Good Lookin' Read online

  “See you there.”

  Though Chuck’s sobering assessment depressed me, it served as a good reminder that my gut feeling about my client’s innocence would count for nothing at trial.

  Even without the benefit of the video, Chuck had been spot-on. If Moore was in the car, the evidence of murder now seemed overwhelming. Even if he was the driver and someone else fired the shots, he could easily be convicted of murder as an aider and abettor.

  I crinkled the beer can and tossed it across the room, narrowly missing the recycling bin. It was clear that Darnell had lied to me about most things. I had become well-practiced in truth detecting, owing to years of being lied to by clients attempting to weave a course to freedom through the bars of custody. Darnell’s lies were easy to spot and had a naïve quality about them.

  More telling than his truthfulness was his remarkable calm in the face of the swirling storm of shit that surrounded him. I had met guilty people who were just as calm, but they fit squarely into the category of sociopaths. Their calm demeanor was less relaxed, their flat affect masking a simmering rage just beneath the surface. I recalled how Darnell’s placid vibe had put me at ease during our first chat. It was the genuine article.

  The accused who are guilty are never calm. Even if they have a strong defense, they harbor a constant worry that an eyewitness will surface, or someone’s smart phone captured their crime. The innocent possesses an inner peace based on the natural order of things. Since they’re innocent, nothing will happen to them. Surely the truth will come out, the mix-up will be sorted, and they will go home.

  As I pictured Darnell’s easy smile warming the glass between us, it was clear that however misguided his belief in the system, his calm demeanor served as a reflection of his innocence.

  Reclining with my beverage and burrito, I turned up my play list. I’d thought enough about Darnell Moore for one day, and I had a feeling he would be occupying my thoughts for a while.

  Chapter Four

  Don’t worry, though, he’ll be as good as new. Boys his age bounce.―Harper Lee

  Oakland, California 2006

  Damon’s mouth watered as he watched Dumbass crack his teeth into the apple again, smacking loudly as he sat on the couch in his tank top, curling his dumbbell and watching his biceps flex.

  Danny Dumbass. That’s what he and his twin brother had taken to calling him privately.

  This one had turned out to be probably the worst foster ever. It wasn’t the beatings. They’d had worse than the odd cuff to the head or random punch on the shoulder doled out by Dumbass. The shoulder punches really hurt, and you never knew when they were coming. Still, they weren’t the belt or a lit cigarette. And they weren’t every night, so you didn’t spend all day worrying about them.

  But this food thing was turning into a problem.

  At home they got ramen noodles for dinner every night while Dumbass wolfed down steaks, burgers, and pizza right in front of them. Once in a while, they could sneak his leftovers out of the garbage, but usually Ramen was it.

  “Eatin’ better with that foster money,” Jesse said under his breath one night.

  That comment earned him an immediate knuckle punch to the arm, but later he said it was worth it. The real problem was Dumbass hadn’t filled out the free lunch forms for school. Damon had finally gone to the principal’s office and taken care of it, forging Dumbass’ signature, but they wouldn’t take effect for another three days.

  Sitting there, hearing the sound of the crisp apple, watching the juice run down the big man’s chin, Damon dreaded asking and already knew the answer. “Sir, do you think it would be possible for Jesse and me, to, uh, get some breakfast this morning?”

  “Don’t they give you food at school?”

  “Well, sir…”

  “Y’all better get off to school. I ain’t taking you today,” he said, staring at his biceps as he continued his curls. “Got to work on my guns.”

  Damon went to the kitchen for a glass of water, then to get Jesse for their walk to school. Every time they left the house, no matter how hungry or sore, their spirits lifted.

  On their walks to school, the twins passed a bake shop, its fancy cakes and frosted cookies stacked in the window. They always stopped to stare and inhale the sugary aroma.

  “If I had a hundred dollars, I would buy a different cookie every day,” said Damon. It had become a game they played every day when they walked by.

  “I would build a house out of cookies, so when I wanted one, I’d just break off a part of a wall or a chair,” Jesse said, grinning into the window.

