by Rene Fomby
the devil in the details
50
Houston – Four Months Earlier
The match came off a cold-case hit on the CODIS database at the Department of Public Safety headquarters in Austin. “So Lewis, you’re telling me we have this guy on ICE, already? How long is the hold?” Don Blocker was pacing the front of the room, his senior prosecutors watching him closely. The conference table was packed.
“He’s got maybe a month left on our dime, then he’s the property of the feds unless we indict him on the rape charge first. That would ship him back to Harris County from state lockup until he pleas or goes to trial.”
Sharon Lewis was Blocker’s second in command with the Harris County DA’s office, a petite thirtyish woman who had come up through the ranks the hard way, compensating for her size and her gender by grinding through anyone or anything that got in her way.
“Okay, let’s put a move on it and get him wrapped up. When’s the next grand jury setting? Next week?” Blocker looked down at his calendar. “Lewis, you take the lead on this. And stay on it. I’ve got an appearance before some donors next Friday, and I would sure like to use that opportunity to announce the indictment.”
One of the Assistant District Attorneys at the far end of the table leaned in to a buddy on his left. “What’s got Blocker’s panties in a wad on this one?” he whispered. “It’s just a rape, for Christ’s sake, twelve years cold at that. And ICE is gonna pop him over the border, anyways, so he’s no longer our problem …”
Max Walker leaned over a bit and whispered back, under his breath. “Yeah, Sean, but it’s a rape of a teenage white girl by an illegal, and Blocker’s facing a push back from the Tea Party in the primaries. After all the noise these people have been making about Mexicans pouring across the border, he finally has a real case he can hold up and crow about. Show that we’re serious about tracking them down and locking them up.” Walker was new to the senior staff, but he was an astute student of office politics. Particularly when they coincided with real politics. Sean Davis was just green all around.
“You boys have something to share with the rest of us?” Their side conversation had evidently—and unfortunately—caught Blocker’s attention.
“No sir, sorry,” Walker replied. “Sean here just had a small question about ICE holds, about the procedure. We’re good, now.” He glanced to his right and saw Sean nodding his thanks.
“Okay, well, let’s keep the side chatter to a minimum. We’ve got a meeting to run.” Blocker picked up his notes. “Merritt, what’s happening on that gangbanger dustup in the Fifth Ward over the weekend?”
William Merritt looked up abruptly. “Yes, sir. Well, it looks like two different groups got in a turf argument right in front of the Fruits of the Fifth Ward mural, near Crawford Elementary. A local group called the Southwest Cholos mixed it up with some Crips. Evidently part of the problem was the fact that both the Cholos and the Crips use a pitchfork symbol as part of their ‘brand.’ But while the Cholos pitchfork is pointed down, the Crips have it pointing up. The Crips took offense, saying the Cholos pitchfork showed disrespect. They traded some shots, and in the end both groups were lighter by one member.”
“So what are we doing about it? Other than commending them for doing their part for local law enforcement?” Blocker’s comment earned a hearty snicker from around the table.
Merritt spread his hands. “Not much we can do about it. And as long as it doesn’t spill over into something else, something that actually affects the real citizens of our fair city, I guess it’s the same old story. What happens in the Fifth Ward stays in the Fifth Ward.”
Blocker looked up and fixed him with a long, piercing stare. “And you just better make sure it stays there, Merritt. Or it’s your ass on the line. We don’t need any more trouble this close to the election.”
“Yes, sir,” Merritt agreed, even though he had next to no control over what the gangs did to each other. Or, worse, did to all the poor people stuck in the Fifth Ward with no real hope of ever escaping. A jail in its own right. Of course, real jails at least offered a warm bed and something to fill your stomach every day. And real jails didn’t have bullets flying around, killing people randomly and indiscriminately. But no election was ever going to change that.
51
Houston
Getting the law firm’s website up and running was technically no big deal, but getting all the niggling details down perfect ate up all of Sunday night and most of the early predawn morning. As a result, Harry was still sound asleep when his cell phone blasted him awake with an incoming call just after eight the next morning. Rubbing his eyes, he glanced over at the display. It was his buddy from law school, the one whose mother had died from the allergy drug. He reluctantly reached over and thumbed the screen on his phone.
“Hey, Ben. What’s up this morning?” he asked, groggily.
“Yo, Harry! Hope I didn’t wake you up too early. I have a depo set for later this morning, so I wanted to get in touch before I’m offline the rest of the day.”
“No worries. I was just crawling out of bed when you called,” Harry lied. “Other than the deposition, how are things going?”
“Same old, same old. The usual big firm rat race. But it’s a paycheck, you know? Anyway, I was just checking in on whatever’s happening with my mom’s case. Have you had a chance to look over the files yet?”
Not for the first time, Harry was starting to think that taking on his friend’s case was a losing proposition. Not at the outset, of course. When the Allurea scandal first broke, it looked like the easiest money ever. With Sam’s blessing, he had signed up his buddy and then simply handed the case off to the Lantanna operation, headquartered in a ritzy skyscraper downtown. They would do all the heavy lifting, and he would get twenty percent of their forty percent. Eight percent of several million dollars, enough to keep him in ramen for a lifetime. But now that Lantanna had bowed out, Harry was left probably having to deliver the ugly news that Ben’s mother had died for nothing. Everything he had read so far said it was an unwinnable case. Or at least uncollectable, which was even worse. All of the work but none of the money.
