In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  “We’re not going to ask for a continuance,” Joe tells the judge. “Mrs. Salazar is out of danger, and our client wants to move forward.”

  Suzuki shrugs. “Fine with me.” He raises a cautionary finger. “If I find out this information gets out any more than it has, I will impose strong sanctions on whoever does it.” He directs his remarks at Loomis. “That includes the jail personnel. I’m holding you responsible for them. I know they already told the prisoner, which was against the rules. I’ll let that pass, this one time. But not twice. Understood?”

  It is rare for a judge to chastise a lawyer for an infraction he didn’t directly commit. Suzuki wants to make sure this case stays buttoned-up tight. Not only because he’s a stickler for protocol, but because he doesn’t want to give us grounds for appeal. A reversal from a higher court because the trial judge screwed up is like a lash across the back—it leaves permanent scars. Suzuki wants to sail into his retirement unblemished.

  “Understood, Your Honor,” Loomis says. His muted tone of voice signifies that he means it.

  Suzuki shrugs into his robes. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  So much has happened to me in the past year that Salazar’s first trial seems as if it took place in another life, until the cop who arrested him that night takes the stand, and then it all comes back in a flash. As he swears to tell the truth, he is staring daggers at me, as if to say, you got me last time, bitch, now it’s my turn for payback. I return his glare with a Mona Lisa smile.

  A third member of the prosecution team, Meg Rawlings, conducts the examination. I guess they figured that my performance has been so stellar they need to balance the equation with a female from their side. Meg is not pregnant, so I’ve got a leg up on her on that score. However, she is a very good lawyer. We’ve done trials together, and I like going up against her, she doesn’t take cheap shots, the way her compatriot Dixant did in that earlier trial.

  “Officer Talbert,” she says, “tell us what happened the night of April 13, 2006.”

  I had forgotten his name. Michael Talbert. A name I had hoped not to hear again.

  Talbert wriggles around in the witness chair. He’s a beefy guy—getting his ass into a comfortable position takes a bit of shifting. He flicks open his notebook, runs a pudgy finger down the page, reads to himself (his lips move), then shuts the book and looks up.

  “I was on night patrol in the Brentwood-Westwood section of Los Angeles. There had been a rash of burglaries, so the force beefed up its presence there to show the colors and to be nearby in case we got a call. Around three in the morning I was driving down Sepulveda, north of Sunset, when I saw a vehicle that aroused my suspicions.”

  “What was it about this vehicle that caused you to be suspicious, Officer Talbert?” Meg asks. “What kind of vehicle was it?”

  Another glance at his notes. “A GMC cube truck. Small.” He pauses, then remembers the other half of the question. “It ran a stop sign. Also, one of its tail-lights was flickering.”

  “Did you pull it over?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And you asked the driver for identification.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the name of the driver of the truck you stopped on Sepulveda Boulevard in the area of Los Angeles between Westwood and Brentwood at three o’clock in the morning of April thirteenth?”

  Talbert doesn’t have to refer to his notes. “Roberto Salazar.” He points at us. “The man sitting at the defense table, wearing the blue blazer.”

  Joe is in a brown suit, and I’m the wrong sex, so there is no doubt as to whom Talbert is pointing at. Everyone looks where Talbert is pointing. I feel as if a klieg light is shining on us, the kind they use at Hollywood premieres and used-car dealership openings.

  “You are certain the driver and owner of the truck you stopped was Mr. Salazar, and you are also certain of the time and location?” Meg rephrases for him.

  “Absolutely. The time and place are in the records, and I testified …”

  Joe is on his feet as if he has a rocket up his ass. “Objection!” he thunders.

  Suzuki’s gavel comes down like a sledgehammer. “Sustained.” He glares at Meg, then past her to Loomis. Turning to the bailiff, he orders him: “Remove the jury.”

  The jurors, who seem confused, are ushered out. When they are gone, Suzuki looks down from his perch. “We will take a short recess,” he declaims in a loud, angry voice. To both teams of lawyers: “In my chambers. The witness will remained seated where he is.”

