Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller by Clifford Irving Page A
Authors: Clifford Irving
Tags: Fiction, General, LEGAL, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense
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wasn't fair."
Bad, Warren thought. If the D.A.'s office didn't know it now, they would surely find out.
"And you were angry at being fired, weren't you, Mr. Quintana? And isn't it a fact that after you were fired you harbored a grudge against all Vietnamese people?"
Since February he had lived by doing odd jobs — cutting wood, knocking on people's doors and offering to wash cars for two dollars — but in April he gave up his bed in a barrio
rooming house in order to save the rent and send money back to Francisca. That was when he began to sleep with his friends Pedro and Armando in the park by the stables. The
policia
didn't bother them if they were quiet. A few times he was asked to help clean up horseshit, and given five dollars for a morning's shoveling.
He found a shopping cart one day from the Safeway—
"Found? Where did you find it, Hector?"
"In the street, I doan remember…" But Quintana flushed, looked ashamed.
Warren didn't care. You had to batter at them a bit, make them see that it made no sense to tell petty lies. Big lies like
"I didn't do it"
were all right for a time. But the little lies blazed like neon. They could cost more than they were worth.
"You stole the shopping cart from the Safeway parking lot, isn't that so?"
"I found it. Maybe someone else stole it.
Yo no
— not I."
A stubborn man. But maybe it was true. You never knew. In theory, never quite translated into practice, you were innocent until proved guilty.
Quintana related to Warren the various treasures and staples he had inherited from apartment house Dumpsters and his wonder that they had been discarded while they still had a useful life. He went often to Ravendale and it was there, on that night, that he had found what was left of a bottle of whiskey. And
la pistola.
After finishing the last swallow of Old Crow, Hector Quintana said, he
decided to change his luck and rob the Circle K up on Bissonet. He shrugged, as
if to say to Warren: this was no big deal. These are hard times. A man grows weary and relaxes his principles. The pistol was not loaded, and he was glad of that. But he believed that if he pointed it at the clerk in the store and ordered him to hand over what was in the cash register, the clerk would be frightened enough to do so without any fuss.
"There is something I wish you to understand," Quintana said, seeming to change course, looking at his lawyer with a clear gaze. "If I had not been a little drunk, I would not have done this thing."
Or not have been able to do it, Warren thought. He remembered what Altschuler had said that morning: intoxication does not negate the crime.
The clerk in the Circle K claimed he couldn't get the cash register open. It often jammed like this, there was nothing to do except bang away. He said, Hector recalled, "Please don't shoot me, I'm doing my best." Finally the drawer crashed open, whereupon, in slow motion, he handed Hector a little over $120 in small bills and loose change.
"I was so happy," Hector told Warren, "that I thanked him. I went out into the street. But by then the police were there. They were so quick! I couldn't believe it…"
Two HPD cops leaped from a blue-and-white, revolvers drawn.
"Police!
Freeze, asshole! Drop the weapon at your feet! Kick it away from you!"
Hector had seen this scene so many times on TV that it seemed unreal, and yet at the same time he knew exactly what was required of him. Without being asked, he turned to lean against a nearby car so that they could frisk him and cuff him.
"Did they tell you that you had the right to remain silent, the right to a lawyer, and so forth?"
"Yes, it was the same as on TV."
Only late the next day, here in jail, did the matter of murder arise. He couldn't believe they were serious. He told them they had the wrong man. But it was clear that they didn't believe him.
Warren asked him where he had been earlier on the evening of May 19, before he arrived at Ravendale.
Walking around, just thinking
Bad, Warren thought. If the D.A.'s office didn't know it now, they would surely find out.
"And you were angry at being fired, weren't you, Mr. Quintana? And isn't it a fact that after you were fired you harbored a grudge against all Vietnamese people?"
Since February he had lived by doing odd jobs — cutting wood, knocking on people's doors and offering to wash cars for two dollars — but in April he gave up his bed in a barrio
rooming house in order to save the rent and send money back to Francisca. That was when he began to sleep with his friends Pedro and Armando in the park by the stables. The
policia
didn't bother them if they were quiet. A few times he was asked to help clean up horseshit, and given five dollars for a morning's shoveling.
He found a shopping cart one day from the Safeway—
"Found? Where did you find it, Hector?"
"In the street, I doan remember…" But Quintana flushed, looked ashamed.
Warren didn't care. You had to batter at them a bit, make them see that it made no sense to tell petty lies. Big lies like
"I didn't do it"
were all right for a time. But the little lies blazed like neon. They could cost more than they were worth.
"You stole the shopping cart from the Safeway parking lot, isn't that so?"
"I found it. Maybe someone else stole it.
Yo no
— not I."
A stubborn man. But maybe it was true. You never knew. In theory, never quite translated into practice, you were innocent until proved guilty.
Quintana related to Warren the various treasures and staples he had inherited from apartment house Dumpsters and his wonder that they had been discarded while they still had a useful life. He went often to Ravendale and it was there, on that night, that he had found what was left of a bottle of whiskey. And
la pistola.
After finishing the last swallow of Old Crow, Hector Quintana said, he
decided to change his luck and rob the Circle K up on Bissonet. He shrugged, as
if to say to Warren: this was no big deal. These are hard times. A man grows weary and relaxes his principles. The pistol was not loaded, and he was glad of that. But he believed that if he pointed it at the clerk in the store and ordered him to hand over what was in the cash register, the clerk would be frightened enough to do so without any fuss.
"There is something I wish you to understand," Quintana said, seeming to change course, looking at his lawyer with a clear gaze. "If I had not been a little drunk, I would not have done this thing."
Or not have been able to do it, Warren thought. He remembered what Altschuler had said that morning: intoxication does not negate the crime.
The clerk in the Circle K claimed he couldn't get the cash register open. It often jammed like this, there was nothing to do except bang away. He said, Hector recalled, "Please don't shoot me, I'm doing my best." Finally the drawer crashed open, whereupon, in slow motion, he handed Hector a little over $120 in small bills and loose change.
"I was so happy," Hector told Warren, "that I thanked him. I went out into the street. But by then the police were there. They were so quick! I couldn't believe it…"
Two HPD cops leaped from a blue-and-white, revolvers drawn.
"Police!
Freeze, asshole! Drop the weapon at your feet! Kick it away from you!"
Hector had seen this scene so many times on TV that it seemed unreal, and yet at the same time he knew exactly what was required of him. Without being asked, he turned to lean against a nearby car so that they could frisk him and cuff him.
"Did they tell you that you had the right to remain silent, the right to a lawyer, and so forth?"
"Yes, it was the same as on TV."
Only late the next day, here in jail, did the matter of murder arise. He couldn't believe they were serious. He told them they had the wrong man. But it was clear that they didn't believe him.
Warren asked him where he had been earlier on the evening of May 19, before he arrived at Ravendale.
Walking around, just thinking
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