The Rule of Law

by John Lescroart

  The man nodded and then said something, dismissing the guard. Coming back to the prisoner, the cell door still closed between them, he said, “Your English is excellent.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s my native tongue, so that makes sense, doesn’t it? Did I mention I want to see a lawyer?”

  The man simply shook his head, his expression flat and unyielding. “My name is Philip Newton, Rigoberto. And as a pending deportee, you don’t have a right to a lawyer. Once we’ve verified your immigration status as illegal, it’s pretty simple. We put you on an airplane and fly your ass back home.”

  “This is home. This is where I live.”

  “Alas. I’m afraid the government doesn’t see it that way. By all accounts, from what we’ve seen since we’ve picked you up, you cannot prove that you are an American citizen, and therefore that you have the right to live in this country. You don’t have any kind of green card or other documentation that will allow you to stay here.”

  “I’ve been here my whole life. I was born here.”

  “Really? Where, precisely?”

  “LA?”

  “What hospital?”

  “I wasn’t born in a hospital. I was born in my aunt’s house.”

  “Very good. What is her name and the exact address? We’ll check her out.”

  “She doesn’t live there anymore.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Do you have her current address?”

  “She moved, and then she died.”

  Philip Newton clucked. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did she have your birth certificate?”

  “No. My mother kept that.”

  “And where is she? Your mother.”

  “We’ve lost contact over the years. I don’t see her anymore.”

  “That’s sad. You don’t know where she lives?”

  “No.”

  “Any other relatives, especially citizens of this country?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate, Rigoberto, because in this matter the burden of proof is on you. We need to see documentation that proves either that you are a citizen or that you have permission to be here, to work here, anything like that. And so far we have none. Can you think of anyplace else where we might look and find something of that nature?”

  “Being born here, I never worried about that stuff. I’m as American as you are.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re as Mexican as I’m American.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. And how about, if I can’t have a lawyer, can I at least make a phone call?”

  “I’m afraid not. The presumption is that you’re in this country illegally and therefore that you don’t have the same rights as a citizen would.”

  “This is just so wrong. You guys are so wrong. I’ve got a good job here. You can check. Parinelli’s Winery. I’m the vineyard manager there.”

  “We did check. What do you think we’ve been doing all day while you’ve been in here? But Mr. Parinelli had no papers on you, either. Neither did Mr. Bosche down in Napa, who was your reference for Parinelli. Oh, and your social security number is for a guy named James G. Cooley, who died in Boise, Idaho, in 1991. I’m afraid we’ve got you nine ways from Sunday, Rigoberto. I could have you on a plane to Mexico by the end of the week and nobody would blink or think twice about it. And I’d be that much closer to my bonus. You understand me?”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “To the contrary, I’m damn proud of what I do. I’m helping to keep this country safe from people who lie about their background and their activities. Who come to this country either criminally or to commit crimes, as so many of your people have done.”

  “My people are Americans, just like you are. You’re not listening. And the bad Mexicans or illegals you’re talking about? You’re saying white people don’t commit crimes? Tell that to the punks I identified today in the courthouse. So, yeah, are there bad Mexicans? Sure. So put them in jail or deport them or whatever the hell you want to do with them. But don’t confuse me with them. I’ve never even spit on the sidewalk and all of my friends are the same way.”

  “All of your friends? Where are they? And would any of them be able to vouch for your citizenship?” He waited and got no response. “That’s what I thought. This is a losing fight for you, son. Nevertheless, I’m here to offer you a deal.”

  Rigoberto cocked his head, interested in spite of himself. “What kind of deal?”

  “Well, first, the kind that will keep you in this country and could, if you play your cards right, get you in line for a legitimate green card.”

  The young man scratched at his shirt over his chest. He only just now realized it, but he was exhausted—not only from the stress of his identification of his attackers that morning, and then from his arrest and the long empty afternoon in this cell, but from the effects of the beating he’d taken that previous Friday night. His head throbbed, his back ached, his ribs—two of them broken—stabbed at him. “I’m listening, but first could I get a little water?”

  “I could do that. Give me a minute.”

  It was more like five, but when Philip Newton returned, it was with a couple of plastic bottles of water, ice-cold, as though they’d just come out of a refrigerator.

  Rigoberto drank his down in one long gulp. “Thank you,” he said when he’d finished. “What’s your offer?”

  • • •

  PHILIP NEWTON ASSURED Rigoberto that, in spite of his own case, ICE was not really interested in deporting simple undocumented aliens. The agency’s focus—especially in California, where there were over a hundred thousand DREAMers and at the same time so many sanctuary cities—was apprehending felons: drug dealers, sex traffickers, gang members, killers.

  The problem was that these people might be identified by local police in whatever sanctuary city in which they’d committed their crime. But the city police were not mandated and mostly did not attempt to turn these suspects and criminals over to ICE, whose mission was to take them into custody and then deport them to their country of citizenship. Instead, these people, often posing as DREAMers, would get released from custody, making bail or getting released from jail or prison after serving their time, and then, instead of hanging around where ICE might find them, would hook up with a loose network of activists—an underground railroad—who helped them disappear into another community or out of the country entirely.

