The Killing of the Saints Page 6

  "Since when does an investigator take on a case betting on its outcome? That is the most cavalier reply I've heard in my entire legal career. You will do it!"

  "Judge, I don't have to."

  "Yes, you do. I'm up for presiding judge in three months. If you don't take this case, I will personally make sure your name is off our list. And I'll talk to Orange and Ventura as well. You'll have to go back to hustling for every two-bit idiot that knocks at your door, a cheap dick, that's all you're going to be. I'll make sure everyone knows why. I'm also certain that the Times will be interested in talking to you about your background."

  A brief silence, as I looked out the window, gray smog creeping in on little car chokes.

  "Is this a threat?"

  She took a deep breath, then let her smile peek through again. "No, Charlie. Call it judicial persuasion. Look, I like you. Matter of fact, I think you should take the bar and join the club again. I'm just requesting, as a personal favor, that you handle this case. Won't you?" She was grinning.

  "Well, since you put it that way. I've always had a fondness for lost causes."

  "All rise!"

  The handful of attorneys, the shifty relatives of the prisoners and the wisecracking court personnel, ever present Styrofoam cups with oversweetened, creamed coffee in hand, rose under the funereal yellow light pushing through the dirty grid lighting panels overhead. Judge Chambers, at the far right of the court, exited from her chambers and stood next to the clerk, hands folded across her ample girth. Deputy Smith, with more seriousness than I had otherwise observed in him, intoned, the legal acolyte:

  "Facing the flag of our nation and the principles for which it stands, Department 179 of the Los Angeles Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Constance Chambers presiding.

  Please have a seat and put away all your reading material."

  With a murmur, the audience sat again on the wooden pews, as the attorneys and court staff sank into the upholstered green leather chairs and the judge climbed up the three padded steps to her bench. She plunked herself down and looked warily at the stack of case files rising to eye level.

  "Good morning," she said.

  "Good morning," chimed back the court staff.

  "Bodies are in, Your Honor," said Deputy Smith.

  "Good! Let's do--" The judge was cut short by a small, carrot-haired attorney who leapt to his feet as though stung by a bee.

  "Your Honor, I request priority. I'm due at a trial in Division 37 in five minutes."

  Chambers looked the dapper little man up and down, his celery-colored silk suit, orange shirt and tie, a gold bracelet on each wrist, and a ruby pinkie ring that for all its garishness might have spelled out HOMO in caps.

  "Mr. Veal, you will please wait until the court has handled certain other matters of the highest importance."

  "But Your Honor, my trial!"

  "What is it? A marijuana possession case, Counsel, or is it something bigger, a speeding ticket perhaps?"

  But Veal, although bent, was no sissy.

  "I am certain, Your Honor, that were you in my client's shoes, you would not think: so lightly of the charges he faces now. I was ordered by Judge Reinholdt to be at Division 37 to start promptly in"- Veal glanced at his watch-"three minutes. Given, as you know, that it takes at least five minutes for the elevator to make its way down from the fifteenth floor ... "

  Chambers had taken all she could. She hammered her gavel. "Enough! Sit down, Mr. Veal. The court clerk will inform Judge Reinholdt of your delay. John, bring out Valdez and Pimienta."

  "Yes, Judge."

  Veal took a seat next to me. "Wait till the bar panel finds out about this," he muttered.

  I heard Smith calling out the names inside lockup, then a brief moment of silence during which the bodies stepped out of the cell, the clanking of the sally port, the rattle of the keys, cuffs and chains. A second deputy came into the courtroom through the hallway doors and stationed himself in the last pew, arms crossed, staring at the wooden door by Deputy Smith's desk. The door swung open.

