by Kenneth Eade
“Well, that is subject to various interpretations.”
“And your expertise is in video enhancement, not guns; isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, but…”
“In fact, you don’t own a handgun yourself, do you?”
“No, but…”
“So you’re not qualified to express the opinion that the gun is being taken from Officer Albright in this frame, isn’t that correct?”
“Objection! Argumentative!”
“Withdraw the question, Your Honor. Nothing further.”
Taylor next called to the stand Joseph Stevens, a gun expert and retired LAPD patrolman. Stevens’s qualifications as an expert were beyond reproach. He had spent many years reconstructing shootings and testifying, mostly on the plaintiff’s side, and knew how to establish a rapport with the jury.
Stevens’s show and tell was complete with blown up photographs of Albright’s 8045F .45 caliber Beretta and he carefully demonstrated to the jury that the magazine and slide of the officer’s pistol were damaged, indicating that the gun had been tampered with, which was not something a trained officer would do.
He also testified that the slide of the pistol had been partially engaged and a second round had been partially ejected and had fouled the firing chamber. It was his opinion that the gun had gone off after William had wrenched it out of Albright’s hands. By the lunch break, the case was a hangman’s noose which had had been tightly fastened around William’s neck.
* * *
Brent attacked the prosecution’s expert witness right after court was called to order.
“Mr. Stevens, isn’t it correct that none of the physical evidence you described in your testimony can lead you to the conclusion that my client, William Thomas, was the one who fired the gun?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question. The gun appears to have been fired a first time during the struggle, and there was an attempt to fire it again.”
“Move to strike as unresponsive, Your Honor.”
When can one of you hired guns just answer a simple question?
“Granted. The jury will disregard the witness’s answer. Mr. Stevens, you are to answer the question, sir.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. Can you please repeat the question?”
Now he’s hard of hearing.
“I’ll rephrase it. In your examination of the gun, you cannot determine, beyond a reasonable doubt, whether Mr. Thomas fired it or whether Officer Albright shot it, isn’t that correct?”
“The first time or the second time?”
“How about the first time?”
“No, I was not able to determine that the first time.”
“And you were also not able to determine, beyond a reasonable doubt, whether Mr. Thomas or Officer Albright attempted to fire it the second time; isn’t that correct?”
“I was not able to determine that, no.”
“In fact, Mr. Stevens, isn’t it true that both Mr. Thomas and Officer Albright could have simultaneously caused the gun to fire the first time?”
“I suppose that is possible.”
“Move to strike as non-responsive, Your Honor.”
“Granted.”
“Yes or no, Mr. Stevens: isn’t it true that both Mr. Thomas and Officer Albright could have simultaneously caused the gun to fire the first time?”
Stevens looked as if his temperature was being taken with a rectal thermometer.
“Yes,” he said, reluctantly.
“No further questions.”
Taylor let it stand, opting not to redirect. William leaned over to Brent and whispered, “Great job.”
“Thanks, but this is just expert testimony. It still comes down to whether they believe you or Albright.”
On re-direct, Taylor fought back.
“Mr. Stevens, in your original testimony yesterday, you didn’t claim to know who actually shot the gun, did you?”
“No, I did not. I simply testified that the gun went off during the struggle, and it appeared that the chamber had been fouled because the firearm had been tampered with, which is something no trained police officer would do. That was the basis of my opinion that it was the defendant who shot the gun, not Officer Albright.”
Brent tried to get Stevens to admit on re-cross that the gun could have gone off the first time because Albright had initiated the shot but William pushed the gun away. He tried to do this by posing a hypothetical question, which Stevens managed to weasel out of at every turn, so Brent finally gave up.
Taylor called a fingerprint expert, who testified that both William’s and Albright’s fingerprints were found on Officer Albright’s gun.
“Cross-examination?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Lebed, isn’t it true that you were unable to lift any discernible fingerprints from the trigger of the weapon?”
“That is true.”
“So, from the fingerprint evidence on the gun, it is not possible for you to opine that William Thomas fired the gun, isn’t that correct?”
“But, his fingerprints were on the gun.”
“Move to strike as non-responsive.”
“Granted. The witness will answer the question.”
“I’ll repeat. You cannot say from the fingerprint evidence on the gun that William Thomas was the person who fired it, isn’t that correct?”
“It was either the defendant who shot it or the officer shot his own partner, which is inconceivable.”
“Move to strike again, Your Honor.”
“Granted. Answer the question please, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, no further questions.”
“Mr. Taylor, redirect?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. From the fingerprint evidence, can you give an opinion as to the person or persons who fired that weapon last?”
“Yes. It could have only been Mr. Thomas.” A pause, then: “Or Officer Albright.”
“Thank you, no further questions.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
While it was true that the trial was the most important thing in Brent’s life at this particular moment in time, rest was also important. He could only do so much poking about in the lives of call girls looking for evidence of police corruption without Jack’s help, and putting another investigator on at this point would be a waste of time. By the time he got up to speed, the trial would be over. Brent shoved his dirty laundry into his suitcase and headed for home for a few hours of rest and relaxation.
