When they were gone Tribow sat back in his chair. He spun to look out the window at the rolling countryside of suburbia, bright green with early summer colors. Tribow played absently with the only artwork in his office: a baby’s mobile of Winnie-the-Pooh characters, stuck to his chipped credenza top with a suction cup. It was his son’s—well, had been, when the boy, now ten, was an infant. When Danny Junior had lost interest in the mobile, his father didn’t have the heart to throw it away and brought it here to the office. His wife thought this was one of those silly things he did sometimes, like his infamous practical jokes or dressing up in costumes for his son’s parties. Tribow didn’t tell her that he wanted the toy here for one reason only: to remind him of his family during those long weeks preparing for and prosecuting cases, when it seemed that the only family he had were judges, jurors, detectives and colleagues.
He now mused, “I offer him ten years against a possible special-circumstances murder and he says he’ll take his chances? I don’t get it.”
Viamonte shook her head. “Nope. Doesn’t add up. He’d be out in seven. If he loses on special circumstances—and that’s likely—he could get the needle.”
“How ’bout the answer?” a man’s voice asked from the doorway.
“Sure.” Tribow spun around in the chair and nodded Richard Moyer, a senior county detective, into the room. “Only what’s the question?”
Moyer waved greetings to Viamonte and Wu and sat down in a chair, yawning excessively.
“So, Dick, bored with us already?” Wu asked wryly.
“Tired. Too many bad guys out there. Anyway, I overheard what you were saying—about Hartman. I know why he won’t take the plea.”
“Why’s that?”
“He can’t go into Stafford.” The main state prison, through which had passed a number of graduates of the Daniel Tribow School of Criminal Prosecution.
“Who wants to go to prison?” Viamonte asked.
“No, no, I mean he can’t. They’re already sharpening spoon handles and grinding down glass shivs, waiting for him.”
Moyer continued, explaining that two of the OC—organized crime—bosses that Hartman had snitched on were in Stafford now. “Word’s out that Hartman wouldn’t last a week inside.”
So that was why he’d killed the victim in this case, Jose Valdez. The poor man had been the sole witness against Hartman in an extortion case. If Hartman had been convicted of that he’d have gone to Stafford for at least six months—or, apparently, until he was murdered by fellow prisoners. That explained Valdez’s cold-blooded killing.
But Hartman’s reception in prison wasn’t Tribow’s problem. The prosecutor believed he had a simple task in life: to keep his county safe. This attitude was considerably different from many other prosecutors.’ They took it personally that criminals committed offenses, and went after them vindictively, full of rage. But to Danny Tribow, prosecuting wasn’t about being a gunslinger; it was simply making sure his county was safe and secure. He was far more involved in the community than a typical DA. He’d worked with congressmen and the courts, for instance, to support laws that made it easier to get restraining orders against abusive spouses and that established mandatory felony sentences for three-strikes offenders, anyone carrying a gun near a school or church, and drivers whose drinking resulted in someone’s death.
Getting Ray Hartman off the streets was nothing more than yet another brick in the wall of law and order, to which Tribow was so devoted.
This particular man’s conviction, however, was a very important brick. At various stages in his life Hartman had been through court-ordered therapy and though he’d always escaped with a diagnosis of sanity, the doctors had observed that he was close to being a sociopath, someone for whom human life meant little.
This was certainly reflected in his MO. He was a bully and petty thug who sold protection to and extorted recent immigrants like Jose Valdez. And Hartman would intimidate or murder anyone who threatened to testify against him. No one was safe.
“Hartman’s got money in Europe,” Tribow said to the cop. “Who’s watching him—to make sure he doesn’t head for the beach?” The suspect had been released on a $2 million bond, which he’d easily posted, and he’d had his passport lifted. But Tribow remembered the killer’s assured look not long before as he’d said, “You’re going to lose,” and wondered if Hartman conveyed a subconscious message that he was planning to jump bond.
