Goldenboy (5 page)
I heard the
rustling of papers in the gallery as the reporters scribbled their notes.
Pisano would make the news tonight.
“I really must
object,” Sharon Hart said. “That remark is completely improper.”
The judge glowered
at the D.A. “Mr. Pisano, that comment is not well taken.”
“My apologies,” the
D.A. said smoothly. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn. But the court must understand
the People’s frustration. This motion is so mysterious, Your Honor. I’m
completely at a loss as to why a perfectly competent lawyer like Mrs. Hart
wants off this case.”
“Mrs. Hart.”
“Your Honor, it
took me a minute but I finally understand what the D.A. is up to. He wants me
to put on the record why my office can’t represent Mr. Pears. We obviously can’t
do that without compromising the defense. This court will simply have to accept
my representation that an irreconcilable conflict exists between me and Mr.
Pears.”
The judge’s
eyebrows darted up. Judges do not appreciate being told what they must accept.
“Nonetheless,” the
judge observed, “the motion is discretionary with me.”
Seeing her mistake,
Sharon said, “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, Judge. I’m just saying the
prosecution wants a sneak preview of the defense. They’re not entitled to that.”
Pisano broke in. “Your
Honor, as you point out, granting or denying this motion is your choice. I just
don’t see how you can make a fair decision based on some vague representation
of irreconcilable conflicts. We’re not talking no-fault divorce here.”
“Anything else?”
Judge Ryan asked, looking at Hart and Pisano.
“Submitted,” both
lawyers said in unison.
The judge stared
uneasily into space.
“What’s she
thinking?” I whispered.
“She’s thinking
that if she grants the motion she’d better have a good reason because the D.A.
will file a writ petition in the Court of Appeal before the ink is dry on her
order,” Sharon whispered back.
I heard the clink
of metal and remembered that Jim Pears, who had been ignored during the
hearing, was still sitting at the end of the table.
“What does
Jim—”
I began.
“Shush,” Sharon
snapped. The judge had begun to speak.
“...
concerned, Mrs. Hart, that I don’t have enough of a
basis to rule intelligently on your motion. Now I can appreciate you not
wanting to tip your hand to the prosecution. So what I think I’ll do is take
Mr. Rios, you and the reporter into chambers and have you put the conflict on
the record. I will then order that portion of the transcript sealed. Is that
acceptable?”
I watched the
struggle in Sharon’s face. She clearly thought her word that a conflict existed
should be enough, but she also wanted to win.
“Yes, Judge,” she
said.
“What about the
People?” the D.A. asked.
“What about the
People?” the judge repeated with exasperation.
“Well, I thought-”
“Nice try, Mr.
Pisano,” the judge said. “Court’s in recess. Mrs. Hart, Mr. Rios.”
We followed her
back across a corridor into her chambers and sat down while she took off her
robe and hung it up. There was a framed law degree on the wall from Stanford
and, next to it, a picture of the judge shaking hands with the Democratic
governor who had appointed her to the bench. The windows of her office
overlooked City Hall and the Times-Mirror Building. She sat down behind a vast
rosewood desk.
“All right,” she
began briskly. “We’re in chambers on People versus Pears. Mrs. Hart, tell me
about this conflict.” The reporter’s fingers flew across the keyboard of her
machine as the judge spoke.
“My client refuses
to cooperate in preparing a defense,” she said.
“He wants to plead
guilty?” the judge asked.
“No, he insists he’s
not guilty.”
Judge Ryan grinned.
“Most defendants do, Mrs. Hart.”
“That’s not a
tenable defense,” Sharon insisted.
The judge nodded,
thoughtfully. “Unless you have a secret weapon, the evidence presented at the
prelim seems pretty conclusive.”
“There is no secret
weapon,” Sharon said. “At least in regards to whether he did it. But, as to why
he did
it...
“ She let the sentence trail off.
“I understand,” the
judge said.
We were at a
delicate point. Since Judge Ryan would be presiding at the trial there was a
limit to what Sharon Hart could disclose to her about the defense without
laying the judge open to a charge of being less than completely impartial.
“Anyway,” Sharon
continued, “I feel very strongly that I cannot continue to represent Mr. Pears
and I think he feels just as strongly that he can’t work with me, either.”
The judge turned to
me. “Mr. Rios.”
“I’m willing to try
the case on terms set by my client.”
The judge arched an
eyebrow. “Have
you
read the transcript of the preliminary
hearing?”
“Yes. However,
Judge, whatever the state of the evidence, there comes a point when you have to
do what your client wants
—
if, in
good conscience, you can.”
The judge frowned
but said nothing.
“He’s right, Judge,”
Sharon said, coming to my rescue. “It’s Jim who’s on trial here.”
The judge looked at
the reporter and said, “This is off the record.” The reporter stopped typing
and the judge said, “Do you really think Jim Pears has the wherewithal to call
the shots in this case?”
Sharon and I
exchanged surprised looks.
“Now I know I’m
speaking out of turn,” the judge continued, “but when I look at Jim Pears all I
see is fear. I’m going to grant your motion, Sharon, and I’ll give you some
time to prepare for trial, Mr. Rios, but I want you to know that I feel very
strongly that this is not a case that should be coming to trial. There should
be a disposition.”
“The D.A.’s not
giving an inch from murder one,” Sharon said sourly.
Judge Ryan set her
mouth into a grim smile. “The D.A.,” she said, “can be persuaded. All right.