  Pimienta shuffled out first, dressed in blue county overalls, his wrists bound by cuffs linked to a yellow plastic-covered chain wrapped around his midsection, so that his hands were permanently fixed to his sides, elbows akimbo. His legs were shackled with the same yellow chain, allowing him to take only a half step at a time, like a slave shuffling off to the auction block. His powerful arms rippled as he stood next to counsel table, unconsciously opening and closing his hands, as though to grab at the freedom that now was so out of reach. Looking around the court, he noticed me in the front row and smiled, nodding gently. I nodded back at him.

  We heard a racket from inside the lockup; a tenor voice hollered in a Cuban accent, "Don't push me, man!"

  Presently Ramón stumbled out, chains ajangle, almost falling on his face. He straightened up and turned back to stare behind him at a brawny deputy, who moved to grab hold of Ramón but stopped when he noticed the judge frowning at him. Deputy Smith sauntered in after his muscular backup and stood to the side of Ramón. Now Ramón, panting, took in the courtroom with suspicious eyes. It was the first time I'd seen him in person. He was taller and more filled out than the pictures I'd seen in his file, as though he'd spent the last few months working on his pecs instead of his defense. Whereas José was onyx black, Ramón was a light nutmeg color, a mulatto, really, in any other country except the United States.

  Ramón let his hazel eyes rest on me, his gaze of cold analysis broken up by the buoyant Cuban smile of recognition. It was then I noticed the rivulet of blood dripping down his chin from his

  broken lip.

  "What happened to this man, Deputy Smith?" asked Chambers.

  Smith almost controlled a smirk. "Your Honor, Mr. Valdez was accidentally struck by the sally port as he stepped out of lockup."

  Ramón looked at Smith with contempt.

  "Is that true, Mr. Valdez?"

  No reply.

  "Is that true?"

  Still no answer. Chambers turned to Burr.

  "Does he need an interpreter?"

  Burr shrugged, and checked the case file.

  "Necesita intérprete?" asked the judge.

  Ramón glanced up at Chambers, shook his head. "No, thank you, Madam Judge. I will be all right."

  He may have had an accent, the glottal stops of American speech replaced by a liquid unemphasized flow that lilted at the end of the phrases, but he knew the stuff.

  Drops of blood splattered on the table.

  "What happened to you?"

  Silence. Ramón took a deep breath then sighed, knowing that whatever minor victory he might obtain in court would be canceled a thousand times once back in jail.

  "I tripped and hit myself."

  "Somebody get this man a Kleenex. Are you badly hurt?"

  This was an opening he could use and, as I was later to learn, Ramón never let a chance go unused.

  ''Just a little bit, Your Honor," he said through bloody teeth and lips. "But I request that the chains be taken out, Your Honor, so the accident won't happen again. It's hard to walk like this and prepare for one's defense when one is in chains like a wild animal."

  Chambers shook her head in agreement. "You're probably right. Deputy Smith, please remove the shackles."

  "Your Honor," said Smith, "these are safety precautions for the security of the court. The sheriff has determined these men are highly dangerous."

  "Deputy, don't tell me what my job is. Remove those chains!"

  "Yes, Judge."

  Smith took out his key and with a few quick motions, freed Ramón, who stretched his arms with relief. The brawny deputy finally handed him a Kleenex.

  "Thank you, Deputy," said Valdez.

  "According to the file, he doesn't need an interpreter, Your Honor," said Burr, who'd finally found the right spot in his papers.

  "That's very useful, Curtis. Might as well proceed to the arraignment. Are the People ready?"

 
Dick Williams, the deputy D.A. assigned to the court, stood, propping up his case files with the stump of his left hand. Tall, thin and black, the elegant Mr. Williams refused to speak about his deformity, leading people to wonder if his fingerless appendage was the result of a birth defect or if for once the long arm of the law had got caught in the wringer.

  "Your Honor, 1 am substituting for the deputy who will be handling this case. This is just for arraignment purposes for today only. As you know, I'm being transferred to Santa Monica and my

  office still hasn't settled on the trial deputy."

  "Very well. And the defense? Ready for your arraignment, Mr. Valdez?"

  Now that he could move his his arms freely, Ramón slipped into his legal role with confidence.

