In My Dark Dreams (33 page)

There are three reasons for this. Number one, Joe and Pakula want me to. They feel I’m ready for the big time, and they want me to spread my wings. I’m grateful for their confidence, and I’m not afraid of it. I’ve been in this office for six years—if I’m not prepared for center stage now, I never will be. The second reason is my relationship with Salazar. I defended him successfully once, and the hope is that some of the magic will rub off onto this trial. And he is comfortable with me, which is vital. A client who is uneasy with his lawyer is a bad client. The jury can read the tension in the relationship, and will subconsciously develop negative feelings toward the defendant.

The third reason I’m going to be taking a prominent role is because of my condition. Juries respond to pregnant women, and am I ever pregnant. My maternal glow will fill the courtroom with a warm bath of light that we hope will shine down beatifically on Roberto Salazar. In particular, the women on the jury will bond with me—it’s the strongest glue in the world, so our task in jury selection will be to seat as many mothers and grandmothers on the panel as we can squeeze in. The danger is that they will sympathize with the murdered women. We are taking the risk that that emotion will be offset by my Madonnaesqe (the Virgin, not the diva) appearance before them, in the flesh.

The baby inside me grows and grows, and so do I. By the day, the hour, the minute. By the time the trial begins, I will look like Baby Huey in heels. I have bought three new suits and the necessary accessories to fit my changed profile (out of our petty cash stash, Joe insisted on it). I ordered them two sizes bigger than I am today; hopefully, I won’t be any larger, because if I am, they will have to bring me into the courtroom with a construction crane.

Adrian Pakula, who has seen it all, appreciates the dilemma my pregnancy poses for our opponents. “If I were in their shoes, I would have gone the other way. But they can’t, because the decision has been taken out of their hands, even though they’d deny it,” he declares, with relish. He punctuates this pronouncement with a laugh; one of the few, I suspect, we will have at the prosecution’s expense.

The “other way” would have been to request a postponement, which is standard in a case of this importance. As I have noted, it usually take years before a death penalty trial takes place. But this is not a usual case. This case is as much political as it is legal; in the real world, more. The state has to bring this case to trial as quickly as possible, while the memories of the killings are still fresh in the public’s mind. Even the most grisly of murders lose their potency to shock and produce anger when they get lost in the fog of time. So to trial we will go.

We talk for about an hour. No disagreements, we’re locked in. Pakula wraps up the meeting. We’ve all heard this pep talk before, but it bears repeating. “Start positive, and stay positive. Keep your energy up. We know this is not a good case for us, but the jurors don’t. You convince them that we’re confident, and it will rub off. We can win this, but you gotta believe. And one last thing. Do your best, and live with that, no matter what.”

I believe. I believe in myself and my partners. I believe in cuddly puppy dogs and warm summer rains and chilled margaritas with salt on the rim. But in Roberto Salazar, not so much anymore. But no one will see that. I will do my best. And if that isn’t good enough, I will live with it. I’ve lived with much worse. I sure as shit can live with the outcome of this trial.

D
AY ONE OF THE
People of the State of California versus Roberto Salazar. The courtroom is standing room only. This is the biggest trial of the year, the legal community’s equivalent of a Hollywood premiere, so opening-day attendance by the media and trial junkies is mandatory. All that’s missing is a B-list celebrity, an omission compensated for by the blanket of grisly publicity that has covered this case for more than a year.

The jury is brought in and seated. We all rise as the judge is announced, enters, and climbs to the bench; then we sit again at the bailiff’s command—puppets on a string. Judge Hiro Suzuki, an experienced jurist who runs a tight courtroom, gets right to it. “Is the prosecution ready?”

Harry Loomis, the lead prosecutor, buttons his suit coat as he stands at his table across the aisle from ours. It’s a Brooks Brothers charcoal-gray pinstripe. The tie is Harvard crimson. Old school, like the man wearing it. Seated alongside him are two other lawyers from his office. Younger, snazzier, but lacking his air of authority. These two are the tip of the iceberg; a big staff has been assigned to this case. This is one trial they absolutely cannot afford to lose.

