The storm that passed through San Francisco on Friday had worked its way through Los Angeles by the time I stepped off the plane on Monday. It was a distinctly tropical eighty degrees that last morning of September. I threw my overcoat into the back of my rented car and made my way downtown to the Criminal Courts Building.
The vast city was just awakening as I sped eastward on the Santa Monica Freeway. I had spent a lot of time in Los Angeles when I worked with Larry on the sodomy lawsuit two years earlier. I knew the city as well as anyone who didn’t live there could, and I liked the place. Between the freeway and the Hollywood Hills the feathery light of early morning poured into the basin and it truly did seem, at that moment, to be the habitation of angels. The great palms lifted their shaggy heads like a race of ancient, benevolent animals. Along the broad boulevards that ran from downtown to the sea, skyscrapers rose abruptly as if by geologic accident but were dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the plain.
I parked in the lot behind the Criminal Courts Building across from City Hall and walked around to the courthouse entrance on Temple. In the space between the entrance platform and the ground lay the charred remains of a campfire, with people sleeping in rags and old blankets. Inside, the walls of the foyer were covered with gang graffiti. After an interminable wait, an elevator picked me up and ascended, creaking its way to the floor where the Public Defender had his offices. I walked into a small reception room, announced myself to the receptionist and sat down to wait. The room was crowded with restless children and adults sitting nervously on plastic chairs. A little boy came up and stared at me with wide, black eyes.
“Are you my mama’s P.D.?” he asked.
I smiled at him. “No.”
“Then how come you wear a suit?”
A stout woman called from across the room, “Leave the man alone, Willie.”
“I’m waiting for my P.D., Willie,” I said.
“Nah,” he replied, and went back to his mother.
The door beside the receptionist’s desk opened. A short, heavy gray-haired woman in a bright floral dress said, “Henry Rios.”
I stood up.
“I’m Sharon Hart,” she said. “You want to come into my office?”
I followed her through the door and we picked our way down a hallway lined with metal file cabinets into a small office. There was a calendar on one wall and framed degrees on the other. Sharon Hart sat down behind her government-issue desk and motioned me to sit on one of the two chairs in front of it. She pulled an ashtray out of her desk and lit a cigarette.
“So,” she said. “You’re the famous Henry Rios.”
There was nothing particularly hostile in her tone so I ventured a smile.
“I hope you can walk on water, Mr. Rios, because that’s the kind of skill you’re going to need on this case.”
“Is that why you’re getting out?”
She looked at me sharply. “I’m not afraid of tough cases.”
“Then why withdraw?”
“This case is indefensible on a straight not-guilty plea.”
“There are alternatives.”
She shook her head. “Not with this client. He won’t agree to any defense that admits he did it.”
“Any chance he didn’t do it?”
Her look answered my question.
“Then that could be a problem,” I said.
“He’s also going to make a lousy witness,” she said offhandedly. “Not that there’s much for him to say. He doesn’t remember what happened.”
“So I was told. Retrograde amnesia, is that it?”
She nodded. “I had the court appoint a shrink to talk to him. You’ll find his name in the files.” She gestured to two bulky folders lying at a comer of her desk. “The doctor says it’s legitimate. Jim doesn’t remember anything between opening the cellar door and when that girl — the waitress — came down and found him with Brian Fox.”
“Is he crazy?”
She smiled slightly, showing a crooked tooth. “My shrink will say that he was at the time of the murder.”
“Not quite the question I asked,” I murmured.
“Is he crazy now? Let’s say the pressure’s getting to him.”
“Where’s he being held?”
“County jail,” she said.
“You’ve told him what’s going to happen this morning?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’ll agree to it.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “We don’t get along,” she added. “Call it ineffective empathy of counsel. But I do feel sorry for the kid. I really do.” She stood up. “Take the files. You’ll find my investigator’s card in them. He can fill you in. We better get downstairs. Pat Ryan runs a tight ship.”
“The judge.”
“Patricia Ryan.”
“Irish.”
Sharon smiled. “Black Irish, you might say.”
Television cameras were set up in the jury box and the gallery was packed with reporters. To avoid the press, we had come in through the corridor that ran behind the courtrooms. As soon as we reached counsel’s table, though, the cameras started rolling. At the other end of the table a short, dark-haired man was unpacking his briefcase.
“The D.A.,” Sharon whispered. “Pisano.”
“What’s he like?” I asked.
She shrugged. “He’s decent enough until you get him in front of the cameras.”
“A headline grabber?” I asked.
“The worst.”
As if he’d heard, the D.A. smiled at us, then turned his attention to a sheaf of papers that he was marking with a red pen.
“Where’s Jim?” I asked.
“In the holding cell, I guess,” she said. “They won’t bring him out until she takes the bench.”
I looked over my shoulder at the reporters. “This is quite a circus,” I said.
“Better get used to it.”