  “I swear that was not our intention,” Meg pleads before Suzuki. “We specifically told him he couldn’t do that.” She looks to Loomis for support, who nods. He steps forward, to take whatever brunt of criticism the judge will level at them, a hallmark of a good leader. “The witness did that on his own, I swear it,” he says, turning to Joe and me.

  “We believe you,” Joe says with easy, almost insouciant equanimity. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

  “So you’re all right to proceed with this witness?” Suzuki asks. He sounds surprised. Loomis looks surprised, too.

  “Yes, we’re fine with him.” To Loomis: “How much longer are you going to have this witness on the stand?”

  “We’re done with him,” Loomis answers. Talbert is radioactive to them now. “Two minutes to recap, tops.”

  “Good by me,” Joe says. “Jessica?”

  “Good by me,” I parrot. I’m anxious to get my hands on Officer Michael Talbert, the sooner the better.

  I’m as chipper as a chipmunk with a cheek full of acorns. “Officer Talbert. Long time no see.”

  I am standing at the podium in my new, unstylish but comfortable shoes. I had forgotten how piglike his eyes are, two little red beads in a sea of flesh. His entire face is swinish. If ever a cop deserved to be called a pig, it would be Officer Michael Talbert, LAPD.

  “Counselor,” he replies guardedly.

  “Do you recall the last time we met face-to-face?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer; instead, he looks over at the prosecution table, as if he wants instructions from them. Loomis, a worried and puzzled look on his face, gets to his feet.

  “Your Honor. May we approach?”

  Suzuki nods. Loomis and Meg Rawlings come out from behind their table and walk to the side of the judge’s bench that is opposite the jury box. I follow them; Joe joins me.

  “Your Honor, you stipulated that Mr. Salazar’s previous arrest and trial could not be introduced into these proceedings,” Loomis complains. “We agreed to that. So why is the defense bringing it up? That is clearly a violation of the agreement.”

  Joe steps forward with a devilish look on his mug. It’s an act of will that he isn’t literally licking his chops.

  “The prosecution agreed, Your Honor. Not the defense. Telling the jury that our client had a previous arrest record would be prejudicial against us, we all agree about that. But no one, including you, Your Honor, ever said the defense couldn’t introduce it. Now we have to, because the jury is going to figure it out regardless of what officer Talbert didn’t say. He opened the door, and now we’re walking through it. We have every legal right to do so,” he adds. His tone is calm and even, but his attitude is aggressive.

  Suzuki looks at Loomis. “This is highly unusual, but I’m going to have to rule for the defense,” he tells the senior deputy D.A. “Officer Talbert gave them the opening to bring up that arrest and trial. They’re right—the jury will figure it out. So I’m allowing Ms. Thompson to continue her line of questioning.”

  Loomis scowls, but he doesn’t protest. He could still get benefits from this. Salazar was arrested for a serious crime less than a year ago, in the exact place and time where a Full Moon victim was found. He’s more upset about being trumped.

  I take up my position at the podium again. “Would you repeat my last question?” I ask the court reporter.

  She reads it back. “Do you recall the last time we met face to face?”


  Talbert looks grim. He doesn’t know where this is going, but he doesn’t like the prospects, whatever they are. “Yes. I recall it.”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “I was testifying in a trial.”

  “Whom were you testifying against, Officer?”

  Talbert points to Salazar. “Him.”

  “Let the record show that Officer Talbert identified Roberto Salazar as the person he was testifying about in a previous case in which I was the defense attorney.” I slide my feet out of one shoe, then the other. Standing still is the hardest thing I’m going through. But this won’t take long, and the payoff will be worth it.

  “Did that testimony have something to do with your having stopped Mr. Salazar’s truck on the night you mentioned?”

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “After you stopped Mr. Salazar, did you search his truck?”

  “Yes,” in a tone like a growl.

  “And what did you find?”

  “A load of television sets.”

  “Television sets,” I repeat. “Where did they come from? Did Mr. Salazar tell you?”

