Witness for the Defense Read online

  “You’re lying.”

  “What do you mean, I’m lying? I’m telling you the truth. I saw it. Just because I didn’t stick around…”

  “You didn’t stick around,” I said wearily, “because you weren’t there to begin with.”

  “But you have to believe me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “Then tell me, Bobby, what did the house look like? The one where they were shot?”

  Again, the kid hesitated and lowered his head. But this time his hands were formed into fists.

  “Tell me anything about the house,” I persisted. “The color. Anything.”

  His voice rose. “I don’t remember. But I’m telling you, I was staying just a couple of blocks over.”

  “And I don’t doubt that for a second. What I do doubt is that you were out taking a walk.”

  “You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t do.”

  “No, but if I feel this way, a jury will, too. You’d better tell Martinez to prime you a little better next time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There was only one shotgun blast, Bobby. Not two.”

  “So?” he whined. “I already told you, I wasn’t counting. I thought there was two, but it all happened so fast; there may have only been one. I can testify there was only one. Anything you want.”

  “Wouldn’t work.”

  “Please believe me,” he said, starting to cry.

  “Why?” I leaned closer to the glass partition. “Is it because of what Martinez may do to you if I don’t?”

  By now tears were running freely down his face. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me,” he whimpered. “Please help me. I’ll testify to whatever you want. Just tell me what to say. Attorneys do it all the time.”

  “Maybe some do. But not this one.”

  The young man didn’t respond. I watched as he began to shake uncontrollably. I knew exactly what was going on here; it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. Most urban California jails have an inmate population of eighty percent minorities, and San Francisco’s was no different. When a young white kid is arrested, he’s in for quite a shock. For the first time in his life, he’s the minority. Sometimes he is the only white in his cell block. Unless he manages to get either the Chicanos, the blacks, or the Asians to take him under their wing, he is fair game for all. Obviously, Martinez’s group had been willing to help the kid—and this was their price.

  “My client promised to help you if you did him this favor. Am I correct?”

  “Listen, man,” his voice lowered to a shaky whisper, “they will kill me in here.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt sorry for him. He might have broken the law, but that shouldn’t mean he had to face what this place had in store for him. More than likely, he would survive his ordeal. But I wouldn’t be able to convince him of that. Not now. Not when he could become some slimeball’s punching bag—or worse yet, wife—as soon as he walked out of the room.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby. I wish you could get on the stand and tell the lie of the century.” The kid swiveled on his stool, turning away from me. I threw my pen and yellow pad into my briefcase, snapped it shut, and stood up. “But frankly, you’re not that good a liar.”

  Chapter 2

  San Francisco County Courthouse is an aging gray stone structure, built in the aftermath of the 1906 earthquake. The elegance of the wood paneling surrounding the long hallways and the magnificence of the carved courtroom doors fail to mask an ever pervasive odor. It is faint, and for years I couldn’t identify it. Then one day the light went on. It was the scent of fear. The smell of the human animal being stalked. The benches along the corridor were peppered with the hunted. Eyes wide as they awaited their turn. The same eyes that often looked to me to save them from their hunter, the criminal justice system.

  Division Three’s spectator section was lined with churchlike pews filled with a mixture of bored reporters, retirees, and the worried family members and friends of the day’s featured performers.

  Stage whispers and furtive conversations echoed around the room. I slipped inside the gate at the bar, smiled weakly at the bailiff, and sat in one of several wooden chairs on the bench side of the railing. Judge Sherman Kellogg was peering down at me over his wire-rimmed glasses, which were perched precariously on his red bulbous nose. Even though he was presiding over a preliminary hearing in progress, he managed to find the time to acknowledge my presence with a scowl. As he well knew, I was supposed to be there at one-thirty, and it was after two. But knowing Kellogg, he’d probably been late taking the bench anyway. He’d no doubt gulped down several Tanquerays at his favorite watering hole, until his bailiff found him and managed to drag him away.

