“Did you give it any credence?”
“Of course not. It was written by an obvious crackpot. It has no substantiation whatsoever in medical fact.”
“What was the consensus in the field of pathology?”
“What I’ve just said. A tale told by an idiot.”
“Did anyone in your field of forensic pathology—anyone well known—do anything to rebut this article?”
“Yes. I did.”
“What did you do?”
“I conducted a series of experiments that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, not only to me but to several colleagues, that the theory was impossible, without foundation. It couldn’t happen.”
“Did you publish your findings?”
“Yes, I did.”
I cross to the defense table, pick up a medical journal, hand it to him.
“Is this your article?” I ask.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’d like to submit this to the court, your honor. It is from the American Journal of Pathology, dated November 1983.”
I hand it up to Martinez, who looks at the title.
“This magazine is considered one of the benchmark journals in your field, is it not?” I ask.
“It is,” he replies.
“They wouldn’t publish anything they didn’t believe was factual and correct.”
“They would never have published something this sloppy,” he says, brandishing the ‘hot knives’ article.
“How would you categorize the ‘hot knives’ theory, then, doctor?” I ask.
“If it’s me and you and a couple ol’ boys sitting ’round the campfire swapping lies, I’d categorize it as a crock; no offense meant, your honor,” he says to Martinez with a smile. “In scientific terms, it’s up there with the flat-earth theory. Pure uninformed bunk. You couldn’t find another reputable pathologist in the country who would think of subscribing to it.” He pauses. “I hate to say this about a colleague, especially one with Milt Grade’s reputation, but I was shocked when I heard he based his testimony on it.”
“Especially since there had been your follow-up article,” I say.
“I guess Dr. Grade didn’t see it,” he says. “Although I’m surprised, because everyone in the field reads that journal.”
“He must’ve missed that issue,” I volunteer.
“Pretty unfortunate if he did,” Sugarman replies. “But he must have. He never would have used that bogus theory otherwise.”
Robertson buries his head in his hands.
I look to the back of the courtroom. Grade is gone, the massive oak door slowly swinging closed in his wake.
“WE MOVE THAT THE RESULTS of the original trial be over-turned, your honor, because of tainted, coerced, and falsely-obtained evidence, and that all charges against our clients be dropped.”
Robertson objects. He’s a pit-bull, he’ll never let go.
“I’ll give you an answer in the morning,” Martinez says. He’s dragging; the testimony we’ve introduced has knocked him for a loop. He presided over a false trial, and it’s killing him inside.
He withers Robertson with a look as he walks out.
“I hope I helped,” Sugarman says.
“You definitely did,” I assure him.
“Grade.” He shakes his head in disgust. “They ought to put his sorry ass out to pasture.”
Mary Lou and I gather our papers, head back for the office. We have hours of work ahead of us, and when we go home neither of us will sleep a wink.
WE’RE IN JUDGE MARTINEZ’S CHAMBERS. Robertson stands apart from Mary Lou and me, ramrod-straight.
Martinez turns to me. “My hands are tied, Will. I can’t dismiss outright, much as I want to. Miss Gomez says she lied before; she probably did, but it’s one statement against the other, which you know under these circumstances is considered subjective evidence and not legal cause for overturning the verdict, certainly without going to trial again. Neither is Dr. Sugarman’s testimony, although I devoutly believed it.”
“What about the falsifying of the hospital records?”
“That’s a separate issue.” He turns to Robertson. “Which I hope the authorities will vigorously pursue.”
“We’re looking into it, your honor,” Robertson tells him.
“Don’t take your time,” Martinez snaps. He turns to me with real compassion.
“I’m sorry. My hands are tied,” he reiterates. “Unless the prosecution wants to consider dropping charges,” he says pointedly.
“We don’t, your honor.” Ever the righteous man.
Martinez is trying; I give him credit. Better a late convert than never at all.
He looks over our witness roster.
