In My Dark Dreams
Page 17
He has made his case. Now he can let the air out of the balloon. “The facts in this case speak loud and clear. They say, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the accused, Roberto Salazar, transported stolen goods. That is a crime. I believe in our system of laws, and I know you do, too. Make your decision with your minds, not your hearts. And when you do, the only verdict you can arrive at under the laws of the state of California will be that the accused is guilty.”
EIGHTEEN
USUALLY, THE LONGER A jury is out, the better it is for the defense, and if it brings in a fast verdict, the tendency is they have found the defendant guilty. There are plenty of exceptions, of course: O.J.’s jury came back fast and Scooter Libby’s dragged their heels, but the theory is true more often than not. I’m always happy when a jury plays it slow. In a case like this, where there is only one count and the choices aren’t complex, if they go more than two or three days, it generally means they are deadlocked, and a hung jury has to be declared. I’ll settle for that. Given the ill will between the D.A.’s office and ours because of Dixant’s crude chicanery, I doubt the state would try this case again. They’d lick their wounds, and move on.
Judge Rosen charged the jury at the end of the day yesterday and sent them home. They were back at nine this morning to begin deliberating. It’s noon now; they’ll break for lunch soon, then they’ll return for the rest of the afternoon. Dixant and I, as well as Roberto Salazar, are on notice. I’m in my office, catching up on work that has piled up while I was in trial. I made sure Roberto understood that when the jury reached its decision and we are recalled to the courtroom, he should be on time, and presentable. He’s waiting at home; he can be here in less than an hour.
I spent last night rehashing the trial, fretting over what I could have done differently. I probably should have had Salazar testify that he had been a delivery boy for Gonzalez before, and had been paid for his labors. And I should have leaned harder on Calderon, Dixant’s jailhouse snitch, citing specific cases of previous witnesses like him who had been discredited and whose testimony had not only been thrown out, but had also caused mistrials or outright dismissals. I also could have asked for a longer adjournment to scrounge up an expert (the best ones are former cops and prosecutors) who would have had experience in eviscerating jail-house informants with more authority than I had. I thought that exposing the Dixant-Calderon quid pro quo would be enough, but it may not have been. His bullshit was obvious to me, and would have been to any trial lawyer or court observer, but a layman serving on a jury might not have seen what a lying piece of shit he was. I’ll know when the jury brings back its verdict.
I’m sure there are other things I could have done better as well. But the fact, as Dixant rammed down the jury’s throat, was that Salazar was caught with those stolen television sets, and the only witness who could get him off was never found.
I did my best, and given the circumstances, I put up a good defense. That’s all you can do: give it your best shot. You have to live with that and accept it, or you’ll eat your guts out.
No matter how good a case I put on at trial, I’m always in a worried state of mind during deliberations. If the prosecution loses, it’s a bad mark on their record. If a defense lawyer loses, his client loses his freedom. Most of the time, my side loses; but even if we expect it, it’s a shitty feeling. If I lose this one, I’ll feel worse than usual, because I do believe, in my heart, that the only crime Roberto Salazar was guilty of was gullibility.
High noon. I didn’t pack a lunch today, so I’ll grab a salad someplace close by and bring it back up here. I’m swamped; I’ll eat while I work.
My phone rings. Judge Rosen’s clerk is on the other end of the line. The jury has reached a verdict, she informs me. We’re to be in the courtroom at one-thirty sharp.
I hang up in a daze. Immediately, my stomach starts churning.
I didn’t expect this, not this soon. They’ve been deliberating less than three hours. This is way too fast.
I dial Salazar’s phone number and force myself to project confidence as I give him the news. “Leave right now,” I adjure him, “in case there’s heavy traffic.”
He doesn’t sound worried; he doesn’t know about my quick-jury rule. “This is good, isn’t it?” he asks. His tone is genuinely cheerful. “We convinced them. You convinced them,” he corrects himself. The man is self-effacing to a fault.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I caution him. “I’ll meet you outside the courtroom. Drive carefully.”
