True Notebooks

by Mark Salzman

  “Like my brother,” Jose said. “A month after he got to the pen, the gang slid a shank under the door to his cell and told him to take care of a snitch. He hadda do it, or he’da got sliced.”

  “We’re all gonna face it,” Victor said. “That’s the reality, no matter how bad we wanna change.”

  Jose pointed around the room and said, “See this? You got black guys and Asian guys and Martinez and me in here, and we get along fine. As soon as we get to the pen, that’s gonna end. It ain’t possible there.” He slid his notebook and pencil across the table to me, then handed in his folder as well. “You might as well give this to somebody else. I won’t be able to take it with me anyway. No personals allowed in the Box.”

  “Homeboy gets sentenced next week,” Victor told me.

  “It’s all nice,” Jose said, “us tryin’a do good in here, goin’ to school and takin’ writing classes and bein’ in plays an’ shit. But it don’ make no difference. In the end, it all comes out the same.”

  Jose got up and wandered out into the dayroom, where Mr. Granillo gave him the choice of returning to class or going to his room. He chose his room.

  24 / Thanks, Hate

  “I’m sure it would mean a great deal if you could be there,” Sister Janet called out from her tiny kitchen. “But you’re already doing so much for the kids—don’t feel you have to do more.”

  Sister Janet lived in a two-room apartment furnished entirely with purchases from the Salvation Army. Her most extravagant possession hung in a frame on the wall: a sheet of liturgical music dating from the twelfth century. Someone had donated this object to the probation department back in the 1950s to decorate the new chapel at juvenile hall. It was stapled to a velvet panel on the wall, where it languished until the wall had to be torn down to make room for a closet. Realizing it was about to be thrown away, Sister Janet phoned Walt Kelly, the head of the probation department (the former priest who had attended our retreat), and urged that the piece be rescued; she suspected it was much older than anyone realized. Kelly inspected it and came to the same conclusion, but instead of putting it into storage, he arranged for the treasure to be presented to Sister Janet as a gift.

  Sister Janet returned from the kitchen with a plate of cookies and a pot of ink black coffee, which she placed on the low table in front of me. I sat on a sofa while she sat on the floor, folding her legs beneath her with the kind of ease that comes from a lifetime of practice.

  “I must warn you,” she said. “If you do go to watch his trial, it will break your heart. Once you’ve seen what the legal system does to these children, it becomes far more difficult to stay hopeful.”

  In fact, I hadn’t offered to attend Kevin’s trial; I had stopped by Sister Janet’s place to discuss my latest draft of the novel about the Carmelite nun which she had been kind enough to read. By then, however, I had grown accustomed to the fact— grown fond of it, even—that conversations with Sister Janet never went the way one expected. Instead they went where the need was greatest.

  “Where will the trial be held?” she asked.

  “Torrance. Down near Long Beach.”

  “Ugh—that’s an awful drive. And the traffic is impossible. No, it’s too much.” She looked down at the serving tray and laughed. “Look what I’ve done! I brought out the coffeepot, but no cups! Hold on.” She rose from the floor and glided into the kitchen. “Did you want any cream and sugar? I didn’t even think to ask.”

  “Only if you have it.”

  I heard her open the refrigerator door. “Is milk OK?” “Even better.”

  “I hope you’re eating those cookies out there.”

  She returned with cups and saucers, a creamer filled to the brim with nonfat milk, and a bowl stuffed with at least fifty packets of sugar.

  “That poor boy,” she said, pouring the coffee for me. “Imagine the kind of pressure he must be under right now. And with no parents to show their support, or make him feel loved. Yet he’s always so cheerful and polite when I see him.”

  “He’s been wonderful to have in the class.”

  “Oh, and he has enjoyed it so much. Can I show you something? Do you have a minute?”

  She sprang up from the floor again and disappeared into the far room, which doubled as her office and bedroom, returning with a manila folder stuffed with letters. She pulled one out and handed it to me. “I’ve been asking some of the boys and girls to write down what they feel about the classes. I see changes coming, and none of them good. We may have to fight to keep this program in place; these letters might be what keeps us hanging on.”

