by Michael Nava
Before he could tell me more, it was time for the meeting and, as he was leading it, we couldn’t dawdle. He suggested we get coffee afterwards.
“I have stated that I am an alcoholic,” Todd was saying when I channeled him in again. “Are there any other alcoholics present?”
Along with everyone else in the room, I raised my hand, something that came easy to me now, but had been excruciating the first few times I’d been at a meeting.
“The format of this meeting,” Todd was saying, “is that the leader shares on a topic of his choice for twenty to thirty minutes and then it’s open up questions or comments from the group.” He smiled shyly. “Tonight the topic I’ve chosen is staying serene.” The smile flickered, disappeared. “When I had to come up with a topic last week for this meeting, staying serene was the first thing that came into my mind. I didn’t know why. Well, yesterday I got the results of my test. It was positive, so I guess I need all the serenity I can get.
“At the end of my drinking,” he went on, “I wanted to die. I was trying to kill myself.” He smiled. “In slow motion, because I’m a coward like all the rest of you.” We laughed. “But when I came into these rooms it was because I had had that moment of clarity where I knew that I wanted to live.” He passed his hand above the candle, making the flame flicker. “I am here to live. That’s what I thought when the doctor gave me my test results. I am here to live.” He looked at me, his eyes bright. “I accept my life. That’s how I stay serene. But before we get to the happy ending,” he added, “first I get to tell the gory details. How it was, what happened and what it’s like now.”
An hour passed. After Todd finished, half a dozen others spoke. I wasn’t among them. Todd said, “That concludes this meeting. After a moment’s silent meditation for the alcoholic who still suffers I’d like,” he looked at me, “Henry R. to lead us in the Lord’s Prayer.”
One did not decline the request. I bowed my head, forming the words silently to make sure I remembered their proper order. Usually I mumbled along without thinking because I was pretty sure if I listened to what I was saying I’d choke on my skepticism.
Someone cleared his voice and I looked up. Todd was smiling at me, waiting.
“Uh, our father,” I began and, when other voices joined me, I lapsed into a mutter, grateful to reach “Amen.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your test results,” I told Todd as we sat over coffee at a restaurant off on Sunset near the gay bookstore he managed.
“I knew it was coming, Henry. My ex died a year ago. PCP.” He poured sugar into his coffee. “I was with him five years, drunk or stoned most of the time. Safe sex? What’s that.” He stirred vigorously. “I’m grateful to be asymptomatic and I’m happy to be alive and sober.” He smiled, jaggedly. “Do I sound like Betty Ford, or what? How are you, Henry R.?”
“I’m all right.”
He cocked his head, skeptically, “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I said, not rudely, but firmly.
“I haven’t seen you around lately,” he persisted.
“I’ve been out of town on a case. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“As long as you’re okay,” he said, his dark eyes ironic.
“Would I lie to you, Todd?”
He gave me his best grin, a heart melter. “What drunk doesn’t?” He stopped a passing waitress and got us refills. “It’s a disease of denial. But okay, we’ll do it your way. What do you want to know about John M., or,” he added theatrically, “should I say, Howard T.?”
“Howard T.?”
“He called himself both,” Todd explained. “He liked mystery. He said he was ‘on the lam’ and kept hinting about a deep, dark secret.”
“Do you know what it was?” I asked. “His secret?”
“He was a schoolteacher and he dicked one of his kids and got caught.” He lit a cigarette. “Who knows if it was true.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Like I said, he was a total drama queen. He liked the attention.”
“Where did this supposedly happen? In LA?”
“Nah. Someplace up north. That’s why he was quote on the lam unquote. He said he ran out on probation or something. I kinda lost interest the eighth time I heard it.”
On a hunch, I asked, “Was it a place called Los Robles?”
Todd blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head. “No, that wasn’t it.”
“What was his last name, the one he used when he called himself Howard?”
“I just know ‘T,’ ” Todd said. “We’re anonymous, remember?”
“You asked me my last name the first time you met me,” I pointed out.
He smiled. “I thought you were single, that’s why. I didn’t care what Howard T.’s status was. Why are you so interested in him? He’s never been able to get more than a little sobriety going. Seems like every time I see him he’s taking a thirty-day chip.”
“He’s dead, Todd. He was murdered two months ago in Los Robles. I’ve been hired to defend the man who’s accused of killing him.”
“Jesus,” he whispered, visibly shocked. “Who’d want to kill John? He’s just a blowhard. He never hurt anyone.”
“He did once,” I said.
The next morning I was sitting in Freeman’s dark little office on Grand Street listening to a bulldozer pound through the walls of a nearby building. I’d just finished telling him about my conversation with Todd.
“I told you those chips were good luck,” he said.
I shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”
He shook his head. “No satisfying some people. You got,” he said, ticking off the points on his bony fingers, “the guy’s real name, that he was a teacher, that he screwed around with one of his students, that he got caught, that he was on the run. What else do you want?”
“We have,” I replied, “a first name and a last initial. He claimed he was a teacher, but we’ve just got his word for it, and that he came from somewhere outside of LA, which covers a lot of distance in this state. As for molesting a student, well, it’s probably true he molested someone.”
