by Alex Abella
"Well, Mrs. Chin," he drawled, "I commend you for your concern over the appearance of justice in this here matter and your sincere and heartfelt preoccupation over the intrinsic rights of the People for a fair trial. In fact, I'm so impressed I'm truly debating with myself the advisability of allowing Mr. Valdez the right to self-representation."
"Exactly my point," said Phyllis, leaning urgently forward.
"But there's just one little thing y'all forgot," said Reynolds, calm and cold. "I'm the judge. I determine the ground rules. I say whether he's fit to be his own counselor not, not you, not your office, not District Attorney Pellegrini, not even the governor or the Supreme Court or even, God help him, the president of these United States. I'm the judge in this courtroom and I say he can be pro per. You may not like it, there's no rule saying you have to like what the magistrate does. But you are going to follow what I say. Do you understand me?"
Phyllis sat ramrod straight, curling her hands in her lap with the poise of a prize pupil at a finishing school.
"Yes, Judge, I understand," she said, eyes blinking rapidly.
"I'm glad to hear that. Charlie, has discovery been satisfactory?"
"As far as I know, sir, there has been no problem with any of the evidence requested."
"What about the sheriff's department? I know how they operate. Are they causing any problems with Valdez going to the legal library in county jail? I don't want to hear no bullshit from him."
"No, sir, the sheriff's department has gone out of its way to grant Mr. Valdez unlimited access to the library. We've retained a runner for minor copying and office work that needs to be done."
"That's just fine. That's what I want to hear. Now, is he going to file any motions or not?"
I looked out the window at the smog-draped San Gabriel mountains standing guard over Los Angeles, Mount Baldy a yellow joker's cap fifty miles away.
"Let me put it this way, Judge. If I were him, I would, just to make the record for the future."
"Good enough for me," said Reynolds, getting up from his chair. "You tell him he's got until the end of this week to file his written motions because I want to start on this right away. Too many months have already gone by. Anybody want some Blue Mountain decaffeinated?"
Reynolds moved to a coffee machine atop the credenza next to the window. Phyllis shook her head no, so did I. Reynolds poured himself half a mug.
"Now let's move on the jury selection. Assuming Mr. Valdez files for a change of venue claiming prejudicial pretrial publicity and assuming-now, I'm not saying this here is what I'm going to do because we all know that's not kosher, like they say in Harvard- but assuming that I deny that motion, I would want to impanel about six hundred jurors."
He raised the mug to' his lips, took a sip.
"That's because I think, and I hope y'all agree, that the same jury should be in for both the guilt phase and the penalty phase. Faster that way. As it is, I figure this here thing is going to take at least six months altogether. Do you share my opinion, Mrs. Chin?"
"That sounds about right, Judge."
"Good. So we are all agreed then. Mrs. Chin, I suppose you will be bifurcating the case against Mr. Pimienta, since he will be giving state's evidence?"
Phyllis allowed herself the pleasure of a smile.
"No, sir. We will be filing charges against both defendants. The case will not be bifurcated."
The judge put his mug down.
"Goddammit, why in hell didn't you say so before? Now I'm going to have to call the other attorney in and go through this whole thing again."
"Sorry, Judge. You never asked."
Reynolds' forehead vein popped, but then he grinned.
"You li'l rascal. Fine. We'll meet again, then. We'll call Mr. Smith's office and have him here tomorrow. Now, good day to you both."
Once out in the hallway I followed Phyllis, who stepped briskly to the elevator.
"Sorry about the judge in there," I said.
"He's an incompetent asshole," said Phyllis. "We're going to paper him and get the case to another court."
"You're going to disqualify him?"
"We'll take anyone else. He's obviously biased."
The elevator door opened.
"Going up?" asked Phyllis. The fifteen bodies crowded inside nodded resignedly. Phyllis strode in. I followed her to the door of the D.A.'s office.
"When did you decide to press charges against Pimienta? I thought he had turned."
Phyllis pressed the numbers in the combination lock and the door clicked open.
"This morning. He refused to name Valdez as the killer. Says he can't remember who did the shooting. He's of no use to us now."
She stepped into the corridor, deputy D.A.'s in shirtsleeves walking past us, dozens of case files in their hands.
"See you under the big top," she said.
A melody from an opera sailed out the open windows of Enzo's apartment, a teasingly familiar aria, its name hiding in that corner of memory where song and sentiment share the same bed. I opened the French windows of my office and sat at my desk, idly contemplating the patchy hills of Griffith Park.
There really wasn't more I could do as an investigator. Since I wasn't in control of the case, I couldn't decide on any more witnesses or gather any more evidence other than what Ramón told me. I ran down the list in my mind. I had visited the jewelry store, now locked up and sold to a developer. I had talked to the different hostile witnesses who were supposed to testify, except for the parking lot attendant who saw them going in and the reporter who interviewed him. They were both out of town. Then there were the so-called friendly witnesses, Juan Alfonso, Lucinda. Lucinda. What had happened to her? I picked up the phone and rang her apartment. No answer. I put down the receiver, shifted in my seat. A peregrine falcon swooped down a thermal and plunged to earth. When it came up, it carried in its talons a still-writhing pigeon. The phone rang.
