Good Lookin' Page 7

  His description thereafter to the 911 operator had been of a young black male. Given his knowledge of the neighborhood, Bedrossian could well have guessed that without ever seeing the shooting.

  After the police had captured Darnell’s car on surveillance video, they had placed his Department of Motor Vehicles photo in a photospread next to five other young light-skinned African American men with little to no facial hair. Bedrossian had circled Darnell’s photo and one of a filler. Other than the general similarities, the filler and Darnell didn’t really look much alike.

  Although the identification procedure was not recorded, which was unusual, the officer had at least quoted the witness verbatim in his report.

  “This one and this one. These look the most like the shooter.”

  All in all, Bedrossian added something to the prosecution’s case, but not much. Certainly, it could not support a guilty verdict alone. Of course, it didn’t need to add much, given the video, the motive, the gun, and Darnell’s admission to being in the area.

  My phone buzzed.

  “Hi, Rocco. You guys on your way?”

  “Very sorry, Joe. I couldn’t convince him to come. I talked to him about the importance of letting you talk to him. To me, what you said makes perfect sense. The last thing we want is for him to make a mistake and put away an innocent kid. But he’s just very stubborn.”

  “Yeah, I get that, Rocco. Thanks for trying. So, it’s safe to say he’ll be at the preliminary hearing?”

  “Yes. And frankly, I’m not thrilled about it. It could be very dangerous for him, especially when I’m overseas. Luckily, this time when I heard about the shooting, I had some leave coming and I needed treatment on my leg. Will the preliminary hearing be open to the public?”

  “Yes, unfortunately, it is.”

  “Well, sorry he wouldn’t speak to you. I think, in his mind, he’s just been at war with these gangs for so long. It’s almost like he sees the Court as an opportunity to stand up for himself.”

  “I completely understand, and if he wants to testify, he should. I just want him to be accurate. Anyway, thanks for trying. Tell your dad, if he changes his mind and wants to talk, he can give me a call.”

  “Will do. Oh, and Chuck dropped off a subpoena for our surveillance video inside the store. I’ll dig it up and email it to you.”

  “Thanks, Rocco.”

  I texted Chuck.

  —Never mind. The tough Armenian cancelled—

  ****

  “I should warn you, if there was an Olympic Team for mini-golf, I’d pretty much be the captain,” she said playfully.

  “Well, you may get your shot. Wasn’t ballroom dancing an Olympic sport once?” I asked, handing her a plastic cup of white wine.

  “Are you good?” she asked, selecting her putter from the bin.

  “At ballroom dancing? Yes, very accomplished. Why, care to make it interesting?”

  “Yes,” she said. “What are the stakes?” she asked, raising one eyebrow as her face was suddenly close to me. Then her soft, full lips were on mine, our mouths open, tasting wine. It happened right there on the first tee at Big Al’s Arcade and Putt Putt as the faint sounds of the arcade chimed in the distance.

  “Well, we’ll have to think of something.” I said, smiling my utter happiness into her blue eyes.

  Although I had sensed definite chemistry on our first date, I had been really too anxious to enjoy it. Today, though, it was intoxicating, and I could tell she felt it too. On a perfect spring day, we strolled around in the sunshine, drinking white wine from red cups while we talked, laughed, and putted under bridges and through clowns’ mouths.

  I learned that after graduating from college, two years behind me in school, she’d worked as an archaeologist for a land use company in Australia for ten years. Now, she was doing consulting work while getting her doctorate at Cal. She was raised in San Diego, where her parents still lived. I talked about my job, including my current frustration with my most recent client.

  “It must be challenging for you, getting young black men to trust you. Do you usually break through?”

  “I don’t know if we ever achieve trust. But usually they realize they need to be honest with me, if only for self-preservation purposes. Nice shot by the way,” I said, while thinking “nice ass, too.”

  “It must be rewarding if you’re able to save an innocent person from prison.”

