Good Lookin' Page 4

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  “Darnell,” I said calmly, conscious of maintaining my composure, “in order for me to do my job and help you, I need to know the facts. I know we just met and I’m a white guy in a suit and you have no real reason to trust me. The problem is, I’m all you got.”

  “Mr. Turner, believe me, I know you’re on my side. I just truly don’t know anything about that murder.”

  I stared at the floor for several seconds and decided to cross examine him. Maybe I would trip him up or at least show him the hopelessness of his position.

  “Darnell, why don’t we try it this way. Do you have any idea why your car, a very distinctive looking green mid-sized sedan made from junkyard spare parts was at the scene of the murder when it happened?”

  “Hey, who’s side are you on?”

  “Why was your car there?”

  “People borrow my car all the time. If that car was at the scene, I wasn’t in it.”

  “Is there more than one key?” I started asking questions at a fast pace, deliberately giving him no time to think.

  “No. I lost the spare.”

  “You usually keep the key with you?”

  “Always in my pocket or in my bedroom, why?”

  “You were home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So your mom can verify you were there all evening.”

  “I’m not sure she was home.”

  “Well, it was Sunday. She was probably at home at six on a Sunday night, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you own a gun, Darnell?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never touched a gun.”

  “Other than the semi-auto you were posing with in that photo, you mean?”

  His smile faded. “We was just messing around. I don’t own a gun.”

  “So when I get the search warrant inventory, it won’t list a gun found under your bed?”

  “No.”

  “Who borrowed your car last Saturday evening?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you.”

  “They had to get the key from you, right?”

  He paused. He was stuck and he knew it. “Man, you got me all confused.”

  “Do you know who might have wanted to kill Cleveland Barlow?”

  “No, I don’t even know that dude.”

  “Not even someone in Iceboyz?”

  He was shaking his head now, frustrated. “What? I don’t know about no Iceboyz.”

  “Darnell, please. If you live in west Oakland, you know Iceboyz.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t know the gang.”

  “Five seconds ago, you told me you didn’t know about the Iceboyz. In the last minute, you’ve lied about someone borrowing your car, never touching a gun, and being clueless about the Iceboyz. You are wasting my time, kid.”

  He paused again, retreating to his well-practiced smile, but it looked forced. “Mr. Turner, this case against me is just circumstantial, right?”

  Standing to face away from him, I didn’t want to yell at him on day one. I was afraid I’d found Darnell’s misplaced confidence in the strength of his defense. There are two types of evidence: direct and circumstantial. The law treats both types exactly the same. The problem, however, was that somewhere along the way, circumstantial evidence had become synonymous in non-legal circles as inferior or weak evidence.

  I hit the buzzer to summon the deputy and retook my seat across the table. “Here’s the thing,” I began in a more relaxed tone. “There are two ways to prove that it’s raining outside. The first is for someone to testify that they were just standing outside, and it was raining. The other is to come into court wearing a raincoat and carrying a wet umbrella. Both ways work.

  “So it’s true that so far, no one has said they saw you shoot Mr. Barlow. However, the jury will learn that you had motive, and that someone shot him who looks similar to you and was driving your car.”

  “But. Mr. Turner, I didn’t do this!” he pleaded as my escort arrived.

  For the first time I heard a tinge of panic in his voice. At least I had accomplished that.

  “You know, Darnell. I actually believe you.”

  I stood and walked out, leaving him there alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Six

  I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.—Harper Lee

  Oakland, California 2006

  “You two are too young to look that tired.”

  The twins followed the raspy voice over the short picket fence where a well-dressed black man leaned on a cane while watering a dry patch of grass in front of a market. The boys stopped walking and smiled wearily as the man put down his hose and moved closer.

  After school, Damon and Jesse took a walk down Maybeck Street to explore the railway yard two blocks off their regular route home. It was Friday and if they avoided home for a while, Dumbass would probably be gone drinking when they got there.

  “Long week?” the stranger asked. To the boys, his tone was kind and matter of fact, without a hint of subterfuge.

  “Yes sir, I guess so,” Damon answered.

  “Well, one thing I know for sure,” the man said, rubbing his wizened face, “after a long week, sometimes something sweet helps.” He fished in the front pocket of his pants, then reached over the fence. Two pieces of butterscotch candy rested in the center of his palm.

  The twins looked at the candies, their gold wrapping shimmering in the sun like jewels. “Go on,” the man said. Damon and Jesse looked at each other, each asking for permission with a smile.

  “Thank you,” said Damon, taking the candy and giving one to his brother.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, a lot,” added Jesse with enthusiasm, his eyes glued to his candy as they walked away.

  From that day on, the twins had a new route home on Fridays. He was always out when they walked by, either on the market’s porch or in the yard waiting for them. They would talk about their week at school and listen to the nice man with the soothing voice, fancy canes, and limitless supply of butterscotch candy.

  Usually, they would enjoy their treat on their way home, letting the sugar dissolve on their tongues, then chewing the wrappers until the last of the flavor was gone. Sometimes, they would wait until later and enjoy them as a dessert after their ramen. The twins came to savor their weekly treats and chats with their new friend.

