by Michael Nava
“There’s a funeral going on here,” I said. “You might show some respect.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“The police have been called. You should leave,” I replied.
He lowered his sunglasses. His eyes were copper-colored and beautiful. “What’s your name, pendejo.”
“Rios.”
“Turn off the fucking music,” he said to the driver. The music stopped. He looked at me. “I just came to pay my respects to my cuz.”
“Pete Trujillo was your cousin? You must be Butch.”
He smiled. “Hey, the pendejo knows me. I’m famous all over town.” He peered past me. “Is that little Angelito I see?” He shouted. “Angel! Come here, hijo. It’s your Tío Butch.”
“Let’s leave Angel out of this,” I said.
“Who are you, man? For real.”
“I’m his real uncle and his mother’s lawyer.”
“Vicky? Yeah, I heard she smoked ole Pete. I didn’t know the puta had it in her.”
“You the guys who vandalized Pete’s coffin?”
He looked at me disbelievingly. “What? Someone vandalized Pete’s coffin?” Then, in a perfect imitation of Claude Rains in Casablanca, he said, “I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you.” He giggled. “Man I just come to pay my respects to my primo.”
I spat on the ground. “That’s what you can do with your respects. Get out of here.”
The light seemed to go out of his eyes as his hand went to his waistband, parting his shirt to reveal the barrel of a semiautomatic.
“I’ll leave when I’m ready, puto.”
“You look like a guy with at least two strikes—you really want to go for a third?”
I took a step back from the car, ready to hit the ground, but in the distance came the sound of an approaching siren.
“Fuck,” he said. “Drive.” He looked at me. “You’re lucky, asshole. Ask Vicky.”
The car pulled a U-turn on the grass over grave markers and sped out of the cemetery. When the police arrived a few minutes later, Angel, Socorro Cerda and I were the only ones left. We walked her to her car and I asked her how Jesusita was.
“The same,” she said. “Thank you for talking to Mr. Sola.”
I opened the door for her, and after she got in, leaned into the window so that Angel couldn’t hear and said, “Why did Butch vandalize Pete’s coffin?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. She looked terrified. “I’m sorry.”
I let her go.
Kim Pearsall’s office was about the size of a holding cell and almost as bleak. The windowless gray walls were bare except for the picture hooks left by the last tenant. His desk—the usual battered government issue—was covered with case files. The bookshelf behind him held paperback editions of various legal codes. Atop the bookshelf was a framed picture of a lovely young woman standing on a balcony with the Eiffel Tower in the background. The only other personal item in the room was his screen saver, which showed a little boy splashing in the surf.
“Your son?” I asked, facing him across his desk.
He glanced at his monitor. “Yeah. Derek.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s three. Quite the little dude.”
Pearsall appeared even younger than in court. His suit coat was draped over the back of his chair, and beneath his baggy shirt were the lines of an athletic young body. His fair hair was ragged around the edges and looked soft as cornsilk. He had the clear skin and straight white teeth of a rich boy. I couldn’t imagine why he was working here instead of some Westside mega-firm.
“You been out of law school, what, a year or two?”
He frowned. “Come on, dude, don’t try to play head games with me.”
“No, I’m curious. I could see you at a firm, not working for the D.A.”
He shrugged. “I want to do environmental law. The office has got one of the best environmental enforcement units in the country.”
“So they put you out here to clean up the streets of Hollywood.”
“I’ve got to pay my dues,” he said. “Put in my time.”
“How are you liking it?”
He grinned. “It’s a trip. So, you want to talk about a deal?”
“I want to talk about my client’s statement to the police,” I said. “Had you listened to the tape before the prelim?”
He gulped. “Like, minutes before.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said. “But you do realize that you’re screwed? She asked for her lawyer and they continued to question her anyway. Clear Miranda violation.”
“Come on, Mr. Rios—”
“Henry,” I said.
“Henry, she asked for her uncle.”
“That would be me. Asking for her uncle in this case was the same as invoking her right to counsel.”
“How were the cops supposed to know you were a lawyer?”
“Kim, she told them,” I said.
“After she copped to shooting her husband.”
“They didn’t give her a chance to explain before then,” I said. “You listened to the tape. They scarcely gave her a chance to catch her breath. That’s coercion.”
“I got an argument,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Rich boy or not, he had behaved decently when I needed to continue the prelim to take care of Angel, so I leveled with him.
“I know. You’ve got a pretty good argument. The cops wouldn’t have known that, when she asked for her uncle, she was asking for her lawyer until she was finally able to make the connection. At that point, however, the cops were required to discontinue questioning, and they didn’t. That in itself might piss off a judge enough to throw out the entire statement.”
He nodded. “Depends on the judge.”
“We drew Pat Ryan,” I said. “She’s extremely intelligent and she bends over backward to be fair, but when she has a little wiggle room, she usually gives the benefit of the doubt to the defense. I figure I’ve got at least a fifty-fifty chance with her of getting the statement suppressed, which leaves you with nothing. You don’t have to take my word about her. Ask around in your office.”
