In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  The less attention brought to this, the better. Let the jury think I’m not concerned, a speck of dandruff to be easily brushed off.

  “Have you spoken to him since you were arrested?” Dixant asks.

  “No,” Salazar answers.

  “Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

  Salazar glances over at me. Technically, he hasn’t, as far as I know. Since Gonzalez’s cell phone was out of service, he would have no other way to contact him, because he didn’t know where Gonzalez lived, or whether he had e-mail or any other normal way of communication. But I nod yes anyway. I tried, and since I’m his lawyer, it’s as if he did. I want the jury to think he tried as hard as he could to make contact, that he didn’t let that slide.

  “Yes,” he says, picking up on my signal. “Me and my lawyer.”

  The right answer. He hasn’t impeached himself. He’s smart, he understands subtleties.

  “But you couldn’t,” Dixant says.

  “No.”

  “Because he doesn’t exist.”

  So much for hoping to ride this out. I’m on my feet in a jiffy. “Objection!” I call out in the loudest voice I’ve used in this trial. “That’s conjecture on the D.A.’s part. The fact that Mr. Gonzalez has not been located yet does not mean he doesn’t exist. It stands to reason he would take pains to hide from us.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Rosen agrees with me. She’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, because she is playing up to Amanda Burgess, subconsciously. I make a mental note to make sure Amanda is present every moment until the jury returns their verdict.

  Still, Dixant has succeeded in weaving the issue of Gonzalez’s disappearance into the fabric of this trial: Why haven’t we found him? Why hasn’t anyone found him? As he did in his opening statement, I know Dixant will hammer at that in his summation. And he’ll be smart to do it. Even though Gonzalez would have been a hostile witness for us, his mere presence would have been a big asset for our case. Without him, we’re vulnerable. Those stolen television sets were in Salazar’s truck, after all. If Armando Gonzalez can’t be tied to the theft, then how did they get there? It makes Salazar’s involvement in an organized crime ring, if not convincing, at least plausible.

  Dixant keeps hammering away at Salazar’s so-called, as he puts it, working relationship with Gonzalez. What other items had he helped his friend deliver? Where did the stuff come from? Did he ever see a bill of sale? Did he ever question their legitimacy? He’s a machine gun of interrogation.

  For someone who has never been on the field of a courtroom battle, Salazar holds up well. He stammers and fumbles a bit, but he doesn’t lose his temper or his train of thought, and he doesn’t try to lie his way out of anything. He states that he believes that people are basically good, and he lives his life by that credo.

  “Even you, Mr. Dixant,” he says, after answering a particularly harsh question from the prosecutor.

  “Even me what?” Dixant asks, taken aback.

  “Even you are doing the best you know how,” Salazar answers. His tone of voice is so calm it would be infuriating to me if he were not my client. He must be a true believer—no one can lie this convincingly. “But you are wrong about me.” He smiles at Dixant, almost beatifically. “You are wrong.”

  Because Salazar was on the stand for most of the day, Judge Rosen decides that the rest of my witnesses will testify tomorrow. After a hurried consultation with them, all of whom are willing to come back, I nervously acquiesce. It’s a tribute to their devotion to him that they will return. They have already lost a day’s pay. Now they will have to give up another. But they all promise that they will show up, so we agree to adjourn.

  I spend a few minutes bucking up my client. I assure him that he was great, and so does his rich sponsor. “You did an excellent job,” Amanda tells him. “I was watching the faces of the jurors. They believed you.”

  He smiles shyly. “Thank you.”

  That bugs me, her saying that. She has no expertise in this. Even an experienced courtroom observer knows you can’t tell the verdict from the way a jury reacts. Even if they like you, most of the time they will convict you if the facts dictate that they should. My telling him he did well is part of my job. If, worst-case scenario, he is convicted, she will have raised his hopes too high, and the fall will be more painful. But she is who she is, and no one is going to influence her. Definitely not me.

