by Lara Bazelon
She glances briefly to her left at the marshal on duty; Jared, a friend of Nic’s. Lanky and unsmiling, he sits slouched on the front bench, just a few feet from Luz in the highly unlikely event she will try to shuffle off in her leg irons. But Jared is also there to keep an eye on everyone else, including—and maybe especially—on Abby. To make sure she is safe, to guard against the possibility that she might try to do something reckless herself, though God only knows what that might be. Abby knows Nic has arranged it on purpose, as he has with all of her court appearances for the last month, although they do not talk about it at home. Sometimes, Abby has to remind herself that they share a home—what had been her home. A year ago, she hadn’t known Nic’s last name, just that he was the US marshal who brought her infamous client, Rayshon Marbury, to court every day for the trial. But Nic, as it turned out, had been far more than that. Now, a few unimaginable turns later, they were having a baby.
All of it was unimaginable. Over a year ago, Abby had been just another public defender. Hardworking, and with glimmers of real talent, but also regularly dismissed and condescended to, as many younger female trial attorneys are. But in her third year in the office, she had been assigned to defend Rayshon Marbury, and now she was known as the woman who had proven innocent a man widely considered to be the city’s most dangerous gang member, on trial for his life for masterminding the killing of a DEA agent. She had made headlines again and again, humiliating the US Attorney’s Office and exposing one of the LAPD’s finest as a corrupt racist, then landing in hot water herself over the tactics she had used. Rayshon Marbury’s case—and the outsize consequences that came with it—followed her everywhere. Everyone knew who she was and had an opinion about her, for better and for worse.
Abby turns to Judge Richards. “It is all too easy for the government to point the accusatory finger, particularly in a charging document that arranges the facts to their liking and omits the ones that are less convenient. So let me offer a few. Sergeant Hollis was six foot four and weighed 260 pounds. He could bench press his own weight and then some. At the time of death, his blood alcohol level was .26, more than three times the legal limit. My client is five feet tall and weighs less than a hundred pounds. She had given birth two months before the crime.”
Abby pauses for a moment to let the contrasting images sink in. “Now imagine for a moment that you are in Mrs. Rivera Hollis’s shoes, forced to confront a very angry, very drunk, very menacing Sergeant Hollis under those circumstances, with a baby to protect.” Abby can see Shauna rising and holds up her hand. “We are not here to try this case today,” she acknowledges, “but I would be remiss if I stood by and let Ms. Gooden paint my client as a cold-blooded killer without bringing to the court’s attention what she was dealing with that night.
“Whether Mrs. Rivera Hollis is guilty of first-degree murder beyond a reasonable doubt is for the jury to decide after considering all of the evidence, a tiny fraction of which the government has provided. Today, there are two narrow issues before this court—” Abby holds up two fingers “—and the standard of proof is far lower. One, would my client likely flee the jurisdiction or two, endanger the community if she were let out on bail? The answer to both questions is no. Mrs. Rivera Hollis has surrendered her passport. She’s a churchgoing mother, devoted to the care of her daughter, Cristina, whose christening is next week. To deprive Cristina of her mother so soon after losing her father could be devastating to her emotional development and even her physical health. She is still nursing—”
Judge Richards interrupts, “Is that the child behind you, in the baby carrier?”
“Yes. She is in the custody of Mrs. Rivera Hollis’s grandmother, Maria Elena Rivera, who is willing to put up her house as collateral to secure the bond.”
“And the house is worth?” Judge Richards is scribbling notes.
“There is roughly $100,000 in equity.”
Shauna gets up. “Your Honor,” she says, “Sergeant Hollis’s mother, who is present in the courtroom today, has filed a petition in family court seeking to terminate the defendant’s parental rights and assume sole custody of Cristina—”
Judge Richards continues writing, saying, without looking up, “A petition that I imagine will not be decided until after this case is over.”