“I already did,” he said. “I know her rep. Even if she suppressed the confession, I can still use it to impeach your client when she testifies.”
“Why would I even put her on?”
“I listened to you at the prelim. You have to put her on to prove self-defense.”
“I don’t have to prove anything, Kim. You’re the one who has to connect her to the shooting. Without her confession, all you’ve got is my client in the room with a dead body.”
“One, the dead body is her husband; two, she’s been beaten up; and, three, the cops get there within five minutes of the shooting,” he said. “That’s solid circumstantial evidence that she did him.”
“Maybe in Bolivia. It’s not going to impress a jury in downtown Los Angeles. Plus, Fitzgerald is an asshole of the old school. There will be black and brown jurors. All I need to do is breathe the word ‘Ramparts’ while he’s on the stand and I’ll hang the jury.”
“Ramparts isn’t relevant.”
“Not legally relevant, but I’ll get it in, Kim, I promise. Look, this is my family and I’ll fight as dirty as I have to.”
My intensity seemed to take him aback. “What are you looking for?”
“She pleads to involuntary manslaughter and does the minimum. Two years.”
“No way, dude,” he said. “She can plead to voluntary and do the midterm.”
“Six years? Forget it. She pleads to voluntary and does the low term. Three years.”
“She pleads to voluntary, we agree to a midterm cap and submit to the judge whether to give her the low term,” he said. “That’s my final offer.”
The words rolled off his tongue so smoothly I knew he had rehearsed it, like a used car salesman practicing his pitch. Still, it was a very fair offer. Six years max with a possibility of no more than three
. If there was any judge in the system who might be persuaded to sentence on the low end in this case, it was Judge Ryan. With a three-year sentence, Vicky would be out in eighteen months. The alternative was to press on, litigate the suppression issue and go to trial. Fifty-fifty were good odds, but this was one case I really did not want to lose, and even though I had belittled Pearsall’s evidence, if he got past the suppression motion, he could get a second-degree conviction and Vicky would be looking at a minimum of twenty years. A potential twenty years versus a possible eighteen months. This was a no-brainer.
“I’ll want a full-scale sentencing hearing,” I said.
“Yeah, sure. We’ll take the plea and send her out for a presentence report.”
“I want you to stipulate that the confession was illegally obtained.”
He opened his mouth in dismay. “What? Why?”
“It’ll make it easier for the judge to justify sentencing Vicky to the low term if the cops were dirty.”
“You want me to stipulate that the cops violated her constitutional rights?”
“This is the LAPD we’re talking about, Kim. It would be shocking if they hadn’t violated her rights.”
He swiveled back in his chair and pretended to mull it over, but as he had already given away the store, throwing in the key to the front door would hardly make any difference. “I’ll only stipulate for sentencing.”
“That’s all I’m asking for.” I stood up. “We can advance the case to the end of the week to take the plea. I’ll take care of that.”
“Thanks,” he said. He extended his hand.
“I want to apologize about losing it with you in arraignment court,” I said, sealing the deal with a handshake.
He shrugged. “It’s like you said, it’s family. I don’t take it personally. Hell, I’d do the same.”
From the courthouse I went to the jail, where I met with Vicky to explain the deal I had worked out for her. When I asked to see her, the desk officer informed me that she had a visitor.
“This is important,” I said, wondering who her visitor could be. “I’m her attorney.”
“Wait here,” he said. He went back to the jail. A couple of minutes later, he returned with Reverend Ortega. “She’s only allowed one visitor at a time. You two work it out.”
“Señor Rios,” Ortega said, reaching out his hand.
“Reverend,” I replied. “I’m sorry to interrupt your visit with my niece, but I have to discuss her case with her.”
He nodded. “Of course. I will come back tonight.”
“You visit her often?”
“Every day,” he said. “She is one of my—” he seemed to be translating in his head from Spanish to English. “¿Como se dice ‘manada’?”
“Sorry, I don’t really speak Spanish.”
“Baaah,” he said, screwing up his face. “Baah.”
“Sheep? Flock?”
“Sí sí. Flock.” He smiled. “¿No hablas español?”
“Not much, I understand some.”
The sheep imitation was pretty cute, and it occurred to me he might also have a homey appeal to Judge Ryan at Vicky’s sentencing hearing, as long as his Christianity wasn’t of the fire-and-brimstone persuasion.
“Reverend Ortega, I’d like to talk to you about maybe coming to court for Vicky as a character witness. You understand?”
“Yes, I have testified before,” he said. He smiled. “You come to my church on Sunday with Angelito, and after the service, we talk. Ten o’clock. Okay?”
He had me trapped, so I agreed.
Although she tried not to show it, I sensed that Vicky was disappointed to exchange Reverend Ortega’s company for mine. The moment of ease we had shared at the prelim seemed to have dissipated, so I got down to business and explained the deal.
“I don’t understand. How much time in prison?” she asked when I finished.
“No more than six years, maybe as little as three,” I said, “but with the time you’ve already spent in jail and with good behavior credits, it would be more like four years at the most, maybe as little as a year and a half. I know the judge we’re going to be in front of. She’ll be sympathetic to your story. I think I could persuade her to be lenient.”
