The Mamacita Murders (22 page)
“What you’re saying makes no sense, Dylan.”
I stare at the ground in disbelief. I feel like I’m about to pass out.
“Ford wanted me to get a search warrant for your buccal swab and your fingerprints, which I also need to roll.”
“Why would you need a warrant?”
“And he was really interested when he heard you were one of the last people to see Laura before she was assaulted,” says Dylan accusingly.
“You’re making me feel like I’m a suspect.”
“This is why I didn’t want to talk about this.”
I take a deep breath. There’s a knock at my office door.
“Come in!” I yell.
Mike Tanner pops his head into my office and looks at Dylan and me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to let you know that you need to talk to the Bureau so they can do a threat assessment on that note you received, Gaby. Don’t sit on this any longer. We take these threats serious and I want you to feel safe. Whatever you need, we’ll be here,” says Tanner.
“Thanks Mike,” Dylan says.
Tanner shuts the door looking at me, concerned.
“Are you going to be okay?” asks Dylan, tucking my hair behind my ear.
“I’ll be fine. I need some fresh air and I need to get out of here and get this complaint filed,” I say, regaining my composure.
Department Nineteen is the place where arraignments for felony criminal complaints take place. I sit in the audience section alone, waiting for Dylan and watching the circus of the Monday afternoon arraignment calendar. An arraignment is the first appearance in court after a suspect is arrested for his crime. All the men who are being arraigned in Department Nineteen sit in orange jumpsuits in the first three rows of the audience section.
A government-paid criminal defender is standing like a teacher educating all these rejects. My jaded way of thinking knows they are all guilty, maybe not of everything they are charged with, but something. The truth usually lies somewhere in between a criminal complaint and their sad confession.
The criminal defender is telling them that this is the time and place for their arraignment. He explains that he’s going to enter not guilty pleas on behalf of all of them. He’s like a shepherd herding his sheep to the slaughterhouse. This is the first day of what will probably last at least a year spent in the criminal justice system between all the continuances, hearings, and motions.
Watching these young men, all wearing the same color outfit, reminds me of the danger in viewing all defendants in the same light, as outcasts. And when you begin to see people as outsiders and rejects, there’s a risk they become expendable. Amongst the orange crowd, is Clown. He’s so easy to spot with his bald head and his big squishy smile.
A well-put-together man, who looks like he just stepped out of his Mercedes or Audi, walks into the courtroom. He has “private beach city defense attorney” flashing from his forehead based on his expensive wardrobe alone. His light pink suit blazer and purple tie give him away. Men like him stumble upon the Tuckford sticks every now and again. They are either expanding their practice to Tuckford County from the wealthier beach cities, or they have roots in the Republican wealthiness, which is little known but quite prominent in Tuckford County.
He’s obviously never appeared in this courthouse. I would have recognized him if he did. Now he looks confused, walking around the courtroom, looking at the calendar sitting at the podium near the exit door, and trying to figure out how things work in Department Nineteen. A part of me wants to help him out, but another part doesn’t want to waste my breath on helping a defense attorney. He should be able to figure it out, anyway.
Courthouses are generally the same regardless of what county you’re in. But each one has its own way of handling matters. In some cities, for example, inmates sit towards the front of the courtroom behind a big glass window. They are kept away from the public and away from the prosecutors. It seems a lot safer than how it’s done in Tuckford County.
Here, the inmates are sitting in the general audience area of the courtroom. They move from a sally port that connects the courtrooms and leads to an elevator that takes the inmates downstairs to a holding cell, where they sit waiting for their court appearance. That holding cell connects to a tunnel leading to the Old Town Jail.
Inside the courtroom, the inmates constantly pass attorneys, practically brushing shoulders with them because of the small moving space inside the courtroom. Occasionally throughout the day, I hear a deputy yell, “Counsel, inmates coming through.” It’s basically code talk for “Get the hell out of the way because one of these bastards might shank you.”
I’ve heard of a case where the inmate lunged at a prosecutor during trial in front of the jury. That alone would guarantee a guilty verdict. It’s just a matter of time before somebody gets shanked in this courtroom, and I mean shanking as in stabbing. I’ve seen inmates bring sharp weapons to court, like it’s show and tell day. They make them with whatever they can find in the jail. My hope is they bring them to defend themselves or attack other inmates and not me or any of my colleagues, even the defense attorneys I can’t stand.
The man I’ve stereotyped a beach city defense attorney walks around the courtroom. His shirt and purple paisley tie make me wonder whether he’s gay or straight. He walks straight up to me. His handsome face and smile erases my vision of him getting lunged at by an inmate.
Even a man like him in his early thirties, who most definitely has a trophy housewife, wouldn’t deserve to be shanked. He’s too cute and looks like my favorite actor, Matt Damon. But his cluelessness about his surroundings make him a prime target for shanking. He walks closer to me.
“Hi there, is this where the arraignments happen?” he asks.
“Yes. What arraignment are you here on?” I ask.
“Rodrigo Garcia, who also goes by Clown.”
“Did you like how I put that as his AKA on the complaint?”
“You must be Gabriela Ruiz.”
“How’d you know?”
“I read the complaint. And you signed it, charging my client with these horrific crimes. I’ll forgive you for that. I’m Bruce Davis. I represent Mr. Garcia,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Hi there. It’s nice to meet you. Here’s a copy of the initial police reports on the case. Are you ready to arraign him today?” I ask, handing Bruce some paperwork, noticing his left hand is ring-less.
