The Killing of the Saints

by Alex Abella

  "Yes, sir," replied Ramón gleefully. Didn't Reynolds see how Ramón was playing him?

  "If you think that your misbehaving and lack of ordinary courtroom courtesy will cause this court to commit reversible error, you are very much mistaken, sir. I was not born yesterday or in another country. I recognize what you're doing. Allow me to remind you, Mr. Valdez, that I am the judge and you are the defendant and I know the legal pitfalls of such manipulation. You will not rule the court, I will. So, since you insist on not rising when addressing the court, then you will remain seated throughout the proceedings. Should you rise, that will be open contempt of court and will be dealt with accordingly at the conclusion of the trial, whenever that occasion might be."

  He gripped Ramón's block-printed petition with thumb and index finger as though it were a dirty diaper.

  "As regards this motion for the court to recuse itself, it's denied." He tossed the sheet into the basket by the clerk. "Bring in the jury."

  The clerk pressed the buzzer, alerting the twelve jurors in the adjoining room. The wooden door presently opened. Mrs. Inez Gardner, a black, obese woman, entered, surprised to see the cameras.

  "Showtime, people!" she said to the other jurors, who trooped in Indian file behind her. The whole courtroom burst into laughter, even Judge Reynolds allowing himself a little smirk. Only Phyllis, her chin cradled in her hands, did not smile.

  The joviality vanished by the time the rest of the mostly middle-aged, white, female jury wriggled into the blue polyester covered swivel seats. Ramón and I had argued over the composition of the jury during the selection process. It was true I had every intention of not getting involved, but there was something antithetical in the way he chose the jury which practically forced me to take an active role. All those years of weighing people's backgrounds, likes and dislikes, hidden prejudices and obvious biases, their religion, ethnicity and the thousand and one details that make a successful jury-which is to say, a jury that votes your way-had made it impossible for me to sit passively as Ramón selected, almost perversely, precisely those people who were likely to send him to San Quentin.

  In his monstrous pride Ramón systematically kicked out all the minorities he could from the panel. Phyllis found herself in the unusual position of having to file a Hitch's motion against the defense, alleging prejudice on the part of Ramón for showing a bias toward white Anglos! The last three jurors of color had been quickly selected as a compromise after Reynolds threatened to throw out the entire panel and start the selection process once again.

  Clay, who had let Ramón take the lead in the jury selection-as though he too had become like Pimienta, a docile follower of the santero priest-had urged Ramón to let Reynolds carry out his threat. I agreed. With murders, the longer it takes to get the case to trial, the better it is for the defendant. Evidence may be altered or misplaced, witnesses may die or become unavailable, and those people who come to testify may find that their memory of events is not as sharp or convincing as it once was. But Ramón wouldn't hear of it, he became enamored of his nine white Anglo God-fearing Christians, believing they alone would save him. So now, as I reviewed their faces, staring anxiously at the court and ourselves, I shook my head in professional exasperation-but also personal satisfaction. He had as good as put the noose around his own neck. His prerogative, all right.

  Now Judge Reynolds scanned the faces of the jurors, to ascertain they were indeed the people who had been chosen. He looked down, cleared his throat and read the title of the complaint and the case number.

  "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Well, this is the day we worked for all these months. You are the triers of fact who will determine whether the defendants, Ramón Valdez and José Pimienta, are guilty or not of the crimes charged. It's a mighty responsibility but I'm certain it is one you will faithfully discharge. In order to find the defendants guilty, you must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt of the truth of these charges. Now, y'all know just what reasonable doubt means?"

  It was a rhetorical question, but the judge erred in letting an interval of a second lapse before his next sentence.

  "I know!" exclaimed Mrs. Gardner, raising her hand.