  “He said he was taking them to a warehouse in the valley, for a friend.”

  “Did you check that out? Was that a legitimate delivery?”

  Talbert shakes his head emphatically. “His story was bogus. The television sets had been stolen from a container car in San Pedro.”

  “And when you found that out, did you arrest him?”

  He spits out his answer. “Yes.”

  The jury is staring at us with fascination, their heads rotating back and forth as if they’re watching a tennis match.

  “And Mr. Salazar went to trial, which was when you saw me, is that correct? I was Mr. Salazar’s lawyer, and I cross-examined you.”

  “That’s right.”

  I walk halfway to the jury box. “Would you please tell the court, Officer Talbert, what the verdict of that trial was?”

  Talbert looks as if he’s been constipated for a week. “Not guilty.”

  “Not guilty,” I repeat, looking the jurors in the face as I speak. “He was arrested for a crime, but he was not guilty of that crime. Is that correct?”

  “The jury found him not guilty,” he says petulantly.

  “They did,” I agree. “And fast. Within a couple of hours. They barely had time to fill out their ballots.” I turn back to Talbert. “Because, to use your word, they felt his arrest was bogus.”

  He starts to come back at me, but Loomis catches his eye. Keep your trap shut. You can almost see the silent warning hanging over Loomis’s head in big, red, neon letters.

  “Let’s go back to the night you arrested Mr. Salazar,” I carry on. “After you found out the television sets had been stolen, you arrested Mr. Salazar on the spot and brought him to jail, is that correct?”

  He’s deflated now. “Yes.”

  “What happened to his truck, and the contents of it?”

  “It was towed to a police impound lot. The television sets were removed, to be used as evidence.”

  “Who searched it?” I ask.

  “Initially, I did,” he says. “Then the impound people did.”

  “Did you do a thorough job?”

  “As best I could, under the circumstances.”

  “And the impound people, later. Did they?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re good at that, aren’t they?

  “Very good.”

  “When you searched Mr. Salazar’s truck, and later on, when the detectives at the impound yard searched it, did they look for anything else that should not have been there? Guns, drugs, anything else that might have been used to further incriminate Mr. Salazar?”

  Of course they would have looked for that kind of stuff. They would have gone over that truck with a fine-tooth comb. If they had come up with anything, especially drugs, that would have really nailed Salazar’s ass to the wall.

  “No,” Talbert admits. “They didn’t find anything like that.”

  I leave the podium and walk to the witness box. I rarely do that, I like to keep my distance. But sometimes, proximity is useful. When I am just out of what I hope is spitting range, I ask, “Did you or anyone else find a pair of women’s underpants in that truck?”

  I don’t have to look behind to know that Loomis is cringing. It’s all there, in Talbert’s face.

  “No,” he answers. “We did not.”

  “Not when you arrested him, and not later. In fact, you never found a pair of women’s panties in Mr. Salazar’s truck, did you?”

  He looks me in the eye and takes his medicine like a man. “No. We never found any women’s underpants in that truck.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AGAINST MY BETTER JUDGMENT, I go see Mrs. Salazar in the hospital after court is adjourned for the day. Somebody has to report back to Salazar about his wife’s condition, and I’m the only candidate except for Amanda, who is making herself scarce. If word gets out, there could be nosy tabloid or television reporters lurking about, fishing for something juicy to titillate their customers, and she can’t handle that kind of publicity. But the place is devoid of the press, fortunately. It’s enough that I have to run that gauntlet every day at the courthouse. To see their jackal-like faces anywhere else would cause me to blow a gasket, which I can’t let happen. I have to stay calm. The baby doesn’t like turbulence, it’s a great governor for my emotions.

  It takes me a while to find Salazar’s wife; County-USC is an enormous facility. Anyone who isn’t familiar with its layout would be well advised to leave a trail of bread crumbs to find the way out.

  I finally locate her. She has been moved from an intensive care unit to a semiprivate room. She looks completely desiccated, as if the liquid has been drained from her body, and all that is left is dry flesh and skeleton. I’ve seen mummies in museums who looked healthier. The other bed is occupied by an old lady who is out of it; tubes and hoses are sprouting from every orifice of her body.