“Thank you. I was retained on Friday and had a chance to speak to my client over the weekend. I’ve actually represented him before in his out of county cases, so I’m very familiar with him.”
“Great, what would you like to do today?”
“How much time are you guys looking for?”
“A lot of time. Like double digits. But we’re not making any offers today,” I say.
“Do you seriously want double digits on this?”
“Yes. This guy is looking at life. Plus, he’s gotten so many breaks in other counties. They just keep giving him chances. He needs to know that he’s in “Big T,” Tuckford County. And I’m not in the business of giving defendants a deal, especially when they’ve already been cut several breaks.”
“Well, I know just a little about the case from speaking with him. Can you give me your version of the events?”
I hate when defense attorneys try and get me to chat about the facts of a case. Nine times out of ten they are just trying to figure out what my legal theory is or what parts of my case I think are problematic. Sometimes, things I say get twisted or misconstrued by them later on.
“You’re just going to have to read the reports. I can tell you the victim is at the hospital right now about to die. If she does, we’re going to be filing murder charges. I also need to fingerprint your client here in court.”
“What’s that for?”
“There was a print found on the murder weapon, a ceramic flamingo vase. My office just wants a confirmatory print.”
“Confirming what?”
“Just to confirm it’s not his.”
“You’re not sure if it’s his?”
“That’s not what I said. They are certain it’s not his; they just want to double confirm.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that it’s not my client’s print. I was speaking with him over the weekend at the jail. I don’t know how you guys work in this county but he has information you might want.”
“What kind of information?”
“That depends on what you can do for him.”
“That’s not how it works here.”
“Why don’t you tell me how it works here?” asks Bruce, grinning at me.
“You give me the information first, or better yet, Clown gives me the information first. We make no promises to him in exchange. It’s called a King for a Day interview.”
“That’s awfully greedy of you not to give him anything while he puts his life on the line and gives you information. Don’t you think?”
“If he’s serious, he’ll talk. That’s a decision he needs to make. And that’s how it works in every single case. It’s my office’s policy. What information does he have that would even be worth it for me to talk to him?”
“The information is pretty good. In fact it’s very good, if it’s true.”
“Give me some sort of indication what it is. I feel like I’m totally in the dark.”
“It has to do with someone who may be involved in what you’re charging my client with.”
“Just so you know, I’m heading out of the country tomorrow so if he has anything to say, I would suggest he say it today.”
“Is someone going to take over this case and do the preliminary hearing because we’re not waiving time.”
“Yeah, Mike Tanner, the Special Assistant Prosecutor of my office, will handle it. But a defendant who wants to play hard ball and not waive time just might be worth me cutting my trip short for.”
“Wow, it must be pretty important for your Special Assistant Prosecutor to take over an attempted murder case. Or is there something about this case I need to know, like an officer being involved somehow?”
“You’ll be given all the information you’re entitled to when the investigation is complete. Is there anything else we need to talk about?”
“I’ll talk to Clown right now and see what he wants to do. What happens if he wants to give up the information right now?”
“Investigator Mack should be over here any minute to roll his prints. We can talk to him then. There’s a side room right here. But you and Clown need to understand that I’m making no promises today.”
“What happens after that?”
“I evaluate the information with my boss. If we want to use it and he wants a deal, we can talk then about leniency. Let me see what else. Oh. I can’t ever use anything he says today against him. So he’s free to speak openly, even if he talks about other crimes he’s committed. Just let him know, I have no tolerance for liars. If he lies on anything, even something small, he can forget about any deals, ever.”
Snitches are inherently unreliable. Juries don’t like them and have a hard time believing them. What’s worse is that if I use them and they blow up in my face, my whole credibility is out the door. A lot of these convicted felons are natural liars; so even where there is some truth in what they say, there might be lies mixed in there, too. A good investigator will see through the lies and get the snitch to tell the whole truth.
“I’ll talk to him right now and see what he wants to do,” says Bruce.
The side room of Department Nineteen gives Dylan, Bruce, Clown, and I barely enough room to sit around a table. I read Clown the one-page King for a Day agreement that we signed, which tells him he’s not getting anything for what he’s about to tell us.
“We are tape-recording this conversation. It’s my understanding that you have information you wanted to share with us, is that correct?” I ask, placing Dylan’s small recorder on the table.
“Yes,” says Clown.
“You understand that I am not making you any promises for this information. You are charged with assault. You are facing life on this case. Anything you say today won’t ever be used against you, but you’re not getting anything when you walk out this door today,” I say, pointing to the cherry-colored wooden door that leads to the corridor outside the courtroom.
Clown shakes his head back and forth.
“So whatchu got?” asks Dylan.
Clown looks down and shifts his body weight, causing his wrist and ankle chains to clank.
“Man, I ain’t talking. Just roll my prints,” says Clown.
“You had something to tell us. Talk to us, man,” says Dylan.
“Nah, forget it. I ain’t talking,” says Clown.
“I’m sick of this shit. You show up at the Prosecutor’s Office wanting to talk to the Assistant Prosecutor, then you take off running. Does it have to do with me being here or something? What’s your problem, dude?” asks Dylan.
Clown shakes his head back and forth. I don’t blame him. As much as it’s important to build a rapport with a victim on a sex case so they disclose information about what happened to them, it can be just as important to build a rapport with a suspect or possible informant. In general, they don’t trust law enforcement, especially gang members. They know it’s a big gamble to be a snitch and turn over information to police. Once they decide to do that, there’s no turning back. It has to be worth it to them, like they are going to get a huge break in their own case.
