Misdemeanor Trials

by Milton Schacter

  He said there were six deputy district attorneys in the office and that during the first year he was in court trying one of the many homicide cases that occurred among the migrant farm workers who traveled up and down the Central Valley during the harvest season, oftentimes transporting drugs to various parts of the state as mules. The mules would screw up, not make a delivery, pocket some of the sales money, or skim drugs or money, and then die for what they did. It was a dangerous place, and he was convicting dangerous people. He said he never slept a full night when he was a prosecutor. He went to work every day frightened of the uncertainty of trial and the outcomes, and that it was the most intense period in his life as a lawyer. After three years at Tulare he was offered a position by Hoge, Fenton, and Dubert. His voice then changed, the smile left his face, and he looked at John in the deadpan conservative way John had learned was the stock in trade of private attorneys. The Partner said he had been at Hoge Fenton for twenty years now.

  In the two other law firms that John interviewed, he asked the history of everyone he spoke to. Wherever someone had been a deputy district attorney, the same thing happened. They smiled, a glint appeared in their eye, and they beamed for the few moments they reminisced. John then interviewed with a few district attorney offices. He found the smile, the glint and the energy was there from the beginning to the end of the interview.

  “Yes, I did receive an offer. But I want to work for the District Attorney's Office,” replied John, not mentioning at half the salary, but only if you survived probation.

  Crandon said, “In this office we have to deal with a lot of low lifes. You will see people in the criminal justice system who don’t understand it. You'll be dealing with minorities who don't speak the language well, if at all, and people who would slit your throat and take your wallet without a second thought. These people have a much diminished sense of consequences, and their view of the future is a week or maybe two weeks, sometimes only days. On their refrigerators they have calendars that show a week, not a month. Most probably don't have calendars. Most of them probably don't have refrigerators. They miss court dates because they are under the influence, or hung over, or just slept late because they don't have jobs. Do you think you could deal with these people?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied John. “As long as I don't have to deal with their clients.”

  Crandon smiled. “When could you start work?”

  John thought of his one presentable suit, his small rented house and the student loan that he would have to start paying in less than a month. John looked at his watch. “I'm not busy the rest of the day.”

  “Okay. We start here at eight AM. On Monday report to the sixth floor and ask for Naomi. She'll take you to the team where you'll be assigned initially.”

  “Where would that be?” asked John.

  “Misdemeanor Trials,” said Crandon.

  John stood up, shook Crandon's hand, and Crandon said “Nice tie.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WOUNDS

  “Time does not heal all wounds. Time covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens, but is never gone.”

  --Rose Kennedy

  At 8:00 AM Trader sat across from the desk of Naomi Ledbetter, training supervisor at the District Attorney's Office. Ledbetter's neat and clean desk was gray metal, placed against one side of a small cubicle with walls about five feet tall. She was rather matter of fact, and dressed in a plain sweater covering her plump body. “Welcome to the office, Mr.Trader. Normally we give five days of orientation and training, but we are especially shorthanded so I am going to send you right away to Tom in Misdemeanor Trials. Follow me, I will show you your cubicle, and then I will introduce you to Tom. He is five cubicles down, and he has a ten inch American flag above the wall. Honestly, I think he needs it to find his cubicle. Let's go.”

  Ledbetter took John to a cubicle that was done in government green. “This is your cubicle. Don't forget where it is.” Ledbetter continued to talk as they walked to the elevator. “Cases are handed out by the paralegals, paychecks are picked up at the receptionist’s desk, and there is a special number to call if you are sick.”

  Tom Benton's cubicle was disordered, the opposite of Ledbetter's tidy cubicle. Tan folders stamped in two inch letters with “District Attorney” were stacked on his desk and on the credenza. The floor was stacked with boxes filled with files. Ledbetter introduced Trader and left. Benton told Trader to sit, but there was nowhere to sit. The one visitor chair in the cubicle was stacked with files. Benton told Trader, “Put the files on the floor and I will be with you in just a minute.” After a few minutes, Benton closed the file he was looking through and put it on top of a stack on his desk. “I have ten files here with cases that are assigned for trial in Judge Crawford's courtroom this morning at ten.”

