Presumed Guilty (7 page)

It was like that famous account of Pascal’s conversion. I mean, there he was, living a worldly life in Paris in the 1600s, confused.
What was life all about?
he wanted to know.
Is the sensuality I experience all there is to existence?

There he was, this genius in mathematics, founder of probability theory and advanced differential calculus. (I never even took calculus, I was too afraid.) His physics experiments led to the invention of the hydraulic press.

But he couldn’t figure out life.
One night he picked up his Bible and began reading the gospel of John. Suddenly, he was filled with a sense of God’s presence, so extreme and rapturous that he felt as if he were on fire. He grabbed a parchment and tried to record what he was feeling. When he died at the age
of thirty-nine, they found this parchment sewed up in the lining of his jacket, where he’d kept it close to his heart:

“God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob,” not of philosophers and scholars.
Certainty, certainty, heartfelt, joy, peace.
God of Jesus Christ.
God of Jesus Christ.
“My God and your God.”
“Thy God shall be my God.”
The world forgotten, and everything except God.

It went on, but I know how he felt. I know because it happened to me. I was seventeen, alone in the house, watching Billy Graham on TV. I’d listened to Billy Graham before. Mom and Dad, even though

Billy Graham was one of the best, I agreed. But I had never responded to his message.
Until this night.
I can’t remember what his subject was, but when he started speaking about death, I got attentive. Even at seventeen, I realized I would die someday. Maybe this was something I needed to hear.
Then Billy Graham said that, for Christians, there is no fear of death. He pointed to the sky. “We’re going to heaven!” he said.
At that moment, instantly, my body got hot from head to foot. I knew nothing about the Holy Spirit or the call of God. All I knew was I was brimming with an inexpressible joy and longing, the fire of it, the blaze of it, and I wanted that heaven Billy Graham was talking about.
When Billy offered the invitation, I dropped to my knees and prayed to the TV.
That was the fire of my own conversion, and it burned away everything else I thought was important to me. Basketball, hot cars, cheerleaders.
I gave my life over to him that high school year, and I knew I was going to be a minister.
Mom and Dad were shocked.
So were my friends and teachers.
But there was no going back. The fire had burned it all up — my sins, my plans, my life.
I never doubted my conversion or my choice. But over time, the memory of the fire faded.
Now I want it back.

The first Monday in April was hot in L.A. The usual snarl of morning traffic choked Temple Street as Dallas, clinging to Cara and following Jefferson Waite, approached the criminal courthouse.

Immediately, the pack of waiting reporters descended on her, barking questions at the new hot story — Dallas Hamilton.
In the last several days she had become the focus, the media star, the Garbo of wronged wives. Wanting nothing more than to be left alone, her resistance excited brute passions. She knew nothing worked the media beast into a frenzy like the pursuit of one who wished to avoid them.
Especially where sex and murder were the two angles, the salacious twins of tabloid headlines.
“No comment. No comment,” Jeff repeated. He did not wear dark glasses. He smiled for the cameras. Dallas was not so naïve as to believe Jefferson Waite should want to shun media scrutiny. He was a lawyer, after all, and in Southern California, one case with publicity like this could make an entire career. But she also trusted him implicitly, knew he was good, knew he would fight to the last to prove Ron’s innocence.
They followed closely, this organism of publicity, like a cloud of gnats swarming on a hot morning. Dallas kept her head down all the way to the front doors, holding Cara’s arm, and was thankful when she finally passed through the metal detectors. Safe at last in the place that was the most forbidding. At least the deputy sheriffs would keep order, keep nosy reporters from getting in her face.
Ron’s preliminary hearing was to begin this morning in Department 27. Judge Clifford Bartells was fair but tough, Jeff had explained. And a prelim was not generally where a case was won. The prosecution had only to provide minimal evidence, just enough to convince a judge to bind a defendant over for trial. With Bartells, that would be a low threshold indeed.