Harry rubbed at his eyes again, trying unsuccessfully to clear out the crust that had settled in overnight. “Actually, Ben, I just got the DVD from Lantanna’s office the day before yesterday, and still haven’t had a chance to dive into it yet. And I have the bar exam coming up PDQ, so priorities, you know?”
“I hear you, brother,” Ben said. “Barely scraped by on the bar myself. But I’m glad my mom’s case is back in good hands. I’ve never trusted that asshole Lantanna. Way too slick, if you ask me.”
Way too successful, if you ask me. And that is a problem how? “Yeah, I hear ya. Look, I still need to break down all of the files and see what we have. Then I need to sit down with Sam to get her feedback. She’s ten times the lawyer you or I will ever be, and I trust her judgment on how to move forward on this. So—give me a month, and if you haven’t heard back from me by then, give me a buzz. There’s no fuse burning on this, and all the back and forth has left everyone scrambling to try and figure out the best path forward. I think the plan right now is to wait for some of the smoke to clear out, and then take a hard look at what our options really look like.”
“I gotcha. Yeah, I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, but this is my mom, you know? It’s not the money, it’s just that I owe it to her to nail the sons of bitches that killed her. To get her some justice, you know?”
In the end, it’s almost always about the money. “Not a problem, buddy. I got your back on this, I just need to give it the time it deserves to get it right. Half-baked cakes, and all that. So, again, jostle me if you haven’t heard anything from me in a month.”
“Will do, Harry. And, hey. At the very least, I’ve got the best two lawyers in Houston on my side, you know? Way better than that Lantanna asshole.”
“Glad to hear you feel that way.” Harry co
uld smell the coffee and bacon wafting in from the kitchen. Clearly Annabelle had put together another feast. He put a hand on his stomach, feeling a swell that hadn’t been there a month or so before. Something along those lines had to change, and soon. But probably not starting this morning. “Hey, bud, the little woman is calling me to breakfast. I’ll check in with you later, okay? And good luck with the depo.”
“Thanks, Harry. And, by the way, congratulations. Annabelle’s quite the catch. I know a long list of our fellow law students that would gladly switch places with you in a heartbeat.”
“I ‘preciate that, Ben. But I think I’m in it for the long haul on this one.”
“Well, if you change your mind, give me first dibs, okay?”
“Don’t know if that’s really my call to make, but yeah, I’ll be happy to write you a recommendation. Anyway, I gotta go or face the first elimination round with the little lady, so thanks for the call. I’ll touch base with you when I know something.”
“You betcha. Talk at you later. And good luck with the bar exam.”
Harry thumbed the off button and crawled out of bed, pushing the covers aside and heading toward the beckoning smells coming from the kitchen, wearing nothing but his underwear. Could be worse. Could be naked. And I do smell bacon. And coffee. Could really use me some coffee right about now.
52
Houston
Mediation on the coffee burn case was scheduled for the next Monday, so Harry had almost a week to prep. Plus, far more critically at the moment, he had to study for the bar exam.
At least he finally had the house to himself. Annabelle had taken off just after breakfast, supposedly headed for her Barbri class. But, given the fact that she never seemed to have taken any notes from class—and he had checked only because he needed the extra help for his own studying—Harry had a strong feeling that maybe she was spending her time shopping instead of prepping for the exam. And the bags and boxes she smuggled into the house at the end of the day did very little to change that impression.
He grabbed his laptop and set it up on the kitchen table, using Annabelle’s login to pull up the bar exam practice quiz on the Barbri website. Two hours later he was done, and clicked to check his score. Seventy five. Five points north of passing, but still way too close to failing for comfort. And the bar exam was just two weeks away. He saved the test analysis for later, closing his laptop with a sigh of disgust. Weeks and weeks of studying, and so far he had improved his scores by only three points. And Harry was under no illusion that things would get any better over the next two weeks.
The phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was a Houston area code.
“Harry Crawford here. How can I help you?”
“Yes, sir, I—I’m looking for a lawyer.” The voice on the other end was female, and faintly Hispanic.
“Well, then, you’ve come to the right place. What seems to be the problem?” Harry asked, pulling a pen out of a cup on the counter and flipping over an envelope from a pile of past-due bills to take notes.
“It’s my husband. He’s in jail for something he didn’t do.”
Not the first time I’ve heard that one. “Okay, start from the beginning. What’s your name?”
“It’s Elena. Elena Herrera.”
“Uh huh. And you live here in Houston?”
“Yes, sir. Up off Gessner, in Spring Branch West. North of the interstate.”
“Okay,” Harry continued, jotting brief notes on the case as he went. “And your husband. What’s his name?”
“Alfredo. Alfredo Herrera. But we just call him Fredo.”
“Gotcha. So, Elena, what exactly is Fredo accused of?”
