Conclusive Evidence

by Al Macy

  “Yeah, well Crawford’s different. My wife says he’s a narcissist and a sociopath who can never see anything he does as wrong. The whole incident just stuck in his craw. I’m amazed he made detective. Sometimes I think he has something on the top brass. I do everything I can to stay out of his way, and you probably should, too.”

  “Maybe,” Louella said. “But that’s not how I roll.”

  * * *

  Much of the Humboldt County Courthouse smelled like marijuana. I’d noticed that even before the drug was made legal. Perhaps defendants needed some help relaxing. In the stairwell to the second floor, heading to Carly’s arraignment, I could have used something to take the edge off. I stopped on a landing and sucked in some calming breaths. It’s just an arraignment. In my former life, before Raquel’s and Patricia’s deaths, something like this wouldn’t have made the slightest dent in my confidence. I argued myself out of my hopelessness and continued up the stairs.

  Courtroom 2 was the smallest in the building, used for arraignments and other matters that were unlikely to attract spectators. The courtroom was a lot like one of those small theaters in a multiplex, with seats for no more than twenty or so visitors. It was like being in a shoebox.

  The district attorney herself, Sibyl Finn, would be arguing for the People. She was a striking woman, with hair so bright red—orange almost—that it couldn’t have come out of a bottle. No company would market such an over-the-top color. Her complexion was a whiter shade of pale. Exposure to the sun would probably kill her, even in foggy Redwood Point. She wore a blue pin-striped pantsuit that was tailor-made for her curvy figure.

  We shook hands. We’d worked together when I was a prosecutor, and we’d battled on opposing sides three times—one win, one loss, one tie. Detective Damon Crawford sat right behind her. He fixed his dead-eye stare on me, but I ignored him.

  I had successfully argued that even though we weren’t in front of a jury, Carly should be allowed to appear in civilian clothes and without handcuffs. We’d chosen her favorite outfit: a white blouse with a black pencil skirt. Anything to make her more comfortable.

  “Are you ready to go forward with the arraignment at this time?” Judge Thomas asked.

  Unlike many states, California does not have a mandatory retirement age, and Judge Thomas’s presence on the bench was a good argument for reevaluating that. He was in his late eighties and always a little slow to respond. I suspected it was due to plaque buildup in his brain rather than a cautious nature.

  “We are, Your Honor,” I said.

  “Do you waive statement of constitutional rights?”

  Carly gave the sign for “yes,” and the ASL translator spoke the word. She was the best in the county.

  Judge Thomas was unprepared for this, apparently. “Can your client speak, Mr. Goodlove?”

  Carly tensed, and I put a hand on her shoulder.

  “In the interest of clarity, Your Honor, it would better if she replies in American Sign Language, as is her right.”

  Judge Thomas said, “Ah. I see.”

  After some more preliminaries, the judge read from his notes, slowly. “You are charged in this complaint, case number CR 2987632, that on or around December third, 2018, you committed the crime of first-degree murder in violation of Penal Code Section one eight seven in that you did willfully and unlawfully and with malice aforethought murder Angelo Romero. It is further alleged that in commission of that offense, you lay in wait for the victim.”

  The judge looked up. “Ms. Romero, do you understand the charges as I have read them to you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And have you discussed these charges with your lawyer?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “At this time do you wish to enter a plea of guilty or not guilty?”

  Carly stood straighter. “Not guilty.”

  The back and forth translations were already becoming automatic.

  “At this time,” I said, “we would like to request a preliminary hearing in the next ten days as provided by law.”

  After setting a date within the requested period, Judge Thomas gave the pronouncement I’d expected: “Since this case involves murder with the special circumstance of lying in wait, bail is denied.”

  “May it please the Court, Your Honor, the prosecution has obviously overfiled in terms of the absurd lying-in-wait allegation. Our understanding is that the charge is based on an eyewitness who we will be able to show is unreliable. In addition, and perhaps more importantly, they have no evidence to put Ms. Romero at the scene before the victim fell off the cliff.”

