By Robert Sumner
The witness beamed resentment. Twelve silent jurors watched from the box. Judge Moffett, a thin man with a comical mustache that made him look like a bit character in a ‘50s comedy, sipped from his 49ers mug. A clerk with bobbed, sandy hair and old-fashioned glasses, stamped a form and shuffled some papers.
“At which time Mr. Gulley threw a ten gram chunk onto the ground while trying to evade lawful arrest,” Camille Briganti droned in her best law enforcement monotone. She was a narcotics officer, around twenty-seven Billy guessed, more attractive than you might expect from one working in a dumpy Central Valley town.
“Objection, ‘lawful’ is a legal conclusion.”
The judge didn’t need to think about that one. “Sustained.” He was on his best behavior in front of a jury.
In recent months the judge had warmed up to Billy as Billy’s grasp of courtroom procedures developed, but the early days in Department One had been a hazing ritual. Billy had heard that the judge’s alcoholism had sabotaged his ambition to be elevated to one of the district courts of appeal. For several years he’d been sober but still loved to humiliate attorneys and defendants for the indignity of being stuck in such a dismal rural town. When Billy had neglected to X out the box next to a line on a change of plea form which warned that deportation or denial of naturalization could result from a conviction, the judge told the U.S. citizen defendant that Billy was trying to have him deported. The judge’s purported devotion to efficiency compelled him to always recite constitutional rights in a mockingly rapid-fire blur. A defendant who was hard of hearing once told Billy that he couldn’t understand the judge and asked him to ask the judge to slow down. Emboldened by his growing disgust at the judge’s arrogance, Billy voiced the request before the judge had a chance to start prattling through his colloquy. The judge’s reaction was to draw out each word as if the defendant was an imbecile child on a playground. You. Have. A. Sixth. Amendment. Right. To. Confront. Witnesses…. Billy smiled at the end of it when the defendant thanked the judge with no sarcasm.
For another fifteen minutes the cross-examination of Officer Briganti proceeded bitterly, followed by five minutes of re-direct until the judge called a lunch break. Billy stood at attention next to his client as the jury filed out the back door.
Maricela Milonga approached. “Hey, Billy,” she said in a soft but strong voice. Billy had wanted her since he’d moved there the summer before. His client smirked as he stood up to be led through a metal security door by two bailiffs.
“Quick question: What’s the Penal Code Section for an attempt?”
“664,” he answered with too much enthusiasm.
“Thanks.” She made a note of that on her mobile device.
“Say, are you going to the public defender’s holiday party?”
“Of course, I go every year.”
“Cool. I could pick you up on my way. I’d like…”
She walked away and said over her shoulder, “I’ll talk to you later.”
On his way back to the office Billy gripped the steering wheel like he was trying to strangle it. “Goddamn,” he said to the dashboard. “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn.” He stopped his red Jetta at a red light and glanced around to see if anyone had seen him cursing.
A few minutes later he read a file at his desk in his tiny office with no windows. “What the fuck?” Two oil paintings, one of a Paris street scene, the other of a store front with a disproportionate red and white-striped awning and a weird green figure with a white face hanging on a wall nearby, livened up his too close grey walls. A guy with a portfolio of paintings by local art students had come into the office one afternoon and sold two to Billy for a hundred apiece. Billy wasn’t sure if the green figure was supposed to be a clown or an alien nor why it was on an exterior wall, but the painting was still better than the cheap mass-produced posters the other attorneys had in their offices.
“What’s up, Doctor?” Sean Mango, a twenty-seven-year-old attorney from the Alternate Defender’s Office, swaggered in. “Am I interrupting something?” Handsome, athletic, and gregarious, Sean enjoyed more attention and professional favor from the managing attorneys despite having graduated from a somewhat lower-tier school.
Billy giggled. “That’s the most ridiculous nickname anyone’s ever given me.” He shut the file, looked up and half-smiled.
