Web of Justice

by J J Miller

  “Ms. Holmes, until recently you were a key donor to the Los Angeles Mission, is that right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Madison. It’s but one of several causes I support.”

  “And recently you were in discussions to become a board member, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did those discussions break down?”

  “I wouldn’t say they broke down. I’d say they resolved in a way that was agreeable to all parties.”

  “You had attached a number of conditions to your board membership, isn’t that right?”

  “A few.”

  “You wanted more say in how religion was to be offered at the mission, didn’t you?”

  “I believed there was room to change things for the better, and I expressed that belief very clearly.”

  “But the other board members obviously did not see things your way. And they refused your demands, didn’t they?”

  “We agreed to disagree.”

  “But their refusal to bend to your wishes upset you, did it not?”

  “It did not bother me in the slightest.”

  “But immediately following this falling out with the other board members, you stopped funding the mission, didn’t you?”

  “That was something I’d been considering for some time. I help a lot of charities, as I have said, and I thought it was time to sow my seeds elsewhere.”

  “Seems to me you were sulking, Ms. Holmes. You couldn’t get your way, and so you discarded what up until that moment was something you considered to be a very worthy cause.”

  “Objection. Counsel is testifying!”

  “I did no such thing!” Francine said.

  “Sustained.”

  “I’m almost done, Your Honor,” I said. “Ms. Holmes, do you still work at the mission?”

  “No. I have decided I have better things to with my time.”

  “Funny you should say that. My client also decided he had better things to do with his time as well. Is he going to hell for turning his back on you, a disciple of God, Ms. Holmes?”

  “Objection!” cried Jessica.

  “Your Honor, I think it’s a fair question that points to a double standard this witness may be applying to my client in a case upon which his life depends.”

  “Overruled. Ms. Holmes, please answer the question.”

  “Yes, Mr. Madison. I’m sorry to say that I firmly believe he is going to hell.”

  I turned back to my table.

  “No more questions from me, Your Honor.”

  I took my seat with mixed feelings. Although I’d taken Francine Holmes down a peg or two, I hadn’t made up enough ground on Jessica. Things still looked grim for my client, and everybody knew it. Me, the jury and, of course, Demarco. Before they took him away, he grabbed my forearm.

  “I want to take the stand,” he seethed.

  “Demarco, I understand you feel that way, but I’m telling you it would be a mistake. We need to stick to the plan.”

  “And that is?”

  “You know what the plan is—we make it all about the prosecution’s case. They have to prove their case beyond reasonable doubt. And my job is to make it clear as day that they have fallen short of that standard.”

  “It looks like I’m screwed.”

  “You’re not screwed, Demarco. But if I put you on the stand, it will only take one microscopic bad impression for the jury to turn on you for good. If the prosecutor gets a rise out of you, if your frustrations get the better of you, if you just get so fed up with people assuming you’re bad that you decide to show them just how fucking bad you can be, then your case is lost. There’d be no coming back.”

  “But if I’m going down, I want to have my say. Just sitting here is killing me. Listening to that bitch lie about me like that. How can she do that? No more just sitting here and taking it, man. I want them to hear me out.”

  “Taking the stand and having your say is not the same thing. Remember our mock trials? You know where it will go if I expose you to the prosecution.”

  As part of our preparation, I’d already taken Demarco through a mock cross-examination. Within three questions, he’d been pinned, having to defend himself against his prior deeds, that phone call, his gang connections. And he hadn’t reacted well. His emotions were so raw.

  Demarco stared at me, his reservations still intact.

  “Demarco, we need to keep the jury sympathetic towards you. Without that sympathy they won’t want to stand up for you, they won’t want to protect you, because they will no longer care about you. I hate to say it, Demarco, and it sounds so wrong, but this trial is not about you, it’s all about the jury.”

  “It’s hard. It’s like you’re telling me to go down without a fight.”

  “I’m fighting for you.”

  “But you ain’t winning and you know it.”

  “I’m not losing either. Hang in there, Demarco.”

  ✽✽✽

  “Madison!” Someone shouted out from behind as I left the court. “Hey, Madison! Wait up!”

  I didn’t want to wait up for anyone. I was heading straight back to the office with a mountain of work to do. Tomorrow I’d be calling my first defense witness, and I needed to make sure I was on top of my game. Just about every second of the day I was telling myself, “This is Tank’s kid, his only son, and if you don’t save him, he’s dead.” Not exactly desk quote material, but it sure as hell kept my motivation throttle up.

  I turned around and groaned at the sight of Dino Cassinelli. He’d moved twenty yards or so at a hurried pace, but it was enough to leave him gasping for air. As he faced me, I detected a slight heaviness in his eyelids. He looked drunk.

  “What do you want, Cassinelli?”

  “What the hell are you doing, Madison? Did you bother to follow any of my leads at all?”

  “Your leads? What are you talking about? I went through the files you gave me. My investigator checked out those two deaths, and guess what? There was jack shit to suggest they’re connected—to each other or to this case. Nothing.”

  “Then you need to get a new investigator.”

