State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (12 page)

Beverly smiled. Wonder what news that might
be? She kept her fingers crossed that he would get the judgeship
even as she also recalled the last time they were together. It made
her hot just replaying the intimate nature of the occasion.

As for her, she would have to settle for
promotions within the D.A.’s office for the moment, Beverly mused.
These she saw perfectly within reach, so long as she continued
heading in the right direction.

Starting with a successful prosecution of
Rafael Santiago.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Manuel watched his old lady stuff her face
with chili and corn bread, downing it with cheap wine. He was doing
the same thing, but didn’t enjoy it half as much.

“I need some money,” he told her without
prelude.

She lifted her face. “There isn’t any,” she
said, as if this pleased her. “Not till I get paid next
Thursday.”

She expected him to believe that? Did she
think he didn’t know that she hid money from him?

Bitch.

“Just give me twenty for now,” he said
nicely, “I can wait for the rest.”

She rolled her eyes cynically. “What
didn’t
you understand, Manuel? We don’t have any money.
You’ve already spent everything the rent hasn’t gobbled up. Maybe
if you got a job, we’d have more money—”

Before even he knew the rage that had built
within him like fire in the furnace, Manuel had backhanded her
across the face. She clutched her reddened cheek like it was about
to fall off. For just an instant, he regretted hitting her. But he
would not apologize. Hell no.

She was disrespecting him. The stupid bitch.
He did not like it when women challenged his authority. Why the
hell did he put up with her crap? She was only really useful for
sex, and he could always get that somewhere else.

“See what you made me do!” He blamed her.
Women were always to blame for making men do things to hurt them.
They usually got what they were asking for. Even the whores.

“You bastard!” she spat defiantly.

He nearly slugged her with his fist, but
thought better.
Control your temper. Don’t do something crazy.
Not to her anyway. Not when you still need the bitch.

They would kiss and make up later and he
would still get his damned money. As always. Right now, he had to
get out of there and clear his head.

Manuel backed his chair from the table and
stood, glaring down at her. “Have it your way.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, eyeing him
suspiciously.

“I need to go out for some fresh air,” he
lied, knowing there sure as hell wasn’t much of that in this
neighborhood. “Don’t wait up for me.”

He knew she would. It wasn’t as if anyone was
waiting in the wings for her. Not that he would mind much if there
were. If someone actually wanted to put up with all the crap he
took from this bitch, the man could have her.

* * *

Manuel left by the side door, but not before
rummaging through her purse and taking what she had.

He went down to the tavern on the corner. The
neighborhood was largely Hispanic and African-American, though some
Asians had recently begun to take up residence as if to escape
their own hell. There were also the white whores who worked the
streets and gave whatever they earned to pimps, giving the area a
multicultural look. But to him, it would always be first and
foremost working class Mexican turf.

At the bar he had beer while sitting on a
stool. A flat screen TV sat on a wall like a picture. Manuel
considered this his home away from home. His office, where he
sometimes conducted business. He was tight with the owner, another
Latino who also grew up in the hood.

Manuel put the mug to his lips and watched
the ladies go by. They all knew him by name and swooned over him,
wanting the chance to get into his pants—and let him get into
theirs. Sometimes he was accommodating, other times disinterested.
He liked it better when he took what he wanted. It gave him a sense
of power no consensual sex ever could.

He looked up at the TV. The Asian broad on
the news was talking about the murder of the judge again and about
his wife being raped and beaten.

Now they showed the face of the man being
charged. They said his name was Rafael Santiago.

Manuel gazed steadily at the man who looked
enough like him to be his twin brother. Same good looks, olive skin
tone, and short black hair.

Problem was he didn’t have a twin brother. Or
maybe he did and just didn’t know it? Could be that they were
separated at birth, he grinned, scoffing at the notion.

He watched with interest.

How sure were they that they had the right
man in custody? Manuel wondered amusingly, drinking more beer.