“How so? You have a Juris Doctor degree, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, just like you.” Billy leaned over and turned his stereo down a bit. “But we don’t call ourselves doctors.”
“I’m doing you a favor. Trust me, women will love it.”
“They’ll love it until they realize I’m not really a doctor, I’m just a public defender.”
“So don’t tell them. We’ll hit the bars after the holiday party. You have more to offer women than I think you give yourself credit for.”
Billy doubted that assessment of his prospects but he appreciated the friendly deceit. After Sean left, Billy took the file to an office down the hall where he found Jo Anne Barker reading a gossip magazine. Golden Gate University School of Law, read the degree on her wall just above her sexy firemen calendar. She’d only been practicing law for three years but seemed to think she should be running the place. He already hated her for pointing out his beer belly once and, relatedly, when Sean was hired, for announcing We finally got some eye candy around here and rolling her eyes in Billy’s direction. He hated her more for her insistence that the Ten Commandments should absolutely be posted in that Alabama courtroom and anyone who didn’t like it was probably some kind of deviant. How did such an imbecile pass the bar exam? A couple weeks earlier he’d gone to her about a possible defense he was contemplating for a new batch of cases for driving with a suspended license filed against Latino defendants who had poor or no English comprehension. I don’t want those people driving anyway was her sneering response. Billy felt molested having to answer to her.
“Hey, Jo Anne, I was just looking through this police report and wondering if I should do a suppression motion.” He held the file up so she could read the name on the label.
“Don’t waste your time,” she said without looking up. “Those things hardly ever get granted. The Fourth Amendment is dead.” She flipped a few more pages to an article about celebrities who had recently gained weight.
“I’ve heard that. Still, it might be worth a shot in this case. The cop detained our client for no apparent reason, pat searched him for no reason and without permission, then reached into his pocket without permission to find a knife.”
“That guy’s a felon,” she said and shook her head, then turned back to her magazine. “Good luck getting a judge to even consider that an illegal search.”
“Why? His record is irrelevant. He wasn’t on probation or parole.”
“If you wanna do a 995 motion, go ahead, it might be a good learning experience for you.”
“You mean a 1538.5. A 995 motion is for when a judge erroneously finds that there’s sufficient evidence at a preliminary hearing.”
“Whatever.”
– – –
“Hi, Ping.”
Ping pulled weeds from her miniature garden. Her seven-year-old son played with a toy airplane next to her. “Hi, Billy. You home early today?”
“Yeah, I can leave work as soon as my jail visits are done,” he said.
She gasped.
Billy rubbed his temple nervously. “Anyway, are you free on Friday? My office is having a banquet and there’s going to be a band there. It might be fun.”
“Sure, I could get my mother to watch my son.”
“Great. We should leave…” The sliding glass door opened and her mother, an always smiling neighbor in her sixties who appeared to speak no English, stepped out and handed him a plate of fried rice with shrimp on top. “Aw, you shouldn’t have,” he said. “Thank you so much. It looks delicious.”
“My mother thinks you’re a nice man,” she said. “Too quiet, but nice.” Billy’s glee was barely suppressed with a poker face. He was fine with her already having a kid but he wandered about her religious beliefs. He shouldn’t just assume she was Buddhist because of her national origin but it seemed likely. When he had done a study abroad program in Bangkok between his second and third years in law school, he had interned at an intellectual property firm where the Thai clerks were mystified when he denied being Christian. They seemed to think religion is a genetic trait you’re born with.
Inside his apartment he tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and took off his uncomfortable, cheap suit. With a mocking laugh Jo Anne had asked him why he didn’t shop for his suits where Sean shopped. Jo Anne was a mean piece of shit, but in fairness, he realized he had a pretty crappy sense of style. With the tie and the shirt with a too tight collar off, he no longer felt strangled. He settled onto one of the end sections of the couch which functioned as recliner chairs and had thus far only seated himself. Beck’s Odelay album soothed him with thunderous funk. He exhaled. The last fork-full of shrimp and rice chased away the taste of the smoke. “No, no, that’s not the point.” He got back up, stepped around the dining table he’d bought at a consignment shop and opened the laundry closet door. It creaked and almost fell off its hinges. He moved some wet clothes from the washer to the dryer and pressed the start button. “That’s goddamn ridiculous,” he said.
He opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto his little cement patio, then double-checked that the door wouldn’t lock behind him. A few months earlier he had enjoyed a smoke out there in his boxer shorts until he discovered that he was locked out. Ping and her mother giggled while he suffered the humiliation of calling the management from their apartment to let him back in. Reassured that the door was unlocked this time, he shut it behind him. A menagerie of weeds had erupted from the thin strip of soil between the cement patio and the white, cross-hatched wooden fence. They really ought to be pulled, it would be embarrassing if someone came over and saw them. He smoked a cigarette, considered going back inside, then smoked another. Definitely he was going to pull those weeds but not right then.
“No, why the fuck would I?” A buzzer sounded. Billy realized he was gesturing angrily at himself in the bathroom mirror. His face went slack as if he’d been caught. He lowered the finger he’d been jabbing at his image, set the toothbrush down on the counter and spit. He tossed the tube of toothpaste back into the medicine cabinet and cursed when it fell back out onto the counter with a clatter, taking a bottle of Risperdal with it. Getting angry over something that petty is not healthy so he let the anger go and placed the items back gently. He took two steps to the laundry closet that separated the bathroom from his bedroom. “Fuck you,” he muttered to the image in his mind of a co-worker from an old job as he opened the dryer door and folded the warm clothes like he was punishing them.
– – –
On Friday evening Billy changed into a sweater and a less worn pair of jeans and put on a decent pair of leather shoes. He knocked on his neigbor’s door. Ping’s mother opened it, said, “Oh…” and called out behind her in Thai. Ping accompanied him to his car. He opened the door for her. On the way up Highway 99 Billy tried his best to converse. She dutifully answered his questions but offered no extra information and asked him nothing. After ten minutes of driving past raisin fields Billy gave up and turned The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” up much louder. He didn’t know if she liked this kind of music but his introversion required musical shelter.
At the party a band of elderly musicians played Willie Nelson’s “Three Days” for the crowd of about fifty. Billy looked over at the bar and saw Sean order from the bartender while Maricela pressed herself against him. He turned back to Ping and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“It’s fine.”
“At least they’ve got booze.”
“I don’t drink.”
“This must be awful, then.”
“I told you I’m fine.”
Sean sat down on an empty chair. “Dude, Maricela was jamming her tits on my back.”
“Nice.” Billy nodded his head and stretched his face into a fake, miserable smile. “Ya gonna hook up with her?”
“She’s a bit chubby. My girlfriend’s much hotter.”
“It’s good to have the option.”
“Big deal. She’s the town pump.”
The party trudged along for another hour. Billy introduced Ping to his boss, Mike Morales, a former police officer turned defense attorney. Mike’s management philosophy was summed up by the adage “sink or swim”, which meant Mike didn’t seem to give a shit how often the deputy public defenders committed malpractice. He hesitantly introduced her to Sean; mercifully, she showed no interest. Maricela also chatted with her briefly with subtle hostility that surprised Billy, though Ping seemed not to notice. He avoided introducing her to Jo Anne.
Back home Billy walked Ping to her door, then stepped closer to her like he was going in for a kiss.
“Goodnight.” Ping entered her apartment and closed the door.
“Goodnight.” Billy turned around, opened his door and went inside. “What a fucking waste,” he said to his shoes as he took them off.
– – –
The phone rang. Billy picked up the receiver and held it to his left ear, his eyes still focused on a police report. It was Maricela. She asked him if he’d eaten yet, she was going to a good fruit stand down the street and wanted to know if he would like to join her. Of course he would. A few minutes later they sat at a plastic table outside of a shack and ate fresh fruit cocktails. Billy’s dish had watermelon, pineapple, and apples with a glob of cottage cheese and honey streaked across the top. He wanted to tear into it like a Cambrian beast but had enough sense not to on what appeared to be a date.
