by Mark Tiro
“Your second trial didn’t go so well,” he started. “‘I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,’ you told me. Do you remember?”
She did, but didn’t say anything, and he went right on talking. “You were standing right here Maya, practically crying to me after the jury came back with a guilty verdict. And you remember what I told you?”
“Of course I do,” she said, doing her best impression of him. “‘Look out that window,’ I think that’s what it was. You told me, ‘See, Maya—’”
“See, Maya,” he finished her sentence as he pointed towards the window. “It’s a big city out there. I’m sure there’s somewhere you’ll be able to find a job.’”
She smiled now, remembering. “Yep, that’s exactly what you told me.”
“And do you remember what you did?” he asked her.
“Of course I do. I told you to go to hell,” she grinned. “But I said it with a smile.” She was smiling as she recounted it now.
“Well, almost. Actually, if I remember,” he emphasized slowly before continuing, “and I always remember—you told me I should go fuck myself.”
“Oh yeah, I did tell you that, didn’t I?” she interjected. “I’m glad you took it so…good-naturedly…”
“We were all young then…”
“Hey! Who you callin’ old?” she said, laughing slightly.
“Maya, that’s exactly how I knew you’d be just fine in this job. As a lawyer, and as a PD.”
He picked up a file off his desk. “Anyway listen. This might be a media case,” he told her. “Well, a minor media case. Don’t get too excited. Not a lot for us to look at though. You’ll have to wait ‘til you get the rest of the discovery. Looks like the guy killed his own daughter. DA filed it as a first.”
“First degree murder—you think it’s over-filed?” she asked.
“They’re all over-filed,” he replied without missing a beat. “DA over-files it even though they don’t have the evidence. You know how the game works—they’ll throw up whatever might stick because they know if a person is looking at going away to prison for long enough, they can get most anyone to plead guilty to avoid the risk, no matter how innocent they are.”
“I’ve seen it, I know,” she answered. “I had a kid in juvi court—14 years old—his mom’s asshole boyfriend picked him up and threw him through a glass window. And you know what they charged him with?” She answered her own question without giving him a chance to respond. “Vandalism. They charged my client—this 14 year old kid—with vandalism for the crime of being thrown through the glass window.”
“No, really? I mean, I haven’t had the misfortune of being part of the juvenile ‘justice’ system in years,” he answered, mockingly putting quotes around the word ‘justice’ with his fingers. “But, Maya—that didn’t really happen, did it?”
“I swear, true story. And of course the juvenile judge—she convicted him. Oh wait, I’m not supposed to use the word ‘convicted’,” Maya said, using the same quotes with her fingers as he had a moment ago.
“I think the technical term is that she ‘screwed up his life’,” he answered, mustering a little of his old fight.
“You’re right—I really should try to be more accurate with my words,” Maya said and laughed. Inside though, she tried to push the thought of her young client’s broken life out of her mind to avoid staggering under the absurdity and the pain.
“Listen Maya, I know you’re a good lawyer…”
She didn’t cut him off, but she wanted to. She knew just what he was going to say. She’d heard this before too. Half the lawyers in the office had heard this before. But she waited, figuring it would be quicker to listen politely than to deny him his shtick.
“And so I’m going to give you this file,” he said, finally stretching out his hand to give her the file. And then he pulled it back, just as she’d seen him do who knows however many times. “But before I do, why don’t you leave me your bar card. Just for now. I’ll hold on to it for you. I’m sure everything will go just fine and you can come pick it up as soon as your not guilty verdict comes back.”
He smiled now too, but in the lines around his eyes, Maya could see that the years had taken their toll. That’s a bittersweet smile, she thought. His days of mentoring, and messing with, young lawyers are almost done. Both of them were well aware of that now.
“You’ve got some balls Maya. Biggest pair I’ve seen since, well…” His voice trailed off as he became silent, sidetracked as if lost in thought.
“Yeah. You know, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to say that to me,” she told him, gently, almost tenderly. They both knew that he was at the age where it was impossible for him to not talk like that, even if he tried. And with the city having recently mandated sexual harassment training to all its employees advising them of their right to sue for just that sort of thing, he was never more than one stray comment away from the end of his career.
“Oh wait, I’m sorry. New regime’s telling me I can’t say that anymore. ‘Liability’ reasons. You know Maya, everyone’s just gotta be a fucking lawyer here, right? Next thing you know, they’re going to come up with some policy telling me I can’t swear.”
“You know there’s a policy we can’t swear, right?” she said. She was trying to turn his mind away from what was obviously a rapidly expanding existential crisis. She realized too late that she was doing just the opposite.
“A policy telling us not to swear? The office would never try that—not with a thousand lawyers whose job is to challenge authority in court everyday. I mean, who would take the management seriously after that? Oh wait, I’m part of that management, aren’t I?” The last sentence, he added as an afterthought, and his voice quickly trailed off. He was quiet for a while, almost introspective.
