The car eventually pulled off the freeway onto N. Alameda Street, just northeast of Downtown and across from Union Station. Alex could see hundreds of tents lining sidewalk and homeless men and women sitting around eating breakfast. Around 54,000 people lived without shelter in Los Angeles County in 2018, and a fair number of them inhabited Downtown. The area near Twin Towers Jail was particularly dense with makeshift shelters and litter, in part because newly released inmates often had no money and no place to go. They simply frequented the area outside of the jail because others did too.
After the vehicle pulled through a series of barbed-wire gates, Alex could see the facility and a door labeled "Inmate Reception Center." Inmate, Alex thought to himself. But I'm innocent.
One of the police officers helped him out of the car. They proceeded down a concrete walkway and approached the door.
"We've got one for intake out here," one of the officers said into an intercom. The door buzzed, and they walked inside. Alex shook when the door slammed behind them. It wasn't even seven o'clock in the morning and it was clear that this place had been busy all night. Alex was placed into a holding cell with eleven other inmates. A few were sobbing, some cried silently to themselves. Most, though, were passed out, sleeping off their buzz from the night's antics.
From there it was an assembly line of mugshots, fingerprints, new clothes, showers, mental health evaluations, and physical inspections. Alex wasn't big in a normal crowd, but in here he was downright puny. Every inmate Alex saw was bigger than the last, as if L.A. County was running an underground wrestling league out of its jail system.
Alex got one phone call, which he placed to 1-800-BIRDLAW, Zeke's easy to remember toll-free number. Alex told him that he had been arrested. Zeke seemed concerned, but eager to resolve the situation, which made Alex hopeful.
After several uneventful hours in the holding cell, Alex was transferred to the unit where he would stay at least until his arraignment, depending on whether he pled guilty or not. And now he was meeting his new cellmate.
"Anyways," Alonzo continued, "you've been placed into a special unit. They stick you here when they can't stick you anywhere else. For your protection."
"Protection from what?" Alex asked.
"Other inmates, mostly. A good number of the inmates kept on this unit have been declared mentally unfit for trial and are a threat to themselves. The one's whose crimes involved kids will be killed immediately if they are thrown in with everyone else. There’s a few high-risk general population folks here, too. And folks like you, who killed someone famous, well you'll probably be killed right after the first guys. So here you are."
"I didn't kill anyone. I'm innocent."
"Yeah I know. I'm just telling you what the deal is," Alonzo said, grinning.
"So what do we do in here?"
"Sit around bored, mostly. I run the checkers club, which is a sweet gig. Guards let me keep a portion of the inmates’ winnings as long as I give 'em a cut. They sell the cigarettes back to the inmates. Otherwise, we mostly sit around and shoot the shit."
"Seems reasonable."
"Sure, it's not hard. Most guys are just trying to do their time, not let their time do them—"
There was a knock on Alex and Alonzo's open cell door. "Well, good evening gentlemen," an absolute brute of a man covered in prison tattoos said, walking into the cell, "I don't believe I've met the newbie yet."
"He's not interested, Jimmer," Alonzo replied.
"Sure he is, 'lonzo. He's a tiny little thing, anyways, he'll need protection in here if he wants to survive." Alex sat stunned in his bunk, not sure of how to respond. "Doesn't say much, either."
"Look Jimmer," Alonzo said, "he doesn't want any trouble. Claims his innocence. Look at him, he's a shrimp, couldn't hurt a fly."
"That's not how I hear it," Jimmer said, "word on the unit is that he stabbed Francesca Cahill to death. You the know the one, pretty little thing from the movies. She was popular around these parts. That makes you enemy number one, kid." Alex got goosebumps. "You're gonna need protection. I think I can help you out," Jimmer said, snickering.
"I've been alright so far. I'm ok . . . thanks," Alex replied.
"Ha! You don't get it. I'll be straight forward. You're gonna need protection . . . from me. Now, I'm happy to not beat the shit out of you . . . for a price. I'm also willing to honor your services as payment." Alex shot a glance at Alonzo, who said nothing.