“How long have you been seeing Ping?”
“That was actually our first date.”
“Really? And you took her to the public defender party?” Maricela put her hand over mouth and laughed. Her fingernails were painted bright pink with little red stars constellated near each cuticle.
“I just started working there. For some reason I thought it would be cooler than that.”
“You can take me out sometime if you can think of something cooler than that.”
Two nights later, they sat at a sushi bar. Billy held up a piece of maki with a quail egg on it.
“Gross!” She raised a twenty-two ounce bottle of Sapporo to her plump lips and swigged.
He stifled the urge to lecture her about being open-minded. “I’ve always wanted to try it,” he said and gobbled the egg.
“How is it?”
“Goddamn delicious.” He swigged his Sapporo.
“Then why are you chasing it?”
“I do that regardless.” He leaned over to kiss her.
She turned away. “Oh no, not yet.”
Back in his apartment kitchen, he chugged a glass of water. The bathroom door opened and she emerged.
“You know what I like about this place?” she asked.
He pondered the question but could think of no likely answer.
“It’s clean.”
He set the water glass down. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then pulled back slightly.
“You believe in God, don’t you?”
He hesitated. “Usually.” He thought of the time at a fast-food restaurant when an elderly lady in the next booth had started preaching to him about end times biblical prophecy. Her grey hair was tautly pulled back, her severe avian face was partially masked by wide Kim Jong Il-style black glasses. He ignored her as best he could for a minute, then asked her to stop bothering him. The period of tribulation is imminent. A couple more minutes of her creaky voice threatening him with plagues and oceans of blood wore down his patience. He discreetly whispered to her, I am the anti-Christ. Her tiny frame shook with rage. She pulled a darning needle out of her purse and pointed it at him but moved too slowly to intercept him in his rush out the door.
“You’re not an atheist, are you?” Maricela asked, pulling away slightly more.
This was worth lying for. “No.” They kissed again.
The next morning, just as they left the apartment, Ping passed them on the sidewalk with averted eyes. Maricela smirked.
“Hey,” Billy said, genuinely friendly. Ping said nothing. A few seconds later he felt a pang of guilt as it occurred to him how awkward that had been for her.
– – –
“Is it correct that you’ve been unable to reach a unanimous verdict?” Judge Moffett asked the jury.
The foreman stood up in front of the other eleven jurors. “Yes, your honor.”
Billy tried to hide his sigh of relief. He didn’t want his client to start celebrating yet. A hung jury isn’t the same as a not guilty verdict – he could still be convicted at the next trial.
“And is it possible that you could reach a unanimous verdict if given more time to deliberate?” the judge asked.
“No, your honor,” the foreman said, sounding eager to get the hell out of there. “We’re at an impasse.”
“Then I’m declaring a mistrial.”
Billy’s client reacted with subdued enthusiasm as Billy had instructed him to do. The deputy D.A. slammed his folder shut. Camille the cop stood up from the prosecution table and marched out without saying a word. Billy glanced behind him and saw Maricela smiling at him from a few rows back.
The jury’s failure to acquit his client didn’t dissuade Billy from seizing another excuse to celebrate at Elbow Room that evening. A waitress set two shots of tequila in the center of the table. Maricela slid one in front of Billy and held the other up like it was a rare artifact. “OK, ready?”
“Not really. I just absorbed the last one.” They clinked the glasses and drank. She slammed her glass down and laughed while he almost regurgitated but held it down. He thought of the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Marian Ravenwood wins a drinking contest just before Indiana Jones comes in to inquire about the “worthless” bronze medallion (which he then offers her $3,000 for, a contradiction Billy could never get over.) He was no Indy, but she was no Marian, either. “Eww, god,” he said. “Let’s stick to beer from now on. I have to drive.”
“As long as you turn your lights on, use your turn signal and don’t speed, you won’t get pulled over.”
