“What’s this?” asked Charles warily. “Is it a narcotic?” He picked up a small amount and smelled it, suspiciously.
“Mr. Song says it is a Chinese herb called Chai Hu used to treat liver problems,” said the interpreter. “In English it is called Bupleurum.”
The assistant then took out several packages. One was wrapped in white tissue paper and held fast with string. There were also five small bundles of hundred dollar bills, each held by rubber bands, some so old they were on the verge of disintegrating.
Samuel watched intently to see if any plane tickets were hidden in the jar, but there were none.
The examiner, who had been sulking in the corner, with his turtle’s head slumped between his shoulders, perked up when he heard about the herb that was a treatment for hepatic problems. Rockwood’s pathology slides showed that his liver was in its last stages. The herbs reinforced his opinion as to the cause of death. But from the looks of the situation, it was more complicated than one supposed, which meant that he’d have to hold on to the cadaver.
“I’ll examine the material, if you like,” he said.
“Be my guest,” said Charles. He went on to the package wrapped in white tissue paper. He carefully unwrapped it and found a velvet box. It had three gleaming green stones in it, one the size of a bean and two smaller ones.
Charles whistled, “Emeralds! And they look to be of good quality. They must be worth thousands of dollars. How did they come to be in the hands of a janitor, I ask? How much cash is there?”
The examiner counted out the hundred dollar bills in each packet. “Ten thousand.”
“And a like amount in these stones,” added Charles. “How much is the medicine worth?”
“Mr. Song says it’s worth about thirty dollars,” said the interpreter.
“Thirty dollars for some grass. What times we live in!” exclaimed Charles.
“Just a minute,” said Samuel. “You see that piece of paper holding one of the packets of bills? It has some printing on it. It looks like part of an address. It has the number 838 and nothing else.” He took his notepad out and wrote down the number.
“It doesn’t mean much,” said the examiner. “It was just used to hold the bills together.”
“You never know,” said Samuel.
Charles puffed up as much as his tired frame allowed. “We’re going to take possession of this evidence in the name of the people of the United States of America. This document allows us to do that.”
He showed the search warrant to the interpreter, who in turn showed it to Mr. Song.
“You are welcome to the entire contents of the jar,” said Mr. Song, through the interpreter, “because you presented the claim check. But the jar belongs to the shop, so you can’t take it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Song, we must take it,” said Charles. “We’ll hold the evidence in it until we decide if a federal crime has been committed. If there is no reason to hold onto it, we’ll return it to you.”
“The material in the jar is not mine, it is yours,” responded Mr. Song through the interpreter. “But the jar belongs to Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs, and it will not leave here.”
“We can pay you for it,” suggested Samuel.
“It’s not for sale,” replied Mr. Song, who by now had lost the proverbial patience of his race and was furrowing his brow.
“I’ll give you a receipt for the jar from the United States government,” said Charles. He took a sheet of Justice Department stationary from his briefcase and wrote a detailed list of all the items he was taking from the shop. The interpreter read them off to Mr. Song.
“Is this white man deaf or demented?” Mr. Song asked.
But the interpreter thought better than to translate it. Instead he explained, “Mr. Song is desolate because if the people on the street see you leave with his jar they will spread the word, and he will lose his good reputation. How could the people confide in him if he allowed just any white man to leave his establishment with one of his jars underneath his arm?”
“Listen, Mr. Song,” interrupted Charles. “Here’s the receipt for everything. You keep it until the case is over. Then, everything of yours will be returned to you,” and he slammed the paper down on the countertop.
Exhausted, Charles motioned to the examiner, the two marshals, and the interpreter that they should follow him out of the shop while at the same time he was cursing the albino, his assistant, and the infernal bells above the door that wouldn’t stop tingling.
“Call me tomorrow, Samuel. I can’t think straight right now,” he said.