“Four years,” she said softly.
Her face had healed and she looked very young. I remembered she was not yet thirty, and four years, if it came to that, would be a long stretch.
“You don’t have to take the deal,” I said. “We can go to trial. We might do a little better.”
“I’ll take the deal,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“You won’t let Angel forget me?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’ll take the deal. What happens now?”
“We’ll go back to court on Friday and you’ll plead guilty, and then in a week or so we’ll have a sentencing hearing. You’ll testify about how Pete abused you. I’m going to ask Reverend Ortega to testify, and probably some other people, to show the judge that you acted to protect yourself and Angel. Then she’ll sentence you and you’ll start your time.”
“Where?”
“That will depend on the Department of Corrections, but probably at the women’s prison over in Riverside County. It’s a couple of hours from here. I could bring Angel to see you a couple of times a week”
Her eyes welled up.
“Are you sure you want to plead?”
“I’m sure,” she whispered.
I had planned to tell her about Pete’s funeral and my encounter with Cousin Butch, but this did not seem to be the moment. I reached across the table and held her hand, hoping to console her but conscious, as I always was with her, that I was not what she wanted.
“All rise. Department forty-seven is now in session, the Honorable Patricia Ryan presiding.”
Patricia Ryan was a tall, beautiful woman about whom many stories were told, some of them true. Allegedly, a successful producer of TV legal dramas had met her at a dinner party and become so smitten that he offered to build an entire series around her. She was occasionally approached for her autograph by tourists under the impression that she was Diahann Carroll or Diana Ross. She didn’t really look like either entertainer, but she naturally radiated the kind of glamour that Hollywood spent millions to create. She was also one of the fairest and brightest judges on the bench, the only one whom I could have imagined on the U.S. Supreme Court. In her mid-fifties, she was still young enough for that to be a possibility, and just that morning the legal newspaper had carried the announcement of her nomination to the Ninth Circuit.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “Please be seated. Hello, Mr. Rios, it’s been awhile. Good to see you.”
“You, too, Your Honor. Congratulations on your nomination to the Court of Appeal.”
She made a wry face. “Thanks, but at the rate the Senate is confirming the president’s nominations, this may turn out to be a posthumous appointment.” She glanced down at her file. “We’re here for trial setting on People versus Trujillo.” She looked at Vicky. “Good morning, Mrs. Trujillo.”
“Good morning, Your Honor,” Vicky said, awestruck. “Thank you.”
The judge smiled. “For what?”
“Seeing me,” my niece said.
It was exactly the right thing to say. The judge nodded. “People can get lost in the system, but not in my court. I understand from my clerk that you’ve worked out a plea on this case. Is that right, Mr. Pearsall?”
The young D.A. was on his feet so fast, I thought he was going to kneel. Judge Ryan had that effect on men. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Gentlemen, all I know about this case is the charge, which is a serious one. May I read the police report?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “After you do, may I add a couple of details that don’t appear?”
“Of course,” she said.
For a few minutes, the court was silent while the judge read the police reports. I glanced over my
shoulder to the gallery at. Elena and Angel and smiled what I hoped was a confident smile.
“Mr. Rios,” Judge Ryan said, “what did you want to add?”
“Your Honor, I’m not only the defendant’s lawyer, I’m also her uncle. My sister, her mother, is in the court, as is her son, my grand-nephew. I know from past experience here that you are a judge who always thinks of the human consequences of her decisions. As it happens, in this case those consequences hit pretty close to home. The People have agreed that in exchange for my niece’s plea to voluntary manslaughter, we will submit to you on sentencing. I would request that the case be put over after the plea for a sentencing hearing to give you the fullest picture possible of this family tragedy.”
“Mr. Pearsall, is this the agreement?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.
“Your Honor,” I said, “I also want to mention that the People have agreed, for purposes of sentencing only, to stipulate that my client’s statement to the police was taken in violation of Miranda.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Is that true, Mr. Pearsall?”
“For sentencing only,” he said.
“Well, this is an unusual case. The victim was Mrs. Trujillo’s husband?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Are any of his family here, Mr. Rios?”
“No, Your Honor, but I hope to have one of his sisters here at the sentencing hearing to testify on my niece’s behalf.”
Judge Ryan nodded. “Yes, I’d like to hear her. Well, I guess all we’re going to do this morning is take the plea. Mr. Pearsall, will you do the honors, please?”
“Yes. Mrs. Trujillo, would you please stand up?”
Vicky and I stood up, and Pearsall began the familiar sequence of questions with which she waived her constitutional rights.
“Mrs. Trujillo,” he said, after she waived her rights, “on the charge of the voluntary manslaughter of Peter Trujillo, how do you plead?”
She seemed to hold back a sob. “Guilty,” she whispered.
Pearsall turned to me. “Does counsel join the waivers and the plea?”
“Join,” I said, committing my niece to prison.
“The People move to dismiss count one, second-degree murder,” Pearsall said to the judge.