  “Don’t worry,” Damon told his twin, as they walked on, “I got an idea for after school. Yesterday on the way home, I seen this waitress outside Vinnie’s, throwing away damn near whole pizzas in the dumpster.”

  “Yeah, pizza sounds good.”

  “Mean time,” said Damon casually, glancing sideways at Jesse with a gleam in his eye, “how this grab you?” He produced a shiny red apple from the pocket of his hoodie.

  “Way to go, D!” yelled Jesse. “Old Dumbass won’t be chomping on this one.”

  “No sir, he won’t,” Damon chimed in, taking the first bite, then handing it to his brother. “No sir, he will not,” he repeated softly, savoring the victory.

  Chapter Five

  I was squirting mustard on my hotdog from the cart outside my office when Chuck pulled up in the immense mid-’70s jalopy he called Ma. One of the ugliest cars on record, all signs of the make and model had either rusted or fallen off long before Chuck acquired it for two hundred fifty bucks and a set of used golf clubs. The lone exception was the faint scripted “ma” on the console, the letters imprinted on the hard vinyl by part of a long-departed insignia.

  Once burgundy, it was now multi-colored, with faded streaks of pink on the hood and orange rust spots around the wheel wells. An absurdly long car, the tatters of its black vinyl roof blew in the breeze, a bad haircut atop the wreck.

  Chuck said he kept it because he didn’t care if it was burglarized, which made sense as much time as he spent in the sketchiest parts of Oakland. “Hey, watch the interior,” he warned, eyeing my snack.

  “Yeah, sorry. I should have noticed you just had it detailed. I love how they infuse that aroma of smelly socks.”

  “Ma’s still purring like a kitten,” he said, patting the cracked dashboard as we set off for the E&J Market.

  West of downtown, the fast pace of the city abruptly gives way to a sleepy residential dystopia. Garbage is strewn over sidewalks, and black wrought-iron bars on the brightly colored Victorians lend an undercurrent of tension. Paradoxically, churches dot the landscape. For the most part, the streets are empty, save for the occasional gathering at a corner market.

  On the way, I ate my hotdog and reviewed the police report documenting the “tentative” identification of Moore by the witness, the proprietor of the E&J, one Vardan Bedrossian. The identification wasn’t recorded, which was annoying, as was the officer’s decision to characterize the witness’ statement as a “tentative” identification.

  According to the reports, Mr. Bedrossian had pointed to two photos—one of Moore and one of a “filler”, indicating that the two photos most resembled the shooter. So in fact, this was not an identification, tentative or otherwise. Indicating that a photograph looked like the suspect is a far cry from saying “I think that’s the guy.”

  I had yet to receive the witness’ taped statement, which I presumed would cover his description of the shooter and his vantage point. Today, I was curious to ask Bedrossian where the shooter was seated in the car.

  I recognized the intersection from the video as Chuck parked his submarine in front of the store. The E&J was a converted one-story, two-bedroom brick home. On the porch, in a high-backed chair to the left of the front door, sat a distinguished looking black man in a fedora. He sat ramrod straight, his left hand resting on the handle of an ornately carved cane, the sleeve of a green cardigan sweater hanging f
rom his forearm.

  The window to the left of the front door had been boarded up and painted black. “E&J Market” covered the width of the boards, the white letters hand painted and unevenly spaced. The front door, covered in a metal grate, was open.

  With a nod for the man on the porch, I climbed up four steps to the front door. Up close, I saw he was quite old. His expressionless face of hardened leather stared straight into the street.

  I paused briefly at the door and turned back to see the view of the street before following Chuck inside. Directly across the street was 454 West Eighth, part-time hangout of the victim’s gang, Cashtown. The home was a blue and white Victorian in disrepair, its intricate molding along the roofline chipped and falling away. The railing of a terrace hung from the second story, partially obscuring a broken bay window. A wrought iron fence encircled an overgrown yard littered with fast-food wrappers, bottles, and probably syringes. In front of the house on the sidewalk, a reddish-brown shape stained the sidewalk, no doubt Cleveland Barlow’s last resting place.