  “And you need to get a new ear to bend. I don’t have time to indulge in the ravings of a...”

  “You think this is some batshit crazy fantasy of mine? Is that what you think?”

  “Cassinelli, I’m busy. I’ve got a man’s life to defend. What do you want? Make it quick.”

  “The Puerto Escondido case. Kyle Chambers. The kid who died in the fire. Did your guy look into that?”

  “Yes, he did. It was exactly as it seemed. Arson and manslaughter. The perp got twenty years.”

  “Go deeper.”

  “Why don’t you go deeper and bring me something other than X-Files BS. You do understand I’m defending a man on two murder charges, don’t you? If you were going to be of any use to me, I needed your help weeks ago.”

  Cassinelli bowed his head and suddenly stumbled to his right. I grabbed his shoulder.

  “Are you drunk?”

  Cassinelli kept his eyes lowered. “Course not.”

  “I can’t believe it. You’re loaded.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that I know I’m right. This ain’t about your boy. It’s about something bigger, something messed up.”

  I bent my head in towards him and lowered my voice, keeping the tone calm and considerate.

  “Cassinelli, you need to give me something I can use. Otherwise you’re just in the way. You understand?”

  He looked at me with a face knotted with indignation. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  “This is the one guy I know down there that speaks English,” he said, unraveling the paper. “I’ve been trying to find someone to trust, so it’s taken a while.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s telling me what I’m telling you. Gunshots were heard before the fire. Two. The family next door told the cops that’s what they heard, but the cops ignored it. The famil
y’s statement is gone. All that’s left are statements about the fire and a confession from the perp.”

  “But if the perp shot the guy, why didn’t he confess to that? Why just confess to arson?”

  “He never knew about the shots. The family said they heard them about an hour before the fire.”

  “So?”

  “That means someone else killed him.”

  “And?”

  Cassinelli suddenly looked almost sober.

  “And the killer pinned the murder on this guy—a bum off the streets. And no one doubted this bum was guilty of any charge the cops threw at him. Sound familiar?”

  ✽✽✽

  As I walked to my office, I called Jack.

  “Yo,” he answered. “What’s up?”

  “I need you to go to Mexico.”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, now. Why, you busy?”

  “Well, if you call heading up to the Napa Valley with a beautiful Swedish girl for a couple of days busy, then yeah. I’m flat out.”

  “Are you on your way there now?”

  “No. I’m going to pick up Elsa then head to Santa Monica airport to pick up a whirlybird a client’s kindly lent me.”

  Apart from everything else he had going for him, Jack had gotten his pilot’s license while in college. And through his work, he seemed to have acquired several wealthy friends who were only too happy to let him borrow their helicopters every now and then.

  “I hate to ask, but is there any chance you could push your date back a couple of days?”

  Jack sighed.

  “Jesus, Madison. I won’t have access to this chopper in a couple of days.”

  “Hire one and send me the bill.”

  “Forget it. What’s in Mexico, anyway? Don’t tell me—chasing up more bullshit from that Cassinelli clown?”

  “We need to know more than we do, Jack. That’s the truth,” I said. “Can you go check it out?”

  “No sweat. I’ll head to LAX now. Then I’ll call Elsa and get to hear every Swedish word for ‘asshole’.”

  When I hung up, I saw I’d received another message from a blocked number.

  “YOU’RE GOING TO LEARN WHAT REAL JUSTICE IS. I’M GOING TO TEACH YOU.”

  Jesus, these morons were tedious. Copping crap from vigilante trolls was one downside of my job I particularly disliked: by operating in the court of the people, I was subject to the court of public opinion. And I’m not talking reasonable public discourse: in the media I got an equal mix of backers and critics. And even then there was a byline attached, so I knew who was taking swings at me. But these anonymous, threatening texts were somehow more personal, and sinister. They were such utter cowards. Just once, I thought, I’d like one of these gutless grubs to come out of his stinking hole and address me face to face.

  Oh yeah, that would very much make my day, punk.

  22

  Now it was my turn. I had to lodge an immovable object in the mental path leading every juror to conclude Demarco was guilty. The first such obstacle was the giant of a man named Warren Anderson. And on his heels would be Elroy Franks and Loretta Valentine—two other witnesses Warren had found for me who agreed to testify that they’d seen Demarco having an amicable conversation with Toby Connors outside the shelter before walking off together. Both would be saying it was Connors who approached Demarco, corroborating the Demarco’s story and dispelling the notion that Demarco had vengefully hunted Connors down.

  Warren walked to the stand like he walked the streets of Skid Row: nothing to fear, nothing to hide, and plenty of good will to share. He oozed integrity and strength of character. I was sure that when the jury heard what he had to say they’d see Demarco Torrell in a compelling new light.

  “Mr. Anderson,” I began. “You know my client Demarco Torrell. Please tell the court how you two came to meet.”

  Although he had the build of a weight-lifter, Warren’s body was perfectly relaxed. No macho posturing.