But Detective Moyer—helping himself to the cookies that Tribow’s wife had once again sent her husband to work with—said, “We don’t have to worry. He’s got baby-sitters like you wouldn’t believe. Two, full-time. He steps over the county line or into an airport and, bang, he’s wearing bracelets. These oatmeal ones’re my favorite. Can I get the recipe?” He yawned again.
“You don’t cook,” Tribow told him. “How ’bout if Connie just makes you a box?”
“That’d work too.” The cop wandered back out of the office to find some criminals to arrest—or to get some sleep—and Chuck Wu accompanied Viamonte to her office, where they’d spend the evening preparing questions for voir dire—jury selection.
Tribow himself turned to the indictment and continued to plan out the trial.
He’d carefully studied the facts of the Valdez killing and decided to bring Hartman up on three charges. The backbone of the case—the conviction that Tribow wanted most badly—was first-degree murder. This was premeditated homicide, and if convicted of it Hartman could be sentenced to death, a punishment that Tribow intended to recommend to the court. But this was a difficult case to prove. The state had to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that Hartman had planned out Valdez’s murder ahead of time, went looking for him, and killed him under circumstances that showed no heat of passion or emotional turmoil.
But there were several other charges included in the indictment too: murder two and manslaughter. These were backups—what were called “lesser-included offenses.” They were easier to prove than murder one. If the jury decided, for instance, that Hartman hadn’t planned the murder ahead of time but decided impulsively to kill Valdez, they could still convict for second-degree murder. He could go to prison for life for this type of murder but he couldn’t be sentenced to death.
Finally Tribow included the manslaughter charge as a last-ditch backup. He’d have to prove only that Hartman had killed Valdez either under conditions of extreme recklessness or in the heat of passion. This would be the easiest of the crimes to prove and on these facts the jury would undoubtedly convict.
That weekend the three prosecutors prepared questions to ask the jury, and over the course of the next week they battled Hartman’s impressive legal team during the voir dire process. Finally, on Friday, the jury was empaneled and Tribow, Wu and Viamonte returned to the office to spend the weekend coaching witnesses and preparing evidence and exhibits.
Every time he got tired, every time he wanted to stop and return home to play with Danny Junior or just sit and have a cup of coffee with his wife, he pictured Jose Valdez’s wife and thought that she’d never spend any time with her husband again.
And when he thought that, he pictured Ray Hartman’s arrogant eyes.
You’re going to lose this one. . . .
Danny Tribow would then stop daydreaming and return to the case.
When he’d been in law school Tribow had hoped for the chance to practice law in a Gothic courthouse filled with portraits of stern old judges and dark-wood paneling and the scent of somber justice.
Where he plied his trade, however, was a brightly lit, low-ceilinged county courtroom filled with blond wood and beige drapes and ugly green linoleum. It looked like a high school classroom.
On the morning of trial, nine A.M. sharp, he sat down at the counsel table, flanked by Adele Viamonte—in her darkest suit, whitest blouse and most assertive visage—and Chuck Wu, who was manning his battered laptop. Hundreds of papers and exhibits and law books surrounded them.
Across the ai
sle Ray Hartman sat at the other table. He was surrounded by three high-ticket partners in the law firm he’d hired, two associates, and four laptops.
The uneven teams didn’t bother Tribow one bit, however. He believed he was put on earth to bring people who did illegal things to justice. Some of them would always be richer than you and have better resources. That was how the game worked and Tribow, like every successful prosecutor throughout history, accepted it. Only weak or incompetent DAs whined about the unfairness of the system.
He noticed Ray Hartman staring at him, mouthing something. The DA couldn’t tell what it was.
Viamonte translated. “He said, ‘You’re going to lose.’ ”
Tribow gave a brief laugh.
He looked behind him. The room was filled. He nodded at Detective Dick Moyer, who’d been after Hartman for years. A nod too and a faint smile for Carmen Valdez, the widow of the victim. She returned his gaze with a silent, desperate plea that he bring this terrible man to justice.
