by Alex Abella
7
t he banged-up Dodge Colt barely kept its wheels on the ground as it rounded the corner a block away, out of Fifth onto Broadway. The crowd of late-night shoppers on the street-fat old ladies in tattered shifts lugging shopping bags, girls in bright flowered rayon dresses, young studs in leather and jeans, all speaking the soft Spanish of Central America-parted like the waves before Moses' staff. The car zigzagged around the traffic waiting for the light, the driver, young, brown and desperate, gripping the steering wheel in terror as his three passengers urged him on. Then, darting out of an alley, an equally battered Ford Monarch came onto Broadway in pursuit of the Dodge. A young black man with a wispy mustache was steering with one hand and speaking into the walkie-talkie he held with the other. The Monarch whizzed past me when yet a third car, a maroon Chrysler Le Baron, surged out of another corner, a makeshift Kojak light on its roof beaming its red eye at the crowd, the siren of the undercover police wailing like Joshua's trumpet. Suddenly the car stopped in front of me, its passenger door flew open.
"Hop in, Charlie! Come on!"
I peeked in. Sitting in the front, next to a very bothered Asian agent at the wheel, was Anthony Stuart Reynolds, the judge who had inherited Ramón's case after Chambers' stroke. Reynolds wore jeans and was in bad need of a shave, a sharp contrast to the natty figure I always saw him cut in court with his Italian suits, Missoni ties, Charvet shirts and hand-tooled English shoes.
"Let's go, man, we're gonna lose 'em!" he said in his broad Charleston accent.
What the hell. I hopped in. The car catapulted down Broadway before I even closed the door. All three of us were crowded into the front seat, which smelled of cigarettes and pizza, watching the faces of the pedestrians gaze worriedly at us as they stepped out of the path of the vehicle.
Judge Reynolds excitedly pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up to the bridge of his nose, an old dog with a new bone.
"Goddamn, this is just like 'Nam. I was a helicopter pilot there, you know that? I understand now why some of these here fellows just don't want to leave Vice. Were you in 'Nam, Charlie?"
"Sorry, sir. By the time I was out of college the draft had ended."
"You missed something there, Charlie."
"So I understand, sir."
He flared the wings of his bulbous nose, one single vein swollen with blood, and ran his hand through his thinning blond hair. I had a vision of him in twenty years, all pink and fat and bald, nose cratered with burst capillaries, plumped on the bench in a capital case, his enthusiasm vanished, his gut barely hidden by the black robes, looking forward to four-thirty and the first Scotch of the day as counsel argue for justice.
"This is Officer Nakamoto, from Rampart."
"How you doin', " he said, then looked back at the road, swerving around an RTD bus on Seventh. The walkie-talkie crackled; the lead officers in the chase relayed information to the cars pursuing.
"I just thought, given how often I deal with these cases," said the judge, "that I ought to see how these things are conducted. Well, mark my words, it's been-did you know close to eighty percent of all our cases are drug related? I thought, hell, with that and all, superb, if I may say so, just superb. We sure have a fine outfit here."
I thought most likely he wouldn't be saying that if he knew how imaginative narcs could be in obtaining confessions from dealers-pouring ashes in their eyes, tossing them down stairways headfirst, applying live wires to open wounds, using cattle prods on the temples and the ears-but it was doubtful we'd see much of that during this dog-and-pony show.
The chase had now come out of downtown, heading down Sixth, east toward the closest refuge of the dispossessed, the barrio at Boyle Heights. The words spitting out of the walkie-talkie became more frantic, the officers desperate to cut the suspects off before they reached their haven.
"Car twenty-six. We see the Dodge bearing east, crossing the SP overpass at Fourth. Do we have another unit in that direction? Over."
The answer faded in and out as we hurled down the desolate side streets on whose sidewalks homeless, crazies and winos bunked for the night.
"Unit forty-seven nearby. Heading to location. Over."