  "Ready."

  "Well, then, let us proceed. No, hold it, where is counsel for Mr. Pimienta?"

  "Here, Your Honor!"

  Clay Smith rushed into court at that moment, briefcase flying, pinstripe Brioni suit creased by his extralegal exertions. A short Asian man dressed all in black followed, video camera on his shoulder. Behind him came a paunching, middle-aged soundman and last, almost as an afterthought, entered the reporter, a young man with curly hair.

  "I brought some friends," said Clay, as he set his briefcase on the counsel table. The news crew moved to the side of the room and dutifully entered the vacant jury box.

  "Not so fast," said Chambers. "Did you fellows file a request with the court?"

  The reporter looked at the soundman, who shrugged and looked at the little Asian cameraman. The roly-poly shooter flashed an appeasing smile as he searched his pockets, then produced a much folded piece of paper.

  "Yes, Your Honor, here it is." He proffered the paper to the judge.

  "That's all right. Sometimes Department 100 doesn't forward them, that's all. You may record the arraignment but do not interrupt the proceedings."

  "Of course not, Your Honor."

  The cameraman snatched his tripod, unfolded the metal legs and set up his Sony, placing the document on a chair. From my vantage point I saw that the paper he'd waved was the takeout menu of the Hong Kong Seafood Restaurant in Monterey Park.

  The courtroom doors swung open again and this time a battery of cameras and reporters stormed in, ready to take their battle stations.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said Chambers, "I'm only allowing one news crew in here, and that's these people from ... what channel are you from?"

  "Thirteen, Your Honor, KCOP," said the reporter in a high-pitched voice.

  "Good. I like Hal Fishman. Well, you folks out there are going to have to ask these gentlemen for a copy of the tape, once the proceedings are done."

  "Aw, but Your Honor ... "

  "Nothing doing. You folks leave the court right now with your cameras. Thank you very much. The People may arraign the defendants. "

  The KCOP news crew sat in the jury box, pleased to watch their competition smashed, even if the judge had pegged them with the wrong anchor.

  The arraignment took less time than one would have expected, considering Ramón and José were each facing six counts of murder, six counts of kidnapping, two counts of robbery and twelve allegations on the use of a weapon. José took in the proceedings calmly, with the bland detachment of a child who sees grown-ups signing the closing papers on a house. Ramón, on the other hand, was all studious concentration, pulling out a small pair of round wire-rimmed glasses to read the closely typed pages of the information. He corrected the spelling of both his and José's name, then sonorously proclaimed, "Not guilty!"

  At the end of the reading, almost as an afterthought, Williams said his office would be seeking capital punishment for the defendants, as the crimes occurred during special circumstances, murder during the commission of a robbery. Clay countered by saying his office would file moving papers opposing such action. When Chambers asked Valdez if he had intentions of joining the motion, Ramón said, "We concur with the District Attorney's office that if such a crime was to have been committed, it would be special circumstances. But since to oppose would reveal the defense, we do not object to such classification."

  Clay looked at Valdez closely, puzzled by what he'd heard, then glanced at the judge and raised his hands in mock exasperation. Chambers also chose to ignore the comment, setting the pretrial conference for three weeks from that date. Ramón spoke again: "Your Honor, before departing for to date, I would like to give oral notice I will file"-here he checked a handwritten legal notepad page-"motions to quash and traverse, discovery, compliance, 1538.5 and oth-

  ers on the date of the pretrial conference and date setting."

  "Any idea how many others?" asked Williams sardonically, "or will you just be picking them off the book as you turn the pages?"

  "Mr. Williams, do not speak to counsel, excuse me, the pro per, please address the court," said Chambers. "Mr. Valdez will hand you proper written notice ten days before, no doubt. Right, Mr. Valdez?"

  "Of course, Madam Judge."

  "That will be all, then."