  To Whom It May Concern . . .

  Since I joined Mark’s writing group I’ve noticed a lot of changes in my life. Writing has helped me open up to other people and have an open mind to their opinions. Writing has taught me a lot about myself that I never knew I had bottled up inside. Everybody thinks I’m a “hardened criminal” because of the charges against me, but they don’t know the real me. For most of my life I didn’t even know the real me until writing helped me dig deep down inside and extract my true self. My teacher has helped me, encouraged me, and done everything in his power he can to be more than just a teacher, he’s our friend! I’m glad to have been fortunate enough to be in this class. I believe it’s been one of my most cherished experiences.

  Kevin Jackson

  August 5, 1998

  “You see?” she said. “You’ve done so much for him already. Don’t worry about the trial; it could go on for weeks. If you could make it to his sentencing hearing, which would only take a day, that would be a wonderful gesture.”

  I went straight from Sister Janet’s apartment to the Torrance Superior Court building. After passing through security—the man in front of me refused to submit to the metal detector test and was refused entry—I found the proper courtroom. Kevin’s two aunts were there and they told me I hadn’t missed a thing; the lawyers were still picking the jury.

  The prosecutor, Ms. Rose, dressed conservatively and kept her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. She had a severe look for someone so young; I guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. Her opponent, alternate public defender Paul Kinion, couldn’t have resembled her less. He was overweight and on the far side of middle age, his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them the night before, he needed a haircut, and he gulped water out of an oversized plastic bottle that he kept next to his chair. He seemed relaxed, but not in a way that inspired confidence; he reminded me of a large, friendly basset hound called upon to guard a home.

  Kevin sat next to Mr. Kinion, wearing a powder blue suit and a burgundy and yellow tie. It was the first time I had seen him in anything but a prisoner’s orange outfit or his underwear. He looked nervous and subdued. During a break, I approached them and introduced myself to his lawyer.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I was going to call you back, but I’ve been so busy preparing this case, there just hasn’t been time.”

  I reiterated my offer to speak as a character witness on Kevin’s behalf.

  “We would only need that at the sentencing hearing, if he were to lose the case. Right now let’s focus on winning.”

  The trial began with opening statements. Ms. Rose went first, telling the courtroom that the victims—a group of three teenage boys, all black—were leaving a movie theater in a crowded mall complex when the crime occurred. Kevin Jackson, his girlfriend, and another couple approached from the parking lot, on their way to see the same movie the victims had just seen. When the two groups crossed paths, words were exchanged. A scuffle ensued, and a punch was thrown. Mr. Jackson pulled out a gun. One of the victims, Steve Compton, was shot point-blank in the chest, while Brian Webb was shot in the buttocks. They both survived. The third victim, Brandon Stokes, was shot in the back. By the time emergency medics arrived he was already dead.

  After the shooting, Mr. Jackson and his friends got into a car and drove away. Rather than dispersing and going into hiding, they went to see the same movie at anot
her theater. Arriving too late, they turned around and continued driving. Moments later their car was spotted by a Torrance police officer who recognized it from witnesses’ descriptions of the get-away vehicle. He followed them, pulled them over, and found the murder weapon under the rear passenger seat where Mr. Jackson had been sitting. Later that evening, in an interview with a police detective, Mr. Jackson confessed to firing the gun at the three boys.

  The prosecutor told the jury that she would present evidence to show, beyond question, that this was a senseless, cold-blooded murder, not an act of self-defense or manslaughter. And what was it over?

  “Words, gang affiliation, wearing red, or wearing blue, bravado, showing off? A punch thrown? Essentially nothing.” She promised to demonstrate that the victim was murdered for no reason, and that there was no excuse for the defendant’s actions.

  When she finished, the judge invited the defense to make its opening statement. Mr. Kinion began by admitting this would be a tough case, but insisted it was one that had to be judged on the basis of evidence, not outrage.