  The moon is no longer full. No murders have been linked to the Full Moon Killer, so the streets are safe for another thirty days. The scuttlebutt around the courthouse is that if another month passes without a killing, the task force will be shut down.

  If that happens, it will be a bittersweet conclusion for the police, particularly for my new friend Lieutenant Cordova. The cops want the residents of the city to be safe, of course, but they will be left with an emptiness in their gut, because they didn’t bring the case to the needed conclusion: the killer won’t face justice. Detectives exist to solve crimes. When they don’t, they feel hollow, useless. I’ve heard of cops who ate the gun, sometimes years after they retired, because of an unsolved case that stymied them for their entire career.

  I got a late start on my run this evening, but since the window of danger is closed, I’m not worried. My route is a combination of the old and new, along Palisades Park, then through the leafy blocks north of Montana Avenue, up to San Vicente, then back on a zigzag course through various quiet residential streets. As I run I mentally rehearse tomorrow’s program. Now that Roberto has finished testifying, I’ll put on my character witnesses. They are an appealing group, solid citizens the jurors will be able to identify with.

  Back at my house I stretch, shower, throw a beef Stroganoff Lean Cuisine in the microwave, pour myself a glass of Syrah, and talk to Jeremy while my dinner is heating up. Next week’s concert will be the end of the season. After that, the orchestra goes on tour for six weeks, Europe and Asia. I plan to go over and spend a few weeks with my man after I run the marathon. I’ve never been to Europe, Asia, anywhere. Jeremy, in contrast, has circled the globe. I’ve been going over the itinerary, where they’ll be when I’m free. Prague, Vienna, Saint Petersburg, Kyoto, Sydney, among other locations. This is going to be the vacation of a lifetime.

  We’ll get together tomorrow or the day after, as soon as I’m done with the trial. I drink my wine and enjoy the best microwave dinner I’ve ever had.

  I want to win this trial. My client is innocent; he should not go to prison. But I also know there is life outside the walls of the courtroom. I want it. I’m going to have it.

  SIXTEEN

  ALL MY CHARACTER WITNESSES have returned as promised, and each one is a champ. To a man and woman, they have nothing but praise for Salazar. Dixant doesn’t even bother to question most of them. He sits at his table, scowling darkly, making a show of looking at his watch, as if he has a more important date following this one, and doesn’t want to be late. Some of the jurors notice his boorishness, and it seems to annoy them. It reminds me of the televised debate between Bill Clinton and the first Bush, when the older man kept looking at his watch, as if he couldn’t wait for this crap to be over. Some people say that cost him the election. Maybe Dixant’s rude behavior will help me win this contest.

  I don’t call Amanda Burgess as a witness. She doesn’t fit in with the other witnesses, and her appearance might be off-putting to some of these working-class jurors. Dixant would certainly exploit the noblesse oblige angle. I also don’t call Salazar’s wife. She is overwhelmed by the workings of the state’s vast machine, which are Kafkaesque to her. Dixant would rip her apart if I put her on the stand. It’s also been my experience that spouses often do more harm than good. In their desire to help, they exaggerate, overdramatize, or flat-out lie. If they are caught in a lie, an entire case can go down the tubes. And juries view family members more skeptically than they do other witnesses, because the personal stakes are higher. If I had needed her to provide a critical piece of information
that only she could testify to, I would have put her up there. But it wasn’t necessary, so she sits in the first row behind us, rigid with nerves. Amanda, next to her, calms her from time to time with a warm pat on the arm and a sympathetic smile.

  “This concludes my case,” Your Honor, I tell the judge.

  A questioning look crosses her face, as if she’s surprised (and disappointed) I’m not calling Amanda Burgess as a character witness. That passes quickly, and she turns to Dixant. “Any rebuttal?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I have one additional witness.”

  Rosen gives him a sour look. If he is springing a surprise, she’s going to be one unhappy lady. But not as unhappy as me.

  “Is he on your witness list? I’m assuming it’s a man.”

  “It is a man, Your Honor,” he confirms, “and he isn’t on the list.”

  Now she’s even more irritated. “Approach,” she orders us.