“Anyway, thank you Maya. I’m glad you’re here for what it’s worth. And I think your client, eh—Nagai. Your client’s name is David Nagai. I think he’ll be glad you’re here too.” His shtick was gone now. He looked tired.
Maya paused, considering about how long it usually took to get these murder cases to trial. He’ll probably be retired or dead before this case is done. Maya was surprised, both by the coldness of the thought, as well as by how sad it made her.
“Listen, I know the case isn’t sexy, but it’s all I got right now. Guy was in a car accident, his daughter died. I didn’t want to give it to anyone with small kids. And I know how you feel about having kids, so….” At this, Maya narrowed her eyes slightly, in mock horror, before she relented.
More work, she thought. The reward for doing a good job around here—it’s always just more work. But she knew she loved this stuff. She thrived on it. It had, however, occurred to her she’d become like a shark that has to keep swimming or it will drown. She couldn’t stop battling even though she hated what it was doing to her. She loved it, despite her growing feeling that it was slowly killing her. In quiet moments, Maya wondered what would happen to her if she ever stopped.
“Anyway,” her boss was droning on now. Maya had missed what he’d said, but snapped back just in time to hear him say, “there just aren’t enough murders to go around anymore. Not like in the good old days when the murder rate was double what it is now. Back then, there were two, maybe three murder cases for every lawyer in the office… Those were good times.”
Maya was starting to cringe.
“I think it was back in the 80’s, or maybe it was the 90’s,” he went on, oblivious. “It all blends together for me now. Anyway, did I ever tell you about when…”
This was Maya’s chance to make a break for it. “Sorry—gotta get to court. Full calendar today, you know.”
“Of course, of course. Let’s talk after?”
Before he finished the sentence, Maya had already bounded out of his office with her newly-assigned murder file tucked tightly under her arm.
3
Later that afternoon, Maya finally had a chance to sit down and take a look at the fi
le. She made herself a tea, walked over to the couch in her office and spread the police report out. Maya was always calmer holding a warm cup of tea. At last, she threw herself head first into the file and started reading:
SUMMARY OF ACTIVITY:
On the above date and time at 0745 hours, officers responded to a radio call of a one vehicle collision at the above location. LAFD rescue ambulance was already on scene at the time officers arrived. The officers located the suspect, and determined that he had been driving the involved vehicle at the time of the collision. It should be noted that the victim is the suspect’s five year old daughter. According to responding LAFD personnel, the victim was properly strapped into her child restraint seat, but sustained serious injuries as a result of the collision. The victim was transported to City Level-1 Central Trauma by RA-47 for treatment, where she later died of her injuries. The suspect was taken into custody without incident, and transported for booking, where he was read his Miranda advisement, and agreed to speak without an attorney (see follow up report). The interview was conducted at Central Station and was recorded. The recording is available upon request.
That was it. Not enough to establish a murder, certainly, she thought. And weird. She knew she’d get the full discovery, and all the other reports at the first court appearance in about a week. Still, usually there was enough in that first report to at least figure out what the hell the case was about. Alcohol, road rage, a baseball bat to the head—whatever was the issue in the case—usually it was there. This case, Maya thought, what the hell? From what’s here, where the hell’s the murder?
The Public Defender in her kicked in as she silently raged at the injustice. It was a fucking accident! Oh well, whatever it was will have to wait until after I get over to the jail to meet with him.
Maya wanted to visit her client in jail as soon as possible. There was always the hope in every defense lawyer’s mind that the client could help the lawyer figure out what was going on with the case. That almost never panned out, of course. Maya knew that. She’d been doing this long enough to know that the one person most likely to figure this case out was her.
Maya personally liked her clients. Even when Maya was at her most overwhelmed, that fact had gotten her through a lot of tough days. As she was putting the reports back into the file, an unexpected thought popped into her mind. These are my people. The thought made her happy.
It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Maya was able to break away to go visit her new client in jail. Not that she actually got to see him there. She waited most of the afternoon until one of the sheriff’s deputies took pity on her.
“You’re waiting for Nagai?” he asked. “You may as well go home—he won’t be coming out any time soon. He was moved earlier in the day to the jail medical ward down at County.”
And with that, she shoved all the lose papers back in her file, and headed towards the elevator.
The next morning, when Maya came into work, there was a large envelope on her desk. She opened it. Inside, there were additional reports on David’s case, and also a disc with “D copy” written in black sharpie on the front. That was quick, she was thinking when Donald walked in.
“Someone from the DA’s office dropped it off yesterday,” he told her pointing to the disc. “It was just after you left for the jail.”
A few minutes later, she sat down at her desk and dug into the reports. Almost immediately, she decided it was a good thing after all that she hadn’t been able to meet with her new client.
“Dear God,” Maya said out loud, once she had gotten into the middle of the reports.
“You’ve come around now, eh? Finally gave in and accepted your personal lord and savior?” Donald chimed in from his desk, not bothering to look up. “By the way, a few of us are going out at lunch today—farmer’s market. Want to come?”
“No thanks,” she told him. “Last time I went to the farmer’s market for lunch, I just barely survived the religious protesters and their ‘free speech zone’ outside.”
