Finally Teddy intervened, taking back the phone and sending her back to bed, no doubt to dream of what new wonders tomorrow might bring. “As I said, at least one of us is having a good time. We’re safe here, Leo. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Just make sure you nail these bastards to the wall good and tight so that we can come home and be done with this forever. It’s time for all of us to stop being afraid.”
I couldn’t have agreed more.
In the morning, the first police officer on the scene described how he’d received the dispatch call and raced there, his testimony hewing closely to the narrative in his report.
Once Sloane had finished with him, it was my turn to question Officer Rick Martinez.
“In your report and in your testimony, you included all of the details that you considered important, correct?”
Predictably, he jousted with me, and we went back and forth with lofty abstractions for a few rounds, alternately grappling and returning to our corners. The point of it wasn’t to secure any admission from him but to wake the jurors up to the fact that this witness might be hiding important information.
At last, I cut to the chase. I had the dash cam video cued up and ready to go. After obtaining the judge’s permission to admit the video into evidence, I played it for the witness and for the jurors. I let the clip cycle through once, then ran it again in slow motion,
freezing the image near the beginning where it showed Braxton standing just a few feet from Alice Ward.
“Who’s that man?” I asked, zooming in.
The cop took a sip of water. “He didn’t tell me his name.”
“But he must have offered you some identification, didn’t he?”
The officer admitted that he had. “It showed he was an FBI agent.”
“You testified that your partner handcuffed my client. But that isn’t true, is it?”
“Sure it is. He cuffed her. Everything in my report was the truth. I didn’t lie.”
He shot a glance at Sloane. At the same time, I raised my hand in a slight wave, a way of calling attention to the cop’s discomfort, so fleetingly revealed.
“Isn’t it true that Ms. Ward was already cuffed when you and your partner took her to the ground?”
Martinez admitted that they’d discovered as much after they’d tackled her. He further admitted that his partner had gained a set of brand-new cuffs that day, since the FBI agent hadn’t stuck around long enough to retrieve the pair he’d abandoned on Alice Ward’s wrists.
“You testified earlier that you secured the gun. But isn’t the complete truth that, before you arrived, the FBI agent had already done so?”
“Look at the video. You can see it lying on the sidewalk there.”
“My point is, you’ve got no idea who handled that weapon before you arrived?”
“I have a pretty good idea that your client handled it some when she used it to shoot the victim.”
Just in case the fact wasn’t already completely obvious to the jurors, I now went about the task of forcing Martinez to admit that he hadn’t mentioned the FBI agent in his police report, nor in his testimony under direct examination by the DA.
“I want us to be clear here. The reason you didn’t mention the federal agent who was present is that he told you he wanted his name kept out of the official record?”
The witness reluctantly agreed that this was the request made.
“No further questions.”
Once Martinez’s partner had taken his oath, Sloane again focused on the details of the victim lying there on the sidewalk with half his head blown off, the gun just a few feet away, and my client sitting on the curb. Again, I had no problem establishing both Braxton’s presence at the scene and his swift departure.
Other routine witnesses followed: a paramedic; the medical examiner who’d performed the autopsy; the forensics expert who confirmed Alice’s fingerprints on the gun and gunshot residue on her arm. Sloane’s strategy for the moment seemed to be to bore the jurors into acquiescence. This gave me little to do but wait for her to call a witness who mattered, and to study the jurors.
Applying what I’d learned of them from their answers to the lawyers’ questions during voir dire and from the online research I’d conducted Monday night, I tried to intuit their prejudices and inclinations. My goal was to decide which were the likeliest candidates to step forward as my client’s champions once the case was handed over to them.
I also couldn’t help giving thought to Sims’s promise to “reach” the jury. Whatever precautions had been taken in sequestering the jurors, I remained concerned. Better than anyone else in the courtroom, I knew just how dangerous Sims was. They might have been sequestered, but those closest to them weren’t.
Plus, with each day that went by without Sims being taken into custody—and, on the flip side, without any contact from anyone in Wilder’s organization—I grew more uneasy. The defense strategy I’d plotted and announced to the world during my opening statement yesterday amounted to a declaration of war on Sims, Wilder, and their crew.
Having begun that war, I’d have preferred to keep my enemy in sight.
I didn’t have to wait long. Thursday evening, after the first full day of testimony, a drunk stumbled against me on the sidewalk. Exuding stale cigarette smoke, he moved away with a sober, unhurried gait. I watched him go, then looked down at the disposable cell phone he’d pressed into my hand.
It rang later that evening as I was in my borrowed office, prepping one of my first witnesses—Alex Rosen, the man Car and I’d met with at Wendy’s, the one who’d placed Sims with Alice Ward near the scene of the shooting. Car’s last task before leaving for Anaheim had been to serve him with a subpoena.
After informing Rosen that the subpoena obligated him to testify whether he liked it or not, I’d apologized for the way Car and I had treated him. I also made him realize it was in his best interests to know, before he took the stand, what I was going to ask. He wasn’t happy about testifying, but I’d made clear that it would be better for him if he appeared voluntarily rather than being dragged into court.