“How come you’re so skeptical?”
“Because Todd’s right,” I replied. “Drunks are not the most credible people.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing.”
“Marginally.”
“Let’s establish some parameters.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Some what?”
“Hanging out with lawyers plays hell with my vocabulary,” he said. “Let’s assume he has a conviction as Howard whatever, for child molest. How long did Windsor know him?”
“Four or five years,” I replied.
“So, he was McKay for at least that long. His conviction could be five, ten years old.”
I nodded, having done a similar calculation myself. “Maybe longer,” I replied, “but let’s say twenty as the outside date.”
“He’s on somebody’s system,” Freeman said. “Somebody up north. You know any cops up there who like a challenge?”
I thought for just a second. “As a matter of fact, I do. If she’s back from her honeymoon.”
She was. I reached Terry Ormes later that day and explained the situation. She said she would do what she could which, from previous experience, I knew meant that she would do everything short of manually searching every child molest complaint filed in the last twenty years in every town and hamlet in the state. As an afterthought, she told me she and Kevin enjoyed Maui, particularly the ride-along with the Honolulu police. Kevin, she said, had almost been inducted into a lineup.
“Sounds romantic,” I said. “It makes me want to run right out and marry the first cop I see.”
“Listen,” she said, “if you and Josh ever break up, there’s a real sweet guy in Homicide who’d just love to meet you.”
18
ON FRIDAY I WAS BACK in Los Robles, before Burton K. Phelan, the superior court judge assigned to try People v. Windsor, to argue the motion
to transfer venue that Peter and I had put together. Entering the courtroom I was surprised to see Peter there, his bulk arranged precariously on the edge of the bailiff’s table, talking in to the young Latino bailiff. He called me over.
“Hey, Henry, I want you to meet Eddie Ramirez. Henry’s a compadre of yours, Eddie.”
“Hello, Eddie,” I said, extending a hand.
“Hi, Henry. You know this clown?”
“Eddie knew me when I was a dog-meat DA,” Peter said.
“Hey, man, you’re gonna break my table,” the bailiff replied. A light flickered on his phone. He picked it up, waving us off, and I heard him say, “Yes, Your Honor, the defense lawyers are here …”
Moving toward the counsel table I asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I busted my ass on this motion,” he replied. “You didn’t think I was going to miss seeing how it turns out, did you?”
There was already a briefcase at the defense end of the table, with the faded monogram I,-HpbsH,-I worked into the battered leather.
“Besides,” he added, as we seated ourselves at the table, “you could use a local in your corner.”
“I am a local.”
He flicked the bottom of my Ralph Lauren rep tie. “You’re too smooth by half, Henry. When I was cite-checking your papers I thought, This guy is thinking two steps ahead, to the Court of Appeal.”
“I am.”
“Maybe if you backed off a little you could win it here.”
“That’s unlikely, isn’t it? Phelan’s the same judge who wouldn’t dismiss charges against Paul the last time around.”
“So you assume he’ll jerk you around this time,” Peter said. “And that’s how you’re going to come on to him, and leave him no choice but to do it.”
Stung, I snapped, “Get to the point.”
“Think about what you’re asking him to do here,” Peter said, dropping his voice low as the DA swung through the railing and dumped his briefcase at the other end of the table. “You’re saying, There’s no way my guy can get a fair trial in this town. Maybe in the city a judge can hear that without taking it personally, but not here. Don’t blame the people, Henry. And don’t,” he whispered urgently, coffee on his breath, “don’t even think of blaming the court. Dump on the Sentinel. Gordon Wachs isn’t a native and the Sentinel’s pretty liberal for these parts. Phelan’s a very conservative guy. And another thing,” he added, “you’re going to have to eat some shit. Tell him how reluctant you are to have to bring the motion, how you know the community has a stake in this trial …”
“That’s going a little too far,” I said.
Peter shook his big head. “It’s like you said, Phelan thinks Paul weaseled out of the molestation case, and so do a lot of other people. Acknowledge it.” He jerked his head toward the DA, who watched us warily. “Don’t let Rossi be the one who brings it up. You’ve got to take the curse off it.” He sat back in his chair. “That’s the bad news.”
“There’s good news?” I asked skeptically.
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Phelan’s been on the bench forever. He doesn’t think he has to answer to anyone, except himself. That makes him a little unpredictable. Sometimes he even does the right thing.”
“Peter.” We both looked toward Rossi, who approached and laid a chummy hand on Stein’s shoulder.
“Hey, Dom,” Peter said. “How’s it going?”
“Just great,” he said, looking past Peter to me. “Morning, Henry.”
“Morning.”
“Peter giving you pointers?” he asked genially.
“Something like that,” I replied. “He helped me draft the motion.”
He clucked at Peter, “You’ve really gone over to the other side, pal.”
“I wanted to even out the fight,” Peter replied.
