Try Darkness (7 page)
Very few times in my career have I wanted to kiss a judge. This was one of them.
I went back to Ms. Barr like the gentle kitten I was. “I had just asked you, Ms. Barr, your hesitation in identifying Mr. Calderón. It took you several minutes, correct?”
“Yes, I—”
“Thank you. I have no further questions.”
“I do,” Roberts said. “May I redirect?”
“Yes,” the judge said.
“Ms. Barr, you took several minutes because you were being careful, isn’t that right?”
I shot to my feet. “What’s not right is leading the witness. Your Honor, why don’t we just have Mr. Roberts take the stand?”
“That’s quite enough,” Judge Anderberry said. “Mr. Roberts, that question was improper and you know it. But somehow I have a feeling I know what you’re going to say now.”
I loved it. The judge was having fun with the prosecutor.
Roberts didn’t flinch. Instead he asked the obvious follow-up. “Ms. Barr, why did you take several minutes to identify the defendant?”
“Because I was being careful?”
The judge smiled. I smiled. Instead of just answering as she had been all but instructed by Roberts, the witness answered with a question. Like she wasn’t sure what to say or how to please the prosecutor.
I looked out into the gallery at Sister Mary. And winked.
Did I just wink at a nun? There’s got be some divine judgment for that.
“One more question,” Roberts said. “Is there any doubt that the man who robbed you at Fornay’s Flower Shop is the defendant?”
“None,” she said.
“No more questions,” Roberts said and quickly sat down.
ROBERTS CONFERRED WITH
someone sitting next to him at the counsel table, a blond-haired woman in a blue suit who had come in halfway through the prelim.
Then, with a look of some resignation, Roberts stood and said to the court, “We are ready to submit this, Your Honor.”
Judge Anderberry looked at me. “Do you have any witnesses to call?”
I knew the rule was you didn’t call your defendant at the prelim. But I toyed with calling Gilbert to the stand. If the case did go to trial, there wasn’t much in his account that could hurt him, other than the fact that no one could vouch for him. And then—
Gilbert leaned over and said to Roberts, “Scum.”
The judge slapped her hand on the Evidence Code in front of her.
A couple of people in the front row snickered.
I worked hard not to put my head in my hands. At least it wasn’t something worse.
“The defendant is not permitted to speak,” the judge said. “Unless he is under oath on the stand.”
“Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Calderón won’t be taking the stand.”
I WAS READY
with a citation for the judge. I read from a copy I’d made. “The evidence at the preliminary hearing must establish reasonable or probable cause, that is, ‘a state of facts that would lead a person of ordinary caution or prudence to believe and conscientiously entertain a strong suspicion of the guilt of the accused.’ The quoted language is from
People v. Slaughter,
Your Honor.”
The judge nodded. “Continue.”
“The language says ‘
strong suspicion
.’ Not mere suspicion. I submit, Your Honor, that the People have not presented enough evidence to meet that standard. In both cases, the identification is suspect. Mr. Roshdieh identified a different photo. Ms. Barr finally did, but you saw how she testified. It wasn’t exactly airtight assurance. She pointed at Mr. Calderón here in court, but she was more sure now than when she looked at the photo lineup. A memory does not get fresher with time, Your Honor. In short, there is no reasonable cause here to entertain a
strong suspicion
that Mr. Calderón is guilty of the crime charged.”
When I sat, Gilbert Calderón leaned over to me and whispered, “You’re not scum.”
I leaned over to Gilbert Calderón. “Just don’t talk.”
Mitch Roberts argued his side and he was sharp, informed, persuasive.
Judge Anderberry slipped her reading glasses off her nose and let them fall to her chest on the beaded string.
“I would like to compliment both counsel,” she said. “Strong arguments on both sides. Mr. Buchanan, you are an able lawyer, and if you can keep your client in control it will be a pleasure to have you. You have presented a very strong argument here. I have considered it. I have considered the testimony and demeanor of the witnesses and . . .”
Dramatic pause. She had to be a frustrated actress.
“. . . I find there is probable cause to bind the defendant over for trial. Let’s set a date.”