  Dixant and I walk to the front of her podium. She turns off her microphone so the jury can’t hear our discussion. Leaning over, she asks him, “Why wasn’t this witness on your list? You know the rules.” She’s angry and she wants him to know it.

  “We just found out about him last night, Your Honor,” he explains. He’s trying to sound contrite. I don’t know about the judge, but he isn’t convincing me, because I know how low he can go. “He got lost in the jail. You know how that is.”

  We all know how that is, which gives his explanation credence. The jail is a city unto itself, except much more uncivilized and brutal. The veneer of order is tissue thin, and the organization can be chaotic. I’ve had clients I couldn’t find for days because the jail genuinely didn’t know where they were located.

  I have a sinking feeling I know where this is headed: a jail-house confession, one of the slimiest tricks in the book. Even when they’re legit, they reek. Too often they’re phony, a contract with the devil between a prisoner looking for a break on a tough sentence and a cop or prosecutor too zealous in wanting a conviction. If that’s what’s going down here, I’m going to be very suspicious because of Dixant’s prior attempt to game the system.

  “Your Honor …” I begin to protest.

  She puts a hand up to silence me. “Go on,” she says to Dixant. She, too, knows how hard it can be to keep track of thousands of transient felons in that vast pit.

  “This witness is critical to getting to the truth of this case,” Dixant continues. “I wouldn’t be asking the court’s indulgence if he wasn’t.”

  Judge Rosen presses her fingers to her temples. I know what is going on in her mind. On one hand, this is a violation of discovery. All witnesses have to be disclosed to the other side, before trial. On the other hand, if this witness knows something that could be critical to the outcome, it would be a miscarriage of justice to deny hearing his testimony. And of course, she has to look out for her political future. If she doesn’t let this new witness testify, and Dixant goes public with what could be damning information, she’ll be out on the street come next election.

  “Your Honor,” I try again, more forcefully.

  She shakes her head at me. “Wait your turn.” To Dixant: “What is the crux of his testimony?”

  “He was with the accused in the jail the night the accused was arrested.”

  I was right. Goddamn it!

  The judge ponders her options for another moment, but it’s for show. She has to allow this witness in. “All right,” she says. “I’ll let him testify. But if I see that this is not completely on the up and up, I’ll stop it and declare a mistrial, and I will recommend that the charges against the defendant be dropped,” she warns Dixant. “Is that a consequence you are willing to accept?”

  That’s harsh; she’s trying to be fair, as much as the circumstances will allow her.

  Dixant doesn’t hesitate. “It is, Your Honor,” he says.

  “And defense counsel will be given ample time to prepare her cross,” she adds.

  “Whatever you decide,” he agrees. He seems awfully smug, which causes me even more worry.

  “Let’s move on, then,” she says, concluding our sidebar.

  I go back to the defense table, and Dixant takes his place at the lawyer’s podium. “Call Alfonso Calderon,” he announces. He nods to Ike, the bailiff, who opens the side door that leads to the small holding cell. A moment later Ike emerges with a man who is dressed in jailhouse orange. The man is cuffed, but not shackled. Both of his arms are tattooed from the wrist on up, and there are tattoos on his neck as well. I’m sure his body is a tableau of body art too. Most are jailhouse renderings, crude handmade ink drawings, but some are wildly colorful, professional work. His face is badly pockmarked, a telltale sign of a meth freak. Everything about him has the look of habitual criminal, a man who will spend more of his life in prison than in the free world.

  The jurors’ reaction to this new addition to the trial is palpable—they are immediately put off. That’s understandable, because this man’s aura is scary. He looks like a predator, a human coyote who doesn’t give a shit about anything except his own self-preservation.

  “State your name for the jury, please,” Dixant instructs his witness.

  “Alfonso Juan Calderon,” the man answers in a voice of understated hostility.

  I look at Salazar. He is staring at the man, but there is no panic in his face, and no recognition. “Do you know this guy?” I whisper to him.

