The Hidden Law

by Michael Nava

  “You want me to lie?”

  “Why would you want to kill Gus Peña? He was practically a stranger to you. Did he find out about you and his daughter?”

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “I’m going to try to get you out on bail, Michael,” I said. “There will be some pretty strict conditions. You’ll be confined to your parents’ house.” I explained the home surveillance program. “No drugs, no alcohol. If the court goes for it, it’s going to cost your parents a lot.”

  “Can’t I stay with my grandma?” he asked, in a little-boy whine.

  “I don’t want you back in that neighborhood.”

  “You might as well leave me in jail,” he said angrily.

  “You might get your wish yet,” I told him.

  I got to court a few minutes before three and went over to the clerk. I requested a meeting with O’Conner in chambers as soon as Pisano arrived. She went back and returned a couple of minutes later to tell me the judge would see us. Pisano showed up with Tino Peña in tow.

  “I’ve asked the judge to see us in chambers,” I told him, when he got to counsel table.

  His black eyebrows darted upward suspiciously. “About what?”

  “He’s expecting us,” I replied, and headed back, Pisano hurrying to catch up.

  O’Conner sat behind his desk in shirtsleeves, a half-eaten banana at his elbow, papers covering his desk. Having seen how uncomfortable he had been that morning, I was gambling that he would let us argue bail here, out of the public eye, make a disposition and present it as a fait accompli on the record. Otherwise, there was a good chance that the presence of the press would make him skittish, and I was afraid he would deny bail just to get the matter out of his court.

  As soon as we sat down, I started, “Your Honor, the defense has a bail proposal that I wanted to run by you here instead of out there in that zoo.”

  “Wait a minute,” Pisano broke in. “I want this on the record.”

  “We can go on the record at any point,” I said. “But I’d like you to hear me out.”

  O’Conner rubbed his chin. Beyond him, a picture window looked out on the Los Angeles Times building, looming like a mausoleum in the smoggy heat. “Well,” he said, “as long as you’re here.”

  “I object to this procedure,” Pisano said, slapping his hand on the edge of O’Conner’s desk.

  O’Conner said, with great delicacy, “Mr. Pisano, don’t damage the furniture.”

  “Why are we having this secret hearing?” Pisano insisted.

  The judge frowned. “I don’t like the implications of that,” he said. “There’s absolutely nothing improper in my discussing this matter with you in chambers.”

  “The cameras will still be there, Tony,” I put in. “You’ll get your chance to make your speech.”

  He glared at me. “Are you accusing me of impropriety?”

  “Oh, please,” O’Conner said. “Let’s just get on with it. What’s your proposal, Mr. Rios?”

  “Over lunch,” I said, “I did some research on a program run by the probation office called home surveillance.” I explained the details. O’Conner seemed intrigued. “If you were to grant bail in this case, my client would be willing to accept home surveillance. That way, any concerns the court might have about risk of flight would be satisfied. Not,” I added, “that my client poses any such risk. It’s just that, understanding this is a high-publicity case, I thought the court would be more comfortable with releasing him under these conditions.”

  Pisano said, “If your client weren’t such a bad risk, you wouldn’t have had to resort to home surveillance. And anyway, there’s the public safety factor to consider. He did murder someone, after all.”

  For once, I was grateful for Pisano’s hotheadedness. If he had insisted we go out on the record, O’Conner might have felt trapped by the cameras.

  “Charging someone with murder isn’t evidence that he did it,” I said. “My client’s clean except for one juvenile incident which, of course, the court can’t consider now that Michael’s an adult.”

  “Oh, I see,” Pisano said. “We’re supposed to overlook his armed robbery conviction.”

