by Kenneth Eade
“The Court calls the case of People v. Thomas. Counsel, please state your appearances.”
“Good morning, Your Honor: Jean Heartland for the people.”
“Good morning, Your Honor: Brent Marks, appearing with defendant William Thomas, who is present in custody, who waives a reading of his rights.”
William stood up in the jury box where all the defendants in custody were held, handcuffed and sporting ankle chains.
“Good morning to you both. Mr. Marks, to the charge of capital murder, how does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Does your client waive time for trial, Mr. Marks?”
“That depends on the pre-trial release terms, your Honor.”
“Your Honor, the People in this case request that bail not be set. This is a serious charge involving the murder of a police officer engaged in his official duties.”
“It is a serious charge. Mr. Marks?”
“Your Honor, the defendant is a respected attorney in Santa Barbara County with no prior criminal record. He has a wife and two small children, and extended family in the area. He poses no flight risk in this case.”
Judge Leonard’s forehead wrinkled. He flipped through the pages of the file, pretending to give the request serious consideration. But, in reality, he had already decided.
“Mr. Marks, the defendant is charged with the murder of a police officer: a crime from which, if convicted, he could be punished by death. The Court has no choice in this matter but to deny bail.”
William hung his head down, depressed and discouraged.
CHAPTER TEN
Brent knew that it would be difficult to have William examined by a psychiatrist while he was in custody, but the primary weakness in their case had to be addressed. So long as William didn’t remember anything about the crucial moment when the shot was fired, he could not be called upon to testify. While it was true that he couldn’t be forced to testify, if he remained silent, the jury would always be wondering why he didn’t explain his side of the story, and that would tend to sway them against him. It was human nature.
Brent contacted Dr. Lucille Reading, a psychiatrist with whom he had worked in the past. It would be easier to get her into the jail to interview William at any time because she was also a lawyer. Reading agreed to an evaluation interview with William to determine his condition for a treatment plan, if any.
* * *
The Men’s Central Jail in downtown Los Angeles was mainly a holding facility for people awaiting their trials, but it also held convicts who were serving out their sentences there instead of in prison. It was ancient, built in 1963 and renovated in the 70’s, and was considered to be a high security prison. William was sitting in his cell when the Guard arrived, which caused a ruckus among the inmates, who were shouting and waving their arms outside the bars of their cells.
“Shut up!” screamed the Guard. “Anyone who doesn’t is going in the hole!
"Thomas, you’ve got a visitor,” the guard said as he unlocked the door of William’s cell.
As the guard escorted William through the cell block, he could hear the collective screams of, “Cop killer! Cop killer!” While it gave William a certain status on the inside, the guard was thinking the same thing the inmates were chanting, but with contempt toward him.
The guard led William into a locked corridor, filled with inmates, each sitting on small steel stools in cubicles in front of reinforced glass windows. He sat down in the stool assigned to him and almost cried when he saw the face of his wife, Sarah. As he picked up the black telephone to his right, he realized that this was the first time he had seen her smile since he had been arrested.
Sarah brushed her golden hair from her porcelain face and picked up the phone. William drank in her beauty and imagined her sweet smell, which was blocked by the thick pane of glass.
“Sarah, I’m so glad you came.”
“I don’t like seeing you in this place, but it’s so hard not seeing you at all.”
Eyes of pale turquoise pools brimmed with sadness, which Sarah tried to hide behind a genuine smile. William put his hand against the glass and Sarah mirrored the gesture.
“How are Danny and Sissy doing?”
“They’re fine. Danny just lost his first tooth. Sissy’s learning how to read.”
Sarah held out her hand to reveal a small tooth in its palm, and William choked back tears. He hadn’t been away for that long and yet he had already missed so much.
“What did you tell them?”
“That Daddy had to be away for a while, but that he would be coming home soon. Sissy made a picture for you.”
Sarah held up a crayoned masterpiece with four stick figures in front of a house and a bright yellow smiling sun in the background. The girl stick figure was holding the father’s hand.
“It’s beautiful. Could you send it to me by mail? I’d like to put it up on my wall.”
“Of course, William. Brent told me they denied you bail.”
“Yeah. But he’s working really hard on my case.”
“He’s a good lawyer, William. I know he’ll get you out of here.”
“Visiting time is up, Thomas,” called a sentry at the end of the corridor. After a little taste of heaven, William was sent back into the depths of his living hell.
* * *
The cop jumped on top of William. It was hard to breathe. He pointed his gun right at his face. “I’m gonna kill you, nigger,” the cop said. William panicked and grabbed the gun.
“You think you’re tough shit, don’t you, cop killer?”
William felt the restriction around his neck, cutting off his air supply. He gasped for air, and opened his eyes to face his attacker, the inmate in green scrubs, the new neighbor who shared his cell. The burn of adrenalin radiating out from his chest gave him a surge of strength. He wrenched free his fist and jammed it into his attacker’s nose, which flowed blood like a faucet as he threw the man off his bed.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” said the prisoner, holding his nose with his bloody hands.
