CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAUREEN
Trader picked up the phone. “Trader, this is Maureen up in sex crimes. I was told you are the officer of the day, and I have an old witness out in the Foyer who just walked in and wants to talk to me. I don’t have time. I am already late for court. Go to the fifth floor and he will be waiting outside. His name is Marty. He is solid. See what he wants and then let me know when I come back for the noon recess.” “Click” was the next thing he heard. Trader’s job that day was officer of the day. He sat at his desk and read misdemeanor police reports. When he finished the police report, he would determine what charges should go into a complaint against the defendant. Most of the complaints charged a DUI, or sometimes domestic violence, and sometimes petty theft. He would fill out the complaint with the charges against the defendant, sign it, and send it to the paralegals. He had a stack on his desk that day that was two feet high. They seemed to be all the same. The police reports said the officer contacted someone walking downtown. The citizen appeared under the influence of drugs and was arrested. Or the police stopped a vehicle, the driver appeared under the influence of alcohol, and were arrested. A guy exposed his genitals to some young girl. He was identified and arrested. Unrelated people doing the same thing in different parts of town. It was like the movie Ground Hog Day, but a lot more boring. He also waited for phone calls, and walk-ins by the public who wanted to talk to the D.A.’s office. He would hear what they had to say, and if the issue warranted further attention, he would alert the D.A. who was in the unit handling that kind of crime and transfer the call, or he would direct the person to the police department. Most of the time he took their telephone number and said someone would call them later. Trader welcomed the opportunity to leave his desk and go to the fifth floor. When he arrived at the fifth floor in the public waiting area there was only one person. He saw a man who seemed like a transient or a hobo. His face was well tanned brown with his beard stubble peppered with gray. His skin seemed leathery and his clothes were old and worn. Trader walked over to him and shook his hand.
“Hi! You must be Marty. My name is John Trader. Maureen is in court and could not see you. What can I help you with?” He saw that his hands were clean and he did not have any odor about him typical of the transients he often saw in court.
Marty asked, “Can we sit down and talk for a few minutes. I won’t take much of your time.”
“Sure,” responded Trader. He then moved with Marty to one of the closet sized interview rooms away from the public area of the fifth floor foyer. They went into the room and sat down. “Okay, Marty, what do we have?”
“Well,” said Marty, “I was over at the docks this morning and I saw a man shoot and kill another man in the Cargo area.”
“When did this happen. Is the dead man still there?” asked Trader, his voice picking up speed.
“About two and a half or three hours ago. The dead guy was there when I left,” replied Marty.
“Exactly where is it?” asked Trader.
“It is on Bell Road about 50 yards from the end of the dock. The gate was open to the cargo container area. I think you could walk right in, and the dead guy is in an alley between the containers.”
“Do you know who shot the dead man?” asked Trader.
“Yes, I recognized him,” replied Marty. “His name is Carlos Zelaya.”.
“Do you know who was shot?” asked Trader.
“I don’t know, but after Zelaya and a third man left, I went over and got his wallet, so that you can identify him.” Marty reached into his coat and handed Trader the wallet.
John picked up the in-house phone sitting on the desk. He spoke with the receptionist, “Hi, this is John Trader. Could you connect me with the police dispatch?” John looked at the contents of the wallet while he waited a few minutes for an answer. “Hello, dispatch. This is John Trader at the DA’s office. I just received a report of a shooting that occurred this morning about three hours ago on Bell Road, inside the Cargo Container yard about 50 yards from the dock. The dead victim is George Chavez, Hispanic Male, 32 years old, Five Feet Eleven inches. The shooter was a person identified as Carlos Zelaya. Please send a unit and report back to me. I have a witness in my office.”
Trader hung up the phone and turned to Marty.
“Marty, why didn’t you call 911 right after you saw the shooting?”
“I don’t have a cell phone. There are no more pay phones on the street like the old days,” replied Marty.
“Couldn’t you have asked someone to use their cell phone?” asked Trader.
“I’ve tried that before. It doesn’t work. I mean, look at me. People probably think I’m a hobo. No.” Marty paused for a moment. “They just turn away or say, ‘No.’”
“Ummm,” murmured John. “Okay, but why did it take you so long to get here?”
“I had to take three different buses, the 76, the 143, and the 531. It can take a long time when you haven’t planned your route, and I usually plan my route. I also had to wait about a half an hour downstairs because they couldn’t find Maureen right away. She is a really nice person.”
John looked at the wallet. It had traces of dried blood. “There seems to be blood on the wallet.”
“Yeh,” replied Marty. “They guy was bloody. I tried not to get blood on me, but I guess I got some. Sorry.”
“What were you doing out on Bell Road, Marty.”
