The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  Molia approached the bumper of a minivan, veered left into the oncoming lane, but had to brake and return when a car crested a hill in the opposite direction. Though his stomach was in his throat, Sloane wasn’t about to tell Molia to slow down. He had a bad feeling, and for reasons that went beyond the obvious. Something about the tone of the store owner’s voice when he referred to “Judge Earl” had set off bells and whistles.

  A short blast of a police siren drew both their attention. Sloane turned to see flashing lights atop a blue and gray Mustang.

  “Damn! Where the hell was he hiding?”

  “Didn’t see him,” Sloane said.

  Molia drove onto a rare patch of dirt and gravel. “I’ll handle this.” He pulled out the card that identified him as a West Virginia police detective from his wallet and pushed open the door. The amplified voice greeted him instantly.

  “Return to your vehicle. Now.”

  Molia held up his identification. He had not brought his badge or his gun. He got one step farther.

  “Sir, I repeat. Return to your vehicle now.”

  Molia slid back in, swearing under his breath. “It’s always the young ones who want to act like the bull screw moose.”

  When the officer did not immediately approach, Sloane looked back again. “What’s he waiting for?”

  “He’s probably calling in the license plate to find out if there are any outstanding warrants. Some of these guys can’t think outside the box to save their ass.”

  The digital clock on the dash changed to 8:10. Sloane looked back again and this time the driver’s door of the patrol car pushed open and the officer stepped out, pausing to fasten a Smokey the Bear hat on the crown of his head. He looked young, but then again it was difficult to tell with the hat and dark reflector sunglasses. He hitched up his utility belt as he made his way alongside the car, stopping a foot back from the lowered window.

  “License and registration, please.”

  Molia handed him his police identification. “I’m a West Virginia police detective.”

  The officer considered it. “You’re a long way from home, Detective Molia.”

  “Yes and no. I was born in Oakland. We’re up here to do a little backpacking but our sons got in some trouble last night. We’re headed over to Winchester to find out what’s going on.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Not sure, exactly,” Molia said.

  “They the two boys who broke into the general store in Truluck?”

  “Listen, I know I was driving fast—”

  “Reckless is more like it,” the officer said. “You could have killed somebody, passing that close to a blind turn back there.”

  “I apologize. I’m worried about my son is all. I’ll be more careful.” Molia reached for his identification, but the officer did not hand it back. “Can we go?” he asked.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “To get our sons.”

  “I suppose so. Right after you hand me your license and registration.”

  When the officer said nothing further Molia asked, “Are you kidding?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Molia started to push open the car door. The officer shoved it closed. “I told you to stay in your vehicle.”

  Molia looked at Sloane before looking back to the window. “What type of treatment is this for a fellow law enforcement officer?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you on duty, Detective Molia?”

  Molia didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know how they do things in West Virginia, but here in Winchester County we have laws that all citizens are obligated to keep, and that includes driving on the right side of the road.”

  “Do you have a supervisor, Officer”—Molia paused, reading the man’s name tag—“Wade?”

  The officer stepped closer to the door, bending so that the edge of his hat made contact with the top of the door. “I sure do.”

  “What’s his name?” Molia asked.

  “Wade. Carl Wade. You’re looking at him.”

  WINCHESTER COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Judge Boykin folded his hands on the desk and leaned over them. “Do you not feel well, son?”

  T.J. looked up. “No, sir.”

  “Well I can certainly understand why. The report here says you boys did a little drinking last night.”

  “Yes, sir,” T.J. said.

  “Would you prefer to sit down?”

  T.J. nodded.

  “Well, then, go ahead.”

  T.J. sat; Jake remained standing. Something felt wrong to him. The judge’s attitude did not seem normal.

  “What about you?” Boykin asked. “You feel sick too?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  Boykin stared. When Jake said nothing further the judge said, “You’re okay… what?”

  “I’m okay. I don’t need to sit.”

  Boykin smiled, pushed back his chair, and stood. Jake guessed the judge was at least six feet six. “You see this robe I’m wearing, son?”

  “Yes, I see it.”

  Boykin’s lips disappeared in his beard. “Now I understand that your friend there, I’m assuming that’s Mr. Molia,” he said, mispronouncing it as “Mole-ee-a” instead of “Mol-ya.” “Am I right?”

  Jake nodded.

  “I’m assuming that maybe Mr. Molia doesn’t understand court procedure, but the file I have in front of me indicates you are all too familiar with it, Mr. Carter.” Boykin let the ticking of the grandfather clock fill a brief silence. “So you should know that you need to address me as ‘Your Honor.’”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jake said.

  “Let’s try it again to be sure. You’re okay, what?”

  “I’m okay, I don’t need to sit, Your Honor,” Jake said.

  “Much better.” Boykin sat. “Now, Mr. Molia, why don’t you explain to me what you boys are doing in Truluck, other than breaking into Mr. Willingham’s general store and doing a little underage drinking?”

  “We’re going hiking, and backpacking,” T.J. said, his voice croaking.

  “This is the time of year for it.” Boykin nodded. “A little fishing, too?”