  "Thank you, ma'am, I'm sure you do. But just to make sure everybody does, I will read you the definition that the highest court in the land, in its wisdom, has determined is the working principle to be applied here. Now, reasonable doubt is not mere doubt, because anything relating to human affairs is open to some imaginary doubt, but rather it is that state ... "

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, tuning out the farrago of half-baked notions about doubt that all judges in California are compelled to issue at the start of trial, when they know fully well that the jury is as apt to be convinced by a defendant's smiling face as it is by the reasoned argument of the impassioned counsel. If the jury likes your client, it will find a reason to set him free-but if they don't, all the logic and persuasiveness of Daniel Webster will not get him off the hook.

  "Both parties in this case may wish to give opening statements," said Reynolds. "Now, remember that anything the attorneys say is not evidence. Evidence, the truth, is what comes out of that witness stand, or what is presented to you, the jurors, for your direct examination. The arguments of the attorneys and their questions can only be considered insofar as they tend to shine the light of truth on the evidence. Now, the People give the first opening statement. The defense may later also give its own, if it so chooses, although"-here he threw a warning look at Ramón, who was busy reading his handwritten notes-"in most cases the defense reserves that right until after the prosecution has presented its case. Now, one of the defendants, Mr. Valdez, as you have seen, has chosen to act as his own counsel, which is his constitutional right. I remind you that you should not infer anything negative or positive about the fact that Mr. Valdez is acting as his own counsel. However, for security reasons, Mr. Valdez will be conducting his case from the counsel table. Does the prosecution have an opening argument?"

  "We do, Your Honor."

  Phyllis stood up, all five feet and one half inches of her in fiery red. Her investigator, Detective Samuels, looked admiringly at her, expecting great things. She pulled away from the table and without a word of warning, walked behind us and planted herself behind Ramón and José.

  "These are the accused. These are the men charged with one of the most horrible crimes in the history of Los Angeles County, crimes that showed a wanton disregard for life, property and human suffering. I want you to remember this, ladies and gentlemen, every time you look at them. I also want you to remember this."

  She stepped briskly to an easel which she had set up by the jury box, and peeled away a wrapper from a display card, showing the blown-up photos of six corpses.

  "These are the victims of that crime. Three men, two women and a little girl, age seven, a refugee from Vietnam, killed as a direct result of the actions of the defendants, killed before she knew what life was all about. Every time you see the defendants I want you to think about these victims and remember, they are responsible for these deaths."

  Clay came to life, stood and slapped his papers on the table.

  "Objection, Your Honor! This is prejudicial and assumes facts not in evidence!"

  "Counsel will refrain from interrupting," warned Reynolds. "This is only argument, after all. The prosecution has the right to say anything it wants to at this stage."

  "But Your Honor, there is no foundation, no evidence has been shown linking the people in these photographs to my client. It's a gross abuse of my client's right to an impartial jury."

  Ramón watched the exchange indifferently. Pimienta, as he had done throughout the proceedings, stared down at the tabletop, ashamed to lift his eyes to the world. The jurors and the public followed with their eyes the arcane language, their raised eyebrows and worried expressions evidence they knew something important was going on but they couldn't quite figure out what.

  "Counsel, your objection is noted for the reco
rd. Mrs. Chin, please proceed."

  Clay waved his arms in frustration and more than a touch of theatrical helplessness. "Your Honor, I must beseech the court ... "

  Reynolds swung his chair toward Clay, barely controlling his irritation.

  "Mr. Smith, if I hear another word out of you about-"

  A low rumble, like a freight train coming through the courtroom, abruptly cut the judge's wrath. He stopped, glanced around anxiously. Others in the court, more experienced with the ways of California, ran for the exits. Dozens followed, and the doors quickly jammed with screaming spectators who had not imagined they'd come to their own burial. The floor started vibrating, as though the building had been mounted on a stirrer; the walls moaned.

  "Qué coño es esto, chico?" asked Ramón, What the fuck is this?