  Chapter Seven

  The moment I emerge from any jail, particularly the Dungeon, never fails in its invigoration. Even though I’ve never been locked inside against my will, there is still something very liberating when free air fills your lungs.

  Today was no different, and I decided to skip the BART train and enjoy the twenty-minute walk home. I’d been trying to choose that option more often lately. With my reduction in alcohol intake and occasional trips to the gym, if I squinted at myself in the mirror, some slight definition began to appear.

  I had inherited my dad’s height and according to my mom, his rakish good looks. Since law school, though, my athletic frame had gradually melted away. Blessed with mom’s metabolism, I would never be heavy, but the years of beer and brats had left me rounded and soft.

  While walking, I reviewed the latest emails to come in on my phone. Chuck’s name appeared first. I called him first. “What’s up?”

  “How did the visit go?”

  “Complete waste of time,” I said. “He don’t know nothing about nothing.”

  “You know what you got, right?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “What we got here is a failure to communicate.”

  “A movie line for all occasions. See ya.”

  The following morning, I massaged my hamstrings as I read the sports section over coffee in my office. I was sore from my walk, which was pathetic. The Moore case was in court this morning and I’d come in early. I needed a life. Maybe I would call Andy’s wife’s friend.

  Just then my partner walked in and stopped outside my d
oor. “Did you call Edna? Karen is all over me.”

  “No, but I might,” I answered while reading an email from Deputy District Attorney Nathan Didery who informed me he had been assigned the Moore case. “Wait, her name is Edna?”

  “Yeah, the name doesn’t scream super-hot, but Karen says she’s a catch.”

  “Wait, those were her words? ‘Edna is a catch?’ She might as well have said she has a great personality.”

  “So, you’re seriously not going to call her because of her name? That’s shallow, Turner, even for you.”

  I gathered my files for court and paused at the door. “So, you’re honestly telling me you believe there’s a chance she’s attractive?”

  “Of course not,” he scorned. “Her name is Edna!”

  On the short walk to court, I stopped for a hotdog, a reward for my morning’s exercise, and digested the news of my opponent. Nathan Didery was a competent trial attorney and a straight shooter. However, dealing with him could be exhausting. Nicknamed “Jittery Didery,” he was perpetually nervous, constantly double and triple checking things he worried about—which turns out to be everything.

  My hamstrings barked as I ascended the steps to the Alameda County Superior Courthouse. Of all the courthouses in the bay area, my home court was my favorite. A ten-story stone edifice with a steepled roof, it overlooks Lake Merritt, the nicest feature of downtown Oakland.

  Since the visit with Darnell, I’d wondered if I’d been too harsh. After all, he was nineteen years old, had already been in custody for longer than ever before, and now faced the unspeakable prospect of a long life behind bars. Over the years, it had occurred to me that young men and women sentenced to life endured more severe sentences than older convicts simply because they began their sentence at a younger age. Anyway, by the time I was across from him again, I’d decided not to grill him further. He would open up when he was ready.

  After a cordial greeting, I explained to him that we would enter a plea of not guilty today and address his speedy trial rights. Darnell had a right to a preliminary hearing—a hearing designed to make sure there was at least enough evidence to have a trial—within ten days. He agreed to waive that right—“waive time” in attorney parlance—to give me time to prepare, investigate his case, and to hopefully convince him to tell me what he knew.

  “Mr. Turner?” he said, as we wrapped up our brief meeting.

  “Yeah, Darnell?”

  “I wanted to apologize about, uh, you know, saying I don’t know nothing about the Iceboyz. Of course, you know, everyone knows about them,” he said sheepishly. “I hang with them sometimes.”

  It was true that in substance, his admission was insignificant. He had apologized for the most obvious of his many lies. Still, it was a start. I appreciated the gesture and told him so.

  Out in the courtroom, I got my first load of Jittery Didery.

  “Hi, Joe. Good to see you,” he said quickly in a nasal tone, seemingly short of breath. His gray suit hung off his rail-thin frame, which seemed in perpetual motion, a bundle of nervous energy. He wore his black hair in a buzz cut, his sharp features and wire-rimmed glasses connoting a frenetic insect.

  Before my lips could form the first words of my return greeting, he continued, in a torrent. “So, I understand your client will enter a plea today. I, uh, was wondering, of course, I was just wondering, if, if, if you’ve spoken to him about whether he would waive time? Of course, as I’m sure you are aware, I certainly hope he does but I’m…” He stopped only because he had run out of breath in mid-sentence but reloaded quickly. “I’m certainly mindful that he has his rights,” he said, extending both arms toward me with palms out to illustrate his point, “but obviously I’m, of course, you know, very hopeful.”

  In fairness, the concern was shared by every District Attorney who prosecuted major felonies. If a defendant insisted on a preliminary hearing within ten days, the Court would calendar it in one week’s time, leaving the prosecutor with a Herculean task on a strict deadline. Obviously, though, some dealt with the stress better than others.