  Salazar shakes his head. “No,” he whispers back. “I have never seen him.”

  I turn to the front as Dixant begins his examination. “Where do you reside presently, Mr. Calderon?”

  “In the main county jail,” Calderon answers, indicating the direction across the street with a flick of his shackled thumbs.

  “For how long?”

  “Four months, give or take, I ain’t sure to the day. They took away my Blackberry.”

  “So you were in the jail on the night of …” Dixant reads off the date Salazar was arrested.

  “Yeah, I was there. They don’t give no weekend furloughs.” Behind his canine smile, his teeth are yellow and rotting.

  “Is there anyone in the courtroom today you met in the jail that night?” Dixant asks.

  “Yeah.” Calderon points to my table. “Him.”

  Everyone looks at us. I turn to my client, whose jaw is slack with surprise. “Uh-uh,” he says under his breath, to himself. “No.”

  “Let the record show that Mr. Calderon was pointing to the accused, Roberto Salazar,” Dixant states.

  I start to stand to object; then I stop. I need to save my ammo for when it really counts.

  Dixant continues. “What were the circumstances you two met under?”

  Calderon fidgets in his seat, as if he’s trying to get comfortable. Or else he’s trying to remember his lines. He says, “The night he was arrested, he was put in with me.”

  “In your cell?”

  Calderon shakes his head like a dog shaking off fleas. “No, man. Fresh fish like him who they don’t expect to keep long don’t get put in individual cells. Jail’s too overcrowded. They bunked him in the cafeteria. Where I was, too. They put up cots there, or sometimes they just roll the mattresses out on the floor.” He scowls, as if thinking about the indignity of not even having a bed to call your own. I wouldn’t like it either.

  Dixant nods, as if in sympathy with this poor guy’s plight. “So you were in the cafeteria when the accused was brought in.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he assigned to a space near yours?”

  “Real near. Any closer and we would’ve been spooning.”

  Next to me, Salazar is in a rage. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him show anger. “That is not true,” he whispers harshly. “This man was not near me. I remember who was. He is lying.”

  I can’t answer, because I have to listen to my opponent, who might be mashing my case into pudding, if he’s believable (or truthful). “Later,” I whisper back. “We’ll discuss this later.
Keep quiet now,” I hush him, rudely. I’m on edge, and my temper is fraying.

  “Did you and the accused talk?” Dixant continues.

  “Oh, yeah.” The handcuffed man gives his shoulders a shrug, as if working out the kinks. He looks at the jurors, who are looking back at him in morbid fascination, the way you look at an exotic animal in a zoo. One that’s safely behind bars, which is where they keep people like this. “We had a most pleasant conversation.”

  “What did you talk about?” Dixant prompts.

  “Everything,” the prisoner replies airily. “The war in Iraq. I got some homeboys over there, it’s scary shit, man. Worse than where I’m at. At least they ain’t shooting at me. Not yet, anyway. So what else. The usual shit. Sports. Pussy. What guys talk about when the ladies aren’t present.”

  When he hears the word “pussy,” Salazar turns beet red. I glance behind him to look at his wife, who is staring straight ahead. Her face is frozen. She has never heard her husband described like this. It must be mortifying, especially since this is all happening in public.

  I can feel Salazar’s tension building. “Don’t let him rile you up—that’s what they want,” I whisper in warning.

  Judge Rosen raps her gavel sharply. “Please instruct your witness to refrain from profanity,” she admonishes Dixant.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” he answers with proper meekness. “You understand?” he puts to Calderon.

  The prisoner nods. “Clean up my act. I’m down with that.” He turns to Rosen. “Sorry, Judge. Don’t get to spend much time with decent people. I’ll be good, don’t worry.”

  He smiles ingratiatingly at her. She shakes her head in repugnance and looks away. “Keep it going,” she says to Dixant.

  “What else did you talk about with the accused?” Dixant asks.

  “What he did.”

  “The crime he committed?”

  “Yeah, the crime.”

  “What did he say? As closely to the actual words as you can remember.”