  Rigoberto knew about this underground railroad and was of the opinion that a vast majority of the people it facilitated were, like him, innocent of any real crimes. Most of the runaways felt that they needed to relocate because they had come to believe for whatever reason—often a sibling or a cousin plucked from their waitress or picking or warehouse job—that they’d hit the government’s radar and were in imminent danger of being picked up and sent south. They had to leave everything on little to no notice with no independent means of transportation, no valid IDs, no credit cards. If they could just make it to Canada, they could start their lives over again without the constant fear that they would be deported.

  Apparently, according to Philip Newton, ICE did not care about these people, who were essentially deporting themselves to the north instead of south. Canada was much more tolerant of them and Canada was welcome to them. But there was a host, a veritable plague, of other people, who used the well-meaning but sometimes clueless station masters of the invisible railroad to escape from the law and evade prosecution in the cities where they’d committed their crimes, resettling and causing havoc wherever they chose, setting up their drug and sex traffic networks, connecting with their fellow gang members, intimidating any population with which they came in contact. These people were criminals, wanted by ICE not for their documentation irregularities but because they were lawbreakers, often violent and dangerous, who gave a bad name to all of Rigoberto’s countrymen.

  Philip Newton thought that, as a victim of a violent crime, Rigoberto might be willing to connect himself with the loca
l underground railroad stops and help ICE identify these people as they passed through town. In return for this information, he could avoid his own deportation and put himself—finally—on the rocky road to US citizenship.

  It seemed like a reasonable trade.

  10

  AT A LITTLE before 4:30 on the day they’d had the arraignment, Hardy walked down the lengthy corridor that led to Gina Roake’s office. The door was open, but Hardy knocked anyway, and Gina looked up from the green leather chair in which she sat over by the corner window. “Hey,” she said, closing the copy of the New Yorker she’d been reading.

  “Hey yourself. You busy?”

  She made a gesture at her reading material. “Overwhelmed, as you can see. Reading this damn magazine every week is a commitment and a half. But if I don’t, I feel guilty. Of course, if I do read the whole thing, there’s an hour of billing gone, so I feel guilty about that, too. It’s such a joy being me. What’s up?”

  Hardy took the identical chair across from her. “Celia Montoya.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “I doubt it. But I think, with any luck, she’ll be in your future.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Allegedly, she killed Hector Valdez. That’s the murder Phyllis is charged with being an accessory to.”

  “Okay.” Gina laid her magazine on the low table next to her. “What about her?”

  “They just got her into custody up in Ukiah. Evidently ICE picked her up on some kind of anonymous tip and is bringing her down to the city tonight. And she’s going to be needing a lawyer.”

  “I like the way you say that. Does she have any money to pay such a lawyer?”

  “I doubt it. Phyllis said she was essentially broke.”

  “Don’t we still have a public defender’s office here in town for, you know, like, poor people?”

  “We do. And a fine office it is, too.”

  “And yet you’re bringing her to my attention. I should take her on as my client, right? And pro bono, I assume.”

  Hardy nodded. “That’s not really an issue. The case will be worth its weight in gold as advertising for the firm, but that’s not really it, either.”

  “I’m listening,” Roake said.

  Sitting back and crossing his legs, Hardy took a beat and let out a breath. “The real answer isn’t much of a legal argument as far as that goes. The plain fact is that somebody’s going to have to take on that son of a bitch—”

  “You’re talking Jameson, I presume.”

  “No flies on you, Gina. If the way he’s handled Phyllis is any indication—and I believe it’s just the tip of the iceberg—he’s going to be a procedural nightmare every step of the way. He just doesn’t care about how things are supposed to be done. He doesn’t care about the law, period, which he made pretty clear this morning. Plus, it was abundantly obvious this morning that he’s still got his personal grudge with Wes. If we let this case get away from us and go to the PD, it’ll disappear into the bureaucracy instead of showcasing what an incompetent and immoral asshole this guy is. Which, if we take her case, especially alongside Phyllis’s, we’re in a perfect position to do.”

  “And we want to do this because . . . ?”

  “Because this guy’s a menace and somebody’s got to sign on to take him down.”

  “So it’s personal?”

  “For me it is, and I know it would be for Wes, too. And I’m inviting you along just for the sheer thrill of it.”

  “You’re sure this is not just politics?”

  “Maybe a little of that, okay. That’s why I’m coming to you rather than Wes. If he took on the case, it would be just politics and nothing else, and there’ll be some of that no matter what. But if it’s just you and me, we can expose the many ways Jameson plays it wrong, and maybe even make a difference. I thought that might appeal to the idealist in you.”

  Gina broke a wide smile. “Has anybody ever mentioned that you are a shameless flatterer?”

  Hardy grinned back at her. “Only rarely. When I really want something.”

  “Which is not to say that it isn’t effective.”

  Hardy waited.