“But I’ll be looking for the haymaker,” Jeff told her. “Every now and then the prosecution messes up. If it does, I’ll be ready.”
The prosecutor, one Mike Freton, was a tall, silver-haired man with narrow eyes. The sort of man, Dallas thought, who has seen his share of evil people. How could he think that of Ron? How could anyone think that of Ron?
She and Cara were given seats in the front row, near the wall. It was on the jury-box side of the courtroom, which meant she was closest to the prosecution table. Ron and Jeff Waite, and Waite’s investigator, Harry Stegman, were miles away on the other side.
Ron wore one of his suits, not the orange coveralls. He gave her one look before Judge Bartells entered. It was a look of inscrutable sadness. She wanted to go to him, hold him, reassure him. At the same time, she wanted to scream, shake him, make sure all the bad stuff was out.
Cara patted Dallas’s arm and whispered, “Hang in there.” Dallas nodded. She wished Jared had come too, to show support for his father. But he’d refused even to talk to her about it.
After a few words with the judge, legalese Dallas couldn’t quite comprehend, Deputy DA Freton called a deputy sheriff named David Barnes to the stand.
He was a clean-cut young man who might have stepped off the beach at Santa Monica, been handed a badge, and told to catch bad guys.
After the swearing in, Freton began. “Deputy Barnes, you are with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you been so employed?”
“Six years, come August.”
“Turning your attention to the morning of March 17, can you tell us what your assignment was?”
“I was working out of the Pico Rivera station. I was in a cruiser.”
“And did you receive a dispatch at around ten o’clock that morning?”
“Yes. I got a 911 report of a possible domestic disturbance at the Star Motel in Pico Rivera.”
“Who were you told placed the 911 call?”
“The day manager of the motel, a Mr. Franze.”
“What did you do next?”
“I proceeded to the location. I went to the front office and talked with Mr. Franze. I asked him if he had reported a disturbance and he said — ”
“Objection,” Jeff said. “Hearsay.”
“It’s the basis of the deputy’s belief,” Freton said.
Judge Bartells nodded. “Overruled.”
“You may answer,” Freton said.
“He said there was always something disturbing going on at this place.”
The spectators and reporters in the courtroom laughed. Dallas felt a warm chill, hot ice, up and down her back. Like a fever. They were laughing at this now. At Ron.
“What did you do next, Deputy?”
“I asked him why he called, and he said somebody in room 103, a man named Knudsen, said that he’d heard — ”
“Same objection,” Jeff said.
“Overruled.”
Deputy Barnes continued. “This man Knudsen had heard an argument the night before in room 105, some screaming, and then there was nothing. Silence. He thought about leaving it alone, but the next morning he just had this concerned feeling and felt he had to tell Mr. Franze about it. Mr. Franze went to room 105 and knocked, got no answer. He thought it best to give a call to 911.”
“Did he give any reason why he thought to do that?”
“Yes. He said he was afraid of being sued.”
More laughter in the courtroom. Dallas gripped the arms of her seat and shook her head. Cara took her hand and squeezed it.
“What happened next, Deputy Barnes?”
“I asked Mr. Franze to look up the registration on room 105. He told me the name was Melinda Perry. I then asked Mr. Franze to accompany me to room 105. We proceeded to the room. I knocked on the door and announced that I was a Los Angeles County deputy sheriff. There was no answer. I knocked and announced again. Still no answer. So I requested Mr. Franze to unlock the door, which he did.”
“Why did you request Mr. Franze to unlock the door?”
“It was my belief that there might be someone injured inside the room, based upon the 911 call.”
“What did you see when you entered room 105?”
“A young woman on the bed. Not moving. I went to the bed and said, ‘Ma’am?’ I said it three times. When she did not respond I checked her wrist for a pulse. There was none.”
“What did you do next?”
“I secured the room and contacted the sheriff’s department homicide division.”
“When did they arrive?”
“Approximately twenty minutes later.”
“Did anyone enter or exit room 105 before the homicide division arrived?”
“No, sir.”
“No further questions.”
Freton was direct, confident. And from the moment he started, a blistering dread thickened inside Dallas, nearly choking off breath. It was happening. Really happening. Her husband was really a defendant in a murder trial.

“Just a few questions, Deputy. You say you received a dispatch about a 911 call?”
“Yes.”
Dallas noted that the witness did not add
sir
when addressing the defense attorney.
“You did not hear the 911 tape, did you?”
“Nope. I merely responded to the call.”
“And the call was for a possible domestic disturbance at the Star Motel, isn’t that correct?”
“Some sort of disturbance, yes.”
“The dispatch told you that someone had reported screaming, correct?”
“Yes.”
“That person, in fact, was the manager of the motel, Mr. Franze?”
“Yes.”
“But Mr. Franze was relying on the statement of a Mr. Knudsen, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you proceeded to the scene?”
“Yes.”
“Did you at any time on the way to the Star Motel receive any further information on the factual basis of the 911 call?”
“Factual basis?” Barnes said this incredulously, as if everyone in the world would know that was an absurd question.
Jeff did not flinch. “Yes, Deputy. Factual basis. As opposed to mere speculation or opinion. I’m sure they cover that at the sheriff’s academy.”
“Objection,” Freton said.
The judge half closed his eyes. “Sustained. Continue, Mr. Waite.”
“So the answer is, you did not receive any further information concerning the 911 call, is that correct?”
“No, and that’s the way it always is. There is no — ”
“You’ve answered the question. Next question. When you got to the motel and contacted Mr. Franze, did you question him about who this man Knudsen was?”
“No.”
“Instead, you made him walk down to room 105 and open it up.”
“Objection,” Freton said. “Misstates the evidence.”
“Ah, yes,” Jeff said. “There was the token knock on the door. By the way, when you knocked and announced, there was no answer inside, was there?”
“No.”
“No sounds from inside, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then you instructed Mr. Franze to open the door.” “Yes.”
“And you went in.”
“Yes.”
“No more questions.”
Dallas could not see that the cross-examination of the deputy had made any dent in the prosecution’s case. What was Jeff after? A deputy sheriff answered a distress call, went into a motel room, and found a dead body. Hard facts indeed.
The prosecutor placed some papers in front of Jefferson Waite and was saying something to him. Jeff was looking at them with a concerned expression. Dallas saw him in profile, then he gave her a quick look. The next thing she knew he was standing and saying, “Your Honor, may we take a ten-minute recess?”
“Very well,” the judge said.
What was happening? Dallas looked at Jeff. His eyes practically burned with neon, a sign spelling out
disaster.

