Rag and Bone (33 page)

“No,” I said. “A dismissal for lack of evidence before trial doesn’t create double jeopardy, and there’s no statute of limitations on murder. You can refile on Vicky at any time, with the original second-degree murder count or any other charge you think you can prove. Am I right, Your Honor?”

She mulled it over. “Yes, he’s right, Mr. Pearsall. If I let her withdraw her plea, you’re not bound by the plea bargain if you decide to recharge her later.” She looked at me. “And you’d risk that?”

“She didn’t kill him, Judge.”

Pearsall said, “His client confessed. All this stuff”—he brushed the documents—“this is circumstantial. If you suppress her confession and dismiss the case, and then it turns out she did kill the dude, even if I can refile against her, I won’t have her confession, and that’s my best evidence.”

“If you refile the charge, the next judge won’t be bound by Judge Ryan’s ruling and you can try to get the confession in,” I said. “Plus, even if you can’t use it in your case-in-chief, you’d still be able to impeach her with it if she testified.”

“Very clever,” Ryan said. “You’ve covered all the angles, Mr. Rios, except one. What if the police can’t build a case against this other suspect except with your client’s testimony? If she refuses to testify, he’ll get away with murder.”

“Butch has got two outstanding arrest warrants as it is, and a rap sheet for serious and violent felonies a mile long. It’s just a matter of time before he’s picked up for something, and next time he’s convicted of any felony, he’ll go to prison for life under Three Strikes. If you want to tack on this murder charge at that point, I’ll persuade Vicky to testify. He’s not going to get away with anything.”

“If you expect me to stick my neck out on this case,” Judge Ryan said, “I want to hear from your client what happened that night. No offense, Mr. Rios, but you are her uncle. You may be too close. I want to judge her credibility myself.”

“Off the record?” I asked.

“I won’t request the reporter, if that’s what you mean,” she said, “but I will make her take the oath, and if I think she’s lying, she’s not the only one who’s going to be in trouble, Henry. You’ll be facing a contempt charge. Understand?”

“I understand, Your Honor.”

“Fine,” the judge said. She buzzed the clerk and told her to have the bailiff bring Vicky in.

“In the matter of
People
versus
Trujillo,”
Judge Ryan said from the bench, “the defendant’s motion to withdraw her plea is granted. I also grant defendant’s motion to suppress her confession based on a violation of her
Miranda
rights during the initial police interrogation. I base that decision on the transcript of the interrogation. Mr. Pearsall, are the People ready to proceed to trial?”

“Not at this time, Your Honor. Without the statement, the People are unable to proceed due to lack of evidence.”

“In that case,” the judge said, “I will dismiss the charges in the interests of justice pursuant to Penal Code section thirteen-eighty-two. I add for the record the following: This dismissal does not constitute double jeopardy, and if the People develop further evidence against the defendant, they are free to refile the original charge of second-degree murder or any other charge they believe the evidence will support. Do you understand that, Mrs. Trujillo? This is not a factual finding of innocence. The People could refile charges if they find other evidence against you.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said.

“With that understanding, then, the charges are dismissed. The defendant is ordered to be released forthwith. We’re adjourned.”

T
HE SECRETARY IN CHARGE
of the appointment of judges occupied a small corner office in the state capitol building in Sacramento. From his windows, a wedge of the verdant park that surrounded the building was visible. It was October and the grass was littered with red and yellow leaves. The secretary was a beetle-browed man named Ben Cohan, who had exchanged his partnership in a big L.A. firm for this unimposing cubicle because, along with his view of the park, the office had one other advantage. His next-door neighbor was the governor. Cohan was also undoubtedly aware that his immediate predecessor in this office now sat on the state supreme court.

“So, Henry,” he said. “Your application was very impressive. You also have quite a friend in Inez Montoya. There are a couple of questions I have to ask. You know the governor doesn’t have a litmus test on any issue, but he does want to know whether his judicial appointments can carry out the law, particularly the death penalty.”

Inez had warned me this question would be asked, but to her credit didn’t try to prompt me with the politically correct answer.