  T.J. nodded. “Yes. Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good man,” Boykin said. “When were you planning to leave?”

  “This morning,” T.J. said. He wiped a hand beneath his nose.

  Boykin looked over at the grandfather clock. “You’re going to get a late start, I’m afraid.” He flipped through the pages in front of him.

  Jake started to speak. “Your Honor, we’d like—”

  Boykin raised one of his meaty hands but did not look up, reading. The ticking clock continued to fill the void. Boykin lowered the hand, one eyebrow arched. “What were you about to say, son?”

  “We’d like to call our fathers.”

  Boykin looked to the officer who had brought them in. “They had the opportunity last night, Judge, but declined that invitation.”

  “We’d like to call them now,” Jake said. Boykin shifted his gaze, waiting. “… Your Honor.”

  “Well the problem with that, Mr. Carter, is I am on a schedule here and I am already well behind. And I’m sure you boys would like to get on out of here as well, wouldn’t you?”

  T.J. stood. “Yes, Your Honor; we’re real sorry about what we did.”

  Jake grabbed T.J.’s arm to keep him from saying anything more. Boykin’s eyes followed Jake’s hand, before returning to T.J. “Something you wanted to say, Mr. Molia?” he asked.

  Jake leaned over to whisper. “Don’t say anything.”

  T.J. glanced at him. Boykin sat waiting. “Just that we’re sorry.”

  “Sorry for what you did?”

  Jake whispered again. “Shut up.”

  “Something you wanted to say, Mr. Carter?”

  “We want a lawyer… Your Honor.”

  “Is that so? Do you know any here in Winchester County?”


  “My father,” Jake said.

  Boykin nodded, as if giving the request due consideration. “And I suppose you’d want a trial with witnesses and exhibits as well… the whole shebang. Is that right?” He looked down at a woman sitting to his right. “Ms. Valdez, when do I have a free day on my calendar to conduct a trial?”

  Ms. Valdez played with the keys on a keyboard, staring at her computer terminal. “First available day would be the last week of June, first week of July, Judge.”

  “Okay. Officer Langston, will you escort these two gentlemen back to their cells.”

  “No,” T.J. said.

  “What was that, Mr. Molia?” Boykin asked.

  “I don’t want to go back to jail. I want to get this over with.”

  “T.J., be quiet,” Jake said.

  T.J. shot Jake a glance. “No. I’m not going to be quiet. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. This is your fault.” He turned back to the bench. “I want to go now.”

  “You want to cooperate with the court?”

  “Yes.”

  “You admit that the statements by the general store owner and by the police officers in the reports I have before me are true?”

  “Yes.”

  “T.J., no,” Jake said.

  “You did all these things?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re sorry for what you’ve done.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And you won’t do it again.”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “I won’t see you back here in my courtroom again?”

  T.J. became more adamant. “No, Judge, I swear. Never.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Mr. Molia. Good man.” He shifted his gaze to Jake. “What about you, Mr. Carter. Are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

  Jake hesitated, careful with his choice of words. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  Boykin looked across the room to where the prosecutor stood silent. “Mr. Pike, did you hear Mr. Molia indicate his willingness to cooperate with the court?”

  “I did, Your Honor.”

  “And did you hear him admit to the charges brought against him.”

  “I did as well, Judge.”

  Jake started to speak. Judge Boykin cut him off. “It’s important to take responsibility for our actions, gentlemen. It is the first step in rehabilitation. Let’s get on with this and get you boys out of here. Mr. Molia, would you walk to that window over there and look out on that ledge?” When T.J. hesitated, Judge Boykin pointed to a tall window next to a huge painting of a lone oak tree in a gold leaf frame hanging over the jury box. “That window right over there.”

  T.J. left the table and pushed through the swinging gate in the wooden railing, looking back as he walked to the window. Boykin pointed again. At the window T.J. looked out, then back to the bench.

  “Do you see anything out there on the ledge?”

  T.J. looked again. “Pigeons?”

  Boykin nodded. “Pigeons. And do you see the sharp wire on the ledge as well?”

  T.J. nodded. “Yes, Judge.”

  “How many pigeons are out there on that ledge?”

  T.J. took a moment to count. “Six.”

  Boykin motioned for him to return to the table and waited to speak until T.J. had done so. “Do you know what pigeons are?”

  “Birds?” T.J. said.

  Boykin smiled. So too did the prosecutor. “Birds, I like that. No, Mr. Molia, pigeons are pests. They come into your town and they have no regard for anyone or anything. They deface buildings and statues, sidewalks, store awnings. And no matter what one does, even putting up spiked fences, somehow they find their way back.”

  The sick feeling in Jake’s stomach returned.

  “But pigeons are just dumb, stupid birds with brains about the size of the tip of my finger here. They don’t do the things they do on purpose; it’s just instinct. You understand that?”

  “Yes,” T.J. said, sounding hesitant.

  “That’s what separates us from pigeons. We also have instincts, but as humans we are obligated to control those instincts so we do not become pests for the rest of society. When a person fails to control his instincts, it’s my job to put up those spiked fences to try to protect society. Do you understand that also?”