  Judge Thomas looked over to the prosecution table. “People?”

  “Your Honor, not only will we show that Ms. Romero was at the scene of the crime, but we will have evidence that she planned this murder ahead of time.”

  “Which, even if true, would not be a special circumstance.” I kept my tone relaxed. I’ve found that yelling or acting excited tends to lessen the gravity of my words. All of my tension and hopelessness was gone at that point.

  The judge’s eyebrows dropped down toward his eyes like a pair of guillotines. “Do not interrupt, Mr. Goodlove. Perhaps you don’t recall how I run my courtroom. I know it’s been a while.”

  I was surprised that he remembered me. Maybe he wasn’t senile after all.

  He turned his gaze back to Sibyl Finn. “People, do you have any evidence that the defendant was present at the scene before the victim arrived?”

  Finn answered, “No, Your Honor, not at this time. But we feel that—”

  “Mr. Goodlove, do you have further arguments concerning bail?”

  “I do, Your Honor. Ms. Romero has resided in this community since she was a child. She is a well-respected member of the deaf community here, with strong ties to it. She has no history of violence and does not present a danger to public safety.”

  “People?”

  “Ms. Romero does have a prior conviction.”

  “Are you referring to the trespassing charge?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That is barely relevant, Ms. Finn. As you know, that charge was related to a peaceful protest many years ago.”

  Wow. The judge had done some research.

  “Ms. Finn, I agree with Mr. Goodlove that you are attempting to overstate your case, as if you’re haggling over a price at a flea market. I am eliminating the special circumstances charge, and bail will be set at one million dollars. Is that acceptable, Mr. Goodlove?”

  “It is, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  Judge Thomas rapped his gavel.

  “Now what happens?” Carly signed.

  I pointed to the screen of my notebook computer and started typing. “I forgot to mention we won’t sign while we’re in public. Too easy for someone to overhear.” I looked behind me. A reporter turned his eyes away from my screen. Oops. We’d have to use pencil and paper, not computers. Too bad.

  I picked up my pencil and wrote, obscuring the page from any prying eyes, I’ll handle the bail, but it will take a while for them to process you out.

  I guess I should have kept the settlement money, she scribbled.

  I agreed, but there was no point in bringing that up. I’d done very well as a defense attorney and had also pulled in a windfall when Jen and I handled a civil case against a deep-pocketed defendant. I’d put my share away for a rainy day. I’d handle Carly’s bail through a bondsman I knew well. He’d put up the million, and it would cost us ten percent, or $100,000. Being accused of murder is expensive.

  With a little luck we’d be able to get the charges dismissed at the preliminary hearing.

  Chapter Seven

  The day before the preliminary hearing, we gathered in my office. My conference table is meant for four, but we brought in an extra chair from Jen’s office. Louella, Jen, Carly, Nicole, and I each had a coffee mug on the table. Jen’s cup had her name and the words “World’s Best Lawyer” written on it. Mine had my name and the same phrase
, despite the logical impossibility. One Christmas, Nicole had given us those, and the next year I’d reciprocated with a “World’s Best Law Student” mug, which she was too embarrassed to use at school.

  The crackling fire made the gathering seem festive, and my mood was good. Nicole took on the job of translating, converting all of Jen’s and Louella’s words into ASL, and turning Carly’s ASL into English. She was good at it.

  Whenever Nicole or I had the floor, we spoke and signed simultaneously. I’ve never found it difficult to use the two languages at once, despite the differences in syntax.

  I brought the meeting to order. “Don’t get your hopes up, Carly, but we may be able to get the charges dismissed tomorrow. However, they may have some evidence they haven’t revealed.”

  “Which is likely,” Jen said.

  I looked at her. “Because?”

  “Because they’d have dropped this already if they didn’t have something more. We know they have the supposed eyewitness and Carly’s search history. They’ve got to know that you can knock those out of the water.”