“They say he raped a young girl at a mall here in Houston. Twelve years ago, back before we were married.”
Shit. That’s bad. “And, excuse me for being frank, Mrs. Herrera, but what exactly makes you sure he didn’t do it?”
“Mr. Crawford, he’s just not that kind of guy. He would never hurt anyone. And other than immigration, he’s never ever been in any trouble before with the law. Nothing. Not even a speeding ticket.”
Harry put his pen down. “Immigration. Okay, let’s back up here. Are you saying your husband’s not a U.S. citizen?”
“Yeah. He was born in Monterrey, then moved up here as a child with his parents. But for some reason, they kept him out of the schools, so he barely speaks any English. He works in the landscaping business. He’s really good with plants.”
“Right.” So I’m guessing these people can’t even cover a retainer. “How about you? Are you illeg—undocumented, too?”
“No, I’m a U.S. citizen. So are our two children, a girl and a boy. Fredo’s the only one without papers.”
“And just where exactly is Fredo right now?” Harry asked, even though he could already guess the answer.
“He’s been stuck in Harris County jail for almost four months, with an ICE hold. Whatever winds up happening with this case, at some point they’ll deport him back to Mexico. For the third time.”
“And how are you with that?”
Harry could sense the hesitation on the other end of the line. “I guess I don’t have much choice, do I? It is what it is. But, maybe this time I need to do something different. For the babies. I love Fredo, but I can’t exactly move to Mexico with him. I couldn’t do that to the children, even if I wanted to. But, you know, that’s something I’ll need to deal with another day. Right now, all that matters is getting Fredo out of jail. Proving that they’re wrong about whatever happened way back then.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.” This whole thing sounded like one giant loser of a case. But, on the other hand, he didn’t have a whole lot else going on right now, and maybe, just maybe, it might give him an inroad into the Mexican community. Some paying law work down the road. “Okay, look, Elena. I’m going to need the case number, plus Fredo’s date of birth. You can text all that to this number. I’m really kinda busy the next few days, but I’ll look into it and see what I can find out. If you don’t hear from me by the end of next week, give me a buzz back.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Crawford. Fredo and I really appreciate your help with all this. His court appointed attorney—nothing seems to be happening with any of this—”
“Well, that happens. And I haven’t done anything yet on all this but listen. But all right, realize I can’t make you any promises at this point that I’ll wind up taking on the case, but I’ll take a good look at what they got, and let you know what I think.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s all I can ask. I’ll send you the case info right away.”
“Good deal. Talk to you later.” Harry hung up and walked into his office to grab a notepad. Back of the envelope notes tended to disappear, especially when Annabelle got into one of her manic cleaning phases. It was the middle of the day, and he didn’t feel like fighting his way downtown to the DA’s office, just to get stuck in traffic coming back. This could wait until the next morning. He grabbed a Diet Coke out of the fridge and settled back down to his laptop to start pouring through the case workup on his law buddy’s mom. That easily promised to eat away the rest of the work day.
His stomach growling reminded him that it was close to lunchtime. So, fix a sandwich here or blow an hour going out? After staying up most of the night pounding away at the website, he thought it might feel good to get out and about for a little while. So the allergy case could wait another day …
53
Houston
The criminal courthouse was back in business again after the shutdown caused by the last hurricane, and the lines of criminal defendants and their lawyers stretched out the doors and onto the sidewalk out front. Harry watched enviously as the government’s lawyers, clerks and other courthouse workers brushed past the security lines and headed straight in, waving their badges nonchalantly at the sheriff’s deputies guarding the entryway.
After almost thirty minutes of shu
ffling forward a foot or two at a time, he finally made his way to the front of the line. Shucking off his shoes, belt, watch, phone, and virtually everything else in his pockets or on his person, he ducked through the metal detector without incident and walked to the end of the little conveyor belt to wait for his valuables. Five minutes later he was standing in another line, waiting for his turn at the elevators going up to the criminal records office upstairs, where Fredo Herrera’s file might or might not be waiting, as well.
His phone buzzed. Sam had sent him a message, apologizing for missing their regularly scheduled call. A call he had completely forgotten about himself. He texted her back that he would try to call at the end of the day, when it was early morning out in Italy, then slipped the phone back in his pocket and raced to catch the last spot on the elevator at the end of the hall. Just at the last moment, as he jumped in muttering apologies to anyone and everyone he was now pressing up against, he saw that it was going down, not up. Oh well. Ride it down, then ride it back up. At least he was going in some direction.
The elevator eventually spit him out on the right floor, and he joined another line, lawyers waiting their turn in front of a bored-looking, overweight woman sitting behind a large glass window. The window didn’t even have a proper opening to speak through directly—to talk to the clerk you had to use a handset that for some reason was cranked down several notches too low in the volume department.
When it came his time before the clerk, he slipped a sheet of paper through a narrow slot at the bottom of the window. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m trying to get a copy of the records on this case. The family wants to retain my firm to represent the defendant.”
Ms. Boredom glanced at the sheet of paper, then turned back to her computer screen, typing and clicking for most of a minute.