  “Sure. I work with a gang intervention group called Exodus. We help kids escape street gangs before they stay long enough to ruin their lives. On top of that, I do some volunteer work down at the homeless shelter, the Los Angeles Mission. I developed a relationship with Demarco through both.”

  “What’s your role at the shelter?”

  “I act as a mentor and counselor to the men and women who turn up. They all got nothing but they all need something, be it a meal, accommodation, clothing, addressing their drug issues, proper medical care, finding work, that sort of thing. It’s a long list.”

  “So they come to the mission and you try and help them out as best you can?”

  “That’s about it, yes.”

  “And you don’t get paid for this work?”

  “No, it’s on the house.” Warren broke into a modest smile, almost imperceptible. I was glad his eyes stayed locked on me and he hadn’t turned to the jury with that smile—it could have hit the wrong note. As it was, the jury seemed to be lapping Warren Anderson up. I didn’t have to turn my head to know they were drawn to him.

  “And Demarco was one of those people who just walked in the door and you decided to help?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did he arrive at the Los Angeles Mission?”

  “It was January 12, 2016. A Tuesday. About two-thirty in the afternoon.”

  “Why do you remember this so distinctly?”

  “We’d met before when he’d come to Exodus and joined in a few activities. But when he walked through the mission door, I knew he was desperate. He was one fall away from being lost to the streets for good. There was something about Demarco that reminded me of myself.”

  “How so?”

  “He was down but not out. He was in deep trouble but still searching for a way out. A good way out. I was in a similar predicament when I was his age—deep in a life I wanted out of. I know firsthand how tough it is to transition from the street to what we all call a normal, productive life. It might not sound like much of an achievement, but to me it’s the arc of an astronaut. So I went up to Demarco and asked what he was doing at the mission. He said what everyone says at first—he was hungry. After that he was hoping to find a bed off the streets.”

  “You got to know Demarco very well, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. That day we had a basic conversation and he got something to put in that empty belly of his, but I offered my help. I offered him an ear. I told him things about myself that he didn’t already know, and that helped him see I was someone who understood him, that I was someone he could trust.”

  Jessica was on her feet.

  “This is all very warm and fuzzy, Your Honor, but is there any chance the court can hear some specific information relating to the double murder we’re here to rule on?”

  This was a weak objection to make—Jessica was merely trying to trigger a sense of skepticism in the jury’s collective mind.

  “Overruled.” Of course it was.

  “So if the prosecutor doesn’t mind,” I said, “I’d like to continue establishing the witness’s credentials in speaking to the defendant’s character and state of mind. Mr. Anderson, please tell the court why Demarco felt like he could trust you?”

  “I was once a gang leader. Where exactly in LA is not important. I got put away in juvie for assault, for robbery, for drugs—I did all the right things to build the wrong future. But I got out. So I knew how hard life was for Demarco and how hard it was going to be.”

  “What was so hard?”

  “Leaving a gang is not easy. Intervention groups like ours do their best, but without enough family and community support, those kids don’t get traction on new ways to live. More often than not they are alone, and to fight their way up from the very bottom of society is just too much.”

  “Why did Demarco want to abandon gang life?”

  “He’d been locked up in juvie twice. He’d seen some bad stuff on the streets and he saw where he was headed. But for him to decide to leave was a hu
ge call. In juvie, he’d paraded his tattoos with pride. He got into fights with rival gang members. And when this got back home to the gang, he had more cred.”

  “The gang was his family?”

  “More than that. It’s about identity and self-worth. For kids like Demarco, the gang is the only place where they are embraced by a community. They build up their self-esteem through the eyes of the gang. Their measure as young men is shaped through the eyes of the gang. It’s a hard rite of passage, but for a scared young kid getting mugged to and from school, it can become a clear path to follow—one that offers safety, power and pride.”

  “But also a pathway to prison.”

  “Exactly. It took me two years to make a clean break from my gang. Demarco was six months into his journey when he came to the shelter, and he was doing it pretty much all by himself.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not so much in that he was doing it alone, but he had the rare determination to stick it out, even if it meant ending up on Skid Row fighting for a tent, fighting off people trying to steal the shoes off your feet, fighting to stay off drugs when some crackhead blows meth smoke in your face just because he knows you’re trying to get clean.”

  “How many people escape this cycle?”

  “Hardly anyone. If you end up on Skid Row and do not find a way out within three days, you’ll spend the rest of your life there. That’s the way I see it, based on my own firsthand experience.”

  “What happened to Demarco once you’d established a relationship with him?”

  “He was pretty much moving forward, forming new ideas of what his life might become. He was enjoying his chats with Francine and getting the kind of spiritual strength he needed. It’s such a huge leap to make, you basically can’t do it without committing yourself to a higher power. That provides a source of encouragement, guidance and love. And he was tracking pretty well. I’d helped him find accommodation, and he was about to start a job.”

  “What was the job?”

  “Washing dishes in a diner over on Grand Avenue.”

  “It sounds like he was making progress. Francine, Ms. Holmes, told the court that Demarco had turned his back on his faith. Is that what happened?”