"I mean . . . what do you want?" Alex said, certain that this wasn't a good idea.
"Depends. Depends on what . . . you're willing to offer. I've got a number of things that need . . . done."
Alex had heard stories about what happens to guys his size in prison. He wasn't sure that was what Jimmer was talking about, but he didn't want to find out, either. "I'll take my chances," Alex said.
Jimmer's face changed. He walked straight up to Alex's bunk, grabbed his shirt collar, and punched him on the side of his head. Alex's head kicked back and hit the concrete wall behind his bed. Things happened so quickly that Alex didn't have time to react. His whole face hurt at first, and his ears buzzed. His skull felt like a pot of pulsating jelly. After a few seconds, his face and head grew warm and the pain receded.
"As I was saying," Alex heard Jimmer say behind the buzzing, "you're gonna want to make a deal sooner or later. I'll come see you in a few days, after you've had some time to . . . adjust." Jimmer turned around and left.
"Prick," Alonzo said, "but he has a point. You're too small to last in here, Alex. These guys are gonna eat you alive."
"What do you do?" Alex said, holding back tears.
"I'm fifty-two years old. That's ancient, in prison years. There's no honor in beating me up. No, I've been in and out of so many prisons, I've already been chewed up and spit out."
"Hey, I never asked . . . what are you in for?"
"Burglary," Alonzo said, chuckling.
Alex laid down, pulled up his blanket, and cried himself to sleep.
Chapter 3
February 8th, 1:30pm
The next afternoon, Zeke was driving north on Hill Street just past Pershing Square—on his was to Twin Towers Jail to see Alex—when he received a call from an 'unknown' number.
"Hello? I'm calling for Ezekiel Blackbird. This is ADA Daniel Williams with the District Attorney's office."
Zeke pulled over to the side of the road, certain he couldn’t negotiate and drive at the same time, "Hi. This is Zeke Blackbird. An attorney . . . with Blackbird and Associates."
". . . Hi there. As you may or may not be aware, we have your client, Alejandro Garcia, in custody. Last night we received charging documents from the detective on the case. The evidence is more than sufficient, in our opinion. The People will be charging him under California Penal Code section 187(a) with first-degree murder."
Zeke's heart skipped beat, despite knowing this was coming. He was hoping that news of Alex's charges wouldn't come until Alex had found another attorney. "Umm . . . okay . . . thanks for the update?"
"I'm calling to begin plea deal discussions. I'd like to have the agreement wrapped up before Mr. Garcia's arraignment next week. Given the amount of press around Ms. Cahill's death, I think an expeditious agreement would be best for all parties involved."
"Plea deal? We haven't even seen the evidence yet?"
"Well, if your client decides to go to trial, we'll have discovery sent to your office rather quickly. The evidence is limited but . . . quite damning."
"Care to elaborate?" Zeke said, feeling like he was sticking it to 'the man.'
"Normally, I wouldn't disclose these facts before the suspect’s arraignment. But in the interest of getting your client to plea, I'll give you a few of the key details," Williams said, with a hint of snobbishness. "Several witnesses place your client at Mr. Mikulski's house on the night of the murder. More than a few can testify that Mr. Garcia and Mr. Cahill had a verbal argument after he spilled a tray of drinks on her. Mr. Garcia's boss, who ap
pears to own a catering company, told detectives that she placed him on kitchen duty following the incident, to avoid further embarrassment—"
"This is all sounds circumstantial, Dan."
"ADA Williams is fine, thank you. In addition to the testimonial evidence, of course, is the murder weapon itself. Police found a knife covered in blood, matching other kitchen knives found in a knife block in Mr. Mikulski's kitchen."
"I see. But hundreds of people had access to that kitchen: catering staff, guests, bartenders, and Mr. Mikulski himself. The link to my client is . . . tenuous, Mr. Williams," Zeke said.
"Yes, I could see how you would think so, Mr. Blackbird. But police found the murder weapon in your client’s motorcycle, in the locked luggage trunk."
Shit, Zeke though, I had forgotten about the motorcycle. "I see," Zeke said, thinking it over, "so, what's your deal?"