“I see you have only one more name on your list … Scott Ray …”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Will his testimony be addressing anything that gets to the heart of this case? Otherwise I believe I have enough information on which to base my decision.”
“I think you’ll find him an enlightening witness, your honor.”
“All right then. Let’s have him.”
“CALL SCOTT RAY TO THE STAND.”
He walks forward, this pretty-boy hustler/Jesus freak in a fresh-bought Sears, Roebuck suit.
Robertson looks at the witness. He doesn’t know who Scott Ray is, but he won’t waste any time trying to find out.
Let him try. by the time he Knows, it’ll all be over, one way or the other.
Scott Ray solemnly swears to tell the truth, so help him God.
I approach my witness.
“Mr. Ray. Could you tell this court where you were and what you were doing on the night Richard Bartless was murdered?”
It was a couple days before the killing. Maybe three. Driving from down south, West Texas, Lubbock, Mule Shoe, crossing into New Mexico at Clovis, where Buddy Holly and the Crickets recorded “That’ll Be the Day” and “Peggy Sue” at Norman Petty’s studio. Buddy Holly—the guy was a fucking musical genius, no question. Detouring there, looking at the old place like visiting a shrine, thinking if it hadn’t of been ol’ Buddy done it, it could’ve been me. That’s the way my luck always runs, too late and bad.
The idea was to drive up to Denver and look for a straight gig, chill out from OD’ing on the fucking and dealing, that shit will ultimately lead to an early grave if you don’t give it a rest occasionally. But the car was fucked, it was fucked when he bought it and it was fucked ever since, piece of shit, fucking salesman saw him coming, unloaded his primo lemon. That’s what happens when you trust human nature, it’ll fuck you every time. He was able to limp it as far as the outskirts of Santa Fe, then it just up and died completely, leave it to the vultures. Nobody’d pick him up hitch-hiking, he had to walk four miles into town in the heat and dust.
On automatic pilot he made his way to a high-class gay bar and set up for business in the men’s room. By closing time he’d worked half a dozen sorry faggots into sucking him off behind the closed door of the shitter, at fifteen bucks a pop (he could always get it up, no matter how often he came, it was natural to him, something he was born with; it came in handy in circumstances such as these), then to top off the evening he tailed the last cocksucker, a middle-aged drunk, to the parking lot in back, where he mugged and rolled him. Candy from a baby, motherfucker never knew what hit him. He came away with close to three hundred in cash and a shitload of credit cards, which he used to rent a car (he’ll abandon it on the street when he’s ready to split), secure a decent room, buy a new wardrobe, and withdraw a thousand dollars in automatic teller cash advances before dumping the hot plastic down the sewer: the dumb shit had his secret code in his wallet, folded up next to his driver’s license. The way to do stolen credit cards is to not get greedy, use them and lose them fast before they’re reported.
Flush with cash, decent wheels, and new rad threads, the following night he’s at the Dew Drop Inn, looking for pussy. (He’s not a gay, no fucking way, he’ll let them suck it b
ut he won’t do them, you close your eyes it could be a chick, it’s like a whore fucking; a job.) And in walked Richard, and it was like ‘hey dude, let’s party,’ ’cause it was obvious they weren’t like the usual clientele that hung in here, they had some class, him and Richard, that was obvious from the get-go. He had the money, when you’ve got it, spend it, that was his motto, so they picked up a couple whores and a bottle of quality tequila, scored a lid of primo weed (Richard was well-connected locally in that regard), and drove in his rental car, a 5.0 Mustang convertible, black on black, to a nearby roach-motel, where Richard was staying.
He and his whore fucked and sucked the night away; a little bondage, some golden showers, the usual. Richard didn’t do so good—his whore told Scott’s whore the next morning he didn’t do nothing; too drunk, too high. Scott knew better: Richard was a closet fag, an experienced hand could tell right off. He, Scott, didn’t give a shit one way or the other; sex is sex, what’s the difference? Whatever works for you. He personally could take it any way it came, he considered himself lucky that way.