“Well—yes. But in all likelihood, the defendant will be convicted and Mrs. Hollis will obtain custody. The only other option is, as Ms. Rosenberg said, the baby’s great-grandmother, who is elderly, speaks no English, and cannot be expected to properly provide for an infant.” Luz’s head comes up again, turned once more in Shauna’s direction. Abby shoots her a withering look and Luz retrains her gaze on the plush maroon carpet. “And how Ms. Rosenberg has the nerve to stand up here and prey upon this court’s sympathy by arguing trauma to the child from the loss of both parents knowing full well that the death of Cristina’s father is directly attributable to—”
“Yes, the irony has not escaped me.”
“Your Honor, this is a first-degree murder case, the most serious charge the government can bring. The defendant lay in wait for her husband to come home. She premeditated, she planned. If we were in state court there would be no bond. There would be nothing to discuss.”
“We’re not in state court, Ms. Gooden.”
“Apologies, Your Honor.” Shauna inclines her head and Abby allows herself a small smile at this unforced error. Even lower-level magistrate judges like Richards—tasked primarily with jobs like determining bail and mediating discovery disputes—don’t like to be compared with their counterparts across the street. State court and federal court are two entirely separate realms: one grimy and chaotic, the courtrooms constantly churning, its justice often slapdash and haphazard. The other, with a docket a fraction of the size, is stately, even austere, its courtrooms marbled, the pace sedate. Federal judges pride themselves on decisions that are deliberative and deliberate, the reasoning often set out at some length in writing.
Judge Richards looks out at the people filling the benches, his eyes resting for a moment on the priest before coming back to Abby. “What church does your client attend?”
Luz answers for herself. “Immaculate Heart.”
He nods, makes another notation. “What’s the age of the child?”
“She is just over two months old.”
Judge Richards stops writing momentarily. Without looking up he says, “Priors?”
“None.”
Shauna interjects, “That’s incorrect, Your Honor. The defendant has a juvenile case.”
Abby does her best to stare placidly at Judge Richards as if she, too, isn’t hearing this for the first time.
“What juvenile case?” Richards asks.
“It’s from 2003, when the defendant was sixteen. We are in the process of retrieving the file.”
Richards says, “Because the defendant was underage, the records are sealed, is that what you are saying?”
“Yes—”
Abby interrupts her, “The government knows nothing about this juvenile matter or how, if at all, it might relate to this bail application.”
“We intend to find out,” Shauna says evenly.
Richards looks at Shauna. “I’m sure you do. And I have to say, it troubles me.”
“Your Honor—”
He holds up his hand, and Abby stops talking. “It troubles me,” he repeats. “Ms. Rosenberg, anything else?”
Abby nods. She had been debating whether to risk it, but now the choice is clear. “With the court’s permission, my client’s priest, Father Abelard, would like to address the court.” Legally speaking, the priest is irrelevant; the only questions Judge Richards has to decide are whether Luz will hightail it out of town or kill someone else if he releases her. The priest can assuage neither of these concerns because his church is putting up no money and taking no risks on Luz’s behalf. A few questions on Shauna’s par
t will suss this out soon enough, but Abby is determined not to give her the opportunity. Not after Shauna just dropped the juvenile delinquent stink bomb.
“The witness will come forward and be placed under oath.”
Father Abelard, a small, brittle man, makes his way to the podium. When the formalities are over, the priest begins uncertainly, in a thickly accented voice, “May it please you, Judge. I have known this young lady many, many years. I was the priest at her communion. What happened, only God knows. It is not for me to judge. But I can say, sir, she is a good girl. All her life, she goes to church.” He pauses. “I know there has been great suffering and I do not take away from the pain of the brave soldier’s family, Mr. Travis Hollis. We pray for them.” He nods once, as if to himself. “We pray for them.” He turns, gestures toward the silent bundle in the car seat. “But there is also an innocent child in need of her mother. And I know this mother her whole life, and she is a good girl.” He nods again. “Thank you, sir.”