The first stop after the long drive to Santa Barbara was the office, which looked like an abandoned battle zone. There was a stack of mail that would not be reviewed until the end of the trial, piles of messages that would go unanswered, and all the remains of a law practice on hold. As Brent prepared to dive into the stack of papers to look for ones that may be relevant to the trial, he noticed a phone message that Melinda clearly marked “URGENT” with a huge yellow post-it note bigger than the message itself. Brent’s cell phone rang.
“Boss, I’ve been trying to call you. I just left the office and got a call from the hospital.”
“I’m at the office. I see your message here.”
Jack had come out of his coma. It was time to go back to L.A.
* * *
Brent ran out of the office, jumped into his car, and headed home for a quick shower, change of clothes, a repack of his suitcase and the return trip to Los Angeles. When he reached home, the fresh air and the twinkling lights of the harbor beckoned him to stay, but that was not a choice that was available to him at that point. When he opened the door the cat ran out, then back in, almost tripping him as she scooted between his ankles. Her needs had to be satisfied first.
Brent raced Calico to the kitchen (she won) and he fixed her a bowl of cat food, which he tossed onto the floor. As she lapped up the food, Brent went to the bedroom, undressed and jumped in the shower.
When he exited the shower, standing completely naked in his bedroom and examining the contents of his closet
for something to wear, he heard:
“My, my!”
Brent spun around, facing Angela, who stood in the doorway, smiling.
“What are you doing?” she asked innocently, batting her eyes and smiling as she leaned against the doorjamb, seductively.
How do they learn that; or are they just born with it?
The resistance of temptation was reaching a critical point for Brent. Home was truly the best place he could possibly be; but, alas, it was not an available option.
“Angie, I, um…”
“You have to go.”
“Jack just woke up.”
Angela’s look switched from mischief to disappointment and then to business.
“I’ll help you pack.”
* * *
The haggard, peaked version of Jack was not the one that Brent was most used to; but it was far better than the ghost of Jack he had been visiting during the past several days. He still looked like he had been embalmed with whatever was responsible for the medicinal smell in his room. Jack was sleeping when Brent approached.
“You look great, buddy.”
Jack’s eyes opened, half-slits, and the corners of his mouth curved a little. His lips moved slightly and he whispered hoarsely, “Fuck you.”
Brent smiled.
“Now, get your lazy ass out of that bed and get back to work. We have a trial to win.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrowed in a frown. Brent took the body language as a question.
“We’re two days into Taylor’s case-in-chief. Not getting slaughtered too badly, I guess. I’ve been spending the nights with your girlfriends on Sepulveda Boulevard.”
Jack’s monitors jumped. He looked scared, preoccupied. Brent leaned over the bed.
“You all right, Jack?”
“Don’t go there,” Jack whispered. “Too dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ve kind of taken it as far as I could without your input. The way I figure it (and stop me if I’m wrong) is that these dirty cops are taking a piece of the prostitution trade, or a piece of the prostitutes, or both. Am I on the right track?”
Jack blinked in the affirmative.
“Do you know who the officers are?”
Their conversation, if you could call it that, was suddenly interrupted by a fat brunette nurse waving her arms and telling Brent he had overstayed his welcome and that Jack had to rest. Jack made a moaning sound, then mumbled something that sounded like numbers. Brent leaned in for better reception.
Jack whispered, and Brent caught the number ‘fifteen.’ Then a name, “Robert.”
“Robert who?”
Jack strained in frustration. Fifteen again. Then Robert. Then seven.
“15-Robert-7?”
“Yes," Jack’s throaty rasp confirmed. “Go to IAG.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Officer John Albright had been well prepared for this moment. After all, a great deal depended on this trial; and not just William’s life. Benjamin Taylor had invested his entire political career in it. Albright strode to his seat in the witness box with a self-assured gait and regarded the jury sincerely with confidence, yet exuded innocence. Hatless and dressed in a clean, perfectly ironed police uniform, his ivory skin and short, light brown hair was what the jury noticed before the badge. He was a grandson, a son, a brother. Taylor introduced Albright to the jury through direct examination as a highly respected, honored, and decorated officer who had achieved the status of enrollment in the elite Metro Division, the pinnacle of a brilliant law enforcement career.
“Officer Albright, can you please describe what happened on the night of October 7th of last year?”
“Yes. My partner, Officer David Shermer, and I were on patrol in the San Fernando Valley. At approximately 0100 hours, we spotted a late model blue Cadillac Escalade pulled over on the 15000 block of Burbank Boulevard, where two subjects outside the car were engaged in suspicious activity.”
It was apparent to Brent that Taylor had prepared Albright well, but this didn’t prevent him from sounding robotic, as most police officers do when they testify in court.
