“In fact, I can almost guarantee you that a trial judge isn’t even going to allow you to inform the jury that Mr. Rush was a lawyer, much less that he was in any way associated with Mr. Metz. It’s irrelevant, and I would argue it’s highly prejudicial.”
Harry pipes in. “Read the points and authorities,” he says. “Very illuminating.”
“The only real issue here,” I say. Melcher is looking back at me, knowing he is getting double-teamed. “The only issue is whether Mr. Rush was the intended victim of this act or whether he was killed by accident. Let me ask you a question.”
Conover is looking down, holding his head in hands, elbows propped on the table as if he doesn’t need any more questions.
“Assuming Mr. Rush was standing out in front of that courthouse alone, without Mr. Metz, would this shooting have even occurred?”
Melcher looks at me, down at the police report in front of him, back to the points and authorities. He’d rather not answer. He knows it’s a question I can ultimately raise before a jury. The ultimate and unavoidable issue, but for Mr. Metz . . .
“It’s a simple question. Based on the evidence in front of you, do you think the shooting would have occurred?”
“We don’t know.” Conover demonstrates why he is Melcher’s superior. His head comes up, and he cuts off his lawyer before the man can answer.
“We don’t know. We haven’t had time to read through all of this.” Better that than an open admission in front of witnesses, even if these are arguably settlement negotiations. Conover’s had enough surprises for one day.
“If our clients have to get you in court, I suppose you can argue with the cops,” I tell them.
“What cops?” Melcher can’t resist.
“The ones who will testify as to the intended victim and the accidental nature of Mr. Rush’s death.”
These are witnesses to die for in a civil case, and both of them know it: cops testifying that a defense lawyer was shot by accident. What possible reason could they have to lie? And how can they change their testimony given the contents of the police report?
“Now I’m sure you’ll be able to get them to tell the jury all about Mr. Metz and whatever sordid dealings he was involved in.”
“And if we don’t, you will,” says Melcher.
I concede the point with a smile. “The only thing they’re not going to be able to talk about is the fact that Mr. Metz was Mr. Rush’s client or that Mr. Rush was a lawyer.”
“Any whiff of that,” says Harry, tapping the points and authorities, “and you’ll have a mistrial.”
“So what you have here,” I tell them, “is a man walking down the street, minding his own business, who happens to be caught up in a drive-by aimed at somebody else.”
There is a moment of reckoning as the reality of the argument settles in. This lasts for several seconds, until the silence is broken by Adam Tolt leaning back in his chair, its springs squeaking. He’s trying to maintain a sober expression, but it’s a losing battle. He finally breaks out in a full-bodied laugh.
“Come on, Luther, you have to admit I never put you in a pickle like this before.” Still laughing, he says: “I have to say, it sounds like an accident to me.”
“You’re not exactly an objective audience, Adam.” Conover’s humor is being stretched to the limit.
“Come on,” says Tolt. “You can take me to Temecula and get it back in the sand traps.” Tolt can’t help himself laughing, trying not to ridicule his friend Luther. “Listen, I’ll put in a word. They’ll understand.” He’s talking about the home office.
“It’s still an open investigation,” says Melcher. “Who knows what the cops will come up with?”
“If you think you can get them to change direction once they’ve got their noses to the ground, you’re a better man than I,” I say.
“We’ve tried,” says Harry. “We know. Of course in the past they were usually after our client.” Harry can’t help but smile a little at this. The irony is lost on Conover and Melcher. They are starting to see a four followed by a lot of zeros on a company check.
There are reasons why the cops would not want to open too many lines of inquiry going in multiple directions, at least on paper. They would have to disclose each of these to defense attorneys once they settled on a suspect and made an arrest. Every lead pointing in another direction carves a notch of reasonable doubt into the legs of their case. If they withhold this information from defense attorneys, it is grounds on appeal to reverse a conviction. Cops are not likely to point like weather vanes with each changing current of information. At least not as long as the courts continue to tell them that a straight line is the shortest distance to a conviction.
“Of course you’re free to pee on a few bushes if you think you can get them to chase some other scent,” says Harry. “In the meantime, we’ll expect you to tender the full amount of the policy. Not two million,” he says, “but four, under the double-indemnity clause. And so that we don’t forget . . .” Harry hands out the last document from his folder, a formal letter of demand to the carrier. Conover knows the significance of this as soon as he sees it.
Though he didn’t want to come, Harry is enjoying the moment. Seldom do you get an insurance company in this position: bent over, holding its ankles.
“Since you’ve already acknowledged that you have an obligation to pay,” says Harry, “if you fail to meet the demand . . .”
“You’ll claim bad faith.” Conover comes to the point quickly. He has seen the form letter Harry has just handed him before. It is the boilerplate setup for bad faith.
In this case the upper limit of any judgment could take a healthy slice out of the national debt. We would be able to examine their books to determine what amount is necessary to adequately punish the company for withholding prompt payment from two women, one of whom is bereft having her husband murdered and the other left adrift by an ugly divorce. These are not happy circumstances for an insurance company to circle its wagons and start shooting Indians.