There is a long silence as the priest takes his seat. Luz moves her manacled hands to wipe clumsily at her eyes with the bottom of her jail-issue shirt.
They all wait while Judge Richards continues to write until he lifts his head again, fingers steepled under his chin. “I am going to set bail.” One of the church members whispers in the ear of Luz’s grandmother, who claps her hands together and says something in Spanish about Jesus. The priest puts a hushing hand on her arm. Abby watches as Luz’s shoulders sag in relief, her head bent nearly to the tabletop.
“Mrs. Rivera Hollis will be fitted with an electronic ankle monitoring bracelet to be worn at all times. Following her release, she will be confined to her grandmother’s house except for legal visits, doctor’s appointments, and church.”
Judge Richards turns his gaze on Luz. “Mrs. Rivera Hollis, if you attempt to flee the jurisdiction, your grandmother will lose her home. And you may well lose custody of your daughter. Do you understand?”
Luz whispers, “Yes.”
“Alright, that should take care of the flight risk.” Judge Richards taps his pen on his legal pad. “As to danger, the nature of the crime is violent and disturbing. There was, as Ms. Gooden pointed out, the use of extreme force. But we are talking about violence between a husband and wife. A young mother with no criminal history—not as an adult, in any event. We don’t know what happened when she was a juvenile. I know that there is a presumption in favor of detention. But based on what I’ve heard today, I think Ms. Rosenberg has overcome it. I just don’t see anything here that shows the defendant poses a danger to anyone else.”
Judge Richards pauses. “There’s one more thing. The publicity around all of this—” he gestures toward the press gaggle “—is only going to accelerate. But I am not going to let either side throw gas on the fire by trying this case in the media. The attorneys and their respective legal teams are prohibited from speaking to the press. A fair trial is more important than your fifteen minutes of fame. Understood?” Here, he looks meaningfully at Abby.
Abby smiles back as if this were a compliment, rather than a not-so-subtle dig. And the gag order doesn’t seem like a bad idea, either. Reporters tended to give prosecutors—rather than her clients—the benefit of the doubt, printing their public pronouncements uncritically and lending them the imprimatur of truth. Depriving Shauna of that megaphone was a good thing.
“Alright. Once the appropriate documents are filed with the court, the defendant shall be released.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Abby turns behind her to look at the furiously scribbling journalists, the wave of smiles spreading across the mostly Spanish-speaking congregation as the news is translated. “There is one more item I would like to address, if the court is amenable.”
Judge Richards inclines his head.
“Well—” Abby looks at Jared “—I am hoping that the marshal will allow my client to spend some time nursing her daughter in the witness room following the conclusion of these proceedings.”
Jared stands, his faced flushed. Whether it’s from anger or embarrassment, Abby can’t tell. “Your Honor, that’s not part of our protocol. We’re law enforcement officers, not—” He stops, out of words. “It’s just not appropriate, sir.”
“Your Honor,” Abby interjects, “there are engorgement issues here, which can be quite serious. Infection of the milk ducts—”
Now Judge Richards is flushing. “Yes, alright.” He looks at Jared. “Please have one of your female colleagues escort the defendant and her baby to the witness room.” He turns back to Abby. “Anything else?” His expression makes it clear there had better not be.
“No, Your Honor. And thank you for understanding.” Abby smiles sweetly.
Shauna stands. “Your Honor, the government is seeking a postponement of the arraignment on formal charges at this time.”
Judge Richards raises his eyebrows.
“It is possible that this case could resolve without the need for a trial, if the two sides are permitted time to reach an agreement.”
A plea offer. A bit early for that, Abby thinks, particularly after Shauna has gone to great lengths to denounce Luz as a stone-cold killer. But clearly, that had been an opening bid. First-degree murder was a typical government overreach designed to extract an agreement to something nearly but not quite so bad. And Shauna may have real problems. No prosecutor has ever invoked the Military Extraterritorial Jurisdiction Act since it was passed six years ago, in part because it is so logistically difficult to prosecute a crime that took place in a different part of the world.