"This is a high-profile case, Mr. Blackbird," Williams continued, "Given the brutality of the crime and public reaction to Ms. Cahill's death, the District Attorney is well within reason to pursue the death penalty."
Death. Zeke nearly threw up his lunch. How did Eddie Martinez get the knife into Alex's motorcycle? "The death penalty seems a bit aggressive, doesn't it, Mr. Williams," Zeke said, "I mean, after all, anyone could have placed the knife there."
"Perhaps. But that is . . . extremely unlikely, Mr. Blackbird. I'm confident a jury will move to convict your client. Unless he decides to plead guilty, of course."
What? How is that possible? "Has your office considered any other suspects?" Zeke asked, wondering how Eddie Martinez fit into all of this.
"LAPD, as always, followed all of their leads. Again, the evidence clearly shows that your client killed Ms. Cahill."
Zeke took a minute to think. Clearly Alex had omitted some critical details. On the other hand, Wainwright had seemed convinced about Martinez's involvement in the murder. He probably wasn't aware of the evidence that the LAPD had collected. If Zeke could relay the District Attorney's evidence to Alex, perhaps he could convince him to plead out to a lesser sentence. "So what's your deal?" Zeke asked.
"Twenty-five to life, with the possibility of parole after twenty-five years."
Twenty-five years. That was a long time for someone that had just turned eighteen. Then again, it was better than a death sentence. "Very well, I'll relay your offer to my client. No promises, though."
"Very well, Mr. Blackbird. I think the City of Angels will sleep better if this is put behind us quietly."
"Sure, thanks for calling," Zeke said as he hung up the phone.
A few minutes later Zeke was driving over the 101 and turning onto Cesar Chavez Boulevard. As he closed in on Twin Towers Jail, dozens of bail bondsmen offices and criminal law offices started popping up. Their offices were positioned close to the jail, not to be closer to their clients, but to prey on their grieving families. Wives and mothers departing the jail after visiting with their incarcerated husband or son would see hundreds of neon signs offering preferable financing on jail bonds or flat rates for legal services. Unable to imagine their loved ones spending even one more night in jail, inevitably they would walk into one of the offices and strike a deal, oftentimes maxing out their credit cards and placing a line of credit on their only home. Zeke wondered if this was really the type of business he wanted to be associated with.
Zeke parked the Volvo and walked towards the jail. As he approached the visitors' entrance, he texted his girlfriend.
"Hey, it’s been a few days Molly. How are things?" Zeke wrote. He put it back in his pocket, not sure he would ever get a response.
At the front desk, Zeke registered as an attorney, showed his California State bar card to receptionist, and took a seat in the lobby. There were two other attorneys waiting to meet clients, scrolling on their phones. A woman in a white wedding dress sat across from him, next to a priest and a few children. Visiting hours for the general public took place in a large community room with dozens of tables and chairs. Attorneys, though, were allowed to meet with their clients privately. Prison weddings, apparently, happened in private rooms too.
After fifteen minutes, Zeke got up to asked what the holdup was, "how much longer will it be?"
"Sorry sir," the receptionist said, "we had to send someone to find him in the Rec. Room. His unit is on its recreational hour right now. It shouldn't be more than a few minutes."
Zeke sat down. Great, he thought, I'm probably interrupting the only hour of fun he gets. The bride-to-be was called to the front desk, her room and fiancé ready for the ceremony. She unloaded the contents of her purse onto an X-ray conveyer belt. A woman who appeared to be the bride's maid-of-honor took hold of the woman's train and followed her as she walked through a metal detector and received a pat down from one of the guards. Romantic, Zeke thought.
After a few more minutes, Zeke was called back to the front desk and ran through the security protocol. On the other side, a guard guided him to small room. Inside was a single desk, two chairs, and a microphone. "Is that off?" Zeke asked.
"It's off. Sometimes the police have to do an interview in here, that's why we have 'em."
"I'm just supposed to trust you?"
"I guess so. You're on county property."