  “You look like hell.” Randy Rogers whispered, leaning into me from the seat to my left. Randy was one of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the county. He was wearing a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit, accented with a red carnation.

  “And that’s a hell of a good-looking carnation you’re wearing today, Mr. Rogers,” I said. “I was wearing a nice yellow rose this morning, but I must have lost it in lockup. Just as well. It really didn’t go with my jacket anyway.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Off the rack, you know.”

  “Really funny, Dobbs.” Randy smirked. “I meant you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had a better night’s sleep.”

  “Then you should fit right in with Kellogg,” he said, nodding toward the judge. “He not only looks half asleep, but he’s also slurring his words.”

  “So what else is new,” I said and turned to survey the courtroom. There wasn’t a seat to be had in the entire spectator section. Many, including some reporters, were forced to stand in the back of the room.

  “Why all the press? They arrest O.J. again?”

  “James Chandler’s prelim,” Randy said, as if that was something I should have already known.

  “Chandler?” I really didn’t care, but I was trying to take my mind off Bobby Miles and the terrible look of fear in his eyes.

  “It’s been on TV and in all the papers,” Randy said out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s the president of Chandler Industries. You must have heard of him. He owns half the damn shopping centers around here.”

  “Sure,” I whispered, not having the foggiest. “What’s the charge?”

  “Murder. Killed his only child.”

  “How old?”

  “Six months. Can you believe it?”

  “You work in this armpit of the world long enough, nothing surprises you,” I said.

  In front of us, Jerry Lipton, Division Three’s deputy D.A., was questioning a patrol cop. He was establishing that the officer found fresh blood in the baby’s crib.

  “I hope they fry the bastard,” Randy muttered.

  I chuckled to myself. It always amazed me how most defense attorneys—and I was no exception—prejudged every other attorney’s case, yet got very indignant when the press or anyone else did the same thing to one of theirs.

  “Well,” I said, “it sounds like Mr. Chandler has a lot of explaining to do….”

  Suddenly we both stopped talking. Our attention was arrested by a beautiful pair of legs passing directly in front of us on their way to the court clerk.

  I slowly surveyed the rest of her. She was small, but not fragile. Slim, yet perfectly shaped. The lighting in the courtroom seemed to center on her to the exclusion of all others, adding golden highlights to her shoulder-length hair. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with a world-disarming smile that she managed to flash for the old goat on the bench.

  When she turned to look for a seat, I instantly returned to earth. She was Sarah Harris, the daughter of retired Superior Court Judge Avery Harris. I had the misfortune of being assigned to his courtroom immediately upon being hired by the public defender’s office. Avery Harris was arrogant and gave no one, esp
ecially the lowly public defenders, any quarter. Always on the attack, he viewed me as nothing more than a minor nuisance the law forced him to tolerate before he could send one of my clients off to prison—whether they deserved it or not. One of the happiest days of my life was when he left the bench.

  As Sarah walked to an empty seat several chairs to my right, she gave me a big smile. Before she sat, she paused, waiting for me to return it. I didn’t.

  Randy nudged me with his elbow. “Who the hell’s that?”

  “Sarah Harris.”

  “Of course. I had heard she was a knockout.”

  “Don’t let her looks fool you. After all, she is Judge Harris’s daughter.”

  “I thought she was an investigator for the State Bar,” Randy said as he continued to eye her. “I wonder why she’s here.”

  “No idea.” I glanced at my watch. It was getting late, and I still had to break the news to Martinez that I wasn’t going to use the kid’s testimony. I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled with my decision, and I wanted to get it over with.

  “You in a hurry?” Randy asked.

  “I get tired of all this hurry-up-and-wait crap,” I said anxiously. “All I have is one lousy arraignment.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Statutory rape.”

  “But I thought you were handling most of the death penalty cases for your office.”

  “Normally,” I said. “But I requested this one specifically. Change of pace.”

  “Why? Stat rapes are a dime a dozen.”

  “Not when the defendant is a female grade-school teacher accused of having sex with her seventeen-year-old neighbor.”