  The moan became a loud roar, as of herds of lions and bulls and elephants squealing from fear, a ghastly chorus of destruction. The walls cracked, the overhead light grids swayed, then fell at the corners of the room. Mrs. Gardner stood up in front of her jury seat, hands together, eyes raised heavenward,

  "I'm sorry, Lord, please forgive me, Lord!" she cried, then was jolted to the floor, landing next to where other jurors already lay, covering their heads with their notebooks. Judge Reynolds, immobilized by surprise, remained in his chair, watching with awe. Lucinda broke through the crowd surging out of the court, jumped over the bar and came to me. I took hold of her arm and yanked her under the table with me. Ramón scurried in after us.

  "Terremoto!" I cried.

  The noise kept ascending in an unbearable crescendo, the thunder and wailing an irresistible force that would not be spent. I felt the entire floor sway from side to side, as the building gyrated on the flexible beams installed between the fifth and sixth floors, still shouting out a screech of agony from the unaccustomed wrenching and twisting.

  Another light grid fell, this time directly on top of where we'd been sitting just a moment before. I looked to my right and saw Pimienta, Clay and Detective Samuels also crouching under the table. Behind us, all the reporters and cameramen had fled except for a lanky cameraman from CNN, who with incredible aplomb kept videotaping as though he were shooting the Rose Bowl from the press deck. A wall collapsed, billowing clouds of plaster dust rising in the air. The drinking fountain at the far end of the court was wrenched off the wall, the pipe shooting out a spray of water that turned into a grimy stream spreading down the gray carpeted floor. The noise of unspecified destruction rang all around, things being shattered, damaged beyond repair, in the maddening confusion all around us.

  Then, just when it seemed as though the clamor could be no louder and the walls would stand no more, the shaking stopped. A great void and calm floated down from above, as though a great judge somewhere had ruled, This far you shall go and no farther. I heard the clanging of hundreds, thousands of alarms throughout the city, a warning late and futile. I peeked out from below, then stood up, still wary, ready to dash down should the tremors continue. But they didn't-all their fury was spent. Then I noticed D.A. Chin still standing where she had been when the objection had been raised, her hand still up in the air, as though the heaving and shaking had activated an automatic Off button. The jurors sat back in their seats, brushing the dust off themselves, and Clay, Pimienta, Samuels and all the others crawled out from their hiding places. Phyllis turned to Judge Reynolds and calmly asked, "May I proceed with my opening statement?"

  For the next two days, all anyone talked about was the quake-where were you when it hit, how strong did you feel it and was this the big one that's been predicted for the last fifty years. It wasn't until the trial resumed, weeks later, that the Caltech seismologists were able to pinpoint the center exactly-a spot bordered on the west by Broadway, east by Spring, north by the freeway and south by First Street-in other words, within one hundred yards, give or take a few feet, of the Criminal Courts Building.

  Everyone's nerves were rattled afterward. At night I would wake up from the slightest unfamiliar noise, dreading to hear that low rumble again. Although Lucinda never let anything get in the way of a good night's sleep, during her waking hours she too was jittery and ill humored. For the first time since she'd moved in, we fought over things that even at the moment in which we exchanged angry words we both knew were insignificant and served only as an excuse to rid ourselves of the vile premonition of disaster waiting to strike at any moment.

  The earthquake worked to Ramón's advantage in one respect- it closed down the entire CCB for a week. That allowed me to go and investigate the witnesses Phyllis had planned to put on. Her intention had been to hand us the list of witnesses the day before testimony started, jamming them on us, before I could locate the skeletons in the closet for which they hoped to obtain leniency from the prosecution. But with the unexpected respite, I had plenty of time to dig up the bodies.

  The first name on Phyllis's list was Remigio Flores, the parking attendant who'd spotted Ramón and José rushing into Schnitzer's Jewelers. His address was listed as El Sereno, an East Los Angeles neighborhood whose name translates, appropriately enough, as the watchman. But neighbors said the man I wanted had moved under police protection a month before. His landlady, a honey-skinned woman with dry curls daubed yellow and a smile full of crooked teeth said two uniformed officers had come in the middle of the night and helped Flores get all his possessions out of the nine-by- twelve room he'd been renting from her. The cops had even paid his last two months rent-$345.50.