“Doctor, what’s up?” Sean walked up, smiling, with beer in hand. “Maricela,” he said with less of a smile.
“Hi, Sean.” She grinned devilishly.
“Hey, man.” Billy was aware she would have picked Sean over him but he wasn’t going to let that ruin his party. “Have a shot of tequila with us.”
“No, I wanna make it home tonight.” Sean glanced at her warily, then moved toward the crowded bar. “Catch up with you later.”
“Ya know, we never really talk,” Billy said to her. “Don’t get me wrong, this is fun, but we should try to get to know one another better.”
“What do you want to know?”
A red light lit up in Billy’s mind which he ignored. “Like, what are your politics?”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
He lit a cigarette.
“One of the reasons I divorced my ex-husband is he wouldn’t stop smoking.”
“Yeah, I know I need to quit but it’s not gonna happen tonight.” He exhaled.
She sipped her beer and looked at a young man standing by the bar.
– – –
Billy wrote in a file. His pale face resisted a percolating smile. “Where do people get such stupid ideas?” He grabbed his mouth and squinted, put his hand down and opened his eyes, stared forward. “Stop that.” He closed the file and walked out the front of the office. On his way to the fruit stand he examined his lifelong habit of talking to himself. He wasn’t crazy. He didn’t hallucinate. He just had trouble keeping his thoughts silent. Especially when he was angry.
He sat alone. His fork impaled a chunk of pineapple and a slice of apple. Constantly he looked around, feeling slightly paranoid. No one else was in sight. A white van was parked halfway down the block but the street was otherwise empty. He blinked rapidly but could not stop. His eyes were reactors of fear and depression. In high school he had unabashedly embraced his bizarreness exacerbated by the effects of attending Grateful Dead concerts. It augmented his burgeoning sense of transcendental superiority. Over the years his face muscles had calcified into a grim mask. Neurosis radiated from him. He noticed others tense up when he spoke because his voice sounded like a tightrope walker contemplating a fall, but he could do nothing to dampen the effect. His mind boiled with philosophy, excitement overwhelmed him and words sometimes bubbled out of his mouth when no one else was present.
The afternoon session in Department One went well. He sat at the defense table next to another client, a man in his mid-fifties who might not have been a Hell’s Angel but looked like he must have known some. Even in his yellow jail jumpsuit you could just tell. He’d been caught with a large knife hidden under his jacket, a potential felony for a previously convicted felon.
“The mere fact that it was nighttime is not, by itself, a justification for a detention and pat search,” the judge said. “The suppression motion is granted. How do the people wish to proceed?”
Jo Anne, who had sat in the jury box smirking during Billy’s cross-examination, raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“The people move to dismiss,” an older, more rotund, calmer deputy D.A. than the last one said and shook his head in disappointment. His investigating officer stood up from the prosecutor’s table and walked out.
“Granted,” said the judge.
The defendant shook Billy’s hand. “Thanks, man.”
Billy walked out of the courtroom as Maricela passed by. “Hey.” She looked at him and kept walking. He stood for a moment, watching her go. He thought of when she had told him I feel like God blessed me by making me pretty and he’d stifled the urge to ask her why God curses so many people with ugliness.
Camille the cop approached. “You really like that fruit stand?”
“Uh, yeah, why?”
“It’s a front for a heroin gang.”
“What? No shit.”
“No shit.”
“You’re not gonna close it down, are you? I love their cottage cheese with pineapple and honey.”
“I can’t tell you what we’re planning but I thought you’d like to know you were under surveillance while you were chowing down.”
“No one has ever said that to me before.”
“I hope not,” she said. A slight smirk surfaced on her militant face. “Did you notice us in a white van?”
“Now that you mention it” – Billy’s speech slowed with the onset of a wider perspective – “that van did seem kind of odd.”
“See ya around.” She turned to walk away.
“Hey, uh…”
She stopped and turned back.
“Did you notice anything… out of the ordinary?”
losing our grip on purpose 