  Homicides had become so common in Oakland, there was a protocol for cleaning blood off of public sidewalks. Whatever chemical they used changed the color of the stain but never removed it completely.

  Inside the E&J, the store was windowless and dimly lit, with three aisles of mostly liquor and snacks on shelves that nearly reached the low ceiling. Hanging from the ceiling along the back wall, video screens showed an area inside the store entrance and the front counter.

  “What you need, guys?” The man behind the counter spoke with a heavy accent, east European, by the sound of it. He looked to be in his sixties, short and stout with a black buzz cut and a moustache that covered most of his face. “You want cigarettes? Liquor? What you need?” he asked, smiling beneath the moustache as we approached.

  Chuck took the lead. “Mr. Bedrossian?”

  The smiled disappeared as his eyes narrowed. “That’s me. What you want? Who are you?”

  “Sir, I’m Chuck Argenal. We’d like to speak with you about the shooting that occurred here recently.”

  He paused, his eyes darting back and forth between us. The wheels were turning. Finally, he took a step back and leaned against the wall behind the counter, folding his thick, hairy arms across his chest. “You want to speak,” he said, sticking out his chin, then with a subtle shrug, “So speak.”

  We stepped aside as a customer entered the store and approached the counter, placing a tall can of malt liquor on the counter and gesturing for cigarettes. The transaction complete, Bedrossian resumed his mulish pose.

  I hadn’t necessarily anticipated cheerful cooperation, but the hostility was unexpected. “Sir,” I began, “we were just hoping to get a better understanding of…”

  “You guys don’t show badges. So not cops.” He spoke quickly, in short, staccato bursts with a tight edge to the tone. “Not cops. That means on the other side. I talk to police. That’s it,” he said, punctuating his last two words with the safe sign. “Guys. Sorry for rude, but…”

  His eyes shifted past us to the front door, and his eyes widened, a huge smile spreading over his face. “Holy shit!”

  He threw his hands over his head and began speaking in his native language. Chuck and I stepped aside as he danced from behind the counter to meet a young man in army fatigues. The men embraced heartily and exchanged cheek kisses before hugging again.

  Chuck and I stood awkwardly until the young man caught my eye. “I’m Rocco,” he said without the trace of an accent as he extended a hand. “I just arrived from Afghanistan.”

  “This my son. He fights for America,” the elder Bedrossian said proudly. “Haven’t seen in more than one year.” Still beaming, he grabbed his son’s face again and kissed him.

  “Okay, Dad.” He smiled sheepishly and said something to his father in their language. “We are Armenian. He gets emotional.”

  “Thank you for your service,” I said. “Did you just arrive from the airport? Can I give you a hand with some luggage?” I looked for a reason to hang around a bit, thinking maybe we’d have more luck with Bedrossian with his son around to explain our intentions.

  “No, I’m good, thanks,” he replied, quizzically, no doubt wondering who the hell I was.

  “Okay, then. We don’t want to spoil your homecoming,” I said awkwardly. “Mr. Bedrossian, if it’s okay, I’ll leave a card.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He took it without looking at me, still smiling and staring at his son.

  On the way out, I noticed bullet holes and strike marks around the door frame of the market and more on the boarded-up window. I wondered if any of them were fresh and made a mental note to request discovery of all reports of shooting at the location in the past few years.

  Back inside Chuck’s heap, he laughed at my lame attempt to ingratiate myself. “ ‘Hey, you don’t know me from Adam, but can I give you a hand with your luggage and maybe join in the family celebration?’ ”

  “It was worth a try. The son was at least civil. And by the way, who travels half-way around the world with no luggage?”

  “Boy, his dad is tougher than a two-dollar steak, operating a business in this neighborhood. Got the feeling he kept a sawed-off shotgun under the counter.”

  “Might make sense to make a run at him in a week or so. Maybe get the kid to mediate.”

  “I also wonder about the dime store Indian on the porch. I’ll bet he doesn’t miss much.”

  “Did you get a look at the security cameras?”