  Who was this beautiful woman who kept saying the right things? Half the time when I mentioned my profession, I got some version of, “I know it’s necessary and all, but I couldn’t do your job.” It was a nice way of saying, “I could never stoop to your level of utter moral degradation and by the way, how do you sleep at night.”

  “Well, usually it’s more like saving a slightly less innocent person from quite so much prison time, but yes, it can be rewarding when it works out,” I said while lining up a putt.

  “So, do you believe this guy, Darnell.”

  “I’d like to believe him, but I’m not sure.”

  “Hey, what about that magical power of truth detection you told me about? Gun to your head,” she giggled. “Did he kill the guy?”

  “Well, you know,” I said, smiling at her joke, “people don’t kill people, puns kill people.”

  “That’s truly awful, and you’re dodging the bullet, I mean, the question,” she said, suppressing a laugh. “Well? Guilty or not?”

  “Not,” I said, surprising myself, “but I’m not sure about this one.” I ran down the evidence against him in a few sentences.

  “Ouch. I see what you mean.”

  “By the way,” I said, “we’ve come to the final hole and although I’m far ahead, I’m willing to let this be the deciding hole.”

  “What game have you been watching, Turner? I have a comfortable lead, but okay, this can be the decider.”

  “I knew there had to be something wrong with her,” I said under my breath, loud enough for her to hear. “She’s a cheater.”

  “Whatever,” she said, pushing me toward the tee box. “Oh, and loser buys dinner next week.”

  “Great,” I said, controlling my enthusiasm, my mind doing a touchdown dance while I lined up the putt.

  Eddy positioned herself facing me. “Don’t get distracted, Joe,” she whispered in a sultry voice, while shaking her sandy blonde hair out of a bun and kissing the air between us.

  “Really shameless behavior by Busier here at the hallowed grounds of Big Al’s. One wonders if she may be suspended from competition,” I said in my best announcer’s voice. Then I watched my putt roll up the ramp and straight into the dragon’s mouth. “Yes!”

  “Impressive, but I can still tie.”

  “So, Eddy,” I asked casually, as she addressed the ball, “do you inhale or exhale when you putt?”

  She smiled, but maintained focus, and her putt found its mark. “Wahoo!” She raised her putter in triumph. “Good match, Turner.” she said, high fiving me, keeping hold of my hand as we strolled to the parking lot, where we’d met after my afternoon court appearance.

  “So, I guess we split dinner. Does Wednesday work?” she asked as we arrived at her car. “I’m going to England for work for two weeks on Friday, and I’d love to see you before I go.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Perfect. I’ll cook.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” I said, taking her in my arms. “And by the way, brilliant getting the kiss out of the way earlier. Err, not that I wanted it out of the way, but…”

  “I know what you mean,” she said giggling. “Genius move by me, getting that horrible thing out of the way.” She leaned in and I pulled her against me as our lips met again, inhaling scents of jasmine and really fresh laundry.

  “I had a great time, Joe. See you in a few days.”

  “Me too. Goodnight, Eddy.”

  I picked up a half-baked pizza and was still smiling when I got home, taken aback by my grinning mug in the oven door. Things seemed to be pro
gressing rapidly with Eddy, and I wondered whether I should guard against getting carried away. Our relative attractiveness was still a mental hurdle.

  Maybe I should be cautious, but for the rest of the night, I reveled in the memory of the best date of my life.

  ****

  After a Friday morning run, I stopped by the office to meet with a new DUI client. After an uneventful interview, Chuck called.

  “Hey, Chuck, what’s shakin’?”

  “You’re in a suspiciously good mood. Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain someone?”

  “It might.”

  “Please tell me she has no connection to the case.”

  “Good God, no. I’ve learned my lesson on that front.”

  “I got the enhanced video back and ran the plate. Would you believe our star witness was driving a stolen car?”

  “The way this case is going, yes. Yes, I can. Can you see his face clearly enough for an ID?”

  “No. Looks like a dead end.”