  “I haven't done a trial. I just started this morning,” said John.

  “You're a lawyer now. Trials are what you do. But you won't have a problem this morning. Basically you'll be going to a shakeout in the Judge's chambers. You will make plea bargain offers and hopefully settle. If there are any unresolved cases at the end of the shakeout, the Judge normally will take the oldest case and begin the trial this afternoon. Offers are written in the file. If the case settles, there is a list of things necessary to cover on a change of plea, and you can use the checklist in the file to make sure you and the Judge have covered it all. Generally the Judge does everything. You just have to make sure it is all done correctly. If you have any cases left over that you have not settled, witnesses have been notified and subpoenaed by the girls, but odds are you won't go to trial since the Judge takes the oldest case first, and these cases I am giving you are relatively recent. Call Melinda if you have a case for trial, and she will notify the witnesses when to appear.”

  Benton handed Trader the stack of files. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

  “Who is Melinda?” asked John.

  “She is the paralegal near reception by the elevator wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Tell her who you are on the way out. Anything else?” asked Benton.

  “Yes,” said Trader. “Where is the courthouse?”

  “Oh, shit,” said Benton. “Are we in real trouble.”

  Trader left Benton's office with the stack of District Attorney files, still unsure where the courthouse was. Benton called after him, “I will send someone over in the afternoon who can give you some guidance in case you are sent to trial. Good luck.”

  Trader walked over to his assigned cubicle to spend the next hour reading the files. The cubicle was Spartan with a metal desk, a phone, a computer terminal and two chairs, one for him and one probably to stack files on. He had brought his own pen. The files had police reports and witness lists on the right side, and an offer to settle was penciled in the left hand side right next to the forensic laboratory reports, if there were any. There was also a chronology of court pretrial hearings and notes by attorneys who had handled the file previously. He had six DUI files, one possession of alcohol by a minor, two spousal abuse files, and one indecent exposure file. Trader started to read the files. It seemed to him that the DUI cases were straightforward. The defendant was seen driving in a strange way, and the cop pulled him over. The driver smelled of alcohol, the cop gave him a balance test and then took a breath sample. The lab reports said that all the drivers had alcohol in their system that was more than the .08% legal limit. The police reports didn't read exactly like that, but Trader was getting used to the language already. The driver was the perpetrator, or perp. The car, referred to as the vehicle, was typically weaving within the lane or over the lane lines. The police described how they, or the “perp,” “exited the vehicle” instead of got out of the car. The officer then “administered” field sobriety tests and diagrammed the results in the police reports.

  After an hour of reviewing the files, at six minutes each, he felt completely unprepared and uninformed. He grabbed the files and headed toward the elevator on his floor. He wait
ed at the elevator with six or seven other persons, all dressed in business suites with serious looks on their faces, carrying several files. They were relatively young, with intelligent looks, and appeared confident and focused. When the elevator arrived, he was the last one on. He listened to the quiet chit-chat of the others in the elevator, as they spoke about the courtroom they were going to, about the cases they were handling that day, and the results of their most recent trial, along with some pointed criticisms of the judges. He heard one person say they were going to Crawford's courtroom. He was tempted to turn around so he would know who to follow. When the doors opened, he exited quickly, stepped to the side, let the other lawyers pass. He then fell in behind and followed them on the short walk to the mysterious Hall of Justice where the courtroom caves with demons dressed in black robes waited to eat him alive.

  At the door to the Hall of Justice, the line was long, populated by people Trader thought looked like criminals. They were waiting to go through the metal detectors. There were fat guys, with multiple tattoos on their arms. John wondered if they thought the tattoos made them attractive, or possibly more attractive. There were several ladies dressed in CFM heeled shoes, with straps and dresses, plunging necklines and very thin material that looked more appropriate for a bar, or a bridesmaid. There was another line that was for prospective jurors. They were generally nicely dressed, short hair for the men and nicely arranged hair for the women. There were no tattoos or sexy dresses. The attorneys who he was following headed for a third line that moved quickly. No attorney had to go through a metal detector and the deputy waved them through. When Trader approached the deputy stopped him.