When they make a movie about Loomis’s life, he’ll be played by Tom Hanks, the most honest, trustworthy man in the world. He reeks of integrity. I’m sure he can be as cutthroat as anyone else—you don’t get to be the top criminal prosecutor in the largest district attorney’s office in the country without breaking some eggs. But you would never have an inkling of that from his demeanor. To the eye he is calm, unflappable, capable, and nice.

“We are, Your Honor.”

He sits down. Suzuki turns to us. “Is the defense ready?”

Both Joe, who buys his suits at Macy’s, always on sale, and I, wearing an expensive Donna Karan maternity dress, stand up. There are two reasons we’re both on our feet. The first is to imprint on the jury, from day one, that we are equals. The second is to remind them, yet again, that I am great with child. From the looks I’m getting, it’s working. Their eyes are not only on our faces, but on my belly, which is sticking out as if I’ve stuffed a prize-winning watermelon under my dress. Some of the women can’t help but smile. That’s a good beginning.

Joe takes the lead. “We are, Your Honor.”

We sit down. Suzuki nods at Loomis. “Proceed, Counselor.”

Loomis takes his place at the podium and faces the jury box. With the self-assurance of a celebrated orchestra conductor, he works without notes.

“Last year, four women were murdered in this city over a period of seven months. All the murders were committed during the full moon, which is a small window: seventy-two hours. The evidence we have found proves, without a doubt, that they were all killed by the same person. That killer is sitting in the courtroom today. His name is Roberto Salazar.”

Salazar’s eyes are fixed on a spot on the wall above Judge Suzuki’s head. He does not look at the jurors. Joe and I do. The jurors are staring at us—it’s instinctive, human nature. They are curious, but I don’t see anger or predetermination in their faces. I’ve been in trials that were over before they began. For the moment, at least, this doesn’t seem to be one of them.

“The accused is on trial in this courtroom for the last of those four murders. But make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen—he committed all of them. The precise way these murders were executed, the specific signature the killer left behind, and the time frame for when these murders took place clearly and unmistakably reveal that they were all the work of one person.”

Tying all the crimes together, which will ratchet up the fear factor against Salazar, was a battle we fought and lost. Since Salazar is only on trial for one of the murders, we argued that only the evidence relating to the last killing should be allowed.

Judge Suzuki did not agree. Because the methods and styles of all four killings were so alike, and so unique, he decided that they could be linked together. Not only could be, but should be. As always, so justice can be properly served.

We didn’t expect he would rule in our favor, but his decision was a kidney punch nonetheless. Four murders carry much, much more emotional and psychological weight than one. You murder one person, you’re a killer. You murder four, you’re a monster.

“We will present evidence to you, ladies and gentlemen,” Loomis continues, “which will show that the accused was seen, by unimpeachable witnesses, at the scene not only of the last murder, but at others.”

Another battle we fought and lost. Not only will the two eyewitnesses place Salazar at different crime scenes, but Suzuki will allow the prosecution to bring up Salazar’s arrest for the stolen television sets in order to put him at the location of that earlier killing. The arrest itself cannot be cited by them—the judge made it clear that that is off-limits. But the cop who stopped him that night will be allowed to testify as to where and when the encounter took place.

There will be other battles like these, and we are not going to win any of them. The deck is stacked against us, we knew that going in. We will fight the good fight, but it will be a Sisyphean grind all the way.

“We will connect DNA evidence directly from the victim to the accused,” Loomis tells the jurors. “DNA evidence that will be accurate, unbiased, irrefutable. Evidence that only the victim’s killer could have had in his possession.”

In the past decade, DNA has become the new Holy Grail. I believe in DNA; every lawyer I know does, especially defense lawyers, because DNA has gotten hundreds of innocent people out of prison. But I have wondered if it can be manipulated, or more likely, misinterpreted. In this trial, the DNA evidence is going to be the most damning piece of evidence against us, the one thing for which we will have no rebuttal.

I text message Siobhan about whether there is anything known about DNA manipulation, or the misuse of it, that resulted in a verdict that was later discovered to have been screwed up because of it. She isn’t here today; being our office’s sole expert, she is all over the map. Today she’s at a trial in Downey, one of our satellite offices. When we get to the DNA section of our trial, she will do the cross-examination of the prosecution’s witnesses.