“Give me a minute,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t run out on me before I returned.
I went into another room and closed the door.
“Yeah,” I said.
“That’s all you got to say is ‘yeah’? My guys usually show me more respect, even when it’s just a cover for betrayal.”
“I’m not ‘your guy.’ But at least with me you know what you’re getting.”
“I’m not so sure,” Bo said. “But we’ll leave that discussion for another time. You’re a busy man. You’ve got court in the morning, and only so many hours between then and now. Me, on the other hand, I’ve got nothing but time.”
I heard a vague threat in this, but realized there was almost nothing that the man could say to me that would have no ominous overtones.
“The real reason I’m calling is that I checked into what we were talking about before. You raised suspicions about someone close to me’s possible involvement in the murder of your father and his wife. I didn’t want to believe this. But it turns out you were right. And we both know who we’re talking about.”
He’d caught me off guard, and his confirmation of my suspicions stunned me, stirring anger in my chest. “Thanks for checking,” I said. My thoughts were racing. “But I’m not asking for your help. I didn’t need you to tell me what I already know.”
“You suspecting and me telling are different things. I suppose next you’re going to say you can take care of it yourself. Bullshit. You don’t have the right. Plus, you try to make a move without my okay, you’re in the same position as him. Your name goes in the hat, and one of my guys draws the slip.”
He paused, and I waited for what was next.
“Second, you don’t have the balls. Third, whatever you might try, there’s a good chance you’d wind up dead.” Suddenly, he shifted tack, going on in a more reasonable tone. “You don’t wan
t to be in my debt, I get that. What do those white-collar assholes call it? ‘Leverage.’ Try to think of it like that.”
I still didn’t reply. What was the point?
“I can’t control whether a man feels a sense of obligation,” Wilder continued. “But I do know that it can be a pretty cold and lonely place for the man who won’t accept a hand that’s offered him. Especially when it’s my hand.”
My mouth was dry, but I found my voice. “Whatever help you’re offering, I don’t want it. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
Bo sounded unsurprised. “You speaking for yourself? Because, you know, you’re not the only one who’s lost a father.”
“I’m speaking for myself and my brother.”
“How is Teddy doing? How’s that family of his?”
I didn’t respond, wanting to end the call, but aware that I needed to keep listening.
“They ought to take some time for themselves, a little vacation. The lesson I’ve learned is that you’ve got to live life to the fullest, every minute. Because in the blink of an eye, it can all be taken away. A knock comes on the door, none of us knows when—and you could end up in a place like this. Or somewhere worse, even.”
His tone turned contemplative. “Like, if I had a kid Carly’s age, I’d probably take her down to Anaheim, see Disneyland.”
I was struggling to breathe, even if none of this should have been unexpected. “Whatever beef you’ve got with me, it’s about me. Leave my family out of it.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “Protection’s what I’m offering, not threats. You’re a fool not to accept it when I’m offering, especially with an animal like Sims on the loose. It’s an ugly world out there. Think about it.”
Before I could make any response, the call went dead.
I waited until my breathing slowed, then I went back out to finish prepping Rosen.
CHAPTER 19
In the morning, the prosecution presented the testimony of six civilian eyewitnesses, several of whom had been gathered outside the Gangway, a sailor-themed bar across the street. With each, Sloane took a minimal, formulaic approach, prompting the witness to describe where he’d been standing, what direction he’d been facing, and, finally, what he’d seen. She ended each examination by having the witness identify the shooter as Alice Ward, sitting at the defense table beside me.
When it was my turn, I used the notes Car and I had taken from the pretrial interviews we’d conducted to tease out, with varying success, as many details of my client’s emotional disturbance as I could.
One witness, I knew, had missed the precise moment of the shooting because he’d turned his head to see who was chasing Alice, a fact the DA had glossed over. Hearing the gunshot, the witness then had looked back in time to see Edwards fall. Another, catching sight of Alice running out of the alley with a handgun clutched in her fist, had thought she was deranged, possibly a random shooter. Most of the six had been too preoccupied with their own terrified reactions to observe or register Agent Braxton’s actions in the moments before the police showed up.
A sense of vertigo began to suffuse the courtroom, as the same event was repeatedly narrated with subtle shifts in the frame of reference. None of the witnesses had any clue whatsoever why my client had done what she did.
Sloane’s next witness was Dunham, the detective who’d investigated the case. Having proved a crime had been committed and that Alice Ward was the one who’d committed it, Sloane now sought to offer the jurors a plausible motive for an otherwise senseless act.
Using certified public records, Sloane led Dunham through a recital of the known facts of Alice Ward’s life. These included her single mother, the San Leandro apartment, her next-door neighbors Sims and Edwards, her mother’s overdose, and, finally, the police’s suspicion that Leann was murdered. The intended implication was that Alice Ward might have blamed Edwards for her mother’s death. Although I could have objected on numerous grounds as Dunham testified beyond her personal knowledge, I allowed all of what she said to be entered into the record.