I replace the receiver in its cradle and slump back in my chair. Forget lunch now—I wouldn’t be able to keep anything down. Blindly, I pick up a random case file from the pile and try to force myself to read it. This is going to be an interminable ninety minutes.
The jurors shuffle into the courtroom and take their assigned chairs in the box. They all avoid eye contact with Salazar and me. My heart drops. They went with their minds, not their hearts. They did their duty, as the law required. I can’t fault that, but I am dismayed about it.
I steal a glance over at Dixant. He’s trying to mold his face into a neutral mask, but he can’t hide the gloating expression that’s fighting to burst out. I want to win this case for my client, but I also want to kick that smug bastard’s ass. I have a sinking feeling I’m not going to do either.
Next to me, Salazar seems calm in his skin. I wonder what he’s been doing while we have been waiting. Praying, maybe? Is a personal triumph the sort of thing a religious person prays for? I suppose a saint would pray that the jury will not feel remorse with their decision, especially if it goes against him. Since I’m no saint, I don’t know. I wouldn’t feel altruistic, that’s for sure. More like the opposite. I hope this man sitting here beside me isn’t such a nice guy that he would turn the other cheek all the time. And yet, if I compare my life to his in terms of satisfaction, ease with yourself, giving and getting love, he’s way ahead of me. A sobering thought.
Sitting in the row behind us, Salazar’s wife is his emotional opposite. Her nerve ends are so raw it’s as if she’s stuck her finger into a light socket. And next to her, the ever-present rock of ages, Amanda Burgess. Does this woman have a life? I’m glad she’s here to keep Mrs. Salazar from completely falling apart, but isn’t there a limit to what I can only think of as noblesse oblige?
She smiles at me as our eyes meet. Good luck, she mouths silently. I give her a tepid nod of thanks in return. I can’t help myself, but I still feel as if I’m auditioning for her.
Judge Rosen turns her attention to the jury box. She asks the dreaded question: “Has the jury reached a decision?”
The foreperson, a middle-aged elementary school teacher, stands up. “We have, Your Honor.” Her voice is a low contralto, heavy and dusky. A Sunday church-choir voice.
She hands the verdict sheet to the clerk, who carries it over to Rosen. The judge unfolds and reads it. Her expression doesn’t give anything away. She hands the paper to the clerk, who conveys it back to the foreperson. “The defendant will rise,” she says.
I put a hand on Salazar’s elbow to prompt him to stand up. I stand next to him. Across the aisle, Dixant and his assistant also get up. It’s an act of respect, not for the people present, but for the system. When we are all in place, Judge Rosen asks, “What is your verdict?”
My muscles tighten. I’m glad I remembered to go to the bathroom before coming in here. I resist the urge to take Salazar’s hand.
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
There is a moment of silence while the verdict sinks in—then I feel a rush of relief wash over me, as if I had bobbed to the surface of the ocean after being caught in a fierce undertow. I break into a wide, happy smile as I turn to Salazar, who is also smiling, but not as effusively, more as if he’s just glad it’s over, and he can get on with his life. Behind us, his wife rushes forward and hugs him over the railing. Amanda Burgess, standing in place, gives me her own smile, one of satisfaction and approval.
My head whips around. Jesus, this guy really is a jerk. But it’s his right to ask. He’s pissed and he isn’t taking any pains to conceal it. His face is livid red, like a ripe beet. If you gave his temples a good squeeze, his brains might pop out of his ears, he’s so uptight.
Judge Rosen lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. It’s over, she wants to dismiss the jurors and lay this to rest. “Mr. Dixant …” She’s giving him a moment to reconsider, to abate his stubbornness for once.
He doesn’t budge. “Poll the jury, Your Honor,” he repeats his request.