  “A female accused of stat rape…Never heard of that before.”

  “Somehow the boy’s father found out and reported it to the cops. The D.A. is asking for fifty thousand bail.”

  “Well”—Randy smiled—“have to keep those rabid child molesters off the streets.”

  In front of us, the prelim was winding down.

  “We have no affirmative defense,” the defense attorney said, after which Kellogg sat up and shook his head violently like he’d been asleep. It was time for him to make a ruling; predictably, he bound Chandler over to Superior Court for trial.

  Finally, the day’s custody arraignments were escorted into the jury box for their two or three minutes in court. I wasn’t surprised when I saw Bobby Miles at the end. He caught my eye and gave me a scared half smile. Seated next to him was my client, Janice Cappell.

  “Is that your vicious rapist?” Randy said, nodding toward Cappell. She was a tall young woman with cropped black hair, dressed in a county-issued blue denim dress.

  “That’s her.”

  Kellogg pounded his gavel, waiting for silence while most of the reporters filed out of the courtroom.

  “If you’re in a big hurry,” I said to Randy, “you can forget it.” I nodded toward Harris. “Five bucks Blondie gets priority.”

  “Are you done with your little gab session?” Kellogg barked, scowling at me. “If you are, maybe we can all get out of here on time.”

  Randy jumped to his feet. “I’m ready, Your Honor.”

  “In a moment, Mr. Rogers.” Kellogg looked at Sarah. “How about you, Counselor?”

  She stood and scanned the courtroom behind her, then turned back to Kellogg. “Thank you,” she said politely. “I’m Sarah Harris, and I’m appearing on behalf of Peter Jessup. I would appreciate the court placing his matter on second call. Mr. Jessup is out of custody, and I am expecting him at any moment.”

  “Isn’t he the attorney who embezzled his client’s funds?” Kellogg asked.

  Now, there’s an impartial judge for you, I thought. But I had come to expect no less from Kellogg.

  “I believe what the court is referring to are only charges. My client will be entering a not-guilty plea.”

  That was the Sarah Harris I remembered. Like her father, she didn’t appear to give anyone an inch. I had to admit though, her overly confident attitude served her well in court: She gave every appearance of being a good lawyer.

  “Of course,” Kellogg oozed. “Well, you just let us know when your client arrives.”

  I stood, but pointedly ignoring me, Kellogg turned to Randy.

  “And what brings you to my humble little courtroom?” he asked.

  Typical Kellogg. A big-name lawyer and his two-thousand-dollar suit got instant respect.

  “The Tomlinson arraignment and bail motion,” Randy answered.

  “No bail, huh,” the judge grunted. “Mr. Lipton, are you prepared for Mr. Rogers’s bail motion?”

  “Your Honor,” the D.A. replied as he lifted his pants over his expanding belly, “the Tomlinson matter has been specially assigned to another member of our office, Mr. Kroft. If your clerk will call him, I know he strongly opposes bail.”

  Lipton glanced at me. “However, I am ready on Mr. Dobbs’s case,” he said, like I was an afterthought. “And I believe he is also requesting a bail reduction.”

  “Just one moment.” Kellogg said to Lipton and then turned back to Randy. “I apologize for you having to wait, Mr. Rogers. But I’ll make sure Mr. Kroft is up here momentarily. In the meantime, we will handle Mr. Dobbs’s case.”

  I stepped forward, trying my best not to smile. Randy wasn’t as high on Kellogg’s pecking order as he might have hoped. If he’d been some out-of-town powerhouse, Kellogg would have had the A.D.A. up there in a matter of seconds.

  “Before we set a prelim date, Mr. Dobbs,” Kellogg said, turning to give my client the once-over, “you also want to be heard as to bail?”

  Normally, Kellogg would be gawking at someone half as good-looking as my client. But with her lack of sleep, wrinkled denim dress, and unkempt hair, she didn’t get more than his parting glance.

  “I would,” I said.