"Ah, yes, the thrill of the chase," said the judge, flushing, as happy as the shooter in a field of quail. "Well, since I got you here, Charlie-Whoops!"
The car flew in the air for a few feet as we hurled over a bump and landed on the overpass spanning the Southern Pacific railroad yards. The lines were cobwebs of steel, extending for miles, spreading the blight of commerce throughout the basin.
"I was saying, since I got you here, I want to talk to you about this Valdez fellow. I've been assigned the case by Judge Obera, our new presiding judge?"
Like so many southerners, his statements often ended in questions, rhetorical devices leaving no time for the listener to respond, only to assent with an obedient nod.
"It looks like Judge Chambers will be out for a while still. It takes a while to recover from those things, I hear. Now, I've been reviewing the case and I think there's some procedural matters that need to be addressed. Since you are performing an ex parte sub rosa advisory counsel role for Valdez, I think you should point out those matters to him because I want a clean record-"
"That's what Chambers said."
"Well, hell, me too, you think I like to have a bunch of ninnies in Appeals overturn my-Hot shit, there they are!"
The Colt skidded to a halt at the end of the long overpass, its path blocked by a black and white patrol car, light bar casting yellow, white and blue patterns on the ground. Two uniformed officers looked up from a bleeding, crumpled body on the pavement. The Colt doors opened and all four occupants ran off in different directions. The original narc chase unit swept down the road, swinging ahead of us, and stopped, tires squealing. Two undercover officers came out, one of them holding his badge high.
"Police! Narc unit!" he shouted and ran up a hill after the driver, who scurried down an alleyway. One of the uniformed officers turned and with surprising speed pursued and captured the oldest and fattest of the group, who doubled up and vomited on the cop's shoes, saying in between heaves, "Perdón, perdón!"
"There's our man!" shouted Judge Reynolds, pointing at a swiftly moving figure running down a flight of stairs to the Los Angeles River. "Let's get him!"
Nakamoto jammed the brakes and in what seemed like one swift motion opened the door, took out his gun and hurled himself down the stairs. Judge Reynolds went for the handle on our side but the door was stuck. He slid over and exited through the driver's door, screaming, "Hey, wait for me!"
I hesitated briefly, shrugged and plunged ahead. I didn't even stop to think why I should be joining such a suspect chase. For Judge Reynolds, running after the drug dealer was a natural extension of his devotion to law and order-not to mention a fine opportunity to play cowboys and Indians. But for me? I had no reason. I just followed blindly. The answer would come in the doing by and by. Nakamoto and Reynolds raced down the steep narrow flight of wooden stairs that dead-ended on the paved river embankment. The river, a squalid stream only four feet wide at that point, chugged on through a slot in the pavement to its deathbed in Long Beach Harbor. Ahead of us the suspect, wiry and short, with flowing black hair, leapt from the last landing to the roadway on the embankment, landing catlike on all fours. He stood for a second, then hurled himself down the twenty-foot slope, down to the flat of the river. Nakamoto tripped as he made the last few rungs and dropped his gun, which landed in the gravel behind the steps. Judge Reynolds collided with the officer and they rolled down in a heap. I came down the steps behind them, just in time to see Nakamoto disentangle himself, reach for the gun and point it at the fugitive.
"Put that away!" ordered the judge, who got up and let himself down the embankment with a war cry. Nakamoto, embarrassed, holstered his weapon and followed.
The dealer, arms and feet pumping, ran straight down the river aiming for a darkened railroad trestle over the waterway a half mi
le away. Knowing they'd probably lose him if he managed to reach the span, Judge Reynolds and Nakamoto pressed on even harder, two hounds after the frightened hare. I followed about fifty yards behind, my legs just warming up, my lungs expanding, breathing in the sulfurous, metallic air.
Reynolds was the first to fold. He doubled over and fell on his knees, face flushed from hyperventilation. Nakamoto stopped to help, figuring one live judge was worth many loose drug dealers. As I ran past them I heard the judge holler at me, "Go, get 'im, boy!"