  “We,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We’ll be doing this together. Don’t forget.”

  “Right. Good thing, because being so close to this, I’m a little worried that you’ll engage in wishful thinking. Why is it you don’t think they have some secret weapon?”

  “Crawford is desperate to get back at Carly. He’ll do anything to embarrass her. If that means going ahead despite a lack of good evidence, he’ll push for it.”

  “Push, yeah, but he’s got to convince the DA. She’s up for reelection soon, so she won’t want to take any chances here.”

  I liked our DA, but she could be sneaky. In the past, Sibyl Finn had used underhanded strategies. I’d tried a case against her in which she closed with a PowerPoint presentation. The final slide showed the defendant, my client, in a booking photo with the word “GUILTY” stamped over him. In it, he wore orange prison garb. The state cannot force a defendant to wear prison clothing in court even if he isn’t out on bail, because it undermines the presumption of innocence. I wasn’t sure whether the photo had been Sibyl’s error or someone else’s, but I was able to convince the appeals court that it wasn’t a harmless error. It’s okay for advertisers to try to influence people subliminally, but not prosecutors. The verdict was reversed.

  “What do you think, Louella?”

  “Some people say he has something on Finn.” Louella’s smoker’s baritone always surprised people who hadn’t heard her speak, but we were used to it. “I disagree. She wouldn’t pursue this case based only on the evidence they’ve shown us. There’s got to be more.”

  “Hold on,” Nicole said. “Wouldn’t they have to give us their plans because of discovery?”

  Many of the surprises that happen in television legal dramas can’t happen in real life. That’s because the law requires opposing sides in a legal dispute to share information. The prosecution must provide us with documents, reports, witness names, and so on, and we must do the same.

  I answered, “That doesn’t hold for the preliminary hearing. Besides, Sibyl tends to drag her feet on discovery. You don’t have to provide materials the second you find out about them.”

  Jen pushed some of her thick hair behind an ear. “So we agree they probably have something else in their bag of tricks.” She looked at me then shifted her eyes toward Carly and back again.

  I got the message. “Carly, if there’s anything you know of that could bite us, now’s the time. If you want to talk with me privately, we can do that.”

  The ASL sign for “no” consists of two fingers being brought down on the thumb, like the beak of a bird closing. She made the sign once. Her expression added the exclamation mark. “No!”

  “Okay, if they have something new, we’ll deal with it. Louella, what do you have for us?”

  Louella described her interview of the crabber, mentioning the collection of the tissue evidence from the boat hook. “And the police must have done their homework, because they knew that Angelo had a tattoo.”

  Carly sat up straight. “Tattoo?”

  “On the back of his neck,” Louella said.

  “But Angelo doesn’t have a tattoo.”

  That stopped us. The smell of the fire was getting a little intense. I went over and pushed the embers toward the back of the firebox.

  “So it wasn’t Angelo’s body,” Nicole said.

  Jen tapped her fingernails on the table. “But the police think it was, right, Louella? Isn’t that what your contact said?”

  Louella took a cigarette out of her purse then put it back. “I’m guessing the tattoo is recent. When’s the last time you saw him, Carly?”

  “We separated before Christmas, last year. I’ve seen him around town since then, but I might not have noticed a tattoo. On the back of his neck?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I could have missed it.”

  Louella nodded. “It sounds like it’s new, then. The crabber said the colors looked fresh. Did he have any other tattoos?”

  Carly signed, “No. He always thought they were stupid. Said that people didn’t consider they’d have them for the rest of their lives.”

  “Do you think he could have changed his mind?” I asked.

  She thought awhile then shrugged. “It’s possible. Don’t they have to have the body?” She fingerspelled “habeas corpus.”