So what if Richard was gay? Scott could swing every which way but loose, as long as he didn’t have to play the girl. He drew the line there—he’d pitch but he wouldn’t catch, he’d let the faggots suck him off, but he wouldn’t suck, and no fist-fucking, none of that shit. He was, is, and forevermore would be, straight. A man. He made sure everybody knew that. The chicks he hung with knew it for sure; he was a cocksman supreme, they all told him so.
Okay, maybe he’d been a pussy in prison, the one or two times he’d been in, but that was inside, you’re fighting for your life every second in the joint, sometimes that’s the only way; to be some boss motherfucker’s honey, so you can stay alive and get some priority favors. But everybody knows jail is different, the rules are suspended. Plenty of straight dudes have to be Barbie in prison, that’s the way it is, pure and simple. It has nothing to do with being a man in the free world. Not a fucking thing.
The next night he motivated down to the Dew Drop Inn again, it was a righteous place to hang out, plenty of hot-to-trot chicks looking for a real man like himself. Richard was there and attached himself to Scott right away, which was okay ’cause Scott knew he’d want to score some more dope and Richard could put him with the right people. So then Richard introduces him to this skank maid from the motel called Rita who’d come with him, they’d hitch-hiked ’cause Richard’s car wasn’t running. Scott remembered her from the night before. She had offered herself to Scott, practically thrown herself at him. Scott had told her thanks but no thanks, he had higher standards than that, he didn’t need a beauty queen or nothing like that to get him wanting to fuck, but this chick was ragged, a blind man could see she’d been to hell and back as far as who she fucked was concerned, she could be carrying every disease known to man, and some that hadn’t been discovered yet. Pasadena on Rita Gomez, then and now.
Richard obviously liked her, though; maybe she could get him hot to trot, people are weird in what turns them on, live and let live, that was Scott’s motto, whatever turns you on. Party forever and fuck the rest, that was another of his mottos.
Tonight was a bummer. The women weren’t responding. There were enough of them, some of them pretty good, but either they were all with guys or they gave him the cold shoulder. The ones that let him know they were available were below his standards, spoiled goods. It was obvious that being with Richard and his ranked-out motel maid was a turnoff, the chick had absolutely no class and it rubbed off on him by association. If he was going to score some pussy tonight he was going to have to dump Richard and Rita and find another bar.
Before that, though, he wanted to get high, so he and Richard went outside to smoke a doobie. Richard had good weed and plenty of it; that made up for most of his negatives. Rita tagged along. She was already high, she didn’t know Scott existed, which was fine with him.
It was hot, her T-shirt was clinging to her tits, she was showing through practically, like in a wet T-shirt contest. One thing she did have was good tits, he had to admit that. But the rest of the package was too damaged, there was no mystery left to her at all.
They smoked a joint, Richard and him, it was righteous weed, they were feeling mellow. The night was still young and he was not ready to go to bed with nobody to play with except five-finger Mary, so he was about to shove off when he heard the motorcycles approaching. They were Harleys, no mistaking that sound.
They pulled into the parking lot, spraying gravel, and parked their hogs, just so, lining them up symmetrically. Four beautiful machines. Be nice to ride one of those babies. But not here and now. Scott wasn’t about to even get close to take a look, he knew this score, you don’t fuck with the likes of these, you keep the hell out of their way. He’d known outlaw bikers from dealing dope, if you had brain one in your head you kept a wide berth.
He’d already told Richard he was splitting, so he started to his car, and as he’s opening the door he hears Richard starting to talk to these bikers. He’s standing in the shadows so it’s okay to watch, and here’s Richard talking to these guys, and it sounds like they’re having a brief conversation. What it was, he couldn’t hear clearly. But one of them raises his voice at whatever grief Richard’s giving him, and all of a sudden another one of them slaps Richard across the mouth, hard, it sounded like a gunshot, and another one rabbit-punches him in the kidneys, and Richard collapses, and they start laughing and jeering at him, and Richard’s crawling away, and then he gets up and starts running, which is the first smart thing he’s done all night.