  A couple of Mrs. Salazar’s friends are with her; two of the women who came to Salazar’s first trial. When Mrs. Salazar sees me, she cringes. “Oh, Mrs. Thompson, I am so sorry!”

  It’s Ms., but I don’t correct her. “Sorry for what?”

  “For causing all this trouble,” she keens. “For everyone.” Her voice is raspy and pinched.

  Her friends sit on either side of her, holding her hands. They make clucking sounds, that are meant to be soothing and supportive. One of them puts a small ice cube in her mouth. She sucks on it.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  She waggles her head, as if to say, Not bad. One of her friends answers for her, “She is tired, but she is much better now.”

  “Who is watching your children?”

  “Her sister,” the go-between tells me. Lowering her voice, she confides, “They do not know. They think she had a bad stomachache.”

  Mrs. Salazar pushes herself up a little on her elbows. That small effort seems to take all her energy. She asks me, in a low, hoarse voice, “How is Roberto?”

  I’m not going to baby her. Her husband is in a shitload of trouble, and this compounded it. “Not too good. He’s freaked out that he can’t come see you.” I sit down on the edge of the bed. “He counts on your support,” I tell her. “You need to get better fast, and start coming to court again.”

  She nods; then she starts to cry. “I have no more strength for that. It is all too terrible.”

  “It is terrible,” I agree, “but you have to get it together to be there for Roberto. However you manage to do it, but you must do it.”

  Her visitors, uncomfortable with hearing me haranguing her, announce that they are going to take a break, but will be back soon. After they leave, I scoot closer to her.

  “Why did you do this?” I question her. “You must have a reason, besides feeling overwhelmed.”

  She turns her face away and stares at the wall. After holding her tongue for a moment, she says, still no
t looking at me, “I do not believe him anymore.”

  That sends a tremor down my spine. “What do you mean?”

  She turns back to me. Her mouth is quivering. “He goes out at night sometimes. He thinks I am asleep, but I am not.”

  Shit. I didn’t need to hear this. But now that she’s broached the subject, I have to hear the rest of it. “How many times has he done that, that you know about?”

  She shrugs her bony shoulders. “Five, six, maybe. I do not remember.”

  “Do you remember when?” I take the plunge. “During the full moon?”

  “I am not sure. Maybe.” She starts to shiver with agitation. “He comes back while it is still dark out and gets into bed. He pretends he was there all night, but I know he was not.”

  Oy. “Did you ever say anything to him about it? Ask him where he was?”

  Her eyes widen. “No, no! I would never do that.”

  Because you didn’t want to know where he was—getting it on with some floozy. A natural reaction. Since Jeremy dropped his bomb on me, I’ve had searing fits of jealousy, so I know the emotion.

  I have to bring that fear into the light. Once you expose them you’re on the road to recovery. “You thought he was seeing someone.”

  She bobs her head. The tears start flowing again.

  Men of God are as human as anyone else, so of course that’s what she would think—what any woman would think. “Do you still believe that’s the reason?”

  She chokes down her sobs. “I do not know what to think anymore. I don’t know if he …” She can’t finish the thought. She doesn’t have to. If he really is the killer. “I have lost faith in him,” she tells me. “Without him, what do I have to live for?”

  Oh, you poor, wretched woman whose world has been turned so upside-down. “Your children.”

  Her sigh sounds like a death rattle. “I know. What I did was wrong. Stupido. I was not thinking.”

  Social worker is not part of my job description, but there are times you have to enlarge your portfolio. “You need to get out of here, go home, and be with them.” I take my card out of my purse, scribble my cell phone number on it, and hand it to her. “Call me tomorrow. I’ll put you in touch with someone you can talk to about this. Free of charge,” I add. She won’t go if she has to pay. She might not go anyway, but I’ll push her; she needs professional help. “Someone who speaks Spanish, if you would prefer that.”