A buzzer sounded in the room and Rossi scurried back to his side of the table. Behind the bench, a door opened and Burton K. Phelan stepped grimly to his seat, stopped and glared at us. He was tall, well over six feet, and probably in his early sixties. There seemed to be too much flesh for his face and it hung in bags and folds beneath his eyes, at his jowls, under his chin. I found myself staring at his hair; it covered his head haphazardly in splotchy patches of gray and brown. I’d seen that pattern of baldness recently, making out a will for someone with AIDS who had been battling Kaposi’s sarcoma. The hair loss was a side effect of chemotherapy.
“He has cancer,” I whispered to Peter as we rose to our feet. He looked at me, startled, but said nothing.
The bailiff was saying, “Department Two of the Los Robles Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Burton K. Phelan presiding.”
“Be seated,” Phelan commanded. “People versus Windsor. Is the defendant in court?”
It had occurred to me that it might not be a good idea to have Paul unnecessarily facing his old nemesis. I stood up. “Your Honor, Henry Rios for the defendant who waives his presence for his proceeding.”
Peter was suddenly standing beside me, “And Peter Stein, for the defendant, Your Honor.”
Phelan looked puzzled. “I see no association of counsel, Mr. Stein.”
“I apologize,” Peter said. “I haven’t filed it yet, but I don’t plan to argue.”
Grumpily, Phelan said, “Very well. Your appearance is noted but file the association before the end of the day.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said, sitting down.
I sat down bedside him and whispered, “Does Clayton know about this?”
He smiled his round, fat man’s smile. “Fuck Clayton.”
“… Rossi for the People, Your Honor,” Rossi was saying.
On the bench, Phelan folded his hands beneath his chin and looked at me. “The defendant has filed a motion to transfer venue and I have read and considered both the defendant’s points and authorities and those of the People. I will hear Mr. Rios.”
Rising again, I pressed my fingers against the edge of the table to keep them from quivering. It used to bother me that I could still get nervous in court but I’d come to see that it was only because I still believed that what I did here mattered.
Despite the day-to-day cynicism of criminal practice, the casual epithets with which the most horrifying behavior is described and the popular belief that trials are a game, for me a courtroom is a place of serious purpose. If I ever really thought otherwise, it would be time to find another line of work.
“Your Honor,” I began, “I won’t repeat the legal argument which I have set forth in papers. Instead, I want to reduce this motion to its barest elements.” I paused and looked down. My fingertips were white. “Paul Windsor is no stranger to this court.” Rossi stirred at his end of the table. “Several years ago he was accused of a very serious crime. The truth or falsity of the allegations against him were matters of grave interest not only to Mr. Windsor and his family, but to the entire community.” I looked at Phelan, who looked back, curious. “As Your Honor knows, that matter never went to trial.” His mouth a grim line, Phelan nodded. “It’s perfectly understandable that there was some dissatisfaction in this community with how that case was resolved but, Your Honor—” I raised my voice, slightly “—the point that I want to make is that it was resolved.”
Phelan rumbled, “You’re not suggesting, are you, that that dismissal was the same as an acquittal?”
“Absolutely not, sir. It was neither an acquittal nor a conviction, but it was a disposition and a perfectly lawful one.” I considered my next few words carefully. “And I think it’s fair to say that once the case was dismissed the legal system had no further claim on Paul Windsor on those charges.”
Sotto voce, Peter whispered, “Cool it.”
“It’s my opinion,” Phelan said, “that the legal system worked pretty poorly in that case.”
“Yes, I understand that,” I said, “and I understand that many, many people hold the same opinion, but again, the system ran its course in that case. Now, Paul Windsor is accused of a di
fferent crime, equally serious, but it isn’t the charge that this court dismissed, however reluctantly, three years ago.”
I lifted my hand from the table and gestured toward him. “I have no doubt at all that this court understands that and could give Mr. Windsor a fair trial. Also I have no doubt that, given half a chance, the people of this community could also be fair. But the point of our motion today is that the people have not been given half a chance.” I raised my voice again. “Paul Windsor had been tried and found guilty on the pages of the Los Robles Sentinel. But my client is not guilty, Your Honor. My client is presumed innocent.” Walking toward the end of the table, I continued, “Now, Your Honor, over the years I’ve been in practice it’s been my observation that the press has little understanding, and, too often, no regard, for what the presumption of innocence means. It’s been my observation that the press treats presumption of innocence like small print at the bottom of a contract, as something of no importance. But we know differently.” I met Phelan’s scowl and continued. “We tell prospective jurors at the beginning of every trial that they must presume a defendant innocent and that if they have the slightest reservation about that, then they cannot serve. We tell them that because we know that the whole system of criminal justice is based upon that presumption.”
I eased up a little. “Now I don’t pretend that potential jurors aren’t biased against criminal defendants. If the police have gone to the trouble of arresting someone for a crime and the prosecutor has gone to the trouble of charging him, it’s only natural for a potential juror to think there’s something to it. But that doesn’t invalidate the presumption of innocence. On the contrary, it makes it all the more vital because it’s the only way we have to try to neutralize that natural bias and give the defendant a fighting chance. But in this case, Your Honor, my client doesn’t have a chance.” I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a stack of Sentinels and read selected passages from a half-dozen stories. When I’d finished, I said, “Even I would have a hard time judging my client objectively after this kind of reporting.”