“Not too much. I live over on 93rd avenue in a room. I rent it. I really can’t afford much, so I spend the days exploring. When I cash my Social Security Check, first thing I buy at the beginning of the month is my monthly bus pass. I used to spend it all on booze, but not anymore. I get the bus senior discount. Four or five days of the week I will go down to the bus stop near where I live. Usually I have a good idea of where I am going. Over the last few years I have gone just about everywhere the bus goes. I get off and walk around. I really have learned a lot about the city. Even though I have been to many different places, when I go back a year or so later, it has changed. It is always changing, sometimes good to bad, sometimes bad to good. The dock is a place where it has gone from good to bad. There used to be so much going on down there. A lot of ships came in. Cargo was loaded and unloaded. I often wondered what was in those Cargo Containers. Now the dock is boarded up or fenced off. I see a lot of drug sales going on, but no one bothers me. The airport has also changed over the last few years. It’s bigger, and there is a lot more traffic. The bus takes me right there. Sometimes I sit in the terminal and watch the people going somewhere with their suitcase, or briefcase. I wonder where they are going, and if they want to go, or if they have to go. Are they going to meet someone they love, or are they going to the funeral of their childhood friend. I let my mind’s eye take me to some of the places I think they are going. I know I’ll never go to those places, but it is an adventure in my mind. Sometimes when I go over to the east side of town, I see things that are not good. It even smells differently over there. It has gone from bad to worse over the years. I have seen some things. The dogs, the police, what people do in the rain, the naked ladies, the weddings, the churches. That’s what I was doing over on Bell Road.”
Trader’s phone rang and he picked it up. “John Trader.”
“John, this is Gladys in police dispatch. I have an officer on the radio who wants to be patched into you.”
“Okay,” replied John.
“D.A. Trader, this is Detective O’Reilly at the docks. Can you give me your extension and I will call you right away.”
“2418,” replied Trader.
“Roger, out!” said O’Reilly.
A few seconds later Trader’s phone rang again. “Trader, this is O’Reilly. I am at the container yard on Bell Road. We have not found a body, but we did find a large and very fresh blood pool. Forensics is here gathering evidence. That’s all we have from this end.”
Trader said, “I have a wallet from the victim that was given to me by a witness to the s
hooting. It has blood on it. The wallet has a driver’s license for a guy named George Chavez. The witness says he recognized the shooter as a guy named Carlos Zelaya. If you could send someone by to take a statement from the witness and pick up the wallet then I can turn the whole thing over to you.”
Detective O’Reilly responded, “I will have another detective come over to the D.A.’s office right away. What floor are you on.”
“The fifth,” said Trader.
“We are familiar with Zelaya,” said O’Reilly. “He is a fairly important street boss in the drug trade. He is associated with a gang that controls this area. Chavez we know too. He is a small time drug distributor. If your witness holds up, and the blood comes back to Chavez, we’ll put a BOL on Zelaya. We would really like to get this guy. He is bad. He shoots people, or has them shot. Nothing sticks, so far. He has a slick lawyer. Also, keep your witness under wraps. Zelaya has a history of intimidating witnesses.”
Trader took Marty out into the Public Area and told him an officer would be back shortly.
About four PM Maureen called. “John, did you talk to Marty.”
“Yeah. He witnessed a shooting over by the docks. The cops found a blood pool, no body, but Marty could I.D. the shooter. Who is this Marty guy, anyway?”
Maureen said, “We spent a lot of time together on a rape case two years ago that he witnessed. He used to be an accountant twenty or more years ago. He had a wife and two kids and a big home. One day while backing out of the driveway he ran over and killed one of his children. He never recovered from that. He started drinking. He lost his job, his wife divorced him. The years went by, and his one daughter stopped talking to him. No one could blame her. He was a drunk. He started a job playing piano at one of the bars in town, but he couldn’t even hold onto that. He became a transient, spending nights in the shelters and days with a bottle of whatever he could beg, borrow or steal. About five years ago, he just stopped drinking. He told me he just got tired of it. Since then he rents a room and spends his days traveling the city by bus. He has been all over the city. Apparently made friends in different parts of town. He was a solid witness in my case. The rapist was convicted in thirty minutes. Whatever he told you, you can take it to the bank.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JAX
“I can't breathe.”
----Barton Herbert, who spent decades in an iron lung, when he was asked by a child why he was in the iron lung.
