now.”

“This is bad,” said Jesse as he shoved Vung’s thick case files into a briefcase. “This is very bad. Now there’s no one else to prosecute for the Flyer and Adrong murders except Calvin Thibault. The jury won’t like us blaming the crimes on a moldering corpse. Juries always want to punish a living human being.”

Jesse walked to the back of the courtroom as Eddy read the sheet of paper that Jesse had handed him.

“Hello, Carolina,” said Jesse as he stopped at the last row of seats. If he felt something, his voice gave no indication. Carolina stood up and took one step toward him. She was not surprised at his tone of voice. Jesse Pasadoble was always protecting himself.

“I’m sorry about your client. I need to talk to you,” she said. She tried to smile but gave up. She seemed distracted for a second, then regained her focus, reclaiming her inner strength.

“I don’t have a lot of time today—”

“I don’t mean right now,” interrupted Carolina. “It doesn’t have to be right now. I knew this wouldn’t be a good time -not that I knew what the verdict would be, but Eddy told me you’d be here. I don’t want to do this, but if I don’t …” She caught herself, inhaled deeply, and began again. “Come by when you can sit and communicate with me … just talk with me. That’s all I want. I’ll cook something for you—and I swear to the dark virgin that it won’t be a veggie burger.” She smiled a wistful, awkward smile, then quickly left the courtroom. “Goodbye, Eddy,” she called out after the swinging doors had closed behind her.

“The dark virgin? asked Eddy after waving goodbye to Carolina.

“La Morena,” answered Jesse with only the hint of a smile, “is the patron saint of Mexican food. Carolina is one of those health-food fanatics. You know, ninety-grain breads and drinks made from crabgrass and yeast.”

Jesse and Eddy walked from the courtroom into the large tiled hallway that ran the length of the third floor. Thankfully, there were no jurors lingering on the benches—they had all dissolved into the weekend and back into their own lives. Any reservations they had about their verdict had dissipated into space by the time they reached their homes. Farther down the hallway Carolina had stopped at a kiosk to buy a juice.

“Eddy, can I meet you at Tourette’s Hill in about twenty minutes? ”

Eddy noticed Carolina in line at the kiosk, smiled, then nodded at Jesse. He snapped open his sunglasses, adjusted them on his nose and ears, then disappeared through an exit door. Jesse walked down the hallway, all the while watching the woman who was now extending her hand to receive change. Carolina was having an intense conversation with the concessionaire. Making friends always came easy to her. She was probably trying to convince the poor guy behind the counter to stock more health foods. Jesse laughed to himself. The bottle in her left hand probably contained a dull gray mixture of free-range organic carrot juice and herbal teas that had been lovingly fertilized with the sterilized droppings of silent, celibate monks.

He sat down on a bench behind her. He could tell that she hadn’t noticed him. He used the opportunity to look closely at her face and hair, her huge brown eyes. She was wearing baggy clothes: men’s overalls and a heavy fatigue jacket. Had he ever really seen her? He had known so many women and had failed to love any of them. All of those relationships had ended with Jesse’s wondering why the woman was so sad, so angry. When the initial passion was gone, what was left? Jesse had always taken his leave at the same time: when sexual demands gave way to emotional demands. He had warned Carolina. He had told her what to expect. He furrowed his brow in consternation. Why was this the first and only relationship that felt like a failure?

Despite her present manner of dress, she was a beautiful Spanish and Italian woman from Berkeley, who, at the age of seven, had decided that her primary ambition in life was to be a Chicana. Her father had been a sailor in the Second World War and had met her mother Rose on the island of Trinidad.

Her given name had been Giselle, but what Chicana could tolerate or even pronounce that name? For a time she had used the name Carole, but had abandoned it in favor of the Spanish version, Carolina. In truth, it was her second mother, her Italian wet nurse and babysitter, who gave her the name. Signora Stella Trovato, a woman who had spent her youth singing and dancing in the bars and bistros of San Miguel de Allende, had filled the child’s mouth with macaroni and menudo, and her ears with old Italian sayings and the lyrics to a hundred Mexican songs.