“The death penalty is immoral.”

Cohen gave a look of annoyance, as if we were actors on stage together and I’d flubbed my line. “But constitutional.”

“Yes, it’s constitutional.”

“You realize as a trial court judge you have to accept the U.S. Supreme Court’s conclusion about the constitutionality of the death penalty.”

“I learned about stare decisis in my first year at law school,” I said.

“Would your personal feelings prevent you from imposing the death penalty if a jury came back with it?”

“I took an oath to uphold the law when I became a lawyer. I knew when I swore that oath there would be times I couldn’t square what the law requires with my personal beliefs. That’s the deal I made twenty-five years ago. I’ve tried very hard to keep up my end.”

He tapped a pencil on a stack of folders. “Everyone knows how strongly the governor feels about the death penalty. Most of the people who’ve sat in your chair tripped all over themselves to assure me they’re pro-death, because they think that’s what I want to hear.”

“I’m not someone who tells people what they necessarily want to hear,” I replied. “I would think that would be a virtue in a judge.”

He opened the top folder and skimmed a couple of pages. “This is your application,” he said. “Very eloquent, but a little ambivalent, too. Why do you want to be a judge, Henry?”

“I’d be good at it,” I said.

He smiled. “That’s it? You want the job because you’re qualified?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

He closed the folder. “In a perfect world. In this world, you’re going to get the job because you have a Spanish surname, a powerful politician friend and you’re gay.” He laughed. “Your candor is contagious, Henry. I better keep you away from Joe.” Joe Rafferty, a.k.a. the governor. “Would you still take the job on those terms?”

“The important thing is not how you get the job, but how well you do it,” I replied. “If people want to think I got the job as a token, let them. I’ll prove them wrong.”

Cohan said, “I’m sure you will. This interview’s a formality. Next week, the governor will be announcing a dozen judicial appointments. You’ll be one of them.” He stood up and extended a slender pale hand. “Congratulations, Judge Rios.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand. “Tell the governor I won’t ever give him reason to regret this.”

Cohan raised an eyebrow. “Actually, Henry, I’m thinking you’ll be a pain in the ass. Go for it.”

Inez’s office was as lavish as Cohan’s had been austere, and as far from the governor’s chambers as she could get and still remain in the building. Her office was circular, with high ceilings and marble columns flanking tall, narrow windows with blue velvet drapes. The walls were painted a soft yellow, the parquet floors were covered with massive Oriental carpets and fighter jets could have landed on her desk. She was wearing a red linen suit over a white silk blouse, and I reflected that with each electoral success she became better-looking. I had just finished telling her about the interview with Cohan.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You deserve the job.”

“That doesn’t seem to be why I got it, but thanks. This is all your doing.”

She lit a cigarette. “On those mornings when I need help looking myself in the mirror, I’ll remember that I made you a judge.”

“I hope you don’t have those mornings very often, Inez.”

She waved away her smoke. “That’s what I love about you, Henry. Your innocence. In the little Mexican village where you and I would have lived a hundred years ago, you would have been the priest.”

“And what would you have been?”

“Someone’s wife,” she said. “The mother of his thirteen children. Instead, I’m raising millions of dollars to get myself elected to the Senate. I’m going to make it, too.”

“I know you are.”

She waved her cigarette. “Unless these kill me first. You do a good job in superior court, and when I get to the Senate, I’ll put you up for the federal bench.”

“There are no known gay federal judges.”

“There ain’t no lady Mexican senators, either,” she said. “You got to get over letting other people tell you what you can be.”

“Check,” I said. “You’ve stuck by me for twenty years, Inez. I’ve never been exactly sure why.”

“You’re my conscience,” she said. “Plus, I fell in love with you the first time we met. At that public defenders’ conference in Monterey, remember? You were everything I wanted in a man. Smart, brave, good-looking, Latin.”

“And gay.”

She shrugged. “I won’t tell you how many hours I cried over that. Well, I was only twenty-four. I got over my broken heart, but you never forget the first boy you love. Right?”

I smiled. “Right.”

“Speaking of boys, are you still dating that guy you told me about? John?”