  “I don't recognize you. Do you have a Bar Card?”

  “No,” said John. “It hasn't been mailed to me yet. I'm a new D.A.”

  “Sorry,” said the Deputy, “You'll have to go through the metal detector.”

  John took his place at the end of the line, by now 20 deep, holding his files as he moved half-step at a time, closer to the metal detector. When he arrived, he was handed a plastic box. “In here,” said the Deputy. Trader undid his belt, pulled off his watch, took the pens from his coat pocket, took out his wallet and then patted himself to see if he had forgotten anything. When he walked through the metal detector, the alarm sounded.

  “Please step forward and raise your arms,” said the deputy. With a bored expression the deputy began to waive the wand over Trader's arms and body. The wand sounded an alarm multiple times. “Are you sure you emptied all of your pockets?” asked the Deputy.

  “Yes,” said Trader.

  “Do you have metal in your body?” asked the Deputy.

  “Yes,” said Trader.

  “Implants?” asked the deputy.

  “No,” said Trader. “Shrapnel.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CRAWFORD

  “Justice brings closure, not fairness.”

  --Nicole Simpson

  Trader walked to the Hall of Justice directory next to the elevators and looked for Judge Crawford's courtroom. There were courtroom numbers one through twelve and a Judge's name, but no indication of which floor the courtrooms were located. Trader knew this was the best guidance the government could give. It was evident that there were no incentives for any judge to have anyone find out where their courtroom was. If people found them, it meant work, or they would have to make a decision, or they would have to put on that black dress they called a robe. He must have appeared bewildered because he heard a female voice behind him ask, “Are you going to Crawford's courtroom?”

  Trader turned, and his elbow brushed up against the soft and forgiving feel of a woman's breast. He saw her and she looked at him at that moment, and a pleasant warm rush of excitement went through his body, and he knew that if he ever in his life blushed, it was probably now. She looked up at the elevator and said, “Follow me. He is on the third floor. I'm going there too.” She paused for a moment and said, “You must be one of the new D.A.s. Welcome to the Zoo.”

  Trader saw a well-dressed business suit, hiding a slightly cherubic body. Her hair was long and brown, and broke at her shoulders. She had a face with a small nose, dark eyes, perfect mouth, and, to Trader's own sense of silliness, a beckoning smile.

  “Thanks. I am,” said John.

  “In Crawford’s courtroom, it's probably a good idea to just keep quiet. We will go to his chambers with a bunch of other lawyers. He will call your case. You spell out the proposal. He will do the rest. Usually he hammers us to change our offer, but it is the Public Defenders, and most of the private attorneys who will cave. If they don’t, the Public Defender or the judge will continue the case. You don’t really have to do much except note the results in the file. If not, get set for a trial starting today. Crawford moves fast.”

  Trader followed her out of the elevator as they walked to a courtroom. When they entered, the room was empty except for the Bailiff. He barely looked up from a book he was reading and said, “Go on back. Most everyone is here.” They walked past the short wooden gate in the courtroom that separated the spectator’s area from the judges platform, and the empty jury chairs. The wooden gate was in history referred to as “the bar”. He was now a lawyer and had the right to pass the bar. They walked through a door at the side and in the back of the courtroom, where a judge would typically enter the courtroom. They turned down a short hallway where the inner sanctum of the Judge’s chambers was. This was a new and mysterious place for John, and he felt that he was truly in the mix of where law and justice gathered in the backrooms of the courthouse. He entered the judge’s chambers through a door marked with Judge Crawford's name. There were seven or eight attorneys who sat, or stood, surrounding a long table where Judge Crawford sat, addressing an attorney on a case. He looked up and nodded, “Good morning, Cody.” Well, at least Trader now knew her name.

  Cody said, “Good morning, Judge.”

  Trader sat down and watched as the Judge went through each case. It was just as Cody told him. Finally Crawford said, “Who has the Martinez case?” A smallish bearded lawyer responded that it was his case. Trader said, “I have that case, Judge.”