  “That the body must be found is a common misconception,” Jen said. “You’re actually thinking of corpus delicti, a term which means that the courts must prove a crime has been committed. ‘Corpus’ is Latin for ‘body,’ but it doesn’t refer to the body of the victim. It refers to the body of the crime. It’s the principle that it must be proven a crime has been committed before someone can be prosecuted for it. But circumstantial evidence can be enough. In 1959, the case of People v. Leonard Ewing Scott cemented the idea that circumstantial evidence, if sufficient to exclude every other reasonable hypothesis, may prove the death of a missing person, the occurrence of a homicide, and the guilt of the accused.”

  Most would have had a Well, excuse me! look on their face. Carly wasn’t like that. She recognized Jen as a fellow straightforward speaker. Many say that people in the deaf community are blunter than hearing people. It’s been my experience, but I’ve been reluctant to admit it since it seems prejudiced.

  I smiled. “Is that an exact quote, Jen?”

  She replied, “Close enough.”

  I sipped some coffee, as if to punctuate the discussion. “Okay, so they have a much higher bar to clear without a body, but not insurmountable. Maybe we can attack the sighting, show reasonable doubt that it was Angelo. Maybe there wasn’t enough tissue on the boat hook for a DNA analysis.”

  “What about the search history?” Nicole asked. “We can show an innocent explanation for that. Maybe we could knock down that idea, and they’d drop the charges.”

  “That’s one option, sweetheart, and we might do that. But if it doesn’t blow their case out of the water, bringing it up will just reveal our strategy. Better to let them use something as a leg for their case then kick it out from under them. It’s a judgment call, and if their evidence seems weak tomorrow, we’ll bring it up.”

  Louella said, “I want more leads on who else might have wanted Angelo dead. Carly?”

  “We’ve been separated for a year,” Carly said, “but even when we were married, he kept his shady business dealings a secret.”

  I made a note on my pad. “Can you give Louella a list of shady people or businesses he dealt with?”

  She nodded. “What will happen tomorrow?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Carly slapped the table, making the coffee cups jump. “I’m not an idiot, bro. I mean what will be the procedure?”

  “Sorry. In the preliminary hearing, the prosecution will attempt to show they have evidence that a crime was committed and that you committed it. If they can do that to t
he judge’s satisfaction, you will be held to answer. That means there will be a trial. It may not seem fair, but the prosecution can put on witnesses, and we cannot. I can cross-examine them, however. Clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I know you’re good at this, but I’ll say it anyway. Keep your expression neutral. No outbursts.”

  Carly’s look said, Duh.

  * * *

  I stepped into Courtroom 4 as soon as the bailiff unlocked the doors. I liked to arrive early, relax, and soak in the atmosphere. The high ceiling held acoustic tiles with inset lighting. Maple paneling extended halfway up the walls on the sides of the room and all the way up in the front. Grayish industrial carpeting covered the floor. Courtrooms were the government’s churches, but Humboldt County had built these temples on a budget.

  The judge’s bench was built into the corner, shoulder high, with an attached clerk’s station: a sidecar on the motorcycle of authority. The low hum from the fluorescents in the ceiling would be lost once the room filled. They expected a crowd even though this was just a preliminary hearing. The case had been on the front page of the Times Standard.

  I had my laptop, legal pad, travel mug, and pen arranged as I liked. I’m not obsessive about it, but it’s good to have a well-organized base of operations, like a favorite chair at home.

  The doors opened, and I turned. Carly walked up the aisle beside the DA, Sibyl Finn, as though they were casual friends on their way to a business meeting. Finn had gone with a pin-striped outfit once more, this time black instead of blue. Carly’s outfit won the unintended competition based on points for elegance: a gray gabardine top with matching slacks that emphasized her long legs.

  Although Carly had seen Finn at the arraignment, I introduced the two women. After they shook hands, Carly signed, “I didn’t kill my husband,” and I translated.

  My mind flashed to the scene in the movie remake of The Fugitive, where Harrison Ford says, “I didn’t kill my wife,” and Tommy Lee Jones replies, “I don’t care.” But Finn did care. Very much. How will she reply?