Next, Sloane used Dunham to introduce evidence of Alice’s placement in various foster homes, painting a picture of a shattered life, offering the jurors a plausible motive for revenge. Wisely, however, Dunham made no mention of the Plum Tree job; I assumed she knew about Leann Ward’s connection to that unsolved murder. I could have attempted to wade into the subject on cross-examination if I wished, but if I did, I’d only be reinforcing the DA’s point that my client harbored a long-held motive.
Instead, I began with more recent history. “Jack Sims has been a person of interest to the local authorities for some time, has he not?”
Dunham studied me. Mannish and imposing, she was dressed in a dark suit over a gray silk shirt. “Define ‘of interest.’”
“Well, isn’t it true that he’s a known member of the Aryan Brotherhood?”
Sloane, sensing an area of danger, objected. So I countered with the obvious fact that she’d mentioned the victim’s gang membership in her opening statement. The judge allowed the question.
“That’s correct.”
“What’s the Aryan Brotherhood?”
Probably she’d been asked similar questions so many times under different circumstances by prosecutors that the answer simply rolled off her tongue. “It’s a criminal organization whose members engage in narcotics distribution, firearms trafficking, money laundering, and acts of brutal violence.”
“Edwards joined the Aryan Brotherhood while in prison, correct?”
“That’s the usual route of entry. It started out as a prison gang, and, essentially, it still is.”
“But one that’s grown to control an extensive network of illegal activities in the outside world, true?”
Dunham admitted this was so.
Next, I confirmed with her the following: that Edwards, the victim, had likewise been a member of the AB, and that he and Sims had been known associates after each had gotten out of prison. Which suggested that they’d both remained active in the AB. She didn’t disagree. I introduced the pictures of Edwards’s corpse stripped naked to reveal the AB tattoos that covered his back, including the jumbo-sized portrayal of Adolf Hitler.
“Now, Detective, as part of your investigation, you’ve made some inquiries into the source of the funds that are financing my client’s defense, haven’t you?”
Sloane was instantly on her feet. “Your Honor,” she began in a tone of strident objection. Then she stopped short.
“Hold on a minute. You’re talking about the money that’s going into your pocket?” Judge Ransom asked in a tone of personal affront.
I didn’t mind the jurors’ hearing it. Over the last three days, they’d been lulled to sleep again and again by the DA’s humdrum presentation of her case. I felt it was time, now, to wake them up.
“That’s exactly what I meant, Your Honor,” I told him.
“Answer it,” the judge instructed the detective. “It’s Mr. Maxwell’s funeral.”
“I’ve looked into the matter,” Dunham said, seeming to relish what was coming.
“And you’ve learned that the money to pay my fee is being supplied by the Aryan Brotherhood, haven’t you?”
The jurors looked appalled, as if the script had changed suddenly from droning facts to shocking reality.
“That’s right,” Dunham said with a slow smile. “Wired the same night she was arrested.”
I had a strong urge to ask her more, to find out how deeply she’d delved into matters that, more than arguably, were protected by attorney-client privilege. But I’d made my point. I’d committed myself to falling on the sword for my client’s sake. Now, I had to finish the job.
“Why in God’s name would the Aryan Brotherhood be paying to defend an African-American teenager from murder charges for killing one of its members?”
Sloane objected at this obviously unanswerable question. Ransom sustained the objection with a ster
n admonition to me, but that didn’t stop Dunham from responding. “Ask her,” she said, her eyes flashing to my client.
It was arguably a remark incompatible with Alice’s right to remain silent. I objected and asked the judge to strike the remark, which he did. But I didn’t allow her to throw me off.
“I’m asking you,” I said. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
“Maybe you can enlighten us,” she replied, again ignoring Sloane’s objection and the judge’s forceful and immediate response of “Sustained.”
I nodded solemnly, letting her and the jurors know that I intended to. I let this promise hang in the air before moving on.
I stepped closer to the jury box, positioning myself now directly in front of it. “If Jack Sims had been present at the murder scene,” I began, “that would be a fact of interest to you in investigating the shooting of Edwards, a fellow member of the Aryan Brotherhood, correct?”
“I have no knowledge of his being present.”
“But it would be of interest to you if he was, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m always interested in the presence of any witness to a murder.”
“Jack Sims lived with Edwards in the house next door to Alice Ward’s apartment building when she was a little girl, before her mother died, isn’t that true?”
Dunham had no other choice but to confirm this was so.
“So, am I right that you have no idea what Sims, if he was there at the murder scene, might have said to my client in the moments before she shot Edwards?”
Again, Sloane objected. But my point had been made.
I moved on, without waiting for Dunham to fill in the blank.
“In response to some of the DA’s questions, you talked about events that occurred years ago in Alice Ward’s life. I want to focus right this moment on more recent history. Please tell the jury what happened the day of Ms. Ward’s arraignment.”
“She tried to kill herself,” Dunham said.
“How?”
Grudgingly, Dunham described Alice Ward’s brutal self-attack, which I’d now seen on video numerous times. Through all of this, Sloane sat silent, though I’d expected to draw her objection. Getting her hits in where she could, Dunham made sure the jury understood that it was my pen Alice had used.
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