The cell block reacted like a bunch of caged apes in a zoo. Three guards ran to the cell, opened it, searched and handcuffed William, and took him out.
“You’re going in the hole,” one of them said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jack Ruder busied himself interviewing the officers who arrived on the scene that night. As hard as he tried, it was virtually impossible to break their code of silence. All six of them placed William as the aggressor; a revelation that Jack thought very odd, due to the fact that William was unconscious almost immediately upon their arrival. His fingerprints (and Albright’s) were all over the gun, and the report of the official LAPD investigation showed that the gun had been tampered with. All of these facts pointed to William, who had no memory to contest them, and his corroborating witnesses were both drunk at the time.
Dr. Reading was having about the same luck with William, herself. Her time was limited and it was difficult working with him because it was impossible for him to relax, and during the time he spent in solitary confinement, he was unavailable to her. However, she was able to diagnose William as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and surmised the PTSD was what was causing the memory loss. And that was more than a hunch. Her diagnosis was supported by samples of William’s blood made available to her by the county hospital.
William didn’t have much respect for psychology, but Dr. Reading was intelligent and easy to talk to. She was also a medical doctor and an attorney, and had a calm manner about her. She was about 45 years old, but could have passed for ten years younger. She wasn’t unpleasant to look at either, with her long auburn hair and forest green eyes.
“William, these flashbacks – do you have any recall of details from them?”
“Not really. They’re always just bits and pieces, and I only see them when I’m asleep.”
“I’d like to try something called exposure therapy. I
t might help you organize those bits and pieces into real memories and, at the same time, lessen the nightmares.”
“Whatever works, Doc.”
“Alright. As they say, there’s no time to begin like the present . I’m going to show you a series of photos, and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”
“Not inkblots…”
“Not at all.”
Dr. Reading held up the first photo, a crime scene photograph of Officer Shermer’s dead body.
“That’s the second cop. The one who got shot.”
“Good, William. And this one?”
“The first cop. Albright.”
Reading continued to flash police photographs that had been taken of the scene: the abandoned police car with its flashing lights still on; William’s car, abandoned.
“It’s no use, Doc. Nothing’s coming back.”
“This takes time, William.”
“That’s the ironic thing about time, Doc. On the one hand, we don’t have much of it; but it’s all I have in here.”
* * *
It was Monday, Brent’s least favorite day of the week and also the day for William’s preliminary hearing. Brent had spent the weekend preparing, even though it would mainly be a show that the prosecution put on. The only question to be decided was whether the judge found that the facts presented would “lend a man of ordinary care and prudence to believe and conscientiously lead to an honest and strong suspicion that the person accused is guilty of a crime.” It was a very low bar for the D.A. to reach, and, if the prosecution prevailed at the preliminary hearing, as it usually did, William would be held to answer for the murder of Officer Shermer at trial.
The hearing was to be held in Judge John Hinman’s department and, although Hinman would not be the trial judge, Brent would have the chance to meet, for the first time, the Deputy D.A. who would be prosecuting the case. His name was Benjamin Taylor, a veteran prosecutor with an undefeated record as well as political aspirations to take over his boss’s position as District Attorney of Los Angeles County. Brent made it to the courtroom on time, as he had met with William in the holding cell to prepare him for the hearing. He had hoped to meet Taylor, but he was nowhere in sight.
Even as the courtroom filled up, Taylor was still absent. Brent, searching for an explanation, exited into the corridor and there he found His Majesty, holding his own court with a gaggle of reporters. An adept politician, he stood perfectly comfortably among them in his blue-grey two piece suit with cobalt blue shirt and royal blue tie. Not one of his light brown hairs was out of place as he played to the video cameras.
“We predict that this case will go to trial,” Taylor was pontificating. Not that there was any other outcome to be expected. “And that it will send a strong message to criminals everywhere that law and order is alive and well in Los Angeles County.”
Brent ventured into the fray just as a woman reporter asked, “What about allegations of police brutality in this case?”
“I can answer that,” said Brent, taking the spotlight away from Taylor. He usually didn’t like to address reporters, but he didn’t care for Taylor’s roundabout way of poisoning the jury pool, even if it was not, perhaps, his primary intention.
“Brent Marks, attorney for the defense,” Brent announced to Taylor, with an outstretched hand, and was swallowed up by the mob of reporters. Taylor shook Brent’s hand very firmly and flashed a phony smile of bleached white teeth amid the popping flashes. Taylor stole the limelight back with another political pronouncement of law and order.
“It seems that, whenever there is an unfortunate violent incident such as this, involving a police officer, the defense tries to hide behind the veil of police brutality. However, it is the policy of my office not to discuss the merits of a case before trial.”