  In Mr. Kinion’s version of the story, the three victims “approached the defendant—who they thought was a Piru Blood gang member from Compton—and said, ‘What’s up, cuz?’ Now, ‘What’s up cuz?’ seems to us to be innocuous, but it’s not. It’s a word to gang people that is very confrontational. It’s a word from gang people often followed by gunfire and death.

  “Kevin Jackson didn’t answer. Another of the boys said, ‘What’s up, loc?’ another confrontational term used by Crip gang members, their challenge, which is usually, ladies and gentlemen, in a lot of cases followed by gunfire. To a gang member, it means a very serious challenge. And I told you before it’s a challenge that ordinarily results in the death or great bodily injury inflicted upon the person who they asked the question to.

  “Jackson ignored the challenges, he tried to avoid the confrontation, but it didn’t stop. Mr. Jackson couldn’t get away. Mr. Jackson is then hit in the face very hard, and he’s stunned, and he pulls out the gun and fires shots. He fired those shots not with the intent to kill or to maim or to hurt anybody, but to get away because he thought his life was threatened.

  “This is going to be about a case of self-defense, where a young man shoots a gun to stop himself from being maimed, killed, or hurt by Crips. He had a right to defend himself.”

  The attorneys approached the judge’s bench to settle a procedural issue before going on. Accustomed to watching celebrity trials on television, I expected the courtroom to be filled with observers, but it was practically empty. Besides Kevin’s aunts, I counted half a dozen of us in the room. One was a reporter from a local newspaper. The rest, I could only guess, were members of the dead boy’s family.

  The prosecution began its case by calling one of the two girls who had been with Kevin that night. She testified that after seeing one of the boys punch Kevin, she turned her back and ran, hearing gunfire but not seeing anything. She claimed that when they all got in the car after the shooting, nobody said a word about it and she did not know that Kevin had a gun in the car. The prosecutor pointed out that her testimony contradicted the statement she’d made to the police the night of the killing on several points, but the girl claimed not to know or remember anything about what she’d said that night. She seemed irritated at having to appear in court at all.

  After lunch the prosecution called the girl who had been Kevin’s date that night to the stand. She told the court that the boy who was killed had said, “What’s up, cuz?” and “What’s up, loc?” several times to Kevin, and that when Kevin didn’t respond, the questions got louder. Soon the boy was yelling them. She said she tried to pull Kevin away so that a fight wouldn’t break out, but the boy prevented her from doing so and punched Kevin in the face. Then she, like the other girl, turned around and missed seeing everything else that followed.

  After a break, Kevin’s male friend took the stand. He had to be reminded continually to speak at an audible level. Like the two girls, he claimed to have seen Kevin being punched, but nothing after that. He did admit, however, to knowing that Kevin had a gun that night. He denied being a Blood gang member, but admitted that many of his friends were gang members. He denied that the red Chicago Bulls T-shirt, black pants, and red Nike sneakers he wore that night—or his cherry red sports car—were signs of gang affiliation. He also wanted it known that it was not his decision to go to the drive-in theater after the shooting—the girls made him drive there because they were annoyed at having missed the screening at the mall.

  By the end of the day I understood why the prosecution, and not the defense, had called Kevin’s three friends to the stand. They were unappealing, immature, and unreliable—but at least they hadn’t shot anyone. Kevin, the jury could only assume, had to have been the worst of the bunch. Their courtroom testimony and police statements did agree on a few points, however. Kevin had been confronted by the three boys, not the other way around. They challenged him several times with the questions “What’s up, cuz?” and “What’s up, loc?” When Kevin did not respond, one of the boys punched Kevin in the face. Kevin fell backwards, pulled a gun out of his pocket, then opened fire. Did he panic, thinking those boys were armed? Did he have reason to fear for his life? Or was he, as the prosecutor suggested, just a coldhearted thug—a coward who couldn’t handle a challenge to a fistfight except by gunning everybody down?