"Gee, thanks," Zeke said. After a few more minutes waiting in the room alone, Alex was ushered inside. He was wearing a blue prison uniform with the words "L.A. County Jail" printed across his back and chest. He wore handcuffs, ankle cuffs, and a belly chain connecting his restraints. Zeke sat down at a chair. The guard uncuffed him, left the room, and locked the door behind him.
"Hey," Zeke said, " what happened?" The entire left side of Alex's face was black and blue.
"A big guy on my unit punched me in the face," Alex said.
"Right, I can see that. But . . . why?"
"He runs things in our unit. Says that he can't 'protect' me unless I pay up or do things for him. I refused, and he punched me in the face."
"What type of things?" Alex said, regretting the question the moment he asked it.
"I'm . . . not totally sure. Not those things. At least I don't think so. My roommate says that the guy, Jimmer, runs a drugs and pruno operation at Twin Towers. He needs inmates to smuggle contraband between pods."
"Pruno?"
"Prison wine, according to my roommate."
"Well . . . maybe you could put it on your catering resume," Zeke said.
"Fuck off. Why are you here?
"A bunch of things. I have good news and bad news."
"Good news first," Alex said."
"My associate and I met with Mikulski's head of security. He is pretty certain that someone else murdered Cahill—"
"Who?"
"A guy by the name Eddie Martinez. Runs drugs in East L.A. I guess he frequents these types of Hollywood house parties. Tries to get in good with celebrities. Mikulski's guy refused to let him into the party, so he snuck in and killed Cahill out of spite."
"Why?"
"Cahill was a big earner for VMK Productions, Mikulski's film production company. This security guy, Connor Wainwright, said Martinez is known for being hotheaded. Talk about an understatement."
"Ok. So, where is he?"
"Don't know. Disappeared into the night, apparently. Wainwright told me to find him and call him when I do. I take it you haven't heard of him?"
"Nope. So, what's the bad news?"
"The assistant district attorney working on your case, Dan Williams, called me on the way over here. They're prepared to offer you a deal if you plead guilty."
"Guilty? I don't even know the charges."
"First-degree murder. Your arraignment is next week."
Alex was upset. “I thought I would be out in a few hours,” he said, “let alone a week. Now I’m staring down the barrel of a murder conviction! Just because I spilled the drinks on Cahill?”
"Not just that. They . . . found a bloody kitchen knife—consistent with Cahill's DNA—in the trunk of your motorc
ycle. It was locked."
Alex was stunned. "Fuck."
"Exactly. It looks like they've got you dead-to-rights, Alex. You . . . don't have to tell me what happened. But I would advise that you seriously consider the DA's offer."
"What's that?"
"If you plead guilty, they will agree to twenty-five to life. You'd be eligible for parole after twenty-five years. They wouldn't pursue the death penalty."
"I didn't do anything Zeke. I messed up with the drinks. But I wouldn't kill anyone over it."
Zeke sat in silence, not sure how to respond. He didn't think Alex was capable of something so vicious, but the evidence was clear.
"Is it possible someone, Martinez or anyone else, put those things in your motorcycle and gym bag?"
"Maybe. I'm sure I locked the motorcycle trunk when I went into the house. I changed into my catering uniform, just outside of the kitchen, and put my gym bag into a hallway closet on the first floor. I didn't see it for the rest of the night."
"Where are your motorcycle keys?"
"My pants pocket, in the gym bag. I would've changed back after the party, but the cops closed everything off straight quick after they showed up."
"So, someone knew where you parked your bike and left your gym bag. They got a kitchen knife—in a very busy kitchen—grabbed your keys, killed Cahill, and put the knife in your motorcycle."
Alex was silent.
"Look. It doesn't even matter if I believe you. The truth is that no jury will believe you."
"I don't know what else to tell you. I didn't do it. And the DA can go pound sand if they think I'm going to plead guilty to something I didn't do."
And there it is, Zeke thought to himself, that's what I was afraid of. Alex is unwilling to admit guilt. The only alternative theory of the crime I can offer is that a low-level drug dealer orchestrated a complicated setup to spite a Hollywood film producer. Fuck. "I actually came here today to tell you that I can't take your case."
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