You think about what I’ve said, Mr. Rios. Now let’s go out and do this on the
record.” “Yes, Judge,” we both chimed.
We preceded her
into the court. I asked Sharon what that was all about.
“It sounds to me
like she doesn’t want a jury to get their hands on Jim. If I were you, I’d
consider waiving a jury and having a court trial.”
I stopped at the
table where Jim was sitting and leaned over. “Jim, my name is Henry,” I
whispered.
He looked up at me
and said, “I didn’t do it.”
“Yes, Mr. Pisano,”
the judge said.
“The People wish to
move to amend the complaint.”
The judge looked
annoyed. “This isn’t exactly timely notice, counsel.”
“The Penal Code
says the People can move to amend at any time,” Pisano replied blandly.
“There’s a
difference between what’s permissible and what’s fair,” she snapped. “What’s
your amendment?”
Sharon Hart moved
to the edge of her seat. Pisano took out a stack of papers and passed a set of
them to me. The other set he handed to the bailiff who took them to the judge.
I glanced at the caption. It was a motion to amend the complaint and allege
special circumstances to the murder charge.
“You’re seeking the
death penalty?” the judge asked. Behind us, the gallery murmured. The bailiff
called the courtroom into order.
“Yes, Your Honor,”
Pisano replied.
Sharon Hart said,
audibly, “Bastard.”
“At the preliminary
hearing you said this wasn’t a special circumstances case,” Judge Ryan said.
Contritely, Pisano
replied, “I was wrong. We have reviewed the transcripts of the prelim and
looked at our evidence. We now think we can show special circumstances.”
I got to my feet. “Your
Honor, I’m not prepared to respond to this motion at this time. I’d ask that it
be put over for a couple of weeks to give me time to file an opposition.”
“Fine,” she said. “File
your papers within twenty-one days. I will hear arguments a month from today.
Court is adjourned.”
The judge left the
bench and the bailiff cleared the courtroom of reporters. The deputies who had
been standing beside Jim got him to his feet.
“When can I talk to
my client?” I asked one of them.
“He’ll be back at
county this afternoon.”
“Jim, I’ll be there
later.”
He stared past me
and nodded. They led him off.
The courtroom
cleared out quickly, until only Sharon Hart and I were left.
“You coming?” I
asked her.
“Not through that
door,” she said, indicating the front entrance. I remembered the reporters and
the
tv
cameras. “You?” she
asked.
“If I don’t,” I
said, “Pisano will have the boy convicted and sentenced by the six o’clock
news.”
“See you,” she
said, and slipped out the back.
“Mr. Rios, can you
answer a few questions?” I stood in a semicircle of reporters, the
tv
cameras running behind us in the busy corridor outside
the courtroom. Pisano — to his chagrin, I imagined — commanded a smaller group
down the hall.
“Sure,” I said. I
heard the clicking of cameras as a couple of photographers circled.
“What do you think
about the D.A. seeking the death penalty?”
“It’s an obvious
attempt to extort a guilty plea from my client,” I replied.
“Why did the Public
Defender withdraw from the case?”
“Irreconcilable
conflicts,” I said.
“What were they?”
“That’s information
protected by the attorney-client privilege,” I replied.
“What’s your
defense going to be?”
“Not guilty.”
“What about the
evidence?”
“What about it?”
“It’s pretty
strong.”
“Strong is not good
enough,” I said. “It has to be,” and I repeated the ancient charge to the jury,
“beyond a reasonable doubt and to a moral certainty. I expect to show that it’s
not.”
“How?”
Good
question,
I thought. To my interrogator, though, I said, “I’m not free to disclose the
details of our investigation.”
“What about the
political pressure by gays that the D.A. talked about? Is that true?”
“As counsel for the
People conceded, he was speaking out of turn.”
“Then it’s not
true?”
“Of course not.”
“But you are gay
aren’t you?”
I turned to face
the person who had asked the question. It was Brian Fox’s mother. She was
trembling with anger.
“Yes, I am, Mrs.
Fox, for what that’s worth.”
“You’re all thick
as thieves,” she said while the cameras turned on her. “All of you — faggots.
What about my boy? He’s dead.”
“Yes, I know,” I
said, and stopped myself from expressing condolences. It would only give her
another opportunity to attack. “I expect the facts surrounding his death will
come out at trial. All of them, Mrs. Fox.”
We glared at each
other. Her face was rigid. She pulled her head back, drew in her cheeks and
spat, hitting my neck. The
tv
cameras
recorded the incident. I wiped my neck with my handkerchief. She turned away
and clicked down the hall.
“There’s your lead,”
I told the reporters.
From the courthouse
I drove to Larry Ross’s house. Though he worked in Beverly Hills he lived on
the west side of the city. Silver Lake was a reservoir named in honor of a
tum-of-the-century water commissioner, but the fortuitous name aptly described
the metallic sheen of the water which was not quite a color but a quality of
light.
There were hills on
both the east and west sides of the lake. Larry lived in the west hills on a
street where the architecture ran the gamut from English Tudor to Japanese
ecclesiastical Stucco was the great equalizer. Larry’s house was sort of
generic Mediterranean. From the street it appeared as a two-story white wall
with an overhanging tile roof, small square windows on the upper floor and a
big, dark door set into an arched doorway on the lower. I parked in the
driveway and let myself in.
