The decibel level in the room continued to increase, voices echoing off the marble floor to the twenty-foot ceiling. Donley did not need to turn around to know that St. Claire and Ramsey had entered, likely striding down the aisle like a wedding couple. He heard the gate swing open. St. Claire nodded as if the confrontation in the hallway had not happened and moved to the other table. As she did, the bailiff entered from a door to the left of the bench and called out, “All rise and come to order. The Honorable Milton Trimble, judge, presiding.”
The words had barely escaped the bailiff’s mouth when Trimble burst through the door and vaulted the four steps behind the bench like a man chasing a windblown $100 bill. Despite the acrobatics and for all his reputation, Trimble’s entrance was a letdown. Short and thin with a receding hairline, he looked more like a besieged accountant during tax season than a judge. The regal courtroom dwarfed him. When he sat in the black-leather chair, he momentarily disappeared from view. Sitting forward, he looked like a child at his father’s desk. Perhaps sensing this, he leaned on his forearms as if to prop himself higher, and he busied himself moving stacks of files while looking out at the packed gallery over bifocal glasses. He ran his fingers over strands of hair, which he parted low on the side and combed over to unsuccessfully cover a bald spot. He did not look happy to be there.
“Call the first case.”
The clerk spoke in a monotone. “Case number C87–0545. The people of the State of California versus Thomas Wilson Martin.”
The door to Donley’s right opened, and two burly deputies escorted Father Martin into the courtroom. The priest wore an orange top and pants, white socks, and rubber sandals. Despite the cast on his left wrist, Father Martin held his hands at stomach level to provide enough slack in the chain that extended between his legs to shackles around his ankles. It seemed to take him forever to shuffle his way across the marble floor. Nearing the table, he stumbled. The two guards caught him under the arms.
Trimble looked up from the file he’d been reading. “Remove those shackles immediately.”
St. Claire spoke instantly. “If it pleases the court—”
“It doesn’t.” Trimble shot St. Claire a look that knocked her back onto her heels. “Remove the shackles. This is a courtroom, not a zoo.” The murmur in the gallery was instantaneous, as was Trimble’s solid, single wrap of the gavel. “I will not tolerate any outbursts in my courtroom this morning,” he growled. “If there is a single shenanigan, I’ll close it.”
Maximum Milt was taking charge, setting the ground rules on the first day of school.
The deputies removed the shackles and led Father Martin to the chair beside Donley. The priest looked worse than the day before, his jaw now covered by pronounced stubble. Recalling Lou’s advice that the priest was likely scared, and recognizing he had an audience behind him that had read his client was a monster, Donley made a point of reaching out his hand. Father Martin hesitated before taking it.
“State your appearances, counsel,” Trimble instructed.
“Linda St. Claire on behalf of the people of the State of California, Your Honor.”
“Peter Donley specially appearing on behalf of the defendant, Father Thomas Martin.”
“Specially appearing? What does that mean?” Judge Trimble sounded annoyed.
“I’m appearing today on Father Martin’s behalf. I have not, however, been retained by Father Martin.”
“What are you, decor?”
The retort brought muffled laughter from the gallery. Trimble was wasting no time taking Donley apart. “My partner, Lou Giantelli, would normally be here, but he’s suffered a heart attack and stroke and is in the hospital,” Donley said. “Father Martin and I have not spoken, and therefore, I do not know whether he seeks my counsel or not.”
Trimble fidgeted in his seat. “Mr. Donley, my comment was misplaced. I apologize. I heard about Mr. Giantelli and didn’t know the connection. How is he doing?”
“He’s fighting.”
“I’d expect nothing less. Please give him my personal wishes for a speedy recovery.”
“I will do that, Your Honor.” He’d played a hunch based on Ruth-Bell’s statement that Lou and Trimble had sparred. He figured it meant Trimble had been a good lawyer, and Donley suspected that had led to mutual respect.
“Under the circumstances, I will proceed on the assumption that Father Martin has not yet retained counsel,” Trimble said.
St. Claire interrupted. “Your Honor, Father Martin did meet with—”
Trimble cut her off. “Ms. St. Claire, let’s get something straight. When I talk, you listen. When I want your input, I’ll ask for it. It’s simple. Stick to it, and we’ll have no problems. Fail, and it will be a long morning. Understood?”
“Understood, Your Honor,” St. Claire said.
Trimble turned to Father Martin and read from a prepared statement. “Thomas Wilson Martin, you’re here in San Francisco Superior Court. You are in the custody of the San Francisco County Sheriff, and you are here for the purpose of arraignment.” He looked up at the priest. “Did you hear the tape recording of your rights played in the holding cell?”
“Yes,” Father Martin said.
Trimble looked to Donley. “Have you discussed the charges with Father Martin?”
“My office received a faxed copy of the complaint late last night. So, no, I haven’t discussed it with Father Martin.”