I’ll do my best, he answered, also silently.
Then the clerk entered and called out, “Oyez, oyez, this court is now in session. All those with business before this court come forward and be heard.” As he always did, Tribow felt a chill at these words, as if they were an incantation that shut out reality and ushered everyone here into the solemn and mysterious world of the criminal courtroom.
A few preliminaries were disposed of and the bearded judge nodded for Tribow to start.
The prosecutor rose and gave his opening statement, which was very short; Danny Tribow believed the divining rod that most effectively pointed toward justice in a criminal case wasn’t rhetoric but the truth as revealed by the facts you presented to the jury.
And so for the next two days he produced witness after witness, exhibits, charts and graphs.
“I’ve been a professional ballistics expert for twenty-two years. . . . I conducted three tests of the bullets taken from the defendant’s weapon and I can state without a doubt that the bullet that killed the victim came from the defendant’s gun. . . .”
“I sold that weapon to the man sitting there—the defendant, Ray Hartman. . . .”
“The victim, Mr. Valdez, had gone to the police complaining that the defendant had extorted him. . . . Yes, that’s a copy of the complaint. . . .”
“I’ve been a police officer for seven years. I was one of the first on the scene and I took that particular weapon off the person of the defendant, Ray Hartman. . . .”
“We found gunshot residue on the hand of the defendant, Ray Hartman. The amount and nature of this residue is consistent with what we would’ve found on the hands of someone who fired a pistol about the time the victim was shot. . . .”
“The victim was shot once in the temple. . . .”
“Yes, I saw the defendant on the day of the shooting. He was walking down the street next to Mr. Valdez’s shop and I heard him stop and ask several people where the defendant was. . . .”
“That’s correct, sir. I saw the defendant the day Mr. Valdez was killed. Mr. Hartman was asking where he could find Mr. Valdez. His coat was open and I saw that he had a pistol. . . .”
“About a month ago I was at a bar. I was sitting next to the defendant and I heard him say he was going to ‘get’ Mr. Valdez and that’d take care of all his problems. . . .”
By introducing all this testimony, Tribow established that Hartman had a motive to kill Valdez; he’d intended to do it for some time; he went looking for the victim the day he was shot, armed with a gun; he’d behaved with reckless disregard by attacking the man with a pistol and firing a shot that could have injured innocent people; and that he in fact was the proximate cause of Valdez’s death.
“Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”
He returned to the table.
“Open and shut,” said Chuck Wu.
“Shhhh,” whispered Adele Viamonte. “Bad luck.”
Danny Tribow didn’t believe in luck. But he did believe in not prematurely counting chickens. He sat back and listened to the defense begin its case.
The slickest of Hartman’s lawyers—the one who’d been in Tribow’s office during the ill-fated plea bargain session—first introduced into evidence a pistol permit, which showed that Hartman was licensed to carry a weapon for his own personal safety.
No problem here, Tribow thought. He’d known about the permit.
But Hartman’s lawyer had no sooner begun to question his first witness—the doorman in Hartman’s building—than Tribow began to feel uneasy.
“Did you happen to see the defendant on the morning of Sunday, March thirteenth?”
“Yessir.”
“Did you happen to notice if he was carrying a weapon?”
“He was.”
Why was he asking this? Tribow asked himself. It’d support the state’s case. He glanced at Viamonte, who shook her head.
“And did you notice him the day before?”
“Yessir.”
Uh-oh. Tribow had an idea where this was headed.
“And did he have his gun with him then?”
“Yes, he did. He’d run into some trouble with the gangs in the inner city—he was trying to get a youth center started and the gangs didn’t want it. He’d been threatened a lot.”
Youth center? Tribow and Wu exchanged sour glances. The only interest Hartman would have in a youth center was as a venue to sell drugs.
“How often did he have a gun with him?”
“Every day, sir. For the past three years I’ve been working there.”