Then they all go inside (Rita’s already in, she ran in when the shouting started), so Scott starts up his car and heads out down the highway, and fifty yards from the entrance there’s Richard hobbling along like his ribs are broken, so out of kindness for the dumb shit Scott pulls up and tells him to climb in, he’ll drop Richard back at the motel on his way to his next rendezvous.
So they’re cruising on down the road and Scott asks Richard what the beef was all about.
“Drugs,” Richard said.
“Like what,” Scott kidded, “you wanted them to give you some?”
“Fuck no, I wanted to sell them some. I got five kilos of fresh-harvested Michoacan stashed up in the hills, where do you think that righteous weed I’ve been laying on you came from, I need some fast money to get my car out of repair and pay off a bunch of bills, somebody could really make out dealing this stuff.”
Right away, the light-bulb went on in Scott’s head. Ten kilos of primo Mex grass, he could unload that in Denver for fifteen to eighteen thousand.
“What do you want for it?” he asked.
“I’ll sell the whole load of it for two thousand, five hundred,” Richard had told him.
Scott didn’t waste a second. “It’s a deal.”
Richard looked at him. “You got that kind of money?”
“That and then some.”
“Let me see it.”
Without slowing down, Scott reached into his pocket, pulled out his roll. Richard looked at it and smiled. “Let’s do some business,” he said.
Scott’s throat is dry from talking. He asks for a glass of water. I walk to the defense table, lean in to the defendants.
“Do you remember any of this?” I ask.
Lone Wolf shrugs.
“I vaguely remember some asshole saying something stupid in the parking lot. It could have been the way he says it was. Whatever it was, no one was dead when we went inside.”
“What about him?” I nod towards Scott.
“Never saw him in my life.”
The others nod; he’s a cipher to them.
I cross back to Scott Ray.
“Please continue,” I tell him.
They stopped at the motel first. Richard had to get something out of his room. Scott waited in the car. Richard was back in a flash with a knife so Scott could cut off a taste to check it, and a paper bag to put the money in, and they started to drive up to the mountains,
where Richard had the grass stashed. Richard was enjoying himself, singing along with the radio. Scott was enjoying himself, too; he was about to shear this poor lamb for all his wool. Twenty-five hundred for five kilos. The profit he’d make would set him up for months. Richard had good weed, no question there, but he had no head for business.
Too fucking bad. For Richard.
They drove up into the mountains northeast of town. It was pretty up here. The road was winding, doubling back on itself, at times you could see the entire town and valley laid out below, the lights twinkling like Christmas ornaments, and up above the stars twinkling like more Christmas ornaments, each mirroring the other. It was peaceful and beautiful, and Scott was happy.
Three days ago he’d limped into town with nothing but dust on his shoes, and he was going to leave with new clothes, a bono car (he’d take it as far as Denver and ditch it there), and beaucoup money to be made. His luck was finally changing for the good; about time.
“Pull off here,” Richard said abruptly.
They were high up now. It was a flat area, bordered by trees. Private—as soon as they pulled off the road they were hidden from view.
Richard got out first. Scott turned off the engine, followed Richard deeper into the wooded area.
“What’d you do, bury it?” Scott asked.
“Not exactly,” Richard answered. He turned back to Scott. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re going to get what you want. Or at least what you deserve.”
I have a map in my hand. It’s an aerial map of the area where Richard Bartless’s body was found. I set it on an easel in front of Scott, at an angle that both he and Judge Martinez can easily see.
“Is this where you stopped?” I ask, pointing.
“Yeh. That’s it.”
Scott Ray is trembling now. His leg’s doing a Saint Vitus dance.
“Are you all right?” Martinez asks, picking up on his nervousness. “Do you want some time to collect your thoughts?”
Scott Ray looks up at him.
“I’ve had two years to collect my thoughts,” he says. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Go ahead, then,” Martinez tells him.
Against the Wind Page 47