If anyone else noticed the resemblance, they
weren’t saying it to his face.
I just might pay Santiago a visit
before they inject his ass with a lethal dose of drugs. People
would think they were seeing double. That sure as hell would shake
up the foundation at the place where they were keeping him
.

The Asian lady now talked about a dead woman
identified as Adrienne Murray, whose body was fished out of Eagles
Lake like a dead salmon. She was believed to have been murdered.
Videotape was shown of the grieving husband, who promised to do
everything in his power to bring the killer to justice.

Promises, promises
. Manuel frowned.
Why did everyone want to be a damned hero? Even those who had
something to hide?

And just as much to lose...

* * *

Manuel followed the one named Penelope from
the bar. She was a petite Latina, with nice breasts and
blonde-streaked brown hair. She had on a black leather mini dress,
practically showing half of her ass, and black stilettos.

Her apartment was two blocks away. He knocked
on the door, feeling the rush of excitement just like all the other
times. When the door opened, he gave her his best smile.

“Manuel!” She regarded him with surprise.
“What are you doing here?”

“To be honest, I followed you from the bar.”
He looked her over lasciviously. “I’ve been wanting us to get
together—” He hadn’t really, but she had been coming onto him for
months.

Penelope beamed. “Really?”

Manuel grinned convincingly. “I’m here, ain’t
I?”

She parted razor thin bangs. “Come on
in...”

He did, locking the door behind him.

They didn’t waste any time with the
formalities. They both knew why he was there, or at least part of
the reason. The other part he was keeping to himself for now.

She took him to her bedroom. There they
stripped and he was on top of her in a flash, spreading her legs
wide. He played with her breasts and pinched her nipples, watching
Penelope react gleefully as they turned rock hard. He made sure she
enjoyed her final moments as she ground her hips against him and
whimpered to his powerful thrusts.

“Ohh, ahh, you feel so good, Manuel,” she
cooed.

“Yeah, so do you, baby,” he returned, feeling
her clamping around his penis like a vise while she climaxed.

As his orgasm released deep inside her,
Manuel placed his hands around the whore’s neck and began squeezing
the life out of her. Penelope’s eyes were agape with terror and she
tried to break free of his hold, but proved no match for his
strength and determination.

Manuel took out his switchblade and gave it a
workout, finishing the job and putting Penelope out of her
misery.

He left her limp, naked, bloodied body for
someone else to find and weep over.

It was time to go back home and make peace
again with his old lady.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

K. Conrad Ortega showed his I.D., allowing
him to enter the area at the police station where attorneys met
with their clients. It was a routine he had become quite accustomed
to since embarking on a career as a public defender. At
thirty-eight, an even six feet, with closely cropped dapple-gray
hair, Ortega knew he wasn’t exactly Johnny Cochran when the man
kicked ass in the courtroom back in the day. But that didn’t mean
he worked any less hard for the people he defended. Even someone
accused of killing a popular judge in this town and sexually
violating his wife still deserved the presumption of innocence and
a fair trial.

If it went that far.

Ortega went over the facts as he knew them
pertaining to the accused. Rafael Santiago was a
thirty-two-year-old Cuban. He had lived in the U.S. since 1980,
coming over in the Muriel boatlift. After serving time for a petty
crime, he had raised his criminality a notch by strangling his
pregnant girlfriend.

It was Judge Crawford who had sentenced
Santiago to life in prison and to whom he swore vengeance, if he
ever got out—which Santiago did after serving just over twelve
years with time off for good behavior.

Ortega put his briefcase on the table. This
was the kind of case all lawyers lived for. Especially those who
were trying to make a name for themselves and move into the salary
range of the elite defense lawyers of the world where not enough
Latino attorneys had made their mark.

But Ortega wasn’t ready to think about having
a multimillion-dollar house built from the ground up just yet.
First he had to win this case, if at all possible. Then he’d let
the chips fall where they may.