“Ms. Rosenberg?”
Abby pauses for a moment. Luz will be free on bail. Waiving her right to a speedy trial within seventy days will cost little—no doubt whomever takes over the case when she goes on leave would have to ask for a continuance anyway; it’s just too difficult to get ready in that amount of time, particularly when most of the witnesses are overseas.
Suddenly, it dawns on her. She may not have to give up this case after all. Paul had asked her to do the bail hearing for exactly the reason Shauna had said, with the understanding that it would be Abby’s first and last appearance on the case. Murder cases in federal court were rare—Rayshon’s was an outlier. One with stakes like these—a beautiful young woman, a potential life sentence, an untested law, and the media attention that came with it—rarer still. Paul’s plan was pass it off to the new Ken Doll guy they’d hired out of the Army JAG Corps, figuring that even though it wasn’t a military law case, it was military enough that his experience counted for something.
But what if Paul couldn’t pass it off? The rule in the office was vertical representation—the same lawyer from start to finish—except in the rare instance where that became impossible: a health emergency, a death in the family, maternity leave. If the plea negotiations dragged on long enough and went nowhere, Abby could be back in time to try it. She hasn’t been to trial since Rayshon’s case almost exactly one year ago. Since she started turning—literally—into a different person with a body and a life that has become in some ways unrecognizable. Pregnant, coupled, domesticated. For the last several months, she has been visited by the same nightmare: she’s been buried alive, slowly deprived of oxygen. Each time, she wakes up gasping to the baby’s furious kicks, only to realize she had been holding her breath. Now for the first time in months she feels a rush of anticipation, a gust of cool air. She feels herself start to smile—a real one, this time—and bites down hard on her lower lip.
“Ms. Rosenberg?” Richards is looking at her expectantly.
“No objection.”
“How much time, Ms. Gooden?”
“Six weeks.”
“Ten,” Abby says. The federal public defender’s office paid for four months of parental leave and she’d promised Nic she’d take all of it, bonding with the baby and saving them the money they would otherwise have to spend on childcare. Well, p
lans change. This is her case, she can feel it.
“You’ll have eight. The defendant will be arraigned on the indictment on Monday, December 11. This court is in recess.”
As the rows of people in the gallery rise, there is a thrum of excited chatter in multiple languages, the rustle of gathered papers, the snapping of briefcases and hefting of purses, the flood of murmured excuse mes as people in a hurry brush past other slower-moving bodies toward the double doors.
Abby walks back to Luz, remembering the unpleasant surprise about her juvenile record and getting angry all over again. She leans down, her lips to the girl’s ear. “I asked you about criminal convictions. I specifically asked you.”
“My lawyer told me no one would ever see it.” Luz stares sullenly at the floor. “That’s what sealed means.”
Gently, Abby puts her finger under Luz’s chin, lifting her face until they are eye to eye. “Don’t you ever fucking lie to me again.”
Thursday, November 2, 2006
1:55 p.m.
Office of the Federal Public Defender
Los Angeles, California
Luz Rivera Hollis arrives in Will Ellet’s office twenty-five minutes late, in black skinny jeans and a sleeveless blouse printed with tiny black polka dots, her black hair breaking in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing lipstick that isn’t quite orange and isn’t quite red, a crimson color that few women could pull off, Will thinks. Luz, though, is among those few. Her fingernails are painted the same color.
It is hard to believe this Luz is the same person Will met last week at her grandmother’s house. That Luz had met him at the door in a white high-necked shirt with ruffles at the neck and sleeves, and a long sweeping white skirt, the baby in her arms. It was a look that practically screamed Lady Madonna, particularly given that their brief conversation had taken place in the living room where one of the only decorative features was a wooden cross on the wall.