  “Who are you?” asked Crawford.

  “I’m John Trader. I am from the D.A.s office.”

  “What is your offer, counselor?” said Crawford.

  Trader looked in the file and repeated the offer written in the margins. “Six days in jail, three years probation, Level two DUI classes, and statutory fines and fees.”

  The Public Defender responded, “If you could reduce probation to two years we would take it.”

  Without thinking, Trader responded, “No.”

  Crawford said, somewhat sternly, “It is not uncommon for two years of probation in this kind of case. Your objective here should be to settle these cases, get them off the calendar, so we can get to the cases that deserve to be in trial.” Trader did not know how to respond. He disguised his inquiring look over at Cody, but she had her head in her file and the other attorneys had a glazed look in their eye, waiting only for their cases, or talking quietly among themselves.

  Trader thought for a moment. The defendant, Martinez, had a blood alcohol content of .13 and was staggering when asked to “exit the vehicle” by the highway patrol. He could not even come close on the Field Sobriety Tests, could not find the line to walk on, not to mention he could not walk it, and admitted he had several Long Island Iced Teas. “Thank you, Judge, but that is the offer,” said Trader.

  “Ms. Jones,” said Crawford as he looked in Cody's direction. “Mr. Trader needs some guidance on how to settle these cases. Maybe you should give him some help.”

  “Your honor,” said Cody Jones, “Mr. Trader has decision making power over his own cases. I have no influence.”

  Now John knew her name was Cody Jones.

  Crawford looked at the Public Defender. “It's your move.”

  “Okay,” said the smallish, bearded public defender, whose one brown sock and one blue sock set hi
m off from the rest of the rather well dressed attorneys. “I will take it to my client. I think he will settle.”

  A few more cases were called. There was a settlement offered by the D.A. and typically accepted by the defense attorney. Attorneys left the chambers as their case files were dealt with. Finally only Trader and the smallish, bearded Public Defender remained in the room.

  “I guess we have only the Hernandez indecent exposure case that has not settled. Mr. Trader, I think you should give your position some thought over lunch. Remember your case will be tried in front of twelve people who are not smart enough to get out of Jury Duty. Be back at 1:30, we’ll select a jury and get moving on this case,” said Crawford.

  Trader left the Judge’s chambers. He had no idea how to conduct a trial, select a jury or present evidence. The only actual courtroom experience he had was from reruns of Perry Mason, L.A. Law, The Good Wife, and vague references during law school of the actual mechanics of a trial. He could feel the drops of perspiration dripping down, inside his shirt, from his armpits. It was odd, Trader thought, that he had never perspired in the Military from anything except the heat. But today, it was a different story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  VANESSA

  “I've always been fascinated by the theft of innocence.....it should be a capital crime.”

  ---Clint Eastwood

  When trader returned from Crawford's courtroom, Tom Benton gave him minimal guidance on how to conduct a trial. He told Trader to sit at the table in the courtroom that was closest to the Jury Box. He told John that the Judge would tell him to conduct Voir Dire, where each attorney was allowed to ask questions of prospective jurors. During Voir Dire Benton told him he should ask each juror if he or she could be fair, and that was all. He said the Public Defender will ask many questions which will give Trader enough information about each potential juror so that he could challenge or excuse any juror he felt would be too biased against the Prosecution. Benton said, “If you are asked by the Judge if you want to excuse a juror, say, ‘The Prosecution would thank and excuse juror number whatever’. After the jury is selected and the judge reads the pretrial instruction to them, be ready to give the jury your opening statement.” In this case the victim was a 15 year old girl who saw the defendant get out of his car on a residential street, and expose his penis while she was walking home from school. Benton told him he should call the victim to the witness stand. The clerk will swear her in. Benton told John to have the girl identify herself, then ask her what happened on the day of the crime and to make sure she identified the defendant as the person who exposed himself. After that tell the Judge you have no further questions. Benton told Trader that when the Public Defender was finished with cross examination, he would have the opportunity for redirect examination and he could clear up any discrepancies or inconsistencies brought up by the defense attorney.