Nobody would notice something every day for three years. He was lying. Hartman had gotten to the doorman.
“We got a problem, boss,” Wu whispered.
He meant this: If the jury believed that Hartman always carried the gun, that fact would undermine Tribow’s assertion that he’d taken it with him only that one time—on the day of the murder—for the purpose of killing Valdez. The jury could therefore conclude that he hadn’t planned the murder, which would eliminate the premeditation element of the case and, with it, the murder-one count.
But if the doorman’s testimony endangered the first-degree murder case, the next witness—a man in an expensive business suit—risked destroying it completely.
“Sir, you don’t know the defendant, do you?”
“No. I’ve never had anything to do with him. Never met him.”
“He’s never given you anything or offered you any money or anything of value?”
“No, sir.”
He’s lying, Tribow thought instinctively. The witness delivered his lines like a bad actor in a dinner-theater play.
“Now you heard the prosecution witness say that Mr. Hartman was going to quote ‘get’ the victim and that would take care of all his problems.”
“Yessir, I did.”
“You were near the defendant and that witness when this conversation supposedly took place, is that right?”
“Yessir.”
“Where was that?”
“Cibella’s restaurant on Washington Boulevard, sir.”
“And was the conversation the same as the witness described?”
“No, it wasn’t,” the man answered the defense lawyer. “The prosecution witness, he misunderstood. See, I was sitting at the next table and I heard Mr. Hartman say, ‘I’m going to get Valdez to take care of some problems I’ve been having in the Latino community.’ I guess that witness didn’t hear right or something.”
“I see,” the lawyer summarized in a slick voice. “He was going to get Valdez to take care of some problems?”
“Yessir. Then Mr. Hartman said, ‘That Jose Valdez is a good man and I respect him. I’d like him to explain to the community that I’m concerned for their welfare.’ ”
Chuck Wu mouthed a silent obscenity.
The lawyer pushed his point home. “So Mr. Hartman was concerned for the welfare of the Latino community?”
“Yes, very much so. Mr. Hartman was really patient wit
h him. Even though Valdez started all those rumors, you know.”
“What rumors?” the lawyer asked.
“About Mr. Hartman and Valdez’s wife.”
Behind him Tribow heard the man’s widow inhale in shock.
“What were those rumors?”
“Valdez got it into his head that Mr. Hartman’d been seeing his wife. I know he wasn’t, but Valdez was convinced of it. The guy was a little, you know, nuts in the head. He thought a lot of guys were, you know, seeing his wife.”
“Objection,” Tribow snapped.
“Let me rephrase. What did Mr. Valdez ever say to you about Mr. Hartman and his wife?”
“He said he was going to get even with Hartman because of the affair—I mean, the supposed affair.”
“Objection,” Tribow called again.
“Hearsay exception,” the judge called. “I’ll let it stand.”
Tribow glanced at the face of Valdez’s widow, shaking her head slowly, tears running down her cheeks.
The defense lawyer said to Tribow, “Your witness.”
The prosecutor did his best to punch holes in the man’s story. He thought he did a pretty good job. But much of the testimony had been speculation and opinion—the rumors of the affair, for instance—and there was little he could do to discredit him. He returned to his chair.
Relax, Tribow told himself and set down the pen he’d been playing with compulsively. The murder-two charge was still alive and well. All they’d have to find was that Hartman had in fact killed Valdez—as Tribow had already proven—and that he’d decided at the last minute to murder him.
The defense lawyer called another witness.
He was a Latino—a grandfatherly sort of man, balding, round. A friendly face. His name was Cristos Abrego and he described himself as a good friend of the defendant’s.
Tribow considered this and concluded that the jury’s concerns about Abrego’s potential bias were outweighed by the fact that the suspect, it seemed, had “good friends” in the minority community (a complete lie, of course; Hartman, Anglo, saw minorities not as friends but only as golden opportunities for his extortion and loan-sharking operations).
Twisted: The Collected Stories Page 22