7
Rafael in a Muddle
SAMUEL WENT to Camelot at an ungodly hour of the morning because Melba had woken him up with the bad news that Rafael had been arrested. He found Blanche effortlessly carrying cases of beer from the storeroom to the bar dressed only in a top, short pants and work boots. He tried to help her but the boxes were too heavy for him. Then Melba came out of the office. Samuel heard her. She’d been on the phone talking to important clients of the bar, trying to find someone who could help Rafael.
“What happened?” asked Samuel.
“I told him a thousand times to take that goddamned net off his head!” exclaimed Melba.
“They arrested him because of that?”
“No, they caught him with a stolen machine. I don’t know what kind, but it looks like it’s valuable. They searched the bar and his house. His mother was beside herself,” explained Blanche.
“What can we do?” asked Melba.
“He needs a lawyer. He has a right to a defense,” said Blanche.
“Who’ll pay for that?” asked Samuel.
“We’ll see. This thing has to be cleared up fast,” said Melba.
“On the assumption that he’s innocent,” pointed out Blanche.
“You don’t think Rafael’s a thief, child!” exclaimed Melba.
* * *
Days later Samuel watched the criminal court judge sitting on the dais in his black robe pounding the gavel. “The clerk will call the roll. Please give time estimates. We have a full calendar this morning.”
The sleepy female clerk looked through the sheets of paper in front of her. “The People of the State of California versus Rafael Garcia, docket number 54321702.”
Rafael—in handcuffs, with his ankles shackled, and wearing a San Francisco County Jail jumpsuit—was let out of the holding cell at the side of the courtroom by the bailiff. In the meantime, the well-dressed attorney sitting next to Samuel, in his expensive double-breasted Walter Fong suit, looked at his watch and pulled his Day-Timer out of his jacket pocket. He was heavyset with curly hair, a bulbous nose, and capped white teeth that matched the porcelain of a bathtub. He smiled all the time to show them off, as they had no doubt been expensive. He sauntered up to the podium inside the railing and the swinging door that separated the observers from the participants at the daily cattle call.
“Hiram Goldberg of the Law Offices of Hiram Goldberg representing defendant Rafael Garcia.” He was one of the best criminal lawyers in the city. He stood there waiting for the prisoner to make his way slowly to a place beside him, followed by the deputy closely guarding him.
When Rafael arrived, he looked at the attorney suspiciously. He’d never seen him before. Then he quickly glanced around the courtroom, saw Samuel in the rear, and waved with a slight smile of recognition. He guessed that the fancy attorney standing next to him was Samuel’s doing, so he relaxed a little.
The municipal court judge, who had a florid face and the reputation of being irascible, looked over his reading glasses at the defendant with a total lack of sympathy. He didn’t trust Mexicans or other immigrants of color; it was a matter of principal with him. “To the charge of violating section 496 of the California Penal Code, receiving stolen property, a felony, how do you plead?”
“The defendant pleads not guilty to the charge, Your Honor, waives time to a speedy trial and asks that bail be reduced from $5,000 to
$1,500, which we’re prepared to post this morning.”
“He’s charged with a felony, Mr. Goldberg. The words have to come out of his mouth, not yours,” the judge chided. “Do you plead not guilty and waive time, Mr. Garcia?”
Rafael had a whispering session with his attorney and remained silent for almost a minute. Samuel guessed from a distance that they were having an argument. It was too bad that Hiram couldn’t have talked to his client beforehand.
“Do you speak English, young man?” asked the judge, impatiently. “I have a full calendar this morning, and if you need an interpreter, we’ll have to pass on this matter.”
“I understand everything you said, Your Honor, except about the time thing. That’s what I was asking about. You wouldn’t want someone to agree to something he didn’t understand, would you?” Rafael asked, sarcastically.
Hiram nudged Rafael to shut up, but he straightened his shoulders in defiance and gave a penetrating glance at the bench. He was scared because he’d never been in front of a judge before, and he knew he was in trouble. Nonetheless, he wanted the judge to know he was his own man.