Conover looks at Margaret, whose expression is leaden, even now on the verge of victory.
Still holding Harry’s letter, he studies Dana, who offers nothing but a wan smile. If he glanced a little farther to his left, he would see Susan hiding behind his own lawyer. She is gazing down at the table like the mouse who just got the last crumb. It was Glendenin who managed to get Vesuvius to the meeting and keep her from erupting, so that we can now discuss in private a division of spoils between the two Mrs. Rushes.
Conover lifts his eyes toward me. From the look, it is clear. He is trying to figure how he will pull the split rail from this particular fence out of his ass before he has to call the home office and explain what has happened. I doubt if he’ll be asking me to play golf anytime soon.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Miguelito Espinoza, father of an infant and husband of the child-woman, is thirty-five, hard as a diamond, a tattoo chain of black ink around his neck, and on both arms Spanish gang graffiti in blazoned letters.
He has a slicked-back do with a net over it, pulled tight around the edges covering the tops of his ears. The man is dead in the eyes, and dark in more ways than his complexion as he sits there slumped down, one leg crossed over the other, cool, his chair pushed back from the table as if he is low riding on his way to hell.
He faces multiple counts of armed robbery, the theft of federal property, as well as possession. He faces twenty-five years on each count if they can prove that he was involved in the actual visa hijacking. He faces ten years on each count of possession for the three visas found in his closet.
We are seated on opposite sides at a steel table in one of the small lawyer-client cubicles in the Metro Detention Center, the white high-rise tomb downtown. There is a guard watching from outside the glass, his eyes constantly on the table between us so that nothing passes without his notice.
The place was a skyscraping joke when it was first put up a few years ago. The contractor stiff
ed the federal government on the concrete used to build it, so inmates pounding on the walls hard enough could punch holes and shimmy down their bed sheets to the ground outside. Guards were reduced to listening to the hammering from upstairs to pick up the direction in hopes that they could scurry out to the street before the tenants could rappel down their bed covers and hightail it. Since then, the government has hardened the cells, so now inmates would at least need a spoon to chisel their way out.
Espinoza is not impressed that I have come here. He is filled with questions. Streetwise, he is looking at this gift horse as if perhaps there is something in the package that may bite him.
“Why don’ you tell me who hired you, man?”
“I told you. Your wife, Robin.”
“Listen, man. Save the bullshit for your friends. Robin don’ know shit. You think I’m a fool? Robin’s a fuckin’ idiot. Where’s she gonna find a lawyer? She can’t find the fuckin’ phone book. And if she could, she couldn’t read it. Besides, she ain’t got the money to pay you. Look at your fine clothes, your little leather briefcase.” He says this in mocking tones, with the fingers of one hand idly pointed toward my case on the floor next to the table.
“Listen, man.” He sits up at the table, elbows on top, and leans close to me as if he’s about to explain the mysteries of life. “Look at me,” he says. “I ain’t talking to you ’til I know who you are. You got it?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Fine. I hope you like the accommodations.” I get up from my chair, grab my briefcase, and move toward the door.
“Hey, man. Where you goin’?”
“You said you don’t want to talk.”
He glances over his shoulder at the guard who starts to move this way to take him back to his cell.
“Sit down, man.”
“Not unless you want to talk.”
“Fine, man. Fine. We’ll talk. Relax.” He’s back, slumped in the chair, trying not to notice the guard and hoping he will go away.
“Sit down, man.” He taps the stainless steel surface of the table with two fingers, an invitation for me to join him again. Anything is better than the cell inside. “Maybe we can talk about the weather,” he says.
I take a seat, and the guard backs off and returns to his position against the wall outside, watching us.
“You gotta be cool,” he says. “Gimme a minute.” He is thinking, trying to piece together who would hire me and why. “I just wanna know who you are,” he says. “That’s all.”
“I told you.”
“You tol’ me nothin’. Who hired you?”
“What difference does it make as long as we get you out of here?”
His eyes darting around, thinking about this.
“Why would you do that?”
“Call it my civic duty,” I tell him.
His eyes read bullshit, but he’s afraid to say the word for fear I might get up and this time walk.
So instead he says: “Can you do that? Get me out?”
“I don’t know. First you’ll have to trust me. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Can you get me out on bail?”
“It wouldn’t be easy.”
“Then what the fuck good are you?”
“This close to the border and you charged with taking a truckload of U.S. visas, a judge might have a problem giving you bail.”
“What the fuck, you think I’m a flight risk?” He knows more lawyer lingo than half the attorneys I know.
“It’s not what I think that counts.”
“I don’ know nothin’ about it, man. Those fuckin’ passes. I don’t know how they got there.” He is sitting up now in the chair, dropping the detached demeanor, looking at me directly, trying to focus a shimmer of honesty in those dark, beady eyes.
“They were in your apartment. On your closet floor.”
“Only three of ’em, man. Where’s the rest?”