"Hello. Morell Investigations."
"Did you just call me? It's Lucinda."
On hearing her high, childlike voice, all the feelings of lust and affection she provoked danced before my eyes. I could smell her perfume, feel the pliable, smooth skin of her hands.
"How did you know?"
"I was in the shower. All of a sudden I thought of you, it was like you were standing there beside me."
I contemplated her nakedness in my mind's eye, her long neck, her small rounded breasts, the gathered-in waist, the slender, smooth legs ending in the dark triangle of desire.
"Did you like it?"
She giggled. "It felt so familiar," she said, "like I should tell you to soap my back or something."
"I could do that."
"But I just stepped out of the shower!"
"Then we'll have to find something more stationary. Would you like to come see me? I want to talk to you."
"As long as you promise that's not all we're going to do."
"That's an easy promise. Anything harder in mind?"
"We'll see when I get there. What's your address?"
I gave her directions. She said it would take her about a half hour for she had to stop for gas. When I hung up I realized I hadn't spoken to her since the day I'd run out of Juan Alfonso's house, yet I still felt linked to her as though we had been together for a long time.
I straightened out the mess in the apartment, opened a few windows, hurriedly changed the sheets and towels. In what seemed like a flash, the bell rang. I opened the door. Lucinda, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, cinnamon skin, gleaming smile, in a white dress and straw chapeau, a polka-dot scarf around her neck.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said.
She stepped inside. I closed the door. Biting her lower lip she turned to me. Trembling like a puppy, I walked up to her, took off her hat. I kissed her. Her tongue slid into my mouth like a long-lost friend, her arms wrapped around me, little fists beating softly on my back, her slender body pressed against mine. I ran my hand up and down her body, feeling her shoulders, he
r breasts, her ass. I lifted up the back of her skirt and pried away the soft silky panties, stuck my finger down her crack. She eagerly unbuttoned my shirt, kissing my neck, my shoulders, my chest. I was in heaven, I was in hell, I was everywhere, I didn't care, I was in her.
8
t he phone by my bed rang sharply the next morning, crashing the wall of warmth and light flooding the room. A breeze from the Pacific softly stirred the window shades. Lucinda, asleep, slender back ending in a waist two palms wide, moved her arm as though shooing away a fly. I had been awake for some time, thinking about her and Ramón and my life, etching her body in my mind for lack of canvas or a painter's hand, but now the reverie was at an end.
"Hello."
"Mr. Morell? This is Sergeant Porras of the County Sheriff's. We'd like you to come to headquarters, we have a few questions to ask you."
Porras threw a little rag doll on the desk. Brightly colored, dressed in a tattersall skirt, the doll had no features, just a round bulb for a head, a small string of cowrie shells where the neck would have been.
"We found this in the wreck of the car that tried to kill you the other day," said Porras, in a matter-of-fact, almost disgusted tone of voice. He looked at me neutrally, a man used to reading faces like truck drivers read maps.
"Do you know what this is?"
I picked up the doll. Coarse cloth, filled with sand. Magnet of prayers and maledictions, prehuman figure of supernatural powers that cavort among us.
"Have no idea. A girl's doll. Is this what you brought me here for?"
Porras extracted a True cigarette from a soft pack, then inserted the already tasteless stick into a water filter. He flicked on his Zippo, threw up a cloud of expensive cardboard smoke.
"That's the symbol of one of the gods of the santería religion. One of my buddies tells me it's someone called Yemayá."
"So what?"
"You said you didn't know who these guys were, who tried to ram you."
"Correction. They did ram me. They tried to kill me."
"Whatever. Do you have any connection to this santería horseshit?"
I almost fell into the trap but not quite. "Not personally. Some people I know are into it. But hey, I know some Jews too. And some of my best friends are Christians. You know, the kind that carry the Virgin of Guadalupe dangling from the rearview mirror?"
Porras frowned. He stuck a hand in his desk drawer and tossed out a number of objects on the blotter-beads, coconut shells, crucifixes, bangles, a statuette of Saint Lazarus.
"Found these too."
"What can I say? Maybe they were going to open their own botánica and decided to stage a little sacrifice to appease the gods. What the fuck am I supposed to know, Sergeant?"
I refused to take them seriously in his presence, to grant these avatars the respect they craved, acknowledgment of the many faces of God peeking through their soiled wrapping.
"You know, you have a problem with your attitude."
"I don't have a problem. I like my attitude just fine. It's your insinuations I don't particularly like."
"Jesus Christ, Morell, here we are, trying to help you out and you treat this whole thing like it's a joke."
"What, am I supposed to cry because you show me some dolls? Who are you, the cookie monster?"
"You don't appreciate anything you don't do yourself, do you? Well, this is no joke, amigo. These two punks knew exactly who you were, where you were going. Look."
Porras extracted a plastic sandwich bag from under a mound of files and reports. He took out two Polaroids charred around the edges.
"That's you entering the Criminal Courts Building across the street. That's you with your car, its license nice and clear, on Lot Seventeen. By the way, I didn't you know you had a sticker for that lot."