“We’ll pass this matter,” said the judge. “You need to consult with your attorney.”
As Hiram slammed his Day-Timer on his thigh, the ruby in his pinky ring gave off a glint from the fluorescent light above. This messed up his whole morning calendar. Now he’d have to wait until the end of the hearing. He whispered something in Rafael’s ear and reminded the judge, “I’m scheduled to appear in departments 15, 16 and 17, Your Honor.”
“That’s okay. We’ll see you back here at eleven. The defendant’s not going anywhere.”
Rafael was shuffled back to the holding cell in cuffs and shackles, and Hiram walked quickly through the swinging gate doors that separated the working part of the courtroom from the audience. He motioned to Samuel to follow him out into the hall.
“That guy’s a smart-ass Mexican,” he complained.
“He’s a friend of mine,” said Samuel, “and Melba wants him out of jail. That’s why she sent me here and why she retained you.”
“I’m only a lawyer, not a magician,” Hiram said. His jowls hung over the high, stiffly starched collar of his white shirt. His gold cufflinks matched the tie tack. Samuel felt a wave of dislike for him.
“It’s hard to deal with smart-ass Mexicans. They make my job a lot harder even when they can afford me. This is a kiss-ass business. Melba paid me a lot of money to get this prick off, but he wants to know every fucking detail about what goes on around him, and I don’t have time for that shit. You go and talk to that greaser and tell him how things are in this town. Mexicans are in last place, along with the queers. It’s the Jews, the Irish, and the Italians that run it, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Calm down,” Samuel interrupted. “He’s a good kid. You know I won’t be able to talk to him until court is over. Just get his bail reduced so we can get him out.”
“That’s not going to be easy, not now. Don’t you see, he’s questioning the judge’s authority, and he’s not one of the boys. He may have fucked himself,” said Hiram.
“I’ll straighten him out. You get him a bail hearing. We have good character witnesses. He’s a hard-working citizen and not a flight risk,” said Samuel.
“I gotta go. See ya at eleven,” said Hiram, and he waddled down the hall.
Putting his hand on the swinging outer door, Samuel yelled at him, “How ’bout buying an ad in my paper? I’m busting my ass to sell slots. You look like a guy with a lot of dough!”
“Jesus Christ, man, you know lawyers can’t advertise in this state,” replied Hiram, over his shoulder, as he disappeared into another courtroom, the door flapping behind him.
When Hiram returned at eleven, Rafael’s bail hearing was set by the court for the following Thursday at two-thirty.
* * *
When court next convened in Rafael’s case, Hiram Goldberg entered with a large entourage. There was Melba; her daughter, Blanche; Rafael’s mother, brother, and his two sisters; Sofia; the parish priest; and Samuel. They were all prepared to testify what a good and reliable person he was, following Hiram’s carefully scripted preparation of each of them.
The judge called the court to order, and the clerk called the case.
“Bail is presently set at five thousand dollars. Mr. Garcia is accused of having a stolen X-ray machine in his possession worth over ten thousand dollars. Why should the people reduce his bail?” asked the judge, squinting at the defendant.
“For several reasons,” answered Hiram, rising heavily to his feet. “In the first place, the state has absolutely no proof he stole the machine. The most the D.A. can say is that he was in the vicinity of the machine when the police arrived.”
“Your Honor,” interrupted the assistant district attorney, who stood up from his place at the table next to the podium where Hiram was lecturing the court. He had the gaunt look of the zealot, with sunken cheeks and deep shadows surrounding his eye sockets. “Mr. Goldberg will have a hard time disputing Mr. Garcia’s involvement in this crime, since the X-ray machine was in a truck he rented in his own name. The only thing we don’t know, and he won’t tell us, is where he got it and where he was taking it. But we do know where it came from, and it certainly didn’t come into Mr. Garcia’s possession in an arm’s length transaction.”