"Good morning from KCBS,” said the female voice. “I'm Kay Riesling.” A male voice followed, “and I'm Gary Lesh. It's five AM and it is a cold day in our great city. It is close to freezing right now, and it looks like we have a slight chance of a rainy day---"
Slam! Jax hit the snooze button on the alarm clock with such force it was as if he was hoping to cause permanent damage. He realized he shouldn't be blaming the alarm for his pounding headache and nausea, but it seemed appropriate at the time. He turned over and saw a naked girl lying next to him, who he didn't immediately recognize, and his head started pounding with a vengeance. "Was that last shot of Tequila really necessary? I'm an idiot!" He scolded himself. He ran to the bathroom and dry heaved to the point it felt as if his intestines were going to come right up. Great ab workout though. He thought to himself that he should mention this to his trainer. The naked girl stirred and Jax didn't want to have to deal with this right now. He splashed some water on his face, grabbed some scrubs from the closet and left a note that he had to go to early surgery. "Thanks for last night, I'll call you." So cliché. Such a lie. He would have asked her to lock up when she leaves, but he was actually going to be waiting outside until she left so he could head back inside and crash. He didn't actually have a job to go to anymore. The hospital told him he no longer had physician privileges at their facility. But the girl didn't know that. Hell, no one outside of his partner knew it - the standard line given to his patients at the hospital was that he had "personal time after a death in the family." No one needed to know the "death in the family" was nine years ago or that the "personal time" meant "fired". His mom wouldn't be surprised if she found out. Her bright shining star of a son had failed before. Letting her down was easy, especially when you messed up all the time. Her big heart refused to stop loving him, even if he broke it again and again. Dad had been gone from the house for years, barely acknowledging their existence anymore. His dad focused more on the Price is Right and Wheel of Fortune, at least from what Aunt Anne told us. So much had changed, so much had been lost, and there was no way to get any of it back.
Jax waited at the bus stop shelter a block away. It was a brisk morning and he felt the chill through the thin cotton scrubs. There were no cars on this thinly traveled street and he waited quietly alone, watching the front door of his apartment house.
A van pulled up to the bus stop and the passenger side window lowered. A man inside said, “Are you a Doctor?”
Jax replied, “Yes, I am.” The passenger door of the van opened and a man got out. The first thing Jax noticed was a very large automatic pistol hanging from the right hand of the passenger, whose dark wavy hair and short beard made him appear sinister.
“Get in the back,” he said. The van's sliding door opened. Jax was petrified. He could not run. He could hardly move, and could not scream for help. The passenger pushed Jax into the van, and the man in the back closed the door. On the floor Jax saw a man lying with blood on his shirt, conscious, but clearly in pain. In a weak voice the man on the floor said, “Help me. I can't breathe.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HOT CAR
“Weather forecast for tonight: dark.”
--George Carlin
Monday morning, Trader received ten new files slated to go the shake-out or trial that morning in Judge Crawford’s department. John read through them quickly before heading over to the courtroom. He recognized some of the cases that he had issued on one of the many rotations he had as officer of the day. He looked forward to the shake-out. He felt comfortable going to trial on the cases he carried to court. There were six DUI’s, three drug influence cases, and one misdemeanor child abuse where a woman left her child in a car while she went shopping at Wal Mart. The shake-out proceeded and Judge Crawford officiated the dialogue between the defense attorneys, the Public Defenders and Prosecutors. At the end Judge Crawford said, “Well, Mr. Trader, it looks like you have another case that is going to trial today. Your offer to settle was not appropriate. The child was not injured, the mother was only gone into Wal Mart for twenty minutes, and she has no prior record. Some counseling on child care, followed by a dismissal would have settled the case. Mr. Jacoby here told us his client would accept that offer.”
John responded, “Yes, your honor, but this case was last Summer. It was ninety-five degrees outside, and about one hundred degrees inside the car. The police had to break a window to get the child out. Also, the defendant has a misdemeanor arrest, I think it was shoplifting. She was given diversion counseling and when she completed that, she got the case dismissed. She has had one break, so I don’t see a reason to give her another break now.”
“A window was cracked,” said Crawford. “There was sufficient ventilation in the car, and I think you’re going to have a tough time in my courtroom. We’ll see you both at one thirty. Be prepared for your in limine motions and jury selection.”
At one-thirty Trader waited in the courtroom. The defendant was a fat thirty year old woman dressed in a sweatshirt, and she wore flip-flop sandals. Her hair was disheveled and she wore no makeup. She sat next to Jacoby while they waited for the Judge to enter the courtroom. Trader had his computer template of general in limine motions that he had tailored to this case during the lunch hour. He had filed them with the clerk immediately upon entering the courtroom. At 1:30 sharp, Judge Crawford entered the courtroom. The bailiff, the court clerk, the court recorder, Jacoby and his client and Trader were the only ones in the courtroom. When the Judge sat in his black oversized chair the bailiff said, “Be seat
ed.” The Judge looked at Trader. “What motions do you have, Mr. Trader.”
John stood up. “I have filed with the court my in limine motions. I have given a copy to the defense. I would like a list from the defense of all witnesses they intend to call at this trial. I would like to insure that the defense has complied with all discovery issues, including statements by witnesses the defense intends to call to trial, a list of all exhibits the defense intends to present at trial, including any photos the defense may have. Also, I will want any witnesses excluded from the courtroom until their testimony.” Excluding witnesses who were slated to testify was typical in any trial. If they were not excluded, they could conform their testimony with any other friendly witnesses who had testified before them. Unfortunately, he could not have the defendant excluded. Defendants were usually the last to testify in any trial, after the prosecution’s witnesses and all of the defendant's witnesses. The defendant could tailor his testimony to be consistent will all of his friendly witnesses.
Crawford turned to Jacoby. “Mr. Jacoby?”
Misdemeanor Trials Page 8