“Yeah.”

“When do I get to meet him?”

“Next time you come down to L.A., if you have time.”

“Hey, if he’s half what you tell me he is, I’ll make the time.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Seriously, Henry. I’m happy you’ve found someone.” She looked at her watch. “I have a meeting. I’ll call you.”

I got up. “Thanks again, Inez. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she said.

My plane out of Sacramento was delayed, so I used the time to make some calls. The first was to Kim Pearsall. Two days earlier, Butch Trujillo had been arrested for armed robbery and attempted murder at a convenience store. He had been captured on tape shooting the clerk, who had just emptied the cash register and the safe. Pearsall wanted to tack Pete’s murder onto the charges. I had had a long talk with Vicky the night before and was calling him to give him her answer. He wasn’t going to like it. She was still afraid of Butch, and she worried that if she testified against him, his gang-banger friends would go after her or Angel.

“Back in July, you told Judge Ryan that Vicky would testify if Butch was in custody,” he said.

“I know what I said, but I didn’t expect he would be stupid enough to get himself arrested so soon. I mean, Vicky’s just now getting her life together again. No one in his family knows where she’s living or where she’s working, and she doesn’t want them to find out. If she testifies, they’ll know she’s still in L.A.”

“You want him to get away with murder?”

“The robbery’s dead-bang, right?”

“Yeah, we have him on video. The clerk survived and he’s already made an ID, and this time we got the gun. A three-eighty, in case you’re interested. Probably the same one he used to kill your dude.”

“He’s a three-striker. You convict him of the robbery and he’s going away for life. It wouldn’t matter if you charged him with the Lindbergh kidnapping.”

“The Lindbergh kidnapping? What’s that?”

“Never mind. The bottom line is that Vicky won’t testify.”

“I could make her.”

“You could get her on the stand, you can’t make her talk.”

“Damn it, Henry, we had a deal.”

“The safety of my family is more important,” I replied, then relented. “Look, Kim, convict him, put him away for life, and then we’ll talk again. Maybe I could persuade her to testify at that point.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he said.

“You’re the second person today who’s said that to me.”

“I got priority,” he replied, and hung up.

I thought about my niece on the plane back to L.A. She and Angel were living in an apartment about ten minutes’ walk from my house, and she had gone back to work as a maid at the downtown Sheraton. Both Elena and I had tried to persuade her to go back to school, get her GED and train for a real career, but she claimed to be happy cleaning rooms in a hotel. Often she worked double shifts, and when she did, I picked Angel up from school and brought him to my house. Vicky had also thrown herself into Reverend Ortega’s church, and while Angel would go to services, he resisted her attempts to get him involved in the youth group or prayer meetings or Bible class because it cut into his school studies. This was a source of friction between them—for which, I knew, she blamed me. Fortunately, Reverend Ortega assured her that Angel could be a good student and a good Christian. I suspected the second part of the formulation was wishful thinking on the Reverend’s part, but I was in no hurry for that fight and was relieved that Angel still uncomplainingly went to church. Between my niece and me, there remained some unbridgeable gap of temperament. She put up with me for Angel’s sake and I put up with her for Elena’s because the two of them had become closer. I know they spoke by phone every day, and Elena and her partner, Joanne Stole, usually came down once a month. We had tense little dinners, just like a real family. Still, it had been Vicky’s decision, after Jesusita Trujillo died, to cut off her ties with Pete’s family and throw in her lot with the Rioses. For Angel’s sake, of course; it seemed that our entire little family revolved around the boy.

At least Vicky liked John, but then, everyone liked John. Accustomed as I had been to the endless dramatics of my life with Josh, filled with hidden meanings and misunderstanding, it was a great relief to be with someone who was pretty much what he appeared to be. When I had mentioned this to him, he had laughed and told me that I was complicated enough for both of us. Actually, though, the older I get, the simpler things seem to me. Where once I would have spent hours wondering about the meaning of life and my place in it, now I am more apt to wonder what to give Angel for dinner. A much smaller question, to be sure, but one to which there is at least a concrete answer.