“Brave men risked their lives to capture a group of hardened criminals. Some of them died doing their jobs—hard, thankless, dangerous jobs. We should praise them, not bury them for that. And we should never, ever, bring innocent men to trial to satisfy the needs of politicians who have to lay blame. Isn’t it enough that those brave men had to die, shot down by armed desperados? Isn’t it enough that for months now, an innocent man, a man whose entire life has been dedicated to wiping out the scourge of drugs, has had to sit in a jail cell, isolated from his family and friends, his career shattered? I think it is. I think that enough is enough, my friends. I think it’s time to let Mr. Jerome go free and resume his exemplary life, a life dedicated to making my life, and your life, and the lives of everyone in this room, in this county, in this country, a safer place to live.”
John Q. was in the homestretch now. One last hurrah.
“Sterling Jerome should never have been indicted. He should never have suffered the pain of imprisonment. He should never have had his good name smeared in the mud. What he should have, and what you should give him, is his freedom back. His freedom, and his dignity. We—all of us—owe him nothing less.”
John Q.’s oration rang the bell. If an impartial observer had judged who was going to win by the opening-day performances, John Q. would have skunked me, an A or A to my solid B+. But today was going to be his pinnacle. Despite the emotion, the appeals to a higher justice, it would be downhill for him, from here on in. Juries will swallow a certain amount of bullshit, especially at the beginning of a trial, when they’ve only seen the frame and not the picture, but evidence will out, unless the jury is absolutely partial to one side, and antagonistic to the other side’s lawyers, which wouldn’t be the case here, either.
After congratulating me on my presentation and my self-restraint (I had strong grounds for objecting several times during John Q.’s opening, but didn’t, that would all be forgotten), Riva went home.
I walked from the courtroom to my office. Tomorrow I would start calling witnesses.
It was a warm and dry late afternoon, a harbinger of a hot, late summer. The sun was low, unfiltered, a furnace door at the far end of the two-lane highway that serves as Blue River’s main street. The objects in its path—buildings, cars, lampposts, pedestrians—were casting long, sharply etched shadows. There’s an old-fashionedness to this town, like out of an old western movie, High Noon or My Darling Clementine.
I guess I thought of those movies because the first witness I was going to call. Sheriff Miller, reminded me of Gary Cooper and Henry Fonda. Strong, quiet types, nothing of the bully about them. I see Miller that way, a throwback to a simpler, more humane time, although I know that’s more nostalgia than reality. And Tom Miller doesn’t live in the past, not with his fancy house and all the modern computer equipment.
I spent an hour with Miller, going over my questions, his answers to them, what I thought John Q. would throw at him. He was ready, he knew the drill—he’d done this innumerable times. And this was personal to him, he really wanted to nail it.
After he left, I reread, for the umpteenth time, parts of the case that were pertinent to the next few days. The butterflies were gone now. From here on in, it would be preparation, facts, and experience.
The building was empty. Everyone had gone for the day. I called Riva to let her know I’d be home soon. Then, as I was putting my papers into my briefcase, about to lock up and walk out, Nora stuck her head in the door.
“Got a minute, Luke?” she asked tentatively.
“I was just leaving, Nora,” I closed my case, snapped it shut.
“I was hoping…”
She stood in the doorway, half in, half out.
“Was there something specific?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk to her. I certainly didn’t want to be alone with her, with no one else around.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your opening. You did well.”
“Thanks.”
“Well stated. Well structured. Not too long.”
“It did the job. Today was John Q.’s day. He’s got the good silver tongue.”
“Maybe,” she acknowledged. “People around here are meat-and-potatoes kind of folks. They’re not impressed with glitz.”
“That’s usually the way it is.” I put on my coat, straightened the pens and papers on my desk. Read the signals, Nora, it’s time to go.
She wasn’t ready to leave. She had come over here for a reason. “I wish we could…talk to each other, Luke. Confer. Like colleagues.”
“We can’t.”
“Because you’re an independent prosecutor? That’s not etched in stone.”
“That’s not the reason. You know the reason.”
She looked down at her feet. “I’ve put that behind me.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“But you still can’t…”
“Share strategy with you?”
“Yes.”
“I told you my attitude about that when I signed on, Nora. If I’m going to be truly independent, it has to be this way. Particularly now. I can’t be alone with you, Nora. I’m uncomfortable right now.”
She looked forlorn.
“I’m sorry, Nora, but that’s the way it is. You may have put what you did behind you, but you can’t erase it.” I sized her up. “And I don’t think you have put it behind you.”
She stared back at me. “You’re right. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make a play for you. I can control myself.”
I shook my head. “Maybe you can, maybe you can’t. I don’t know, I don’t want to find out. There’s a history, and that’s what I have to go by. The easiest way to make sure nothing happens is to stay out of harm’s way.”
She thought about that for a moment—then she took two steps into the office and closed the door behind her.