  I had anticipated this. “Another instance of overcharging by your office,” I said. I opened my briefcase and pulled out the arrest report of Michael’s juvenile case. “My client walked into a 7-11 with a toy gun,” I said, “under the influence of drugs, and was stopped before he could get out the door. Your office called it armed robbery, but the juvenile court saw it for what it was. Michael went to a camp, not even CYA. He was put on a long probation for purposes of helping him get off drugs. That’s the real heart of his problems.” I pushed the arrest report across O’Conner’s desk.

  Pisano started to speak, but O’Conner cut him off. “Let me read this.” When he finished, he handed it back to me, saying, “Hmph.”

  “My client has a problem with drugs,” I said, seizing the advantage, “not violence. He has a loving family willing to put up their life’s savings to bring him home where he can continue to receive psychological counseling.”

  “Bring on the violins,” Pisano muttered, shifting restlessly in his seat. “May I remind the court that this drug-addled ex-armed robber is charged with murdering a state senator.”

  “Let me stop you there,” O’Conner said. “The victim’s identity is not really relevant. The value of a human life isn’t measured by a person’s prominence.”

  “That’s true,” Pisano said, “but this man was a public official who was assassinated—”

  O’Conner held up an admonitory finger. “Counsel, as you well know, the People could have alleged special circumstances in this case if they believed they could prove Senator Peña’s murder was related to his official capacity. Those circumstances were not alleged—”

  “Our investigation is ongoing,” Pisano said.

  “Well,” the judge replied, “I have to deal with what’s before me. Special circumstances are not alleged.”

  “No doubt,” I suggested, “because the People know their case is weak enough without going for the death penalty.”

  “Weak?” Pisano said incredulously. “We’ve got an eyewitness.”

  “You have a tentative make,” I said. “Which reminds me, the defense will also be asking the court for an Evans lineup. My client’s not your man, and a live lineup will prove it.”

  Pisano muttered, “We’ll see.”

  “You must be pretty sure of yourself,” O’Conner said.

  “Or bluffing,” Pisano added sourly. “Where was he the night Peña was killed?”

  “You know better than to ask questions like that.”

  O’Conner said, “You still haven’t talked numbers, Mr. Rios, unless you’re serious about that $100,000 offer you made out there.” His tone implied that I was not.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars,” I said, “and that’s more than it’s worth, given the decrepit state of the case against Michael. That’s just to feed the frenzy out there.”

  “Jesus,” Pisano said. “You can’t be serious. Judge, you let him out on $500,000 and the court of appeals will writ you so fast, the ink won’t have time to dry on the order.”

  I glanced at O’Conner. This was clearly the wrong thing to say. “You may not know this,” O’Conner said tightly, “but I spent nine years as a writs attorney for the court of appeals. Not once in those nine years did we ever second-guess a bail disposition.”

  Pisano knew he had lost, so he went for broke. “Always a first time, Judge.”

  “I have considered the bail request,” O’Conner said from the bench, “and based on discussion which I had with counsel in chambers, I will order bail. You’ll get your chance to make your record,” he said to Pisano, who had half-risen to his feet. “Bail will be set at $750,000.” A murmur went through the crowded court. They didn’t know the extra $250,000 was O’Conner’s cover-your-ass money. “With a number of conditions,” he continued. “Defendant will be relea
sed to his parents under the probation office’s home surveillance program. He will be required to wear an electronic monitor at all times and he will be confined to the family home. He will continue to receive psychological counseling. He will refrain from the use of any drugs, including alcohol, and he will be subject to random drug checks to test for compliance. He will obey all laws and comply with any terms of any earlier probation. His bail status will be reviewed at the preliminary hearing which will be,” he paused and glanced at his calendar, “in Division 59 before Judge Schrader. Now, Mr. Pisano.”

  “Tino,” I called at the boy walking ahead of me on the sidewalk. He slowed, glanced over his shoulder, then stopped to wait for me. Approaching him, I noticed how little he resembled his father. It was his mother he favored. In his blue suit and red tie, he might have been a first-year associate at a big firm; in fact, I’d heard he was in law school, at Southland University, a bastion of the children of privilege. Apparently, Gus had seen to it that his son would be spared the deprivations he had experienced.