“Your loss,” he said. “Vegan kale chia salad’s not gonna eat itself you know.”
“Lovely,” she answered. Now it was Maya’s turn not to look up. Despite that, Donald could see a faint, dry smile on her face.
“Hey—don’t forget to do that on-line training, by the way,” he told her before walking out. “More office policy stuff. Sent it around on the email today. It’s due next week, but I know you just got that new case to deal with.”
“Email?” she answered. “With all the crap people post on the office email list, the only training the office needs is a career-suicide prevention training.”
And with that, Donald was gone, and Maya finally got her first good look at these new reports. She could see immediately now why the DA had charged it as a murder, rather than one flavor or another of manslaughter.
Now, after reading over the case more slowly a second time, Maya got down to work. And after reading the new reports, the very first thing she did was a motion to appoint a psychologist to talk to her client.
Not, of course, for the normal reasons that a normal person would talk to a psychologist. There was no therapy. And outside of the one in her office that she had broken in so many years ago with Sebastian, there were no couches anywhere to be found. This was purely forensic. The psychologist was a part of the defense team, with the job of assessing and evaluating David, and reporting back the results to Maya alone.
She pulled up an old motion, changed the name and case number, and quickly darted off a new motion. Voila! she thought. Done. Nor had it taken her any time to decide which psychologist to go with. Usual suspect, she thought—meaning someone she had worked with before and who she trusted. Joel, she thought. This case might be tricky.
After carefully reading the reports, Maya decided that, in her professional legal opinion, there was a fifty-fifty chance her client was bat-shit crazy.
The other thing she did before going to court that day—mostly just as a stab in the dark—was to send her investigator to try to talk to the paramedics who had been the first ones on the scene. Just for good measure, she thought. They probably won’t talk anyway. She knew from experience, born of naiveté, that most of the time, the witnesses she needed interviewed refused to even acknowledge her investigator’s existence. Still, it’s worth a try, she thought as she fired off her investigation request. In any event, it can’t make things worse. Hopefully.
4
Hello there Mr. Washington,” Maya said to the homeless man as she stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.
“Mrs. Lee? It’s good to see you again. You done good by me. I’m never gonna forget it. Changed my life,” he answered back, with a smile that showed more gaps than teeth.
Mr. Washington was one of Maya’s first misdemeanor clients. She had gone to trial on an aggravated trespass case for him. And won. That had gotten him released from jail—a fact for which he was still grateful.
Every so often, she would see him here, almost halfway between her office and the bar in Little Tokyo where she was headed for drinks. Oblivious to him, Maya thought about Mr. Washington a lot. Mostly in her darker moments. I got him out of jail so he could come sleep on the street, she thought.
Maya drank—Maya knew she drank—because of this, and because of a thousand other little paper cuts to her soul. ‘Lingchi’—the old Chinese word for it—floated through her mind. The word, Maya suspected, she had picked up from her grandma, who had always made a point of speaking Chinese to her when she was a little girl. The concept, however, came straight from her mom, who had never missed an opportunity to demonstrate the slow, slicing motion on Maya’s soul as far back as she could remember.
“Oh, Mr. Washington. Why don’t you ever call me Maya? You know Mrs. Lee is my mother’s name,” she told him, adding silently to herself, and she never should’ve had kids!
“Sign of respect Mrs. Maya,” he answered, still smiling. He was blissfully unaware of her simmer
ing discontent. “You’re the nicest anyone’s ever been to me since I got out of the mental hospital.” Then he grinned like a school boy. “And the prettiest too.”
“Now Mr. Washington, thank you. But let’s try not to get your blood pressure too high today,” she told him, speaking slowly to emphasize the point.
The light turned just then, and she extended her hand, giving her former client all the spare change she had in her pocket. And then she crossed the street, off towards the bar.
“Is that all you want Maya? Really?”
Grace’s question nominally related to her drink order. But Maya’s mind flashed back to images of growing up, college, boyfriends, her job, her mom. Is that all? Maya echoed Grace’s question, asking herself silently. Not for the first time, Maya let herself dwell an instant on the question. Is that all—is that all there is in life? Then just as quickly, her mind wandered off to Grace, and drink orders, and talk of who’s dating who, and a million other things she couldn’t have cared less about, now or in the morning, drink or no drink.
“I don’t want anything,” she told Grace, raising her whiskey to sip. Grace also raised her own overfilled glass—a scotch in her case—and flicked the ice cubes aside as she pulled the glass up to her lips. Maya, in contrast, drank her whiskey—and scotch when times were good—neat.
Straight, no ice.
The two had been friends for years, ever since back when they had both started working for the office. She especially respected Grace’s calmness under fire, which Maya herself, thought sometimes she could use more of. Grace was also quite intelligent, and together with her calmness, it turns out she possessed a particularly effective skill set in trial.
Lowering her now empty glass, Maya said, “Well, the prosecutor in my court is a shithead, most days. Judge is even worse.”