  “Shit. Well, I’m off to visit our hero soon. I’ll try to talk some sense into him.”

  “If he doesn’t settle, he’s dumber than a bag of hammers.”

  Thirty minutes later, I was strolling through Friday’s farmers market on the busy streets of downtown Oakland on a sun-splashed spring afternoon on my way to the North County Jail. Even entering the dank lobby, I felt a heavy lid slam shut on my senses.

  As I waited for my client in the interview room, I thought about my answer to Eddy’s question about his guilt. Part of what made me cling to my belief in Darnell’s innocence was the psychosis that accompanied every case. Most of those accused of murder are guilty. For the most part, the police aren’t in the business of arresting innocent people, and by the time the case is filtered through the District Attorney, the odds are good they’ve got their man.

  So, when a defense attorney comes upon someone who is factually innocent, it is a rare and noteworthy opportunity. Rather than defending “because everyone deserves a defense,” now we are on the side of justice. It is infinitely more fun to defend the innocent and argue a worthy cause. So far, my gut had trumped logic in the Moore case, but I was aware that my psyche also had a rooting interest in his innocence.

  Soon, I was sitting across from Darnell. He was still upbeat, but gradually I could tell the place was wearing on him. His eyes were sad, his smile, fatigued.

  Inmates had told me it wasn’t just the sensory deprivation that came with incarceration. It was the tension and fear that accompanied every waking moment. A very high percentage of the inmates in maximum security were prone to violence when they lived in the outside world. Add in the frustration and depression of confinement, and the results were predictable.

  “Hi, Darnell. How are you holding up?”

  “Cool.”

  “I wanted to prepare you for the preliminary hearing. It’s a hearing designed to see if there is enough evidence to have a trial. The standard of proof is very low, so I anticipate the District Attorney won’t have a problem meeting the burden of proof.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing that in here from some of the old-timers.”

  “Just remember not to talk to anyone about the facts of the case.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Okay. So, they found a gun in your closet.”

  “Yeah, I figured they would.”

  I breathed deeply, remaining calm. “Darnell, you sat in that very chair not two weeks ago and assured me that you didn’t own a gun. I’d really appreciate it if you could be honest with me.”

  “But that’s not my gun. I said so.”

  “So, whose was it? Your church-going mother or your brother the prep school scholar?” I yelled, no longer the least bit calm. “You know what, Darnell, believe it or not, I actually believe that you didn’t kill anyone!” I only paused to catch my breath and kept yelling. “I think the witness is full of shit. I think you’re a want-to-be gang member, and I don’t think you have the skill, let alone the balls to ride through an intersection and execute two kill shots! But I’ll tell you what, Darnell, if you keep lying—to me, to the police and to the jury, then you better get used to places like this and worse!”

  I stood and stretched. His eyes were wide, and I could tell my tirade had rattled him. “Mr. Turner, can I say something?”

  “No, listen up. I’m done fucking around.” I spoke calmly but my tone was serious as I sat down and faced him again. “The gun evidence is not good, but it could get a lot worse. The D.A. will run ballistics tests to determine whether the SLAZIK found in your closet is the murder weapon. They could be running the tests as we speak. Right now, the case against you is strong. If you come clean about your role, at least we’ll have a fighting chance at trial.

  “However, listen carefully, Darnell. If it turns out that your gun was the murder weapon, you’re cooked. You will be convicted of first-degree murder, and you will spend the rest of your life in prison. If that’s the case, we need to cut a deal now. Given your youth, I might be able to get you twenty if you plead to voluntary manslaughter. You would be eligible for parole after fifteen.”

  I paused, letting the information sink in. I was less than optimistic that the D.A. would make that offer, but I needed to start the conversation with Darnell in case it was a possibility.

  “So, Darnell, it’s time to tell the truth. Was the SLAZIK the murder weapon?”

  He had recovered from my rant and was leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, cocky smile in place. “You got a little fire in you, Mr. Turner. I’m glad to see that. But twenty years?” He laughed and shook his head. “I definitely am not feeling that.”