“Before I was interrupted, Your Honor,” said Hiram, “I was about to explain to the court that it wasn’t my intention to try the case at this time. My idea was merely to present the flimsiness of the evidence against my client. But even more importantly, the record needs to reflect that Mr. Garcia has absolutely no criminal record. In fact, quite the contrary, he’s a pillar of his community and is no flight risk whatsoever. He has a long-standing job with Melba Sundling, a well-known and respected saloonkeeper of Your Honor’s Irish persuasion, and she is here to confirm that. He’s heavily involved in the activities of his local Catholic Church, as his parish priest will attest. In addition, he helps support his mother and three siblings, which, by the way, he can’t do if he’s in jail.”
“Before we clutter the record with lengthy testimony,” said the judge, looking at the plethora of witnesses filling his courtroom and calculating the hours of testimony that he would have to listen to, “I want to see the lawyers in chambers, and bring the probation officer with you.”
They all crowded into the judge’s chambers. “Counting the number of witnesses in the courtroom, Mr. Goldberg is prepared to load the boat, counsel,” said the judge. “Why did you make the bail so high in the first place?”
“This is a serious crime,” said the gaunt attorney, starting again to give his prepared speech about the well-known evils of stealing from others.
“Hold on! This isn’t the trial,” shouted Hiram. “We’re here to talk about bail, just bail.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, Judge,” the attorney responded, his thin lips quivering with disdain for both Hiram and Rafael.
“Oh, bullshit. This is the crappiest case I’ve seen in years,” Hiram cut in. “You just want to hold Mr. Garcia’s feet to the fire in the hopes you’ll get some hot evidence of a big theft ring. It’s not there. This guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’ll see.”
“What does the probation department have to say?” asked the judge.
“He’s definitely not a flight risk,” answered the probation officer. “He’s a pretty stable guy, and he seems really close to his family.”
The prosecutor interrupted, “I didn’t come here to hear this prisoner praised. He’s a common thief who should have to stay behind bars. Remember, Judge, your job is to protect the citizens of this city, not to coddle the criminals.”
“That’s enough!” shot back the judge. “You gentlemen wait outside. I want to think about this one. Mr. Probation Officer, leave your report with me. I’ll file it after I’ve read it.”
The attorneys left the judge’s office, and Hiram
walked down the aisle toward the drinking fountain outside the flapping main doors. As he passed Samuel, he winked at him.
Alone in the quiet of his chambers, the judge quickly turned the pages of the document he had been handed. He didn’t like greasers, the name he gave to Mexicans in private, but he decided to lower his bail to two thousand dollars. It remained to be seen if the prisoner could post it. In any event, he was sure Rafael would end up behind bars.
8
Xsing Ching Surrenders
XING CHING pushed hard on the doorbell of Virginia Dimitri’s Grant Avenue apartment. His palms were sweaty and his muscular shoulders hunched as he concentrated on the button. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when his nerves were so shot. He struggled to control his emotions. The carved wooden door looked immense to him in the sunlight. On the other six or seven occasions he’d visited Virginia, as he remembered, it was night. His encounters had become more intimate and pleasurable, but still formal. This was the first time that he’d broken the strict protocol that Virginia had laid down for his visits. It was clear that he shouldn’t get involved with her. His life was too complicated and the last thing he should allow himself was a passionate love affair, but he had a lot in common with her. Both were sensual, refined, and ambitious. Virginia had never asked anything of him. What did that beautiful woman want from him? On his third visit, he’d brought her a crocodile purse that cost him a small fortune. She thanked him formally and later, after they’d made love, she begged him never to repeat the gesture. “I like you a lot Xsing, and you make me happy. I don’t need anything from you except your presence. I prefer that you don’t give me presents because that changes the tone of our relationship. It makes me feel like you’re trying to pay me.”
At first he was insulted. But after he thought about it, he understood that she was right. From that moment on he viewed her differently.
The Chinese Jars Page 8