“This is not going to be a long, drawn-out trial,” Loomis says, “because this is not a complicated case. But it is an important one. Four young women in the prime of their lives were brutally and sadistically murdered. For almost a year, hundreds of thousands of women in this city lived in fear that they could be the killer’s next victim. And if it weren’t for the diligent work by the police task force that was set up to catch this killer and, to be perfectly honest, a lucky break, this killer …” he pivots and points to Salazar, who does not look at him, doesn’t even flinch, “… would still be out on the street, and other innocent women might be dead. Probably would be dead. Fortunately, we will never know.”

He continues. “One thing we do know, because we have multiple and credible witnesses to this—the killer knew his victims. He was seen with some of them shortly before they were murdered, and it was clear that the parties were familiar with each other. That solves the mystery of how the killer was able to entice his victims to their death—they knew him, and trusted him. Mr. Salazar is a gardener by trade,” he explains. “He has clients in every one of the neighborhoods where these victims were killed. In most of the cases, on the same block, almost next door. The victims would have seen him around, and would have come to trust him.

“I don’t know if the defense has any real evidence on their side. What I do know, because I’ve been down this road before, is that they will try to bedazzle you with slight of hand, fake you out so you can’t see the truth. It’s what defense lawyers do when they don’t have a case, and these lawyers do not have a case, ladies and gentlemen, they are holding an empty sack. Not their fault—they are good lawyers. Joe Blevins wins cases lesser lawyers couldn’t.” He smiles. “To the chagrin of our side. But when he does win, it’s because he has evidence to back him up. Evidence, facts. The other defense lawyer, Ms. Thompson, is not someone I have yet had the pleasure of sharing a courtroom with, but she has an excellent reputation. I know this because she recently won a case against a good lawyer from my office. So this is going to be a fair fight.”

He leaves the podium and approaches the rail that separates the jury from the rest of the courtroom. “This is a capital case. That means if the people win, which we fully expect to do, the death penalty will be an option. That carries a huge weight, which will be on your shoulders. It’s a great burden to ask of anyone, and I thank you in advance for being willing to take it on. Not everyone has the guts to do that. I admire and applaud each of you for being on this panel.”

He gives them the eye-to-eye treatment, engaging each juror down the row, one at a time. “Having accepted that burden, you have made an agreement with the state—a covenant—that if the facts and evidence convince you that the accused, Roberto Salazar, is guilty of murder, you will find him guilty. That is why we have trials in this country, why we have juries, why we have laws. I am not going to determine innocence or guilt. The other lawyers aren’t going to, the judge isn’t going to. You are.”

Loomis steps back, so he can engage all twelve jurors with a single look. “It’s going to be hard for you to send a man to his death. If you do, that decision is going to be on your consciences for the rest of your lives.” He turns and points at Salazar again, and again Salazar does not look at him, or the jurors. “Tragically, for those four dead women, it was not hard for him to send them to their deaths. He did it with ice water in his veins. Even now, as he sits here before you, there is no remorse on his face.”

He walks back to the podium and grips the sides with both hands. Rocking forward on the balls of his wingtips, he says, “You will have remorse. But you will also show courage. When this trial is over, you will render your verdict. You will not bring forth that verdict lightly; you will have heavy hearts. But you will do it, because you will have no choice. The evidence and your human sense of moral outrage can lead you to only one conclusion. And down the road, when it’s over, that will soothe you, that you did the right thing.”

He rocks back. “If only Roberto Salazar had done the right thing, none of us would be here today. None of us want to be here today, but we have to be, because justice demands that we be. The same justice that will demand a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree.”

Joe hoists his bulky frame out of his chair, gives himself a waggle like an Old English sheepdog shaking off the rain from a summer cloudburst, and shambles to the podium. Against Loomis’s polished urbanity he might appear to be cast for
Mayberry R.F.D.,
but that’s a calculated deception. He’s a good, smart lawyer who knows how to connect with a jury.