Trimble ran a hand over his chin as if considering his shave. “All right, for the record, I’m going to read the criminal complaint filed by the district attorney. Then I assume we are going to have some discussion. Father Martin, a copy of a complaint has been provided to Mr. Donley. It charges you with a violation of the law on December 21, 1987, in the San Francisco Judicial District, in the county of San Francisco, state of California. In count one, you are charged with felony violation of Penal Code Section 187, to wit murder, that you did then and there cause the death of a minor, Andrew Bennet. In count two of the complaint, you are charged with violation of Penal Code Section 190.2 (a) (17), the commission of a felony while the defendant was engaged in the commission, or attempted commission of a felony.” Trimble stopped and looked over at St. Claire. “What is the felony, Ms. St. Claire?”
“The State intends to prove there exist sufficient facts to warrant special circumstances.”
“I can read, Ms. St. Claire. What are those facts? What is the felony?” Trimble repeated, impatient.
She postured slightly toward the gallery. “On the basis that the murder of Andrew Bennet was committed with such heinous disregard for human life that it constitutes infliction of torture, warranting special circumstances.”
The courtroom buzzed. Whether the district attorney would seek the death penalty and why had apparently been questions on everyone’s mind. So much for any plea deal, Donley thought.
Trimble shook his head. “Ms. St. Claire, in case you didn’t notice, this mammoth piece of wood I’m being forced to sit behind this morning is up here. That means I’m up here. You can address your arguments to the bench. I assume all of that evidence is set forth in the documents?”
“It is, Your Honor. If I may present the report of Alfred Shirk, county medical examiner?”
“You may do so.”
She handed a copy of the report to Donley and one to the court clerk, who stood on her toes and reached to hand it up to Trimble. Donley placed the report on counsel table, trying to show no emotion.
Trimble turned to him. “I take it you have read this report, Mr. Donley?”
“No, Your Honor, this is the first I’ve seen it.”
Judge Trimble turned his copy over. “Then we’re not going to read it now.”
St. Claire looked exasperated.
Trimble looked to Donley. “I assume you have some things to discuss with the court?”
“Your Honor, given that we received the complaint late last night, after work hours, and we are receiving the medical examiner’s report
and Riverside documents now, the defense asks for a continuance to enter a plea.”
“Your Honor, the People object to any attempt to delay these proceedings,” St. Claire said.
Trimble raised his reading glasses onto the tip of his nose. “I disagree, Ms. St. Claire. The accused cannot reasonably be expected to enter a plea if he is unaware of the charges against him. Seems fundamental to me. I’m going to continue these proceedings—the Christmas holiday being noted. Mr. Donley, how much time do you need?”
“I’d suggest after the new year, Your Honor?”
“Very well. The court clerk will send out notice.” Judge Trimble raised his gavel.
Donley let out a sigh. A reprieve would give him a chance to catch his breath, enjoy the Christmas holiday, and allow him time to find Father Martin competent counsel.
“But I’m not guilty.”
Donley turned to the priest and felt the back of his knees go weak.
Trimble lowered his gavel and leaned forward. “Father Martin?”
Donley leaned closer to his client, whispering, “You don’t need to enter a plea.”
“You’re not obligated to enter a plea, Father Martin,” Trimble said. “Your counsel has sought and been granted a continuance.”
“I understand that, Your Honor. But I’m not guilty. I did not kill Andrew Bennet.” The coal-black eyes were gone, replaced by a soft hazel. “I don’t need more time to enter a plea.”
The courtroom buzzed. This time it took several bangs of Trimble’s gavel to silence it. Trimble shot Donley a glance before turning his attention back to Father Martin. “Does the defendant wish to enter a plea at this time?”
Donley looked from the priest to the bench. “Your Honor, I request a moment to confer with my client?”
“Your Honor, Mr. Donley said he was not here representing Father Martin,” St. Claire shot back.
Trimble raised a hand. “He is if Father Martin enters a plea.”
Father Martin leaned toward Donley, who raised a legal pad to block the gallery’s view of their conversation. “I’m not guilty. I didn’t do it,” he said.
“You don’t need to enter a plea even if you’re not guilty,” Donley said. “This buys us time to get the evidence.”
“I understand, and I appreciate your counsel, but I wish to enter the plea of not guilty.”
Donley studied the priest’s face and saw that he was resolute in his conviction. “You’re sure it’s what you want to do?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Donley?” Judge Trimble said.
The courtroom slowed to a crawl. In his mind, Donley saw and heard a collage of people. Mike Harris sipped at the rim of his coffee, telling him there were problems with the evidence, that a veteran cop had made a rookie mistake. Ruth-Bell stood in his office, telling him that the district attorney did not plea murder-one charges, and Lou lay looking up at him from his hospital bed, telling him to trust his instincts.
“Mr. Donley?” Trimble said, growing impatient.
Donley exited the tunnel. Father Martin smiled at him. “I’m not guilty.”
Donley faced the bench. The gallery seemed to lean forward, as if the courtroom had slipped off its foundation and listed toward the front of the room.
“My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”
The gallery rumbled.
Milton Trimble nodded, though his brow furrowed. “The court will accept the defendant’s plea of not guilty. I’m making an independent Riverside determination of probable cause. Does your client waive time, Mr. Donley?”