  “Darnell, please answer the question.”

  He paused, enjoying his moment of control. “No,” he finally said. “That gun was not the murder weapon. I promise you that.”

  “Okay, Darnell, I hope you’re right,” I said, getting up to hit the buzzer. “I’ll see you in court.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Before I can live with other folks, I have to live with myself. ―Harper Lee

  Oakland, California 2006

  “Well, if it ain’t dirty and smelly.”

  Damon had seen Stoney and his group gathered by the railroad tracks, a block from school, and he knew Jesse had too. Their leader sat on a guardrail, grinding a fist into his palm.

  The image of Jesse’s face, twisted with rage, had stayed with Damon throughout the day. Now, as they approached the group of bullies, he felt the look forming on his own face.

  “I could smell you two a blocks away,” Stoney chirped, hopping down from his perch.

  Jesse closed the gap. “Want another ass-kicking?”

  Jaw set, Damon clenched his teeth in hatred for their tormentor. His twin’s look had taken hold. Suddenly, he felt himself propelled in front of Jesse, face to face with the bully. His first blow was instinctive, a forearm to that pudgy smirking mug.

  Damon hesitated for an instant, as if he had watched someone else deliver the strike. Then he breathed deeply, feeling himself surrender to his inner soul, and it all came thundering out—the pain, hunger, and sorrow—all of it released in an unrelenting fury upon his target.

  When it was Jesse’s turn to pull him off, Damon staggered away, exhausted and confused.

  Soon, the twins were walking home, side by side. It was Friday, but they didn’t feel much like a butterscotch candy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I took in a ballgame with some college friends on Saturday, straying from my recent trend toward healthy eating with too many brats, nachos, and beers. After a sluggish start to Sunday morning, I managed a painful run, then settled in to prepare for Darnell’s preliminary hearing on Tuesday.

  I was hoping the enhanced surveillance video would reveal an open sunroof in Darnell’s car, bolstering my theory that a passenger shot from that location. I recognized that it was possible for my client to be convicted of murder even as the driver, but it would at least give us
a fighting chance.

  By fighting chance, I actually meant a snowball’s chance in hell. I didn’t relish the sight of young Darnell on the stand, thinking he was being charming and persuasive, spinning some unbelievable tale. “I was just driving through the enemy’s neighborhood on my way to get a smoothie when this passenger I’d just met stands up through the sunroof and starts firing.”

  Unfortunately, despite at least two dozen rewinds, staring at the video from every angle, I couldn’t say if the sunroof was open or not. I remained more convinced than ever the shooter was there, though. It would explain not only the downward angle of the shots, but their accuracy. I also knew, though, that whether or not Darnell was a hard-core gang member or just someone on the periphery, there was very little chance of him naming the shooter. Doing so would not only put him at risk but his entire family as well.

  The enhanced video made the mystery witness across the street more visible. It was now clear the car thief wore a white T-shirt with “Gaels” emblazoned across the chest in blue, the mascot of local Saint Mark’s College. Still, the facial features were too blurry to make out.

  One thing was clear, the Gaels fan had certainly witnessed the shooting from the perfect angle. From his position across the street to the east of the victim, he was surely in a position to see the source of the gun shots as Darnell’s car approached from the west. Immediately after the shooting, the driver’s side of Darnell’s car would pass within ten feet of him as it entered the intersection and drove past.

  I made a note to check the jail log for arrests for auto theft in the past two weeks. It was a long shot, but maybe the guy had been unlucky enough to get arrested for the stolen rental he was driving.

  My phone buzzed with an email alert, and without looking I knew it was Didery, in fine form a full three days before the preliminary hearing. Last night, the Deputy D.A. had left a voicemail, asking me to stipulate to the cause of death at the preliminary hearing. It was common courtesy in cases like this one where the cause of death was not in dispute, as it would save everyone the time of having the coroner testify.