“
SO YOU LOST
?” Sister Mary said.
“It’s only round one,” I said.
We were in the courtyard outside the building and had just stopped at my desired location—the Chicago-style hot dog stand.
Sister Mary looked at me, at the stand, and at the umbrella over the stand. “This is the finest meal you were talking about?” she said.
“You ever had a real Chicago-style dog?” I said.
“I don’t think so.”
The vendor was a short gray man with a walrus moustache. In a thick Chicago brogue he said, “You haven’t lived, Sister.”
“Drag ’em through the garden,” I told him.
The vendor smiled. “Here’s a guy who knows whereof he talks. This is my kind of guy.”
He pulled out a bun and plopped a dog on it and started with the condiments, in the right order, starting with the mustard. When he got to the onions Sister Mary said, “I’d like some ketchup with that, please.”
The vendor reacted like he’d been shot. He stopped his work, holding the half-finished dog in his left hand. He looked at me. “You better explain life to the sister. Because I am not givin’ one a these up if that’s what she’s thinkin’.”
Sister Mary looked stunned.
“You don’t put ketchup on a dog,” I whispered.
“Why not?”
“It’s just not done,” I said. “It ruins it. It’s like . . .”
“It’s like kissin’ your boyfriend and he’s got B.O.,” the vendor said. Then quickly added, “With all due respect, Sister.”
“Trust us on this one,” I said.
“Aren’t you allowed to have your own hot dog the way you want it?” she said.
“
No,
” the vendor and I said at the same time.
“Do I finish?” the vendor said, holding up the bun. “Or do I dump it?”
“By all means, finish,” Sister Mary said. “Far be it from me to cause a disturbance in the Force.”
“That’s the ticket,” the vendor said. “I like her.”
The man gave us two of the nicest-looking Chicago dogs I’ve ever seen, along with a couple of Cokes. We went to a bench.
I was about to take my first bite when Sister Mary said, “Hold it, bub.” Then she crossed herself and said, “Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
She nodded at me and we began to nosh. After that first bite she made a face. It was a mix of beatific vision and fright. I figured it was the peppers.
She recovered and said, “Not bad.”
“You’ll get used to it. Once you do, you’ll never look back.”
“I thought you did well in there,” she said. “Very
L.A. Law.
”
“
L.A. Law
? You were just a little thing.”
“I had a poster of Corbin Bernsen in my room.”
“Arnie Becker? He wasn’t exactly a model of chastity.”
“But he was so cute. Who did you have a poster of in your room?”
“Magic.”
“Johnson?”
“Is there any other? He played like I wanted to play. But my mind kept writing checks my body couldn’t cash.”
“You still have a move or two.”
“Thanks, I—”
The tinny sound of an ancient hymn interrupted us. It was Sister Mary’s cell phone. She begged my pardon and flicked it open.
I took a huge bite and thought about Magic Johnson in game four of the 1987 championship against the Celtics. The baby sky hook. The ultimate game winner. I wondered if I had one in me for Calderón. I thought I’d had a chance with Judge Anderberry . . .
Sister Mary’s face lost all color. Frozen expression.
“What is it?” I said.
Tears started to trickle, then stream down her face.
WE GOT TO
the Lindbrook an hour later. Two black-and-whites were parked in front on Sixth. Father Bob and several others were milling around on the sidewalk. Gawkers passed by and paused, looking in. Free show.
“I haven’t been able to get any information,” Father Bob said. “They herded us out and won’t talk to us. I told them I was a priest, but they didn’t let me in. All we know is that she’s dead and no one knows where Kylie is.”
Father Bob had come here to visit Reatta, to see how she was getting along. He’d managed to ask several of the other residents if they’d seen the little girl, but they hadn’t.
“Wait here,” I said.
“I’ll come with you,” Sister Mary said.
Father Bob nodded. “Me too. Tell them we’re clergy. Do your lawyer thing.”
That’s the noise I was trained for, so I waved them along. The moment we stepped into the lobby a uniform stopped us. “No entry, sir,” he said.
At least he called me
sir
. I was still in my court clothes. “I’m the lawyer for the victim,” I said. “Who’s in charge?” I showed him my card.