Now on the offensive, Donley decided not to back off. He was not about to give Ramsey and St. Claire more time to clean up their evidence. “Your Honor, the defense requests an immediate preliminary examination of the evidence. We intend to challenge the police seizure of the alleged physical evidence in this case as being the product of an unlawful search, without a warrant. The evidence obtained, and all evidence generated from it, is tainted and therefore inadmissible.”
The courtroom buzzed like the din of a large engine.
St. Claire rushed to respond. “Your Honor, all of the evidence obtained would have otherwise necessarily been obtained. It was found on the premises, across a hallway from a murder scene. It clearly falls within the exception enumerated in Nix v. Williams.”
“Maybe so, Your Honor,” Donley countered. “But now is not the time for the prosecution to make such a circular argument. Ms. St. Claire justifies the police department’s illegal search by already convicting Father Martin. She concludes a warrant would have been granted to search locked offices where Father Martin also kept a private residence, but she provides no rationale as to the probable cause that brought the police to the shelter in the first place. What the detectives came upon was a dead body at a shelter where Father Martin works and lives. They cannot try and convict him of a crime in order to justify their illegal search. We also intend to prove the illegally obtained evidence is flawed. To argue Father Martin’s fingerprints or footprints were found in the room is ludicrous given that Father Martin works—”
Trimble banged his gavel, cutting him off. “I want to see counsel in chambers. Now.”
Trimble’s judicial chambers contained the same rich oak paneling but a more modest desk. Antique law books, framed photographs, and elaborate miniature trains of all shapes and sizes, an impressive collection, filled the shelves. In the far corner sat a baby’s crib, complete with bumpers, a quilt, and a Mickey Mouse mobile. Donley picked out a photograph of Judge Trimble’s multiple grandchildren on a shelf behind his desk, though he doubted they would be swapping baby stories this morning.
By the time St. Claire and Ramsey entered his office, Trimble had already removed his robe, revealing a light-blue, short-sleeved shirt and a tie decorated with ornate Christmas trees. His scowl let everyone know he was not happy.
“Be seated.” They complied. “What happened today will not happen again in my courtroom. The justice system is about dispensing justice. It is about the rights of the victims and the accused. It is not about you.”
“Judge,” Ramsey said in a conversational tone.
“I’m not finished, Mr. Ramsey. The best attorneys I’ve had in my courtroom are the ones I can’t recall. They’re the ones who did their jobs efficiently and without fanfare. The ones I recall are the showboats and grandstanders. That is not what the legal system is about. From this moment forward, I am absolutely forbidding any of you, or your witnesses, from speaking to the press.”
“Your Honor—” St. Claire started.
“You are either a television commentator, or you’re an attorney, Ms. St. Claire. Decide.”
“Your Honor, I resent—”
“And I resent being a part of the display that went on this morning,” Trimble growled. “I resent lawyers who demean the courtroom and legal system like used-car salesmen. I cannot control the press, but I can control you. While you are in my courtroom, you will be lawyers. All of you. Outside the courtroom, I expect you to conduct yourselves as professionals. You will not discuss this matter with the press. I want a free exchange of the evidence. From this point forward, Mr. Donley is to be given unlimited access to the evidence in your possession.”
He turned to Donley. “Mr. Donley, I will not tolerate courtroom theatrics. If I find out that your client’s demeanor or your request for an expedited preliminary hearing was to serve that purpose, I will come down on you very hard. Understood?”
“Understood,” Donley said.
Trimble sat. “Your motion will be heard next Thursday.”
Donley nodded. It was a very short time, particularly with the Christmas holiday, but he was in no position to negotiate. Judges were not sympathetic when they were also working over the holidays. He also suspected Trimble was giving him a lesson in “be careful what you wish for.” Put up or shut up.
For the next ten minutes, they discussed courtroom procedure for motions, witnesses, and other matters. Trimble set ground
rules to prevent the case from overwhelming his staff and calendar. Judges, like schoolteachers, were overworked and underpaid given the importance of their position in society. Lou had advised Donley on more than one occasion to avoid making more work for a judge than was absolutely necessary. They wouldn’t thank you for it, but the alternative was far worse.
Donley nodded when appropriate, but most of the time, he heeded Ruth-Bell’s third piece of advice and kept his mouth shut.
“Your Honor,” Ramsey said, “given the tight timetable the court has set for the preliminary examination, we would request that Father Martin submit to a blood test.”
Judge Trimble looked at Donley. “How about it, Mr. Donley? It’s a fair request.”
Donley knew Trimble was inclined to grant such a motion and saw no need to appear unreasonable. He would gain points if he was cooperative. “I’ll consult with Father Martin. I don’t anticipate a problem. I’ll advise Ms. St. Claire.”
Before anyone could utter another word, Judge Trimble dismissed them. “I’ve missed enough family holidays during my career. I don’t intend to miss Christmas Eve. I’m Santa Claus this year.”
They all smiled and quickly departed.
In the hallway, Ramsey called to Donley and handed him his umbrella. “I believe you left this in my office yesterday.”
Donley took the umbrella, but Ramsey did not immediately release his grip. He smiled. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward a rear door, apparently no longer interested in facing a media to which he couldn’t pander.
The 7th Canon Page 10