  "He hasn't done anything bad, has he?" she asked.

  "Not that I know of."

  "Is he still alive? In my country, when the police comes and gets you in the middle of the night like that, you never return."

  "What country are you from?"

  "I'm from Guatemala, from a little town called Huaquexchipotl, up in the mountains."

  She stood in the doorway to her apartment, a fat shoulder jammed against the door frame. Behind her two roly-poly black-haired tots, faces smeared with chocolate, fought on a tattered couch over a toy truck. The smell of boiling beans escaped out the front door. On the wall hung a crushed velvet tapestry of the Last Supper, where Judas spills the salt and John asks, Is it me?

  "Well, let me tell you, in this country, it's the opposite. If the police come for you, you never disappear, they're always taking you from one place to another. You're like a grieving soul that's never laid to rest."

  "Aee, Dios mio, what a terrible fate. It's better to be dead then and find your peace."

  "Yes, it's terrible, I agree. Do you know how I could find him?"

  The stands at the soccer field in Griffith Park were full by thetime I got there, a sea of brown faces waving banners of the respective teams-blue and white for the Colonials of Antigua, black and yellow for the Senators from Guatemala City. Mothers handed out sodas and tacos to their brood from large tin pots, giggling maids and housekeepers on their day off pointed out their favorites in the teams. Old men with callused hands argued about the strategy of the reigning world champions; an occasional vendor moved up and down the benches, selling coconut candy balls and packets of spicy hot corn nuts that stained your fingers yellow. In the field, young men who the rest of the week were car wash attendants, pump jockeys, busboys, gardeners and assorted day workers, warmed up in their sparkling clean satin uniforms, basking in the sun of admiration shining down on them from the stands.

  The Colonials' team captain called over a boy of about twenty, with curly black hair, fair skin, deep-set brown eyes.

  "Remigio Flores?" I asked.

  He looked suspiciously at me, a nervous feline eyeing the open window.

  "And if I were, what's it to you?" he snapped back in Spanish.

  "I'm a court-appointed investigator on the Valdez and Pimienta case."

  "Who? What?"

  "The Jewelry Mart murders," I said.

  "Ah, no, no way, I'm not saying anything," he replied, walking away. I followed.

  "Why? Because of the police
?"

  He whipped around, spat on the ground before me, close enough so that a few stray droplets fell on my shoe.

  "I'm not afraid of anything. But you guys are crazy, the devil's got into you. I saw what they did when they went in there."

  "What did you see?"

  "I saw them go in with their weapons, all spaced out, looking like they were from another planet, mano. And their car, it smelled of coke and PCP. They even left their glass pipe on the front seat. They were locos. I saw them go in and just chop 'em down, just like you cut down a banana tree with one stroke of the machete, whack! That's it!"

  "Did you look at them through the front window when they went in?"

  "Sure I did. They planned the whole thing. First thing they did was start smashing the glass counters, then they started shooting."

  "Did the guard pull his gun out first?"

  "I don't want to talk about it any more, OK?"

  "Did he or did he not?"

  A heavy hand fell on my shoulder.

  "Dude doesn't want to talk to you, bub." I turned and looked into the well-developed pecs of a Manhattan Beach surfer type, six four, blond, tanned, back the size of an African shield.

  "Who the hell are you, bub?" I brushed his hand off my shoulder.

  Surf Boy showed me a regulation LAPD badge.

  "Detective Moat, LAPD. He's under protection, let him be."

  Not to be outranked I pulled out my ID. Moat looked at my pained expression in the photo, handed it back smiling.

  "Cool, dude. Fucking P.I. So what."

  "I've got a right to talk to him."

  "If he wants to talk to you. He just said he didn't."

  "No, he didn't. How would you know?"