“What do you mean by 'suspicious activity'?”
“They were loitering. At that point what they were doing there at that hour was unknown to us, so we pulled behind the car, activated our red lights, and got out to investigate. There are a lot of stores and businesses in that neighborhood, including a gold broker, and it is known as a high crime area.”
“What did you observe at that time?”
“Two African American males, approximately mid-30s, appeared to be intoxicated and urinating on the street, and one African American male remained in the car, apparently the driver.”
“And what, if anything did you do at that point?”
“I contacted the driver, while Officer Shermer secured the other two suspects.”
“Who was the driver?”
“Him. The defendant – William Thomas,” said Albright, pointing an accusatory finger at William.
“Your Honor, may I request that the Court order the defendant to stand for identification, please?” asked Taylor.
“Objection. Highly prejudicial, Your Honor.”
“Overruled. The defendant will please rise.”
At six foot three, William towered over most of the men in the jury. Is this a man you would want to meet in a dark alley?
The jury knew full well who William was. Even so, the finger pointing got a rise out of them. Taylor was emphasizing William’s size and girth more than anything else.
“What happened after your contact with the driver?”
“I asked for his license and registration. Officer Shermer then informed me that he had observed an open container of alcohol in plain view in the back of the vehicle. There was a smell of alcoholic beverages in the car and this led me to suspect the driver was possibly under the influence of alcohol.”
“What did you do at that point?”
“I decided to run sobriety field tests on the defendant to ascertain if he was under the influence of alcohol.”
Albright next described the various field tests that he intended to administer to William, including the finger to nose test and the heel to toe walking test, known in law enforcement circles as the “walk and turn field sobriety test.”
“And what were the results of those tests?”
“I never had a chance to run them.”
“Why not?”
“Because the defendant became belligerent, uncooperative and violent after I asked him to step out of the vehicle. Not only did he fail to follow instructions, but he took actions that put myself and my partner in serious jeopardy.”
“What kinds of actions?”
“During the finger to nose field sobriety test, the defendant became unruly and interrupted the test, insisting that he was not drunk. I then instructed him on the walk and turn field sobriety test, which he refused to perform. When he refused to perform the test, he made an aggressive movement toward me and I withdrew my baton to protect myself. He grabbed the baton and attempted to wrench it out of my hand.”
The robot had woken up and was finally starting to pour on the emotion.
“He grabbed my baton. I had to protect myself and my partner. I got the baton back from him and stuck him once on the knee and he went down. However, once he had fallen, before I could get a chance to secure the defendant, he grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground. Officer Shermer offered to help, but I waved him off and told him I had it and that he should attend to the other two suspects.
“I tried to handcuff him, but he was too strong, he wouldn’t stay down. Then he grabbed my left arm, so only my right arm was free. I groped around my utility belt reaching for my Taser on the left, but I couldn’t get it. All I could reach was my sidearm. As I drew it, he immediately grabbed it. I tried to get it back from him, but it was too late.”
Albright choked with emotion and wiped the corners of his eyes.
“Can you continue?”
>
Albright held up his hand.
“Yes, yes. I tried to get my gun back, but he had already fired the first shot.”
William nudged Brent and whispered, “He’s lying!” Brent tapped his arm to keep him quiet, and whispered, “We’ll have our chance,” as Albright continued.
“After the first shot, the defendant tried to fire again, but I pushed the gun out of the way and, in the struggle, it went into the bushes.”
“What did you do next?”
“I had to act quickly, so I used my baton to control the defendant. I needed to get him cuffed so I could help my partner. Once I had him down so he no longer posed a threat to my safety, I cuffed him and went to check on Officer Shermer and the other two suspects. He was down, laying on the ground. There was blood. I called for backup.”
Officer Albright’s voice started to crack. His amber eyes pooled.
“The two suspects appeared to be secure and cuffed, so I told them not to move and checked my partner’s vital signs…”
Tears streamed down Albright’s cheeks.
“I could not find….a pulse. He had lost a lot of blood and wasn’t…breathing…”
Suddenly, Albright put his face in his hands and wept.
“I’m sorry. It’s very difficult for me,” he said, looking up at the jury in tears and wiping his eyes.
“Was your partner dead, Officer Albright?”
He nodded.
“You must give a verbal response, Officer Albright,” said the judge.
Albright heaved a sigh.
“Yes, he was dead. I attempted first aid to revive him, but it was no use.”
Not one single person in the jury box blinked during Albright’s testimony, and Taylor paused to let it sink in. The seven women on the jury, whom Brent thought were his only hope, were fighting back tears and reaching into their purses for Kleenex. The five men were all nervously fidgeting in their seats. Brent glanced at Sarah, who had also registered the impact of Albright’s testimony with a look of shock, and Albright shot his gaze directly at William, who appeared to be bathed in guilt.
“May we have a moment, Your Honor?” asked Taylor.