A middle-aged woman with stiffly coiffed hair and dressed in black stared at Sharon Hart and me with intense hostility from the gallery.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Sharon glanced over. “Brian Fox’s mother. She comes to every hearing. You’ll like her.”
“What about Jim’s parents?”
“Oh, them,” she said venomously. “They’re just as nice as Mrs. Fox.”
In a seat across the aisle from Brian’s mother sat a young man in a blue suit, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. My eye caught his for a moment, then he looked away.
“That’s Josh Mandel,” Sharon said.
“Oh,” I replied, glancing at him once again.
She looked at me. “Do you know him?”
“No,” I said, and yet he seemed somehow familiar.
The bailiff broke the silence of the courtroom with his announcement. “Please rise. Department Nine is now in session, the Honorable Patricia Ryan presiding.”
The judge came out from behind the clerk’s desk through the same door by which we had entered. Patricia Ryan was a tall black woman whose handsome face was set in a faintly amused expression.
In a pleasant, light voice she said, “Good morning, counsel. Please be seated.” She looked down at her desk. “People versus Pears. Is the defendant in court?”
A blond court reporter clicked away at her machine taking down every word.
“He’s coming,” the bailiff said.
The door to the holding cell opened and the tv cameras swung away from the judge over to the two marshals who escorted Jim Pears into the courtroom. I had just enough time to glance at him before the judge started talking again. They sat Jim down beside Sharon Hart at the end of the table.
“We were to begin the trial of this matter today,” the judge said. “However, ten days ago the Public Defender’s office filed a motion to withdraw from the case. Is that correct Mrs. Hart?”
“Yes.”
The judge looked at me quizzically and said, “Who are you, sir?”
“Henry Rios, Your Honor. I’ve been asked to substitute in should the Public Defender’s motion be granted.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rios. All right. The defendant is now present and represented. The People are represented and are opposing this motion.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” Pisano said.
“Mrs. Hart, you go first.”
Sharon Hart stood up. “The People complain about delay,” she began, “without showing that their case would be prejudiced by the delay. They don’t say either that witnesses or evidence would become unavailable to them if the trial is postponed. My client, on the other hand, has a constitutional right to effective representation. My office can’t provide that at this point. So it seems to me, Your Honor, that if you weigh his rights against the prosecution’s pro forma objection, it’s clear the motion should be granted.”
The judge said, “Mr. Pisano.”
“Your Honor,” he said, “the D.A.’s office is not a lynch mob. We want Mr. Pears to get a fair trial. Our objection is that the P.D.’s office has completely failed to tell anyone why it can’t handle this case. Now,” he said, stepping back from the table and coming up behind Sharon Hart, “we saw how well Mrs. Hart conducted the defense during the prelim-”
“Thanks,” Sharon whispered mockingly.
“ — so what’s the problem now? They say they have a conflict. What conflict?” He shrugged eloquently. “Surely we all want to see that justice is done as expeditiously as possible.”
“I’m sure,” Judge Ryan replied with a faint smile. She was clearly aware that Pisano was playing to the press.
Undeterred, he continued. “We don’t know what the conflict is and I would hate to suspect that this motion is only to delay things, but…” He left the end of the sentence dangling, with another shrug of his shoulders. “And what about our friend, Mr. Rios,” Pisano continued. “He’s not going to be ready to start trying the case today. No, he’ll be asking for time. Maybe a lot of time. Maybe, considering the People’s evidence, forever.”
Sharon Hart seethed. I composed my face into the mask I reserved for such occasions.
“Or maybe,” Pisano said, “there’s another reason for this motion. Mr. Rios here is not unknown. He was one of the lawyers who knocked the sodomy initiative off the ballot a couple of years ago. He represents a powerful constituency.”
“I hardly see-” the judge began.
“Your Honor, if I may finish,” Pisano cut in, his voice darkening theatrically. “Let me suggest that this motion is the result of political pressure on the P.D.’s office by the gay community to let Mr. Rios try the case…” Again Pisano let the end of his sentence trail off suggestively.
I heard the rustling of papers in the gallery as the reporters scribbled their notes. Pisano would make the news tonight.
“I really must object,” Sharon Hart said. “That remark is completely improper.”
The judge glowered at the D.A. “Mr. Pisano, that comment is not well taken.”
“My apologies,” the D.A. said smoothly. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn. But the court must understand the People’s frustration. This motion is so mysterious, Your Honor. I’m completely at a loss as to why a perfectly competent lawyer like Mrs. Hart wants off this case.”
“Mrs. Hart.”
“Your Honor, it took me a minute but I finally understand what the D.A. is up to. He wants me to put on the record why my office can’t represent Mr. Pears. We obviously can’t do that without compromising the defense. This court will simply have to accept my representation that an irreconcilable conflict exists between me and Mr. Pears.”