The absurdity of his words was matched by the ludicrousness of my actions. I had no stake in the pursuit, it was just me and some poor idiot running for his life under the cloud-covered moon. But I wasn't thinking then, I was caught up in the pounding imperative to triumph, to come home with the trophy.
The man ran up the embankment, his sneakers easily scaling the steep surface. I had almost caught up with him when I slipped, my leather-soled loafers unable to provide the purchase I needed. He ran to the stairs leading out of the roadway and into the trestle. I got up, kicked off my shoes and raced up the embankment, determined no matter what to win the race, grabbing hold of him just as he was about to grip the rail leading him to the stairs.
We rolled around on the ground. I held him tight in my arms. Suddenly, like a captured animal, he became still, his frightened brown face staring at me like a bedridden patient facing death. I could feel his heart beating through the sweat-soaked shirt. Panting, I took in his wide black eyes, his stained teeth, his pockmarked complexion.
"Cómo te llamas?" I asked.
"Jesús,'' he answered. A moment of breathless silence, worlds in the balance. The clouds moved, the moon shone bright, a train shunted somewhere in the yard. I heard the whirring of an LAPD helicopter nearing us. I opened my arms.
"Vete, corre."
He looked at me sharply for the briefest moment, then smiled widely, a gold tooth shining in the dark.
"Gracias," he said and fled into the darkness.
I took a deep breath, sat for a moment, then stood and waved my arms so the LAPD helicopter would shine its spotlight on me and Jesús could fly back to his world.
"You're a learned man, Charlie. Tell me, who was it that said the law is good? Was it Christ?"
The lime green walls seemed to vibrate from the hot lights of the interview room. Through the glass, prisoners, dressed in orange and blue jumpsuits, LOS ANGELES COUNTY JAIL PROPERTY stenciled neatly on their backs, sat shackled to their seats in rows across from their official visitors-the probation officers, the attorneys, the investigators. The inmates were models of urbanity, smiles and good manners on display as they discussed murders, rapes, drugs, arson and theft. Only occasionally did the glint of well-hidden evil peep through in a cold smile or a quick killer glance.
"No, it was Saint Paul."
"What is good?" asked Ramón.
"Well, there are those who say good is what makes you feel right and complete," I said, treading carefully through the landmines, "that it is that condition of which there can be no other. Then there are those who say good can never be attained, that good is a state to which we aspire but cannot achieve in its totality, whether it is heaven or the Platonic ideal. That's because they believe good is the contemplation of the eternal, even if just for the briefest moment, of the thing that hides behind all things."
Ramón smiled, noticing how almost against my will I was being embraced by the serpent of his question. "Look, I don't think Judge Reynolds is going to let you get away with philosophical asides. He's going to want you to stick to the business at hand, did you commit those murders or not."
Ramón sat forward, eyebrows raised for emphasis, kinky hair a brush of wonder.
"But my argument, my argument is a philosophical argument."
"The law won't allow it. And the judge will make sure you follow the law. He already told you yesterday, when he advised you of your right to counsel."
Ramón sat back defiantly.
"What kind of law is it that won't allow me to question its standing? This is no better than in Cuba, where Fidel and the party say this is the law and that's it, end of argument."
"You can bitch all you want but those are the laws and you can't change them."
"We will see about that."
Then, sitting upright, he slipped on his glasses, scanned his yellow notepad, putting a checkmark after some of the items listed.
"Did you contact Juan Alfonso?"
"Yes, but he won't be a favorable witness. He hates your guts."
"Good. That's what I need. He's a hostile witness so I can subpoena him."
"It doesn't make any sense."
He shook his head patronizingly. "His hatred will only confirm my involvement in the religion. It will legitimize my status."
He put another checkmark on his list.
"The police report?"
"I forgot. Here it is." I took a copy of the murder book out of my case and placed it on the table. It was six inches thick and heavy. The sense of wasted life clung to it like a dire perfume. Ramón removed the rubber band holding the hundreds of pages of reports, interviews, analysis, diagrams.