  “Hello, Mr. Rios,” he said neutrally.

  “Call me Henry,” I told him. “I just wanted to thank you for talking to Carolina Ruiz this morning.”

  This wasn’t entirely true. I still itched about Michael’s relationship to Angela Peña and although Michael’s account had been plausible, I kept returning to Lonnie Davis’s description of them. He was, after all, impartial, whereas Michael might well have something to hide. It had occurred to me that if he had killed Peña, and it involved Angela, he would have reason to lie about her, to protect her.

  “That’s all right,” Tino said, relaxing. “I know it must be hard for her, having Mike in jail.”

  I was taken by the magnanimity of his tone. “Considering why Michael is in jail, you seem remarkably free of anger.”

  “Being mad at Mike’s not going to bring my dad back,” he said.

  “But you want justice done, don’t you?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you. I’ll probably be a witness. I was there, you know.”

  “I’m not going to ask you anything about that night,” I told him. “Can I walk with you for a minute?” Before he could answer, I took him by the elbow and started moving. “You’re in law school, I hear, at Southland.”

  “Yeah, just started.” We came to a red light.

  “In September?”

  He shook his head. “I transferred last quarter from Berkeley.”

  The light changed. “Where’s your car?”

  “Just around the corner.”

  “Boalt’s a good school,” I said. “Some would say better than Southland. Why’d you come back?”

  “After my dad’s—,” he hesitated, “accident up in Sacramento, I wanted to be close to my family.”

  “I can understand that,” I said, as we passed City Hall. “What did your parents think about Angela going out with Michael?”

  He stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “They knew, didn’t they?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Rios,” he said, politely, “but I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore.”

  “I understand, Tino. Just doing my job.”

  “Sure,” he said, and hurried away.

  When I got back to my office, I went through the investigation reports on Peña’s murder. Something Tino said had struck me as wrong. Sure enough, the report stated that only his mother and sister had been with Peña at dinner the night he was killed. Why had he lied? I called Freeman and asked him to check around, to see what he could find out about Angela and Michael, and on Tino’s whereabouts the night of the shooting.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AS IT HAPPENED, MICHAEL didn’t get out of county jail until the next morning because there was still the matter of his probation violation pending. Pisano had attempted to use the probation hold to keep Michael in jail until the prelim, but the judge who had imposed probation released him after conferring with Judge O’Conner. It was courageous of O’Conner to stand up for his bail decision; the media had slaughtered him for it. The district attorney, a tireless self-promoter, threatened to go all the way to the state supreme court to have the decision reversed. The city’s other politicians all lined up behind him, each taking their shots at O’Conner. As a consequence, I was not feeling particularly well-disposed toward elected officials as I drove downtown to meet Inez Montoya for lunch.

  On my way in, the phone rang. It was Freeman. “He was at school, in the library.”

  “Who?”

  “Peña’s son,” he said. “He took a call around eleven.”

  A thick layer of smog lay in the air, dissolving the gleaming spires of downtown.

  “Are you sure, Freeman?” I asked.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said.

  “Oh, well,” I said. “It was just a thought.” A man selling sacks of oranges at the intersection held one up and shook it hopefully in my direction. “What about the girl?”

  “She was with her dad,” he deadpanned.

  “Yes, I know that. What about her and Michael?”

  “She goes to that Catholic school out by the airport,” he said, “but lives at home. She’s got a couple of girlfriends, but as soon as I told them who I was, they clammed up. She does own a white Miata, though, if that helps.”

  “Anyone at SafeHouse remember seeing her with Michael?”

  “The director, what’s his name, Sweeny? Said he’d call the cops on me if I didn’t clear out.”

  “I’ll deal with him later,” I said. “What about Tino’s transfer from Berkeley? Was there any impropriety about it?”

  “It checks out,” he said. “I could go up there and ask around…” he said, dubiously.