“You’re the lawyer for somebody at this hotel?”
“Who do I talk to?”
“This is a secured site, sir,” the officer said. Polite but firm.
“There’s a girl involved, a little girl. Do you know where she is?”
“I don’t know that, sir. If you’d like to wait—”
“I wouldn’t like to wait. I want to know where the girl is. And I want access to room 414. Now.”
The cop looked behind me. “Who are they?”
“Clergy,” I said. “This is her priest. He wants to administer the last rites. You cannot keep them out.”
“Sir, I can’t—”
“Do you want me to cite the California Code on this? And State and Federal Constitution? But worse, do you want this splashed all over the news? How you let a soul go to hell because you denied the victim her—”
“All right, all right. Just wait.” He turned around and spoke into a handheld.
I looked at Father Bob. “Was that enough noise for you?”
He smiled. “Well done, though technically it’s not the last rites. It would be a prayer after death.”
“So sue me,” I said.
“That’s your job,” he said.
The uniform turned back to me and said, “Come with me.”
THE DETECTIVE IN
charge introduced himself as Lieutenant Brosia. He was around fifty and wore a beige coat over a white shirt and dark blue tie. His brown hair was neatly combed. He looked like he pushed weights to keep in shape.
We were just outside the door of room 414. I could see a couple of other people moving in the room. Crime scene team.
“I don’t appreciate you throwing your weight around,” Brosia said. “We can’t release the body. We’re treating this as a homicide and there’ll be an autopsy.”
“I’m here with her priest,” I said. “He wants to . . . do what he does.”
“Which is what?” Brosia asked.
“A prayer for the dead, if you please,” Father Bob said.
I said, “There’s a little girl. Named Kylie. Six years old. Do you have her?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve spoken to a couple of the residents and they have no idea where she is, either.”
“You figure she was taken?”
“We don’t know. You were representing this woman?”
“Yes.”
“You can give us a full identification then? She had no ID.”
“All I knew was her first name, Reatta.”
“May I go in?” Father Bob said.
“I’m sorry, Father,” the detective said. “This is a crime scene.”
“This is a matter of a soul,” Father Bob said. “I have a right to go in.”
“I don’t know about that,” Brosia said.
Frankly, I wasn’t sure what the law was on this. I said to Brosia, “Look, do you really want to draw a line in the sand over this? You want it to get out that the LAPD denied a poor dead woman a prayer?”
“Is that some kind of threat, sir?”
“Not at all. I’m looking out for both our interests here.”
Brosia thought about it. “How long will it take?”
“Not long,” Father Bob said.
“All right,” Brosia said. “I’ll allow you in. You will not touch anything. You will pray and then leave.”
Father Bob and Sister Mary moved past me. Brosia let them in. When I tried to get in he put a hand on my chest.
“Not you,” he said.
“She’s my client,” I said.
“You’re a lawyer, not a priest, and that’s a big difference.” Brosia smiled.
I rolled my eyes and tried to think of a legal argument to get myself in there, but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe I’d need help from Brosia later on.
Brosia went in and I watched through the open door. I could see Reatta’s body lying on the bed, fully clothed. Her head was at a slight angle, eyes open in death. I could see no blood. One of the CS team was clicking digital photos.
Father Bob knelt at the side of the bed, as did Sister Mary. As if they were taking over the room. Everybody stopped what they were doing.
Crossing himself, Father Bob said, “May Christ, who called you, take you to himself. May angels lead you to Abraham’s side.”
Sister Mary said, “Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.”
“Give her eternal rest, O Lord,” Father Bob continued. “And may your light shine upon her forever. In your mercy and love, blot out all sins she has committed through human weakness. In this world she has died. Let her live with you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”
Sister Mary and Father Bob said, “Amen.” So did the photographer.
They came back out and joined Brosia and me.
“Now,” Brosia said, “who was she, Father?”
“I only knew her first name,” Father Bob said.
“I thought you were her priest.”
“I am.”
“But you don’t know anything else?”
“Maybe that was her full name,” I said. “Reatta. No last name.”