  That night I went to bed with a broken heart, just as Sister Janet had predicted—but not because of what the legal system was doing to young people. I had known for a year that Kevin was charged with murder, as were most of the boys in my class. I guess I thought that if I could look at those numbers in Mr. Sills’ ledger and go back to the library without flinching, it meant I had faced reality and dealt with it. Now I knew otherwise. One of my students’ victims had a name and a family now, and I had to wrap my mind around the fact that someone I had grown so fond of, and who seemed so gentle, had been foolish enough to go to a movie theater carrying a loaded gun, violent enough to shoot three people with it—two of them in the back—and then callous enough to want to go to a movie afterward.

  The next day, the prosecutor called several police officers to the stand. They established that the spent cartridges from the crime weapon had been found ten to twenty feet apart, suggesting that the shooter had moved to follow his victims. The defense attorney got them to acknowledge that when a pistol is fired, the empty cartridges are discharged forcefully and sometimes land a good distance away. He also pointed out that the incident took place in front of a crowded movie theater, where the cartridges could easily have been scattered underfoot in all of the chaos that followed the shooting.

  The coroner who had performed the autopsy testified next, saying that the entrance and exit wounds on the dead man’s body indicated a single shot fired when the victim’s back was turned to the shooter. A weapons expert established that the gun found in the car under Kevin’s seat was, in fact, the murder weapon.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, Robert Lara, a police detective who’d grown up in a gang-infested part of L.A. and who specialized in gang suppression, took the stand as an expert witness for the prosecution. Ms. Rose asked him what the phrase “What’s up, cuz?” meant. Detective Lara said it could be a simple greeting between friends, but when delivered by a Crip gang member, it means:

  “What are you going to do? The guy will [then] use the term ‘Are we boxing or are we gattin’,’ which is a street term for shoot it out. And the guy will put his hands up, that means it’s going to be a physical altercation. If they have a weapon, they’re going to retrieve that weapon and the battle will begin. It’s like what they perceive as a duel, a representation of masculinity to them.”

  Ms. Rose asked, “In a situation where ‘What’s up, cuz?’ is followed by a punch, would you expect gunfire to erupt from that situation?”

  “No.”

  On the morning of the third day of the trial, Mr. Kinion called Detective
Lara back to the stand for cross-examination.

  “[So] if a gang member were to approach someone with the words ‘What’s up, cuz?’ and then hit him in the face, it would mean only a fistfight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would that testimony change if you knew that on one occasion prior to this night in question that this particular person—”

  The prosecutor leapt up from her seat and objected. The judge called the two attorneys to his bench for a lengthy conference. When they finished, the defense lawyer was allowed to finish his question:

  “If you knew that on one occasion prior to this incident that this person who hit Kevin had chased him with a gun, would that change your opinion?”

  The detective gave it some thought, then answered that, no, it wouldn’t necessarily change his opinion.

  That afternoon the prosecution called its final witness, Keith Mason, a detective who had been with the Torrance police department for thirty-two years. He had conducted the interview with Kevin the night of the shooting, which was played for the court. As Mr. Kinion claimed, Kevin described being chased by the victim on a prior occasion. The boy had threatened him with a gun at a bus stop, Kevin said, but he escaped by jumping onto the bus.

  I expected this piece of testimony to cause more of a stir. Didn’t it mean that Kevin had good reason to fear for his life— or at least to be terrified out of his wits—when the boy confronted him at the movie theater? Neither attorney showed much interest in the tape, however. When Ms. Rose announced that she was finished with the witness, Mr. Kinion passed on the opportunity to cross-examine, and the prosecution rested its case.

  At last, on the fourth day of the trial, Kevin’s defense began. His lawyer called Mr. Steven Strong, a private investigator, to the stand. Mr. Strong had been with the Los Angeles Police Department for over twenty years. Like Detective Lara, his specialty had been to investigate gang-related crimes. Mr. Kinion spent a long time asking him questions about gang activity in the Los Angeles area that didn’t seem to have anything to do with Kevin’s case; I gathered that this was meant to establish the witness’s expertise. At last, he got to the point.