  This time there was no waiting around while Ramón decided if he wanted to see me or not. He was already expecting me in a glass booth by the time I reached the interview room at County Jail.

  He greeted me with a warm smile but with some diffidence in his manner, his body bent forward, arms on the table, a business associate discussing the finer points of policy with a marketing expert. Business as usual, nothing personal.

  "How could you do it?" I asked him in a businesslike way.

  His smile vanished but instead of the angry reply I expected, Ramón looked stunned, as though my question posed an intellectual challenge he could only barely discern.

  "How did I do what?" he replied, in English.

  "How could you kill these people?"

  "Oye, man, I didn't do it."

  "Then who did?"

  He leaned back in the metal chair, tilting his head to get a better

  look at me.

  "Pimienta did it. I was just there for the ride."

  Clay did not take too kindly to the news. He raised his groomed red eyebrows and banged his phone, jarring the crystal vase with the black tulips. He had been about to dial reservations for us at a restaurant on Flower. Judging by his reaction, I assumed I no longer rated a free meal.

  "That's his strategy now, isn't it. Well, you can tell him it's not going to fly. Jesus, the guy is flipped. Maybe you should have him analyzed. Do you realize I was about to cut a deal with the D.A. on this?"

  I tried to keep up a disinterested appearance. Just because I couldn't even get the D.A. 's office to tell me who was going to be the deputy assigned to prosecute the case was no reason to get upset. Availability, after all, was one of the reasons why clients hired Manuel, Caesar, Brewer and Smith.

  "What's the deal?"

  "If they cop to the murder, they'll drop the robbery."

  "That means no special circs."

  "That's right. No gas. With any luck, they'll be out in, oh, about

  thirty years."

  "That's one hell of a deal, Clay. I'm impressed."

  For all his negotiating skills, Clay would have made a better prosecutor than a defense attorney-he believed a sense of humor was a sign of weakness. He took my comment seriously.

  "I think it's a great deal. I figured the insanity plea wouldn't cut it so I jumped when they offered this. My guy's ready to take it if your guy will."

  I shook my head no.

  "So what would you do, wise guy? Keep fighting a case you know will buy them a one-way ticket to hell?"

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Oh, come off it. They couldn't be in a worse jam if the cops had videotaped the whole thing. By the way, I see in the discovery papers that they do have a tape of the party."

  "Negative," I said. "That is, they have it but it's no good."

  "What do you mean? All jewelry stores are supposed to have a running tape of everything that happens inside."

 
"I checked it out. Our boys were either very lucky or very smart."

  "How's that?"

  "For one thing, the hidden camera all shops have, it wasn't working at Schnitzer's. They'd been meaning to fix it but never got around to dicking with it on time. Then something funny happened to the two you can see."

  "I can't wait to find out."

  "Cops aren't sure how but they suspect that during the standoff, when the electric was out, one of our boys got into the back room where the VCRs are kept. He apparently punched in the rewind button. So, when the power was turned back on, the cameras rewound then automatically kicked back on in record."

  "That means everything was lost, recorded over?"

  "Exactly. Irretrievable."

  "Well, no matter. We still have six bodies, a witness that sees them going in, an arsenal of weapons, a bag full of jewels and stuff, another witness that heard everything from the back room, their fingerprints all over the place, I mean, it's incredible!"

  "Hold it. We know they went in armed, that's true. But, and this is the all important but, we don't know who did the shooting. The police-well, the LAPD, in its infinite wisdom, neglected to get powder marks from our boys or prints from the weapons."

  "Get off it."

  "Moreover, the witness in the back just heard stuff, but as he himself says in the report, he couldn't make out who was speaking or what was said."

  "Right. And the bag with the goodies? I suppose we can just toss that aside-who cares about a little thing like that."

  "Hey, we don't know why those jewels were put in there or, for that matter, how the cases were broken. All we know is what these two guys tell us. Everybody else is dead. So, if Valdez says Pimienta did it and Pimienta says Valdez did it, then, who's to know?"