  T.J. swallowed hard. “I think so.”

  “So here’s the thing about ‘sorry.’ I know you boys are sorry, but what I’m not convinced of is whether you’re sorry that you committed your crimes, or just sorry you got caught.”

  “I’m sorry, I did it,” T.J. said.

  Boykin pointed to a tall painting hanging just to the right of the grandfather clock. “You see that man?”

  Jake initially thought it to be a portrait of the judge in his black robe, his ash-colored beard extending to his chest, like a bib. But upon closer inspection, Jake realized the portrait was not Judge Earl, only someone who looked like him.

  “They named this courthouse after my great-grandfather. I am the fourth generation to sit in this chair. During that time I’ve had a lot of people—boys, girls, men, and women—stand right where you’re standing now. They come into my courtroom, my courthouse, the courthouse named after my great-grandfather, and tell me they’re ‘sorry.’ They’re sorry for what they did. The thing is they’re always sorry after they got caught. I can’t recall a single person coming in here and confessing to their crime and telling me they were sorry before they got caught. Have we ever had that happen, Mr. Pike?”

  “No, Your Honor, I can’t recall that we have,” the prosecutor said.

  “Officer Langston?”

  “No, Judge.”

  “Ms. Valdez?”

  “No, Judge.”

  Boykin sat back, smiling. “Just once I’d like to have that happen so I could go home and tell my wife, ‘Dear, you’re not going to believe what happened in my courtroom today.’” He shook his head. Then he looked down at them. “This is your lucky day, Mr. Molia. There are days we can have a dozen or more pigeons on that ledge. But today I am sentencing you to just six months detention in the Fresh Start Youth Training Facility here in Winchester County.”

  “What?” T.J. said, bursting into tears. “But you said I could go home.”

  Boykin’s voice hardened. “I said I’d get you out of here and I’m going to do just that.” He motioned and the officer approached from behind and grabbed T.J. by the shoulder, steering him toward the door.

  “You said I could go fishing,” T.J. sobbed. “I said I was sorry.”

  Boykin waited until the officer had escorted T.J. from the courtroom before turning his attention to Jake. “Mr. Carter, what I have here before me are sworn statements by the store owner and by the officers who arrested you. And now I have a confession from your cohort admitting to the crimes. I’d say that about does it for you. I’m finding you guilty based upon the evidence presented here before me. And I am not feeling as charitable toward you as I did toward Mr. Molia.”

  HIGHWAY 89

  WINCHESTER COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  Officer Carl Wade strolled back to his police cruiser and pulled open the driver’s-side door but paused to look about, as if to admire the view, though there wasn’t much to see but the rolling hills of bleached grass and scrub. He removed his hat, revealing a head of rust-colored hair, and ducked inside, presumably to write Tom Molia several tickets.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Molia said. “Cops do not give tickets to other cops; I’ll have this guy’s ass, I promise you that.”

  Unfortunately that would not get them moving, though Sloane knew better than to say it. Foremost on Sloane’s mind remained the statement by the owner of the general store concerning Judge Earl, as well as a nagging question that had apparently also been bothering Molia.

  “Why haven’t they called?” Molia asked.

  Given the status of his relationship with Jake, Sloane could rationalize the lack of a phone call, but T.J. would have called if given the op
portunity, and if able. And if T.J. had not been able to call, for whatever the reason, then why hadn’t someone within the jail system called? They were juveniles. Shouldn’t someone be trying to contact their parents?

  The clock on the dash glowed 8:23.

  “Courthouse wouldn’t open ’til nine, would it?” Molia asked, catching Sloane’s gaze.

  “I wouldn’t expect any hearings before then,” Sloane said, but he was feeling less and less confident with each minute of delay.

  When the digits read 8:26 Molia slapped the steering wheel hard enough to shake the car. “I’m going to go find out this guy’s problem.”

  Sloane grabbed his arm. “Don’t. It will only delay things further.”

  “He doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to start this car and leave. He can arrest my ass if he has the balls and I’ll have his badge.”

  Sloane looked through the back window and saw Wade push out of his car. “He’s coming.”

  Wade reapplied the hat and sauntered forward, handing Molia back his license, police ID, and the registration for the rental car. “Okay, Detective, looks like everything checks out.”

  “What?” Molia asked, turning his head, as if he hadn’t heard him.

  “We’re all good.” Wade spoke in a conversational tone, like they were old friends who had just bumped into each other in the supermarket and were catching up.

  Molia’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’re not writing me a ticket.”

  “Do you want me to?” Wade smiled. Molia did not answer. “I’m in a charitable mood this morning, Detective. I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

  The back of Molia’s neck turned a crimson shade of red and Sloane thought the detective might grab Wade by the collar and pull him headfirst into the car. Before Molia could do so Sloane leaned across the seat. “So we can go?”

  Wade lowered to make eye contact, though with the sunglasses Sloane only saw Molia’s reflection in each lens. “You can if you follow the speed limit and obey the rules of the road.” Wade smiled. “Can I be of any help with directions?”