“If you insist,” she answers tartly. He’ll pay for this down the line, when he comes up against her again. She looks at the jurors. “I’m going to ask each of you to say your verdict out loud, individually,” she explains. She looks at the nearest one. “Juror number one.”
“Not guilty.”
“Juror number two.”
“Not guilty.”
Each juror in turn is asked, and each gives the same not-guilty response. Dixant glares at them as they speak, as if to dare them to say the words out loud. Some of the jurors make their pronouncement with authority, but others are less forthright. A few sound downright reluctant, casting their looks to the floor. But they all say the two words their foreperson had pronounced.
As soon as juror number twelve utters her response, Rosen brings her gavel down, more forcefully than necessary. “The defendant is free to go,” she says, staring ice cubes at Dixant. She thanks the jurors for their diligence and effort, and with a flourish of robe thrown over shoulder, she calls out as she stands to leave: “Court is adjourned.”
We mill around for a few minutes—Salazar, his wife, Amanda Burgess, and I. His wife is in tears; she expected the worst. He comforts her with hugs and caresses. Amanda stands to the side, like a proud parent at a wedding or confirmation. She sidles over to me.
“Congratulations,” she tells me. “You must feel good.”
“Of course. And relieved,” I admit.
She nods in understanding. “Yes. I must admit, when Mr. Dixant finished giving his summation yesterday, I was nervous. His argument was more persuasive than I would have expected.”
“The jury believed Roberto,” I say to her. “They saw his decency.”
“Virtue does have its own reward, sometimes,” she answers with a wry smile. She puts a friendly hand on my forearm. Her touch is feather light—she could hold a bird in her hands without harming it. “Roberto will thank you, of course, but I want to thank you too. If there is ever anything—”
I stop her, nicely. “I should thank you,” I say. “Your support made a real difference.”
“This was important to me,” she says. “I’ll let you go, but there is one thing I want to say. Please take this in the spirit in which it is given, which is with appreciation and generosity.”
I freeze inside. A phrase like that is usually a prelude to a slap in the face.
“I know you love your work here, and thank God for that. I don’t know if another lawyer would have gotten Roberto off. The facts were against him, but your skill and passion carried the day. Watching you, I really came to appreciate how talented you are, Jessica.” She hesitates for the briefest of moments.
I wait for the “however,” but she surprises me. “If you ever decide to go into the private sector, I would like to help you. I’m well connected, as you know. I have many friends in big law firms in this city. Any of whom would be happy to have you join their firms.” Her hand touches mine. “You would make a fortune. And you would be associating with the top echelons of your profession.”
As opposed to grubbing in the dirt with civil servants is the unstated but clear implication. Part of me is annoyed that she would take such an attitude—what I do with my life is none of her damn business. But another part of me can’t help but be flattered. The air Amanda Burgess breathes is rarified. She’s offering me a chance to climb up on the mountaintop with her.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” One more hand on mine. “Stay in touch, please. And allow me to do the same.”
Roberto Salazar and I have our final good-byes. “I usually tell my clients to stay out of trouble,” I say to him, “but with you, I don’t have to. I know it will be hard, because your inclination is always to be helpful, but the next time someone calls you in the middle of the night and asks for a favor, turn him down.”
He smiles back at me. “That will depend on who calls,” he chides me sweetly. “And what the favor is.”
I watch as he and his wife leave the courtroom, arm in arm. Lovebirds, they broadcast it to the world. It must be wonderful to be in such a soulful relationship.
“The system doesn’t always work.”
I look over my shoulder. Wayne Dixant is behind me, hovering like a turkey vulture. I don’t reply to his sour grapes. I could be magnanimous, throw him a bone of consolation, but he fucked with me too much for any post-trial civility.
“You won, that’s all that counts, right?” he says bitterly, with nary a grace note of conciliation. This guy is the sorest loser I’ve ever gone up against. “But we both know the truth.”
He spins on his heel and marches out. Loser.