  The sadistic part of me wanted to keep him twisting in the wind for a few minutes, but I actually felt like the poor guy was close to requiring medical attention.

  “He’ll waive time, Nathan,” I said calmly, and saw the relief wash over him.

  Sighing deeply, the prosecutor steadied himself against the rail surrounding the jury box. “Thank you, Joe.”

  Judge Murphy ascended the bench below the giant American flag that hung from the ceiling in every department in the courthouse. When my late father had served as the county’s District Attorney, the judge had been his second in command.

  “Mr. Turner, do you have a matter that’s ready to call?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. People v. Darnell Moore. Mr. Moore is present, in custody.”

  Darnell was ushered into the courtroom through a side door and stood next to me at the counsel table where he confirmed to the judge that he was waiving his right to a preliminary hearing within ten days. The Court set the preliminary hearing out two weeks. I told him I would see him soon, dreading another trip to the Dungeon.

  ****

  As I slid the disk into my computer, I felt the same queasiness that always accompanies listening to my clients’ interrogations. Moore appeared in the interview room at the Oakland Police Department that I’d seen so many times before. The room was ten by ten, with a table and three chairs, two for officers on one side, one for the suspect on the other.

  Moore was placed in the room at two-fifteen p.m. on Thursday, after being arrested at his home that morning, three days after the murder. He stayed in the room alone for nearly five hours by himself. An officer came in to check on him once. I fast-forwarded over the video of him sitting in the chair, then laying his head on the table trying various positions to get comfortable as he dozed off. It is common practice for police to interview suspects when they’re exhausted.

  The time stamp at the bottom of the screen read 7:09:10 p.m. when two plain-clothes detectives entered the room. Probably starting their shift, the clean-cut men wore ties and empty leather shoulder holsters. The scene looked right out of the movies, missing only the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  In most interrogations, the moment of truth comes early on, when the Miranda warnings are given. After hearing of his right to remain silent and right to an attorney, the suspect either insists on his right to counsel before speaking, effectively ending the interrogation, or more commonly tries to talk his way out of his predicament. I knew the path Darnell had chosen, if only because there were still forty-seven minutes left in the video.

  After eliciting some basic identifying information about Darnell, Detective Bosco, a twenty-two-year veteran of the Oakland Police Department, proceeded to give a clinic on how to convince a suspect to waive their Miranda rights.

  “Mr. Moore,” he began, accentuating the Oklahoma drawl that made him sound more honest. “Christ, can I call you Darnell? I feel like I should because I got a son your age.”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s the deal. I’m gonna be straight with you. I’m looking at you, reading your rap sheet. A few theft offenses. Misdemeanor drugs. Petty shit, right?”

  “Right, that’s the thing, though….”

  “Let me finish, Darnell, then I’ll let you talk. Anyway, I got a snapshot of you on one hand, but then I’m looking at what happened.” The detective paused, shaking his head, as if actually confused. “This is a cold-blooded drive-by murder in the middle of a gang war. It just don’t add up. Anyway, I’m hoping that you can make some sense of this for me.”

  “Yes, sir, I can,” began Darnell, already sold on the idea of explaining that this was all one big mistake.

  “Now, before you start, there’s one more thing,” he said, rolling his eyes. He addressed his partner on his right, who was already smiling, well-versed in his partner’s spiel. “I swear, sometimes I think this job is nothing but paperwork
,” the detective said, producing a form labeled “Miranda Waiver” from a drawer in the table.

  “So, Darnell, we got to tell you that you don’t have any obligation to talk to us. And I need to read you what’s on this form. It says, ‘you have a right to remain silent,’” the detective read, noticeably quickening his pace. “‘You have a right to an attorney. Even if you can’t afford an attorney one will be provided. Anything you say can be used against you in court.’” Bosco put the form on the table and removed a pen from his front pocket and held it in front of him.

  Darnell took the pen but hesitated slightly.

  “So, Darnell, here’s the thing,” the detective continued. “You have every right not to talk to us. If that happens, we’ll just process this case as a murder, and you’ll be in front of a judge first thing Monday morning with a lawyer.” Darnell shifted in his seat, no doubt thinking about the awful prospect of a weekend in jail. “And to be honest, my partner here didn’t want to give you that opportunity.” The partner, still in character, now sat sternly with his arms crossed. “But if you want to tell your side of the story, this is your opportunity.”

  Inevitably, Darnell took the pen and signed, now poised to do irreparable damage to his defense.

  “Have you called yet?” Andy called from his office and I was happy for the distraction.

  “No, I haven’t called Edna,” I said, emphasizing her name.

  “So,” he paused, appearing in my doorway, “even though I’m categorically opposed to this idea and the last thing I want to do is subject anyone to your dumpster fire of a love life, I feel like if I don’t tell you, I’ll be violating some sort of man code.”

  “Yes? Out with it.”

  “Okay, I happened to see a photo of Edna last night in Karen’s phone.” He stared hard at me and began an exaggerated deliberate nod. “You should call.”

  “Really” I said. “Edna. Who knew?”