  Kellogg waved at me to proceed.

  “Your Honor, Miss Cappell has been a resident of San Francisco County for over fifteen years. She has been employed as a grade school teacher for six of those years and has had no prior contact with the criminal justice system. I am requesting she be released on her own recognizance.”

  “And how do you feel about that?” Kellogg asked Lipton, but not before he smiled at Sarah, again.

  “We would strongly oppose the defendant being released OR,” Lipton said, glancing over his shoulder to see whom Kellogg was smiling at. “She lives next door to the victim, and we are afraid she might try to continue her aberrant behavior.”

  “Aberrant behavior!” I said, more than a little too loudly. “My client is being charged with statutory rape. In the realm of things, I would hardly characterize such behavior, even if she is guilty, as aberrant.”

  “Your Honor,” Lipton continued, “our investigation is ongoing. We have information that the listed victim may not be the only one.”

  It was absurd. He was implying that my grade school teacher was some kind of serial statutory rapist. I couldn’t believe it. And the sound of Randy chuckling behind me sure didn’t help. I tried to gather my thoughts.

  “If Mr. Lipton has other victims,” I said, glaring at the stocky D.A., “then tell him to file additional charges. Otherwise, he should be instructed to limit his argument to the charges before the court and not baseless rumors.”

  Lipton didn’t miss a beat. “All we are asking for is fifty thousand, which is exactly what the bail schedule calls for. If we do file additional counts, Mr. Dobbs can rest assured we will be requesting additional bail.”

  I looked up at Kellogg, hoping to see that he shared my opinion. Unfortunately, he was still staring at Sarah. I was sure he hadn’t heard a thing either one of us had been saying. Clenching my teeth, I moved a few steps to my right to block his view.

  Oblivious to what was really happening, Lipton went on. “Additionally, since Miss Cappell is a school teacher and is therefore around minors on a daily basis, I would request that as a condition of bail, the court restrain the defendant f
rom teaching until this matter is resolved.”

  I slammed the palm of my hand on the counsel table. ‘That’s ridiculous. This court cannot take away my client’s ability to earn a living!”

  Kellogg sat forward and propped his elbows on the bench. His eyes were darting back and forth between me and Lipton. If my hand slap had done nothing lese, at least it got his attention.

  I took a deep breath. “Your Honor,” I continued, a bit apologetically, “my client has been a teacher for over six years. To take that away from her would be disastrous. She is as ideal a candidate for an OR release as I have ever seen.”

  “But rape is a serious charge, Mr. Dobbs, and if you have nothing more to add, I will have to go along with Mr. Lip ton’s request.”

  “Rape!” I shouted. “What are you talking about? The charge isn’t rape. Read the complaint and you’ll see it’s statutory rape. Maybe if you would take the time to read the penal code, you’d see that means the minor consented.”

  Kellogg’s mouth dropped. He sat motionless, paralyzed, glaring at me. Then his attention was drawn to the few reporters who still remained in the front row, their pens poised. I looked over at the bailiff, who was waiting for the judge to just say the word. It was the OK Corral, and I was outgunned. Kellogg’s face turned a bright red. Except for the creaking of the bailiff’s leather holster, the courtroom was totally silent. Then Kellogg bellowed, “I’ll see you and Mr. Lipton in my chambers.”

  I had no idea what he had in store for me. But as I followed Lipton from the courtroom, I shot a parting glance at my client. She had a look of total disbelief. I knew she had to be wondering who in the hell was the nut-case she had for a lawyer.

  Kellogg slumped in his maroon wing back chair and took a deep breath. Like his courtroom, Kellogg’s chamber was old and musty. The smell of wood, damp and on the verge of rotting, filled the air. Rows and rows of dusty law books lined the mahogany shelves behind his prodigious desk, which served as a natural barrier between the two of us. I was sitting, with Lip ton to my left, on the edge of my chair.

  “I hope you are not inferring, Mr. Dobbs, that I don’t know what I am doing.”