I picked my briefcase up. “Open the door, Nora.”
She stood her ground, her back up against the door. “All I want is to be part of the case, Luke. I want to know what’s going on. What your strategy is. How you think it’s going. It’s my case,” she said, her voice rising, “I brought you in, damn it! You have no right to shut me out.”
“Open the goddamn door. Now.”
She wasn’t budging. “Does your wife know about us?”
Jesus, she wasn’t actually saying this.
“There’s nothing for her to know.”
“Maybe we should let her be the judge of that.”
I took one deep breath, to compose myself. Don’t back down on this now, I steeled myself, she’ll run you over if you do.
“Okay, Nora. Here’s how it’s going to go.” My voice was calm, low, clear. “You’re going to walk out of this office right now, and you’re never going to walk in it again unless you’re invited. You want to lay some cockamamie lie on my wife, go do it. I can’t stop you. I’ll tell her you’re lying, and she’ll believe me. But if you get in my face one more time about any of this crap, I am going to call Bill Fishell and have him read you the riot act.”
I stopped.
“It’s up to you, Nora. Either you leave this office, right now, and stop bothering me for the remainder of this trial, or I’m picking up the phone and calling Sacramento.”
She stood frozen in place for a moment—then she turned, threw open the door, and walked out.
I stood behind my desk, listening to her high heels echoing fainter and fainter on the tile floor. Then I heard the front door opening and closing.
I was shaking, my palms were wet, my heart was pounding a mile a minute, all the classic, hackneyed symptoms of distress. Except these were real. My mouth felt metallic, they were so real to my taste.
It took me a few minutes to calm down sufficiently so that I was on an even enough keel that I could feel okay to drive home and be with my family in a secure, unfreaking normality. Leaving the office, locking the door behind me, I walked outside. It was twilight time, about eight o’clock, the sun laying a final coat
of blazing colors on the western foothills.
Nora’s come unhinged, I was thinking. All the stress of her life had caught up to her. Riva would never believe Nora, thank God, if Nora was crazy enough to tell her about our episode in the hot tub together and try to portray me as a willing participant. She knew Nora was lonely, and although she hadn’t said it to me, I assumed she felt that Nora was engaging in fantasies about me.
It was delusional, and it was sad. She wasn’t a bad woman, just a desperately lonely one. I don’t know if lonely women make good lovers, like the song says; I don’t ever want to find out. But I knew now, clearly, that they can be dangerous.
Sheriff Miller was everything a prosecutor could hope for in a witness. He told his story clearly, firmly, decisively. And everything he said was a damning indictment against Sterling Jerome.
Q (me): “In operations such as this one, the outside agency, in this case the Drug Enforcement Administration, consults and works closely with the local agency, in this case your department. Is that true?”
A (Miller): “Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”
Q: “Is that how it happened in the raid on the drug compound?”
A: “No.”
Q: “What was different in this instance?”
A: “I wasn’t consulted. At all.”
Q: “When did you find out that this raid was going to take place?”
A: “Late that night.”
Q: “Normally, when would you find out?”
A: “Well in advance. Always long before the day or night of. Local law-enforcement agencies have to be involved. They have information that’s invaluable. Plus it’s their territory. You don’t go into someone else’s territory without letting them know about it.”
Q: “How did you feel about that?”
A: “Terrible. Not from a personal point of view—I don’t have an ego when it comes to capturing criminals, I’m not looking for credit. But from a professional point of view, it’s wrong. People can get hurt if they don’t know what’s going on. Which is what happened in this case.”
Q: “Once you were informed of the raid, what was your assignment, Sheriff?”
A: “I didn’t have one. I was specifically instructed not to participate. My deputy and I were made to stand aside.”
Q: “So even after you were notified that the raid was going to take place, you were not allowed to be part of it. Even though it was taking place in your jurisdiction.”
A: “This is correct.”
Q: “Did you have any role at all?”
A: “No. Jerome grudgingly allowed me and my deputy to accompany the DEA team, but we were consigned to the bull pen for the actual raid: We were not allowed to participate.”
Q: “Did you ask to?”
A: “Of course. That’s our job.”
Q: “And the answer was?”
A: “We weren’t wanted, or needed.”
Q: “So where were you physically, when the raid took place?”
A: “On a hill, overlooking the compound.”
I walked to one of ray exhibits, a large aerial map of the area that was mounted on an easel, positioned so that the jury could easily see it.
Q: “Is this where you were? You and your deputy?” I pointed to the hill, which was far from the main raiding area.
A: “Yes.”
Q: “How far away is that, approximately?”
A: “A quarter of a mile away.”
Q: “How many years have you been in law enforcement, Sheriff Miller?”
A: “Between my years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the Muir County Sheriff’s Office, just under fifty years.”
Q: “And has this ever happened to you before? Getting shut out this way?”
A: “Never. In all that time, it’s never happened.”