"I have high friends in low places."
"Funny. They had you pegged, buddy. Your ass was supposed to be flying down that canyon, kissing L.A. adios. So now you want to tell me what's all this about or do you want to keep on acting like a pendejo?"
"Excuse me?"
"That's asshole."
"Mr. Asshole to you."
"Fine, Señor Asshole."
I raised my hand in fake fluster. "I have no idea what it's all about. Why don't you tell me who were these guys."
"Shit, guys in the department told me about you. They were right."
"What they say?"
"That you deserve to die. That you've messed up a lot of clean busts by sticking your two bits in the holes."
"You're mixing your metaphors. Who were these guys?"
Porras let out a breath of frustration, put out his cigarette.
"We haven't run a make on them yet. You're a low-priority item. But we'll get to it. We'll let you know."
I got up, stretched. "Well, thanks. I always wanted to see the sixth floor of the Hall of Justice at noon."
If I hurried, I had enough time to drop by KQOK and pick up the dubs of the tapes that Cookie Bongos, the reporter, had made of his interview with Ramón and Pimienta at the Jewelry Mart. As I got into my car, I reflected once again on how quickly everything ages in Southern California, how buildings and structures seemingly built to last for centuries are quickly outgrown and rendered useless by the never ending population boom, the ever increasing magnetic attraction of bodies to a land that was never meant to hold more than a few thousand souls in dusty squares and lonely pueblos.
In a place like this, I thought, only dreams are real, the artificial is the norm, all that counts is your belief that you will be able to impose your vision on everyone else. This has always been fertile ground for visionaries-Upton Sinclair, Louis B. Mayer, Michael Milken-so it was only fitting that Ramón had brought his brand of santería to this land. A cult that now apparently was threatening my life. Only it didn't quite make sense.
That my two would-be killers had been santería followers didn't bother me much; anyone could be a follower of the cult, from the white-templed, black-robed judge to the sleazy real estate developer to the burly cop on the beat-like Jewish or Spanish blood, the least likely person could have it. But their having had pictures of me and my car was infinitely more serious. That meant someone who knew me well had pinned me, giving specific instructions on how to find me and what to do. And if that person had tried once, in all likelihood he or she would soon try again.
I tried to think who would want to kill me. I'd had many cases since coming to L.A., but I truly could not remember a single one in which I'd been threatened with death. This meant that the 664/187, as the cops called it-the attempted murder of my person by two unknown suspects utilizing a vehicular weapon-was tied in to Ramón's case. Whoever it was obviously did not want me helping Ramón or finding out something about the case. Or was it someone? Could it be that whoever tried to murder me did not want me to contact a witness who could radically influence the outcome of the trial?
I didn't know and there was little likelihood I would find out why until the sheriff's office finally traced the identity of the would- be killers. Until then it was all speculation, idlings as futile and disturbing as wondering about the next earthquake; it would happen when it was time, not a moment before or after, and worrying about it would not stop the ground from shaking.
The radio station was set in the midst of Hollywood, just a few blocks south of the old RKO transmitter, its miniature Eiffel Tower still slicing the air atop the peeling tenement. I parked in a lot littered with smashed beer bottles and slid three folded dollar bills into a meter slot. At the corner of Hollywood Boulevard, stringy-haired boys and girls with shiny faces and needle tracks in their arms shared plates of french fries the Indonesian fry cook dispensed at Symie's Burrito Factory. A black and white zoomed by, weaving through the midday traffic, which refused to halt for a mere police emergency.
The wailing of an ambulance followed me as I entered the building. I detected the scent of caraway and pickles in the air. The aging doorman opened up his paper-wrapped sandwich, bit tr
emulously into the pastrami. He looked at me once, decided I passed muster, then returned to his racing form. I scanned the directory, found that the station was next door to Rothman's Tax Service and climbed the wide marble steps to the third floor.
For a station with such a wide following, the headquarters of KQOK were surprisingly small-four fake wood-paneled rooms, including the crammed reception area where a chola from Guadalajara sat doing her nails and reading Cosmopolitan en espafiol. She waved a delicate brown hand down the hall at the broadcast booth.
Bongos was inserting a cassette with some of his trademark sound effects-the blaring of sheep followed by the ringing of a cowbell, then a gross fart and an old woman crying "Aee, aee, aee!"-when he noticed me through the glass partition. He waved me inside, flashing the same gap-toothed grin plastered in billboards all over Echo Park, Pico Union and downtown. A small man, his head was out of proportion to his body, far too large and imposing for such a thin, frail frame.
"I'll be right with you," he said, his English carrying traces of his native Salvador and the lilting, open-ended phrasing of East L.A. speech. He pulled from the rack by his chair a commercial for Colombian coffee, then cued up two records on the turntables, and in a whirl of motion, eased on over to the sponge-covered mike.
"Híjole, what coffee. I'm so wired I could fly. You sure it's only brew? It's from Colombia, the land of ... " He played another sound track of someone sniffing, then a siren and a machine gun firing and a gruff voice saying in English, "You're under arrest!"