Jared found the cardboard box at the back of the hallway closet, under the Christmas wrapping paper. He’d been looking for a fresh toothbrush, and his mother usually kept such items in this closet.

But the box didn’t contain what he needed. It held, instead, a bunch of old stuff from his room.
Weird. Like going back in a little cardboard time machine. But it wasn’t a fun trip. He was tense. His jaws were locked and hurt. His insides were screaming for some combo, but he’d stayed away from weed and beer and even loud music for his mother’s sake.
He wondered how long he’d last before the inevitable fall.
On his knees in the hallway, Jared picked through his past. A couple of old Chip Hilton books. Trophies from his Little League days. Pictures of his teams — the Orioles, Royals, and Cubs. One year his dad was in the picture as an assistant coach. The season with the Pirates. That was an embarrassment. He and his father did not get along one bit that year —
“What’re you doing?”
Jared looked up. Tiana was standing there. “What I’m doing is my own business in my own house.”
“Just asking.”
He went back to rummaging through the box, fishing out a couple of old Little League mitts. Why had his mother bothered to save these?
“I don’t really want to be here, you know,” Tiana said.
Jared stifled the urge to say,
That makes two of us.
But a quiet nudge not to be such a jerk interrupted the insult. He sat back against the wall.
“What’s going to happen to you?” he asked.
Tiana shrugged. “Jamaal and I can’t stay here forever.”
“But you can’t go back to your boyfriend.” He looked at her closely. The ugly bruise that had marred her face was mostly gone. So was the puffiness. Tiana was really very pretty, he thought. He wanted her to stay that way.
“He’s Jamaal’s father. He loves Jamaal. Jamaal wants him.”
“Even though he hits you?”
“Not all the time.”
“I say once is too much. Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid.” She had some attitude in her voice.
Jared started to get angry. He clenched his teeth. “Stupid’s putting yourself where you and your kid are gonna get hurt. So don’t — ”
“Who are you to give me advice?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you got a father in trouble and you don’t even go to court, don’t even talk to him. You got no cred with me.”
Jared got up from the floor. His head was tight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She put her hands on her hips. “And you do? Get over yourself.”
“Hey, I don’t need anything from you, okay? I’m minding my own business.”
“Your mom needs you to go with her to court — ”
“Shut up.”
“ — so get off your — ”
“You want to go back? Get your stuff. Get your kid. I’ll drive you.”
She hesitated, then a steely resolve came to her face. “That’s good by me.”
And she left the hall.
Jared let her go.
Good one. Mom’s gonna love you for this. But that’s the way it breaks.
Fifteen minutes later, Tiana and Jamaal were in the cab of Jared’s truck, heading toward Pacoima. This was one of the most run-down, gang-infested areas of the Valley. Jared almost turned around. Forget the boyfriend. What chance would Jamaal have of even making it out of his teens here?
That’s the breaks.
They rode in silence. Once, Jamaal tried to ask Jared a question, but Tiana put her finger to her lips and quieted him.
The only words spoken were Tiana’s directions to the apartment building. It was a prop-up job on Dorado Avenue, within shouting distance of the rail line running along San Fernando Boulevard. What little grass there was in front of the place was brown and patchy.
“Good luck,” Jared said.
Tiana said nothing as she got out, unstrapped Jamaal, and fished her trash bag of clothes from the bed of the truck.
Then she stuck her head in the window. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said.
Jared watched as she and Jamaal shuffled toward the apartments. Suddenly Jamaal stopped and turned around.
And waved.
Jared just looked at him.
Then Jamaal saluted. He stood at attention for a moment, then turned and ran toward his mother.