The judge’s eyebrows darted up. Judges do not appreciate being told what they must accept.
“Nonetheless,” the judge observed, “the motion is discretionary with me.”
Seeing her mistake, Sharon said, “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, Judge. I’m just saying the prosecution wants a sneak preview of the defense. They’re not entitled to that.”
Pisano broke in. “Your Honor, as you point out, granting or denying this motion is your choice. I just don’t see how you can make a fair decision based on some vague representation of irreconcilable conflicts. We’re not talking no-fault divorce here.”
“Anything else?” Judge Ryan asked, looking at Hart and Pisano.
“Submitted,” both lawyers said in unison.
The judge stared uneasily into space.
“What’s she thinking?” I whispered.
“She’s thinking that if she grants the motion she’d better have a good reason because the D.A. will file a writ petition in the Court of Appeal before the ink is dry on her order,” Sharon whispered back.
I heard the clink of metal and remembered that Jim Pears, who had been ignored during the hearing, was still sitting at the end of the table.
“What does Jim-” I began.
“Shush,” Sharon snapped. The judge had begun to speak.
“… concerned, Mrs. Hart, that I don’t have enough of a basis to rule intelligently on your motion. Now I can appreciate you not wanting to tip your hand to the prosecution. So what I think I’ll do is take Mr. Rios, you and the reporter into chambers and have you put the conflict on the record. I will then order that portion of the transcript sealed. Is that acceptable?”
I watched the struggle in Sharon’s face. She clearly thought her word that a conflict existed should be enough, but she also wanted to win.
“Yes, Judge,” she said.
“What about the People?” the D.A. asked.
“What about the People?” the judge repeated with exasperation.
“Well, I thought-”
“Nice try, Mr. Pisano,” the judge said. “Court’s in recess. Mrs. Hart, Mr. Rios.”
We followed her back across a corridor into her chambers and sat down while she took off her robe and hung it up. There was a framed law degree on the wall from Stanford and, next to it, a picture of the judge shaking hands with the Democratic governor who had appointed her to the bench. The windows of her office overlooked City Hall and the Times-Mirror Building. She sat down behind a vast rosewood desk.
“All right,” she began briskly. “We’re in chambers on People versus Pears. Mrs. Hart, tell me about this conflict.” The reporter’s fingers flew across the keyboard of her machine as the judge spoke.
“My client refuses to cooperate in preparing a defense,” she said.
“He wants to plead guilty?” the judge asked.
“No, he insists he’s not guilty.”
Judge Ryan grinned. “Most defendants do, Mrs. Hart.”
“That’s not a tenable defense,” Sharon insisted.
The judge nodded, thoughtfully. “Unless you have a secret weapon, the evidence presented at the prelim seems pretty conclusive.”
“There is no secret weapon,” Sharon said. “At least in regards to whether he did it. But, as to why he did it… “ She let the sentence trail off.
“I understand,” the judge said.
We were at a delicate point. Since Judge Ryan would be presiding at the trial there was a limit to what Sharon Hart could disclose to her about the defense without laying the judge open to a charge of being less than completely impartial.
“Anyway,” Sharon continued, “I feel very strongly that I cannot continue to represent Mr. Pears and I think he feels just as strongly that he can’t work with me, either.”
The judge turned to me. “Mr. Rios.”
“I’m willing to try the case on terms set by my client.”
The judge arched an eyebrow. “Have you read the transcript of the preliminary hearing?”
“Yes. However, Judge, whatever the state of the evidence, there comes a point when you have to do what your client wants
— if, in good conscience, you can.”
The judge frowned but said nothing.
“He’s right, Judge,” Sharon said, coming to my rescue. “It’s Jim who’s on trial here.”
The judge looked at the reporter and said, “This is off the record.” The reporter stopped typing and the judge said, “Do you really think Jim Pears has the wherewithal to call the shots in this case?”
Sharon and I exchanged surprised looks.
“Now I know I’m speaking out of turn,” the judge continued, “but when I look at Jim Pears all I see is fear. I’m going to grant your motion, Sharon, and I’ll give you some time to prepare for trial, Mr. Rios, but I want you to know that I feel very strongly that this is not a case that should be coming to trial. There should be a disposition.”
“The D.A.’s not giving an inch from murder one,” Sharon said sourly.
Judge Ryan set her mouth into a grim smile. “The D.A.,” she said, “can be persuaded. All right. You think about what I’ve said, Mr. Rios. Now let’s go out and do this on the record.” “Yes, Judge,” we both chimed.
We preceded her into the court. I asked Sharon what that was all about.
“It sounds to me like she doesn’t want a jury to get their hands on Jim. If I were you, I’d consider waiving a jury and having a court trial.”
I stopped at the table where Jim was sitting and leaned over. “Jim, my name is Henry,” I whispered.
He looked up at me and said, “I didn’t do it.”