“Maybe they think you’re going to tell them.”
“How do I know? I mean, I don’t know shit.” He’s looking around, shaking his head, palms up and out, extended in the con’s perennial disclaimer, your average honest man filled with disbelief. “I’m sleeping in my bed, man, these assholes come in, fuckin’ flashlights in my eyes, put a shotgun in my face. Next thing I know, they’re pulling this shit out of my closet. I’m telling you, man. You know everything I know. I don’t know how they got there. Maybe somebody put ’em there, man.”
“Obviously. The question is who?”
“How would I know?”
“It’s your apartment.”
“Lots of people come and go,” he says. “Maybe they did it.”
“What people?”
He thinks for a second. You can read it in his eyes. He’s opened this door a crack, and now he wants to close it.
“Them.”
“Who’s them?”
“Fucking Immigration,” he says. “They’re always after me.”
“You’re saying the INS framed you? That they dumped the evidence onto the floor in your closet?”
“How do I know? Anything’s possible, man.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
He looks around, the gray cells moving at light speed now, sullen, thinking of new ways to lie to one more lawyer.
I tell him that if this were a state action, he would definitely have something to worry about. “It would be strike three,” I say. “I’ve seen your record. It’s not good. How does a lifetime behind bars sound?”
“But it ain’t no fuckin’ state action.” He takes solace at least in this.
“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t.”
Espinoza gives me a sideways glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It was federal property that went missing. But the fact that some of it turned up in this state, specifically on your closet floor, could make out a case for possession of stolen property.”
“They can’t do that, man. Can they?”
I make a face. Anything’s possible.
He’s up close at the table now. I have his undivided attention. “Tell me, man. Why would they want to do that to me?”
“Why not? You think they’re going to cut you some slack? In case you haven’t figured it out, they want to squeeze you, Miguel. I can call you Miguel, can’t I?”
He nods. “Why?
“Because they think you know something. They want you to roll over on some of your friends.”
“Who sent you?” he says.
“Are we going through that again?”
“I don’ know nothin’.” Just like that he’s back to low riding in the chair, only this time he has a hand up to his mouth, nibbling fingernails. From the tip of his tongue, he spits out the chewed-off remains along with the black crude from underneath. I watch him for several seconds as he sits there biting and shooting looks from beady little eyes in every direction as if the walls have ears. In this case, they may. I can’t be sure that our conversation is not being monitored. There are now in place what are called Special Administrative Measures. These permit federal prison authorities to listen in, even between lawyer and client in cases where national security is believed to be at issue. The fact that Espinoza is charged with the theft of a thousand high-tech visas to enter the country must have them wondering for what purpose these documents were stolen.
A tattoo across the back of Espinoza’s hand reads “Sangre” (meaning “blood”), in Gothic block letters like some ethnic mural on a wall in East Los Angeles.
“Even if they don’t turn you over to the state, the feds are not likely to go easy. In case you haven’t noticed, scrutiny at the borders has been turned up—just a notch.”
I emphasize the last few words. It takes him a beat or two to make all the intended deductions, then he looks at me. “No way, man.” Then he looks away as if this puts distance between himself and his own conclusions. “I ain’t no fuckin’ terrorist,” he says. “Maybe people once in a while. Sure I brought people across
, sometimes. But, but not that shit. No way, man.”
“Maybe they don’t know that. We’re talking some risky stuff that went missing. These were not green cards knocked out on somebody’s home computer, Miguel. These were laser-etched visas with holograms. You know as well as I do they can’t be traced. The little camera they use at the border down at San Ysidro to shoot pictures and send them back to Virginia.” He follows my every word. Espinoza knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“You know the one, where they check to see if they’re forgeries. That little camera, and those people in Virginia, they wouldn’t be able to stop you if you had one of these cards at the border. They’d think you were just another honest citizen crossing over to do business. Bad people could bring a lot of dangerous shit into the country with cards like that.”
“That’s not . . .” He bites the next word in half.
“That’s not what? That’s not why they were stolen?”
All of this has him thinking of perils he’s never considered, looking down at the tabletop again and then back to me.
“Why, man? I mean why would they think I’m some fucking terrorist? There’s no evidence I ever did nothing like that.” He thumps the table with two fingers to make the point.
“Maybe they think you’re moving up in the world.”
“Hey, man, you’re fuckin’ with my head. That’s bullshit.” He turns away from me, the devil he doesn’t want to see or hear. But the thought has seeped into his brain where it now sizzles like corrosive acid.
“They can’t do that, man. That’s fuckin’ illegal. They got no fucking evidence. There are laws,” he says. “I am entitled . . .”
“Of course you can make all of those arguments,” I tell him. “But the people who sit on juries are a little uptight right now. If they think you might be that kind of a threat, well, they might just throw you in the can until sometime around the year when your grandchildren have children.”
I can tell that this is a sobering thought, one that has him forgetting for the moment who might have hired me and thinking instead about the sky outside—and how long it might be before he gets to see it again.
The Arraignment Page 14