I looked at the jury. They were paying close attention. Tom Miller is the most highly respected man in this county. Jerome had picked the wrong man to disrespect, and he was going to pay for it, beyond the physical ramifications of his actions.
Q: “What did you think of Special Agent Jerome’s strategy and tactics?”
A: “Highly unprofessional, reckless, and dangerous. Frightening.”
Q: “Would you explain to the jury why you think that?”
A: “Yes. There was supposed to be a transfer of money for drugs. A huge amount of money, a huge amount of drugs. That’s why this raid was so important. Not only to capture the drug dealers involved, including but not limited to Reynaldo Juarez, but to seize the drugs. That was the foundation of the warrant that Mr. Jerome obtained.”
Q: “Did that happen?”
A: “No.”
Q: “Why not?”
A: “Because the airplanes carrying the money and the drugs couldn’t fly up to Muir County. There was too much fog that night, further down south.”
Q: “So the raid was aborted.”
A: “No.”
Q: “Why not, if the objective was the bust?”
A: “Because Agent Jerome wanted to get Reynaldo Juarez, with or without the physical evidence, or the probable cause.”
Q: “In your almost fifty years of law enforcement, is that common?”
A: “Absolutely not. It’s almost unheard of.”
Q: “So to the best of your knowledge, Agent Jerome went against normal procedures and regulations when he authorized this raid to go on.”
A: “Without question.”
Q: “Did you feel that Agent Jerome had a personal vendetta against Reynaldo Juarez? Beyond the fact that Juarez was a drug dealer?”
John Q. got to his feet for that one. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.”
McBee agreed with him. “Rephrase your question,” he told me.
I turned back to Miller.
Q: “Did you hear Agent Jerome say anything about having a personal vendetta against Reynaldo Juarez?”
A (nodding vigorously): “Yes. He said that they were going to take the compound anyway. That Juarez was not going to escape on his watch. It was obviously very personal to him.”
Q: “What did you think of that?”
A: “I thought it was shortsighted, dangerous. The reason for the immediate assault was no longer applicable. The men inside that compound weren’t going anywhere. The place was surrounded by over fifty DEA agents. Why mount a risky assault when you don’t have to?”
Q: “Were there other reasons you were dubious about this assault on the compound, Sheriff Miller?”
A: “Yes.”
Q: “What were they?”
A: “The quality of the information regarding the men inside the compound. Their degree of readiness, and so forth.”
Q: “Why were you concerned about that?”
A: “It was coming from an untrustworthy source.”
Q: “Untrustworthy in what way?”
A: “Jerome was relying on a drug-gang member who had been turned and was working undercover for him.”
Q: “In common terms, a snitch?”
A: “That’s right.”
Q: “Why do you consider such a source unreliable?”
A: “Because they’re not doing it for the right reasons.”
Q: “Which are?”
A: “To stop a criminal activity.”
Q: “Why are they doing it, then?”
A: “Usually because they’ve been arrested on some other charge, and they’ve worked out a deal to stay out of jail.”
Q: “Was that how it was in this case?”
A: “Yes. I knew the informant. He was considered very unreliable. He was in it strictly for himself. Doing the right thing meant nothing to him.”
Q: “Would you have used him?”
Again, John Q. stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Miller’s use or disuse of this informant is not relevant.”
“Overruled,” McBee told John Q. firmly. “Sheriff Miller is a well-regarded law-enforcement officer, with a depth of knowledg
e and experience rarely available. His opinion is instructive. You may answer the question,” McBee told my witness.
I asked Miller again if he would have used Lopez.
A: “No. I would not have. Nor would other sheriffs that I know. He was too unreliable. Which the terrible consequences in this situation proved to be all too true.”
We went back and forth some more about Jerome’s tactics. Then I went for the finish.
Q: “After Reynaldo Juarez was ultimately captured, were you in a position to see what was going on?”
A: “Fairly well. Once the shooting had started, my deputy and I had rushed in to help, so we were closer to the center of things. It was very chaotic, as you could imagine. Dead and wounded, nighttime, a very remote area, nobody really knowing exactly where everyone else was. But yes, to answer your question, I had a decent overlay. By that time I don’t think Agent Jerome cared where I was. He’d gotten what he was after.”
Q: “What about your deputy, Wayne Bearpaw? Was he with you?”
A: “No. Once Juarez had been apprehended, he went home. They didn’t want us there anyway, so there was no reason for him to stay. I only did because it’s my territory, and I felt I had a professional obligation to be there to the finish.”
Q: “Where were you when Juarez escaped?”
A: “I was about thirty or forty yards away.”
Q: “From the trailer where he was being held.”
A: “Yes.”
Q: “What did you do?”
A: “For a moment—no more than a few seconds—I didn’t do anything. I was too shocked, it took that bit of time for it to register. Then I started running after him, like everybody else.”
Q: “Did he disappear from sight?”
Above the Law Page 39