  “Read my mind. I’ll subpoena the video footage. Might shed some light on his vantage point. He sure couldn’t have seen the shooting from inside the store.”

  Chuck turned up his favorite Kansas City blues, swaying with the beat as the big car surfed through the pothole-ridden streets of west Oakland. I called the jail to schedule a visit with Moore for the following afternoon.

  ****

  The North County Jail in downtown Oakland is a relic. Built in 1945, from the street the eight-story structure resembles a beige tombstone. High up on the structure, rows of narrow vertical windows encircle the building like arrow slits for archers. The jail houses eight hundred inmates in half as many cells, all either serving a sentence or awaiting trial. Among law enforcement and inmates alike, it is known as the Dungeon.

  Inside the jail lobby, rows of seats are bolted to the floor, their fabric torn and frayed. Pay phone stalls line the walls, their phones long since removed. An old television, deeper than its screen is wide, sits dormant on a shelf in the corner above two vending machines.

  I exchanged my bar card for a badge on a lanyard that read “Maximum”, turned over my cell phone, and followed the deputy through a metal detector redundantly labeled “Secure Area.” No matter how many times I’d entered the bowels of the jail, I was never prepared for the smell. It was as if body odor and disinfectant formed a fist and punched my face.

  Built before electronic locks, every door in the facility is made of gray metal bars, straight out of the old west. Consequently, intermittent clangs of the heavy doors echo throughout the cement walls of the building.

  It was my first trip inside a jail since the Dunigan fiasco, but it barely crossed my mind. Darnell Moore had been one of the most cheerful and friendly murder clients. Even if things deteriorated rapidly, I was pretty sure I could protect myself from his spindly frame.

  I was greeted by Deputy Spriggs, a veteran of the Dungeon. He led me down an impossibly long hallway that was a study in monotony. The hallway floor, like all those throughout the jail, was unfinished cement, the windowless walls and ceiling of the hallway, painted gun-metal gray. In the distance, the hallway shrank in size until it disappeared, creating the impression that my walk would eventually suffocate me in grayness.

  After what seemed like a quarter-mile, Deputy Spriggs arrived at a barred door on the right and opened it with a comically large key. I took a seat at a table inside the eight by eight converted cell and waited for the arrival of my client
.

  Ten minutes later, resplendent in red and white striped jail togs reserved for gang members, Moore bounced into the cell as if arriving at a party. “Hey, Mr. Turner!” He greeted me enthusiastically as the deputy uncuffed his hands. “I really appreciate you coming. How are you?”

  How am I? Well, not in jail, I wanted to answer. Instead, I said, “Good. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m good. I’m eager to tell you what I know. In the court interview room, you know, I didn’t feel like it was totally private.”

  This was a very good sign—a tacit acknowledgement that he’d been less than forthcoming.

  “I’m happy to hear that, Darnell. I’ve copied the basic police report for you.” I slid the half-inch stack towards him. “I’ve redacted the names and addresses of your family in case the report falls into the wrong hands.”

  “Good lookin’.”

  ‘Good lookin’. One of my favorite street terms, both in sentiment and economy of words. Shortened from “good looking out,” it’s a concise expression of thanks for looking after another’s well-being.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself so I can get to know you.”

  “Sure. I grew up in west Oakland, but we moved around a bit. I graduated from Franklin High three years ago. I stay with my mom and my little brother.”

  “How old is your brother?”

  “Ray is fourteen. He got a scholarship to go to a prep school back east next year. I forget the name of it.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Yeah,” he said, broad smile on his face. “He paid attention a little better than me in school.”

  “Were you working at the time you got arrested?”

  “I was doing warehouse work, but I got laid off.”

  “Okay,” I said, shifting gears, “About why you’re in here. Can you start by telling me your activity on the day of the shooting? That would have been last Sunday.”

  “Okay, let’s see.” He stared at the wall, somewhere above my head. “So, from what I remember, I had been out the night before, getting my groove on with the ladies,” he said, flashing his smile, “so I slept ’til about noon. Then, I just chilled with some friends and that’s about it.”