"Any pictures?" he asked.
"At the end. I made copies of the best. Or maybe I should say the worst. I don't know which they're going to show the jury."
He extracted the ten pages of photographs of death and desolation and examined them carefully, analytically, weighing in his mind the pros and cons of each piece when presented to a susceptible jury of his presumed peers. I felt a wave of hatred toward him, a loathing so intense I had to dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand and press until blood broke through. Who am I, God, to aid this monster, this hideous creature that with a wave of his hands dismisses so airily the torture and suffering he's caused? Why am I here? Why?
Ramón put the pictures down. "Who's the prosecutor? Have they decided yet?"
I took out a handkerchief, wrapped it around the palm of my hand to stanch the bleeding. Ramón watched, made no comment.
"Yeah, they decided. Her name is Phyllis Chin. I haven't met her yet."
"Una china. They really want to make this a circus. Who is she?"
"She's new to the department. Just transferred in from Alameda County. She was chief deputy D.A. over there, but her boss lost the last election and she was kicked downstairs, prosecuting speeding tickets in Pleasanton. She was going to run for office, but a drunk driver on the wrong side of the freeway plowed into the family station wagon. She was the only one to survive. Amazingly strong woman. They allowed her to prosecute the driver."
"That's unheard of."
"Exactly. Don't know how she managed it. But she did and put the guy away for life. Then right after that she sold her house and everything and transferred down here."
"Tough cookie."
"So it seems. That's not all."
"What else?"
"It seems she insisted, practically begged, to take on this case."
"Isn't it unusual for a new person to handle a case this big?"
Ramón said this without the slightest self-consciousness, convinced that the import of his actions was an uncontrovertible fact.
"It is. But Pellegrini wants to leave himself an out."
"What do you mean?"
This was going to be fun after all, I thought.
"He figures they've got you dead in the water. There's no way they can lose this case. But, just in the event he gets beat-remember McMartin and the Twilight Zone, those were sure winners too--just in case, then he can turn around and pin it on Phyllis. She'll be the sacrificial lamb. She'll spend the rest of her career in Pomona and Pellegrini will be safe come the next election. I mean, everyone knows he's been gunning for governor since he took the bar exam."
Ramón was briefly silent. "She shouldn't have taken this." Then, "I look forward to meeting her."
"She wants to meet you too. In court, come trial time."
The sheriff's deputy, a large woman with
rolls of fat hanging over her gun belt, showed me a clenched fist of a smile as she led me into Judge Reynolds' office. Swiss travel posters showed the snowy peaks of Zermatt on the wall. On the judge's desk, a picture of a smiling little girl with a gap-toothed smile in a Halloween witch's costume.
The judge waved me to a chair when I entered. Across from his desk sat a short, handsome Asian woman with fine bones, jet black hair and eyes, dressed in a tailored pink linen outfit.
"Well, I'm glad I finally got y'all in here. Charlie, I want you to meet Phyllis Chin."
She shook hands firmly, with more strength than one would expect from such a petite woman. There was no warmth but no coldness either in her smile, just measured politeness.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
"I just want to go over some of the details here before we start the main order of business, the selection of the jury?" said the judge. "Now, I have to know, Charlie, if your client is going to demand some of the pissant motions w'all know are just a waste of time or whether we're going to do business as we should."
"Judge, you know I can't make those representations."
"You're not his attorney?" asked Chin, truly surprised.
"I thought I'd mentioned that to you, Phyllis. Charlie here is de facto legal adviser for the defendant, who's pro per."
Phyllis's pale ivory skin flushed. "Judge, I'm going to have to insist counsel be appointed. This case is too important to leave it in the hands of an ignorant criminal. The people of this state demand justice be done, that we don't spend our energies in a travesty that the Appeals Court will overturn down the line."
Reynolds, amused by Phyllis's assertions, cupped his hands in an inverted V, a Richelieu in the court of the Sun King.