I wait a few minutes until I presume the coast is clear; I don’t want to have to share a corridor or elevator with Dixant. But as I leave the courtroom, a couple of the jurors, both women, approach me. It’s obvious they have been waiting to talk to me, which is fine with me. I like to get jurors’ reactions, to find out what worked, what didn’t, and why.
Although they smile at me, they are clearly uncomfortable. “Mr. Salazar is a good, decent man,” one of them says by way of initiating our conversation. “You presented those qualities of his very well.”
“Thank you.” I accept their encomium with good cheer. “I agree—he is a good man. And thank you for the compliment.”
“You’re welcome.” They look around nervously, as if afraid someone (like Wayne Dixant) might be eavesdropping. The speaker leans in closer. “We had to find him not guilty,” she confides to me in a low hush, “even though he was.”
My body jerks involuntarily. “Excuse me?”
“The judge instructed us to reach our verdict based on the facts, not feelings or emotions,” she says, as if she has to remind me of what I know by heart, having heard it at every single trial I’ve been in or witnessed. Which Judge Rosen did, in her instructions to them. It’s what judges always tell juries: Your job is to decide the facts of a case, not to cloud it with your own moral judgments. (An instruction that often goes in one ear and out the other, because juries dance to their own music.) “But we couldn’t, because if we did, we would have had to find him guilty, and send him to prison.” she says. “Nobody wanted to do that.”
“Hmm,” I vamp. I want her to keep explaining, specifically.
She does, because on behalf of all of them, she needs to explain their motive for subverting the rules. “Anybody can make a mistake. And it wasn’t like he was selling drugs, or pulled a gun on someone. He got a little greedy. We all do. Him less than most, but still …” Her voice trails off, then starts up again. “Sending that man to jail wouldn’t have done anyone any good,” she tells me with staunch conviction.
“It was my idea,” the second lady horns in. “Everybody agreed, right off the bat.”
The first lady gives her a mild look of pique, then finishes what she wanted to say. “He deserved a second chance. He won’t do that again, we’re sure of it.”
She looks around the hallway again, then leans in conspiratorially. “And we didn’t want to disappoint you. You’re so nice.” Her face wrinkles in disgust. “Not like that D
ixant man. He is foul. He had a good case, but he needs a personality transplant.”
I fight back a laugh; they might take it the wrong way. After all the preparation and trial, the whole ball of wax came down to who was likable and who wasn’t. I don’t always win those contests, because I can be prickly, but this time Salazar and I were the good guys and Dixant was the heavy, a role he was born to play. Which proves, once again, that appearances can be more important than truth.
I usually don’t like subjective qualities like character to win out over objective, verifiable truths, because to do so is a perversion of justice, and I believe in justice. But in this special situation I take comfort in knowing that character does matter, and that truth can sometimes be greater than a collection of dry and heartless facts.
NINETEEN
IN LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT hours I will run my marathon. It’s in San Diego. I’ll drive down tomorrow, Saturday afternoon, check into my hotel, go to the prerace dinner, where I’ll carboload like crazy, and try to get some sleep, although I’m sure I’ll be too restless to get much. I’ve been antsy about this for weeks; the anticipation is like an itch that can’t be scratched. It’s one of those experiences, so I’ve been told, that you can’t really understand until you do it. Like giving birth, my other major goal for the near future. Not that I’m equating the two, but both are a leap of faith into the unknown. You don’t know how you’ll handle these challenges until you’re actually doing them.
The only downer is that Jeremy won’t be waiting for me at the finish line with a cold drink and a hug. The orchestra left on its tour three weeks ago. Last night they performed in Krakow, Poland. The next few days they are in the Baltic countries, then Finland. Salonen is Finnish, so they’ll have a rousing reception in Helsinki. That would be a concert I’d love to make, but our schedules didn’t permit it. After that they’re going to Moscow, Saint Petersburg, then back into the heart of Europe. I’m flying into Prague a week from today. I can’t wait.