The door opened and he watched the shackled
prisoner being led in by a burly officer. Rafael Santiago was
dressed in orange jail overalls and looked smug, as if he didn’t
give a damn what happened from this point on. Or perhaps he failed
to recognize the serious implications of his situation.

Ortega had the officer remove the shackles
and cuffs, which he did reluctantly.

“You can leave us alone,” Ortega instructed
the officer.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he
said.

“Thanks.” Ortega turned to his would-be
client, who looked him up and down, as if he could do better. He
doubted it. Not for what they paid public defenders. “I’m K. Conrad
Ortega and I’ve been assigned to represent you.”

Santiago sneered, running a hand through his
short, shiny black hair. “I’m supposed to be impressed, or
what?”

“I’m not here to impress you, man,” Ortega
said, somewhat irritated, but determined to keep his cool for both
of them. “Just here to offer you my assistance. Now have a seat and
let’s talk about the case against you.”

When the accused seemed hesitant to sit, as
if the chair was booby trapped, Ortega sat first. Finally Santiago
joined him.

“You’re facing some very serious charges,
Rafael,” Ortega said upfront. “If the State has its way, they may
seek the death penalty if you’re convicted.”

Santiago seemed unperturbed by this. “That’s
up to them, man. Can’t change what’s gone down. Or what’s gonna
happen.”

“Are you saying you’re
guilty
of the
charges?” Not that this would come across as a great surprise to
Ortega. After all, at least half the people he represented were
guilty. And most of them weren’t able to do much to help their own
cause, which, in effect, boiled down to the same thing.

Nevertheless, the majority of those he came
across swore on their mother’s grave that they were innocent, even
when they weren’t. But then lying was usually the least of their
problems.

“What difference does it make what I say?”
spat Santiago with a flicker of contempt in his dark eyes.

“Could make a big difference,” Ortega
responded. “If you are innocent and I believe you, I’ll go to bat
for you as if you were my own brother.”

“And if I’m not, what you gonna do then—send
me to the white wolves and black bears?”

Ortega smiled humorlessly. “I’m obligated to
defend you either way,” he admitted. “All I’m looking for is the
truth.”

But with that came a price. Any lawyer would
tell you that the
wrong
truth would make it difficult to
generate the necessary enthusiasm to mount a credible defense.

Yet anything was possible.

Santiago shifted uncomfortably. “They’ve got
the wrong man!” he said flatly. “They’re trying to railroad me,
man, for something I didn’t do!”

Ortega looked him in the eye, usually a sure
fire indication of whether or not a person was being straight with
him. “You’re telling me you didn’t shoot the judge three times at
pointblank range? And then rape and sodomize his wife—?”

“I just got outta the pen, man,” Santiago
answered, flipping hands caustically up in air. “You think I wanna
go back right away for offing a judge and raping his woman? I ain’t
crazy!”

Ortega was not immediately convinced. Far
from it. “You were picked out of
two
lineups by Maxine
Crawford, the judge’s widow,” he told the suspect. “One was a photo
lineup; you know about the other. What do you make of that?”

“What the hell can I make of it?” Santiago
hunched his shoulders brazenly. “People believe that all Latinos
look and smell alike. C’mon, man, you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.
I guess the judge’s wife saw only what she wanted to see.”

Ortega mulled over his words. He did know
from personal experience that some had trouble distinguishing one
Hispanic from another. This was especially true when it came to
Latinos in trouble with the law. But the reality was that they came
in all different sizes, shapes, and shades just like everyone else.
If Maxine Crawford identified Santiago as her attacker and
husband’s killer, it couldn’t easily be dismissed as a simple case
of mistaken identity.

Then there was any DNA evidence the police
might have in their possession. It rarely pointed the finger in the
wrong direction.

Ortega cast a narrow eye at the suspect in
this case. He wasn’t buying Santiago’s weak explanation for why he
was in the hot seat.