Oh really? Then what have you been doing out here for God knows how long?
Brent fired back, “The young lady had a very pertinent question. This entire case rests on the question of whether the police officer used unreasonable force in detaining my client. We contend that the amount of force was excessive under the circumstances, and that the officer’s actions in detaining my client were illegal.”
This stirred up the journalists, who always enjoyed a good dose of controversy to serve with their entertainment.
“What about that, Mr. Taylor?” asked a seasoned correspondent from the local ABC news, coming at him hotly with her microphone. He regarded it as if it were a weapon and signaled that the impromptu press conference was over.
“We will have comments after the hearing,” said Taylor. “I’m confident that we will prevail at the preliminary hearing and that Mr. Thomas will be held to answer for this heinous crime against society.” Taylor waved, shot a concealed, dirty glare at Brent, and opened the door to the courtroom.
“So am I,” said Brent, sparking a rumble of questions from the reporters. “The defendant is almost always held to answer in a preliminary hearing, because the burden of proof is so low. It’s pretty much a show for the prosecution.”
Once inside, Taylor furiously set his briefcase on the counsel table and shot an accusatory finger at Brent.
“Another incident like that and I will have no resort but to report you to the Bar.”
“I could say the same for you,” answered Brent. “But let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”
Taylor didn’t answer Brent’s offer to push the reset button. Instead, he removed his files and outlines from his briefcase and methodically placed them on the counsel table. The first battle was on.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Judge Jonathan Hinman traditionally called all the attorneys into his chambers for a conference before every preliminary hearing. He had quite a full calendar, but William’s case was given priority not because the judge particularly cared to give the prosecution’s star first string player special treatment, but he knew that the case was a hot potato and he wanted to pass it out of his courtroom as quickly as possible. He also needed to determine how much time to set aside for the hearing so he could shuffle around the other cases on his calendar and try to accommodate everybody. Anything he wouldn’t have the time to handle or that couldn’t be settled or continued would be sent to another department. The Judge reviewed the file, then looked at Brent and Taylor over the rims of his reading glasses. Then, removing them, he asked in his calculated baritone voice, “Ben, what’s the offer on this case?”
“There is none, Your Honor.”
The Judge’s salt and pepper eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve read the file. Do you really think you have a slam dunk here?”
“Yes we do, Your Honor.”
“So you want to take this to trial?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“What about you, Mr. Marks? If the People were willing to settle for a reasonable amount of time, do you think you could live with that?”
“Of course, it depends on what amount of ‘time’ the People would consider to be reasonable, and I would have to communicate it to my client, Your Honor. But I don’t think the People have a slam dunk in this case.”
“What’s your time estimate, Ben?”
“Half day, Your Honor.”
“Half day?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t the two of you go out and talk about how to settle this thing.”
“I don’t think that any such discussions would be fruitful, Your Honor.”
“For God’s sake, Ben! You’re lawyers, not gladiators, and there’s no jury to play to here! Get out there and talk about the case. At the very least, see if you can stipulate any issues to narrow down the time in my courtroom today. And if you can’t settle, you’re number one on today’s prelim calendar, so be ready to go.”
Once outside the judge’s chambers, the settlement discussion didn’t take long. Taylor had no intention of giving a decent offer and Brent knew it. He stood there smugly and recited the phrase that Brent had told William he had expected to
hear.
“If your client wants to plead guilty now and save the State some money, we can talk about life in prison instead of the death penalty,” said Taylor in a casual manner, as if it was a foregone conclusion that William would be convicted and executed.
“Considering that they haven’t executed anyone since 2006, and the constitutionality of California’s death penalty is up in the air, that doesn’t sound very much like a compromise to me,” replied Brent.
Taylor wasn’t going to push. It would be nice not to have to go through the ordeal of a trial to clinch this conviction; but, on the other hand, a trial would be good publicity to launch his campaign for D.A.
* * *
Taylor’s first witness was Detective Salerno, who identified all of the police reports in his possession so they could be admitted into evidence. Since hearsay is allowed from police officers at preliminary hearings, Salerno’s testimony probably would have been enough to hold William over for trial, but Taylor went the extra mile.
To Brent’s delight, he called Officer John Albright himself. That would give Brent the opportunity to cross-examine him and evaluate his veracity as a witness. This was the first shooting incident for Officer Albright in an otherwise-clean record. But Brent suspected that there was more to his story than the pretty outer package revealed, and he had sent Jack to sniff out all the dirt he could find on Albright.
Albright took the witness stand in a crisp LAPD uniform which looked like it had just been taken off the dry cleaner’s rack. William sat next to Brent at the counsel table, per Brent’s request, but he still wore his prison skivvies and shackles.
“Officer Albright, on the 7th of October of this year, were you and Officer David Shermer on patrol on Burbank Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley?”