  “No, I don’t think I could justify the expense. What about our gangbanger friend, Shorty?”

  “Still looking,” he said.

  “Sounds like a washout on every front,” I said.

  “Well, here’s something interesting,” he said. “A couple of weeks before Peña got killed one of the neighbors called the cops on him.”

  “Why?”

  “Domestic violence, it sounds like,” he said.

  “Any arrests?”

  “No, cops came up, were told it was nothing and left. But,” he continued, “I played a hunch and checked around the local hospitals. Mrs. Peña came in about three months ago, to St. Vincent’s. Some bruises. Some bleeding.” He cleared his throat. “She fell.”

  “Three months ago,” I said. “That would’ve been after Peña’s accident, after he supposedly sobered up. Who brought her in?”

  “The boy,” he said.

  I drove into Little Tokyo where I was meeting Inez, and left my car in a new parking structure that had been put up on the site of a sushi bar I’d frequented when I’d first come to LA. Back then, only a couple of years earlier, the storefronts lining this section of First Street had been quaintly shabby, little restaurants displaying plastic replicas of food. Redevelopment had set in, however, and Little Tokyo looked glossier by the moment. I crossed the street and went into the Far East Cafe, the only Chinese restaurant on the strip.

  She was waiting for me, in one of the enclosed wooden booths that lined the walls. A very old, very surly waiter slapped a greasy menu in front of me and asked me what I wanted to drink.

  “A Coke,” I told him. He twitched his nose in disapproval and scuttled off. “This is the worst Chinese food in town,” I told her.

  “My father used to bring me here,” she said, shrugging. “Anyway, the almond chicken’s not so bad.”

  “You wanted to see me,” I said.

  She smiled disarmingly, “You won’t like me when I tell you, so why don’t we order first.”

  The waiter returned with my Coke. Inez ordered, and he repeated each choice, muttering it caustically just under his breath, as he wrote it down.

  When he left, she said, “We’ve been friends for a long time, Henry.”

  “This is
going to be bad.”

  “Shut up and let me finish. I know I can talk frankly to you. Get off the Peña case.”

  This was brazen, even for Inez. “Why?”

  “It’s a bad career move, Henry. Look, the governor’s anxious to appoint Latinos to the bench before the next election. He’s been asking some of us for recommendations. Your name is on everyone’s list. It won’t be there for long if you insist on defending Gus Peña’s killer.”

  “What happened to presumption of innocence?”

  “This isn’t law, this is politics.” She dug a cigarette out of her purse. “You got the kid out on bail. You’ve done enough.”

  I looked at her for a moment, doing some political calculations of my own. “You going to run for Peña’s senate seat?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, irritably.

  “His widow’s endorsement would be helpful.”

  “I represent the same district he did,” she snapped. “I don’t need anyone’s endorsement.”

  “And of course, there’s Peña’s fund-raising machine,” I went on. “Extremely efficient, from what I hear.”

  Our waiter rolled a trolley over and laid plate after plate of greasy, gray food on the table between us.

  “And I don’t need his money,” she said.

  “But that would help, too. Did the Peña family ask you to talk to me, or was it his money men?”

  “When are you going to come in out of the cold, Henry?” She crushed her cigarette angrily. “You’re Chicano, you’re smart, you’re articulate. You could do a lot of good for a lot of people if you’d come into the tent instead of standing outside pissing on it.”

  “Listen, I’m your biggest fan, Inez. I hope you do become mayor, governor, whatever you want, but I’m not interested in it for myself. I saw what that kind of power did to Gus Peña, I can see what it’s doing to you.”

  “Do you? Well I have eyes, too, Henry. It’s not the power you’re afraid of. You’re afraid of what people whisper about you behind your back because you’re gay. Well, if you’re so damn proud of it, why don’t you fight for it? Take on the Peñas of the world. They don’t think you’re a man. Prove it to them.”