  Gina glanced at her watch, then sighed extravagantly. “Okay, okay. You’ve got Phyllis, so if I take Celia, I’d have a conflict. But, assuming she waives it, I’ll take her. When is she going to arrive at the jail?”

  • • •

  HARDY COULDN’T BELIEVE it when he came out of Gina’s office and there in front of him sat Phyllis, at her reception desk, doing what appeared to be some filing. He had posted her bail himself, in cash, but had never expected to see her so soon. He came around and stood in front of her until she looked up. Before she could say anything, he said, “Do I vaguely remember telling you to take the rest of the day off, or was that someone who looks exactly like you?”

  “Yes, sir. But I wanted to get a jump on tomorrow’s work and catch up on what I missed last week.”

  “Of course you did. Or how about take tomorrow off as well and not worry about whatever it is you’re catching up on?”

  “I’d rather get caught up so I don’t have to worry about it, if that’s all right with you.”

  Hardy all but rolled his eyes. “It’s all right with me, but I thought that after a night of no sleep and then all the emotion of your arraignment this morning and then posting bail . . .”

  “And by the way, thank you for that. I promise I’ll pay you back.”

  “In your dreams, Phyllis. There’s nothing to pay back. I put up the bail myself so that when this trial is over I get it back, unless you’re planning to skip town. But as I told the judge, I really don’t believe you’re a flight risk, so I’ll get back every cent of it when you show up for your trial. How’s the shoulder, by the way?”

  Phyllis looked down quickly, then back up at Hardy. “I took another Advil,” she said. “It’s fine.”

  “Did you see a doctor and tell him to send the medical records as I requested?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “No buts. Did you tell him to send them?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. I want a record of what they did to you. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And so I guess your presence back here at your desk today means that you’re planning to be coming in tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Of course.” Frustration bleeding out, Hardy said it half to himself. This woman, he was thinking, would try the patience of a saint. “Why would I even ask?”

  • • •

  WHEN DEVIN JUHLE received notification that ICE had picked up Celia Montoya in Ukiah, the first thing he did was call Beth Tully and Ike McCaffrey and tell them about it. After all, they were the inspectors of record in the Valdez murder, and even if they did not get to testify before the grand jury that had indicted Celia Montoya and Phyllis McGowan, they still had a vested interest in that case.

  The second call he made was to Dismas Hardy, relaying the same information. This was the call that had driven Hardy to walk down to Gina Roake’s office to try to persuade her to get on board with Celia Montoya’s defense.

  Now Hardy was on with Juhle again, letting him know that, with the suspect’s approval, Gina was going to be representing Celia pro bono, a fabulously unusual occurrence in a murder case of an indigent suspect. This was another in the series of events that had begun with Tully and McCaffrey not being called to testify before the grand jury, then the theatrical arrest of Phyllis McGowan and her mistreatment at the jail and in the courtroom for her arraignment.

  Juhle, frankly, just didn’t get what was going on, and he posed the question to Hardy.

  “What do you mean?” Hardy asked. “Other than that Mr. Jameson wants to do things his way, even if it’s illegal? Even if he ignores everybody’s civil rights? And he doesn’t like people trying to stop him?”

  “But why these two cases—McGowan and Montoya—which in the normal chain of events wouldn’t be c
lose to the highest-profile cases he’d be prosecuting as time goes by?”

  “Well, one reason is the connection to Wes. Here’s a chance to take his political rival down a couple of notches so he won’t be as much of a threat to Jameson’s power next time—if there is a next time.”

  “But this whole sanctuary question, Diz? Of all the political stands to take, how does this help Jameson when the city’s, like, ninety percent behind it? Being a sanctuary city, I mean. We don’t hand our immigrants over to ICE, even if they’re going down for something as large as murder. Period.”

  “Yeah, but how about if ICE hands its suspected killers back over to us and we put ’em on trial? For the crime but not for their immigration status. That way, he’s tough on crime and at the same time appears relatively sympathetic to the whole deportation issue. Or at least not hostile to it. That, in spite of the fact that he’s on the record as saying that he’s not opposed to rounding up everybody who’s undocumented; that in itself is the crime. But since that doesn’t fly here politically, he has his murder suspect brought in and that changes the message a bit. In spite of the rhetoric, he’s not turning people over to ICE. Only the bad ones, after they’re actually convicted, with the tacit understanding that he’s leaving the good ones—the hardworking, tax-paying immigrants—alone. It’s bogus, of course, but bogus is his game and he’s playing this one pretty well.”

  “Okay. So if you don’t mind my asking, why are you so involved?”

  “Well, the easy answer is that I really don’t feel like I’ve got much of a choice. Phyllis is my secretary, and if she’s in legal trouble, I’ve pretty much got to help her out if I can.”

  “Sure. That’s understood. But it’s not exactly what I was asking. This isn’t just you taking Phyllis’s case, or even Roake getting on board with the Valdez killing.”

  “Yeah.”

  Nearly half a minute passed in silence, until Juhle said, “Diz? You still there?”

  “I am. I’m thinking about why I’m so pumped up around this, and I’m afraid the answer I give you may not redound to my credit.”