pardon?”
“You heard me, I wasn’t driving.”
“You were arrested.”
“Sure, I was arrested,” he said, as if this was a minor detail. “But let me tell you how it happened. Frank was drunker than I was. He hit the guy and stopped in the middle of the street. When he saw what he had done, he got out of the car and started running. I couldn’t leave the car where it was, so I got in to pull it over. That’s when the cops came.”
“Why didn’t you explain this to the police?”
“Listen, Rios, I’m a Chicano from East Los Angeles. When I saw the cops, the old homeboy instincts kicked in, and I wasn’t about to tell them squat.”
“You’ve had weeks since then to bring this to their attention,” I observed.
He didn’t miss a beat. “I had to convince Frank to come forward and accept responsibility. Without him, the story doesn’t hold up.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“You sound like you don’t believe me, Rios.” There was an edge to his voice.
“It’s just that less than a week ago you told me you had killed the man.”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Well, I was protecting Frank. He’s my homeboy, you know. That’s all.”
“I’d have to talk to both of you,” I said.
“Sure, no problem. How about tomorrow?”
I checked my schedule. I was starting a trial downtown. “No, not tomorrow. Thursday afternoon, around four.”
“You got it,” he said. “We’ll be there.”
I hung up and doodled on the sheet of paper in front of me. People versus Peña, a defense lawyer’s dream; high-profile case, cooperative client, an ironclad defense. All in all, it sounded too good to be true.
CHAPTER SIX
J OSH CALLED ME THE next day and we agreed to meet for dinner that night. I went downtown to start jury selection in a truly pathetic theft case: my client, a homeless wino, was accused of stealing a ring from a corpse that had been dumped in an alley off Spring Street. The cops had tried to pinch him for the homicide but, failing that, took what they could get. The deputy district attorney was not anxious to try the case to a downtown jury likely to be composed of black and Latino jurors from crime-ridden neighborhoods who would perceive the trial as another instance of the system’s misplaced priorities. The judge was equally unhappy at having his court tied up by what he had described in chambers as a “chickenshit case.” As the jurors filed in, the DA passed me a note that read. “How about a drunk in public with time served?” I scribbled back, “OK, with no probation.” She frowned, then shrugged, and asked to approach the bench. Ten minutes later, my man pled and the case was closed.
Leaving the court, I got tied up in traffic and was twenty minutes late to the restaurant where I was meeting Josh. The place was a typical Westside bistro, whitewashed walls, black lacquered chairs and tables, concrete floors and atonal music, like drips of rain, falling between syllables of trendy conversation. It was hard to believe that this was in the same city where dead bodies were dumped in alleys and looted for the price of a bottle of Tokay.
A pretty girl in a white Spandex dress pointed me toward Josh, who sat against the wall at a back table. He was wearing a black leather jacket over an Act Up T-shirt, black denim pants and clunky black shoes, that season’s garb for the gay urban revolutionary. In my gray pinstripes I felt conspicuously Older Generation though, in fact, we were simply at opposite poles of the same generation.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down.
“I just got here myself,” he said, sipping absently from a glass of white wine. Ordinarily, he refrained from drinking around me, and I was irritated at how quickly his habits were changing.
“You order yet?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
I grunted acknowledgment. We spent a couple of minutes on the hand-written menus and then gave our orders to the handsome waiter who, after
“You heard me, I wasn’t driving.”
“You were arrested.”
“Sure, I was arrested,” he said, as if this was a minor detail. “But let me tell you how it happened. Frank was drunker than I was. He hit the guy and stopped in the middle of the street. When he saw what he had done, he got out of the car and started running. I couldn’t leave the car where it was, so I got in to pull it over. That’s when the cops came.”
“Why didn’t you explain this to the police?”
“Listen, Rios, I’m a Chicano from East Los Angeles. When I saw the cops, the old homeboy instincts kicked in, and I wasn’t about to tell them squat.”
“You’ve had weeks since then to bring this to their attention,” I observed.
He didn’t miss a beat. “I had to convince Frank to come forward and accept responsibility. Without him, the story doesn’t hold up.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“You sound like you don’t believe me, Rios.” There was an edge to his voice.
“It’s just that less than a week ago you told me you had killed the man.”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Well, I was protecting Frank. He’s my homeboy, you know. That’s all.”
“I’d have to talk to both of you,” I said.
“Sure, no problem. How about tomorrow?”
I checked my schedule. I was starting a trial downtown. “No, not tomorrow. Thursday afternoon, around four.”
“You got it,” he said. “We’ll be there.”
I hung up and doodled on the sheet of paper in front of me. People versus Peña, a defense lawyer’s dream; high-profile case, cooperative client, an ironclad defense. All in all, it sounded too good to be true.
CHAPTER SIX
J OSH CALLED ME THE next day and we agreed to meet for dinner that night. I went downtown to start jury selection in a truly pathetic theft case: my client, a homeless wino, was accused of stealing a ring from a corpse that had been dumped in an alley off Spring Street. The cops had tried to pinch him for the homicide but, failing that, took what they could get. The deputy district attorney was not anxious to try the case to a downtown jury likely to be composed of black and Latino jurors from crime-ridden neighborhoods who would perceive the trial as another instance of the system’s misplaced priorities. The judge was equally unhappy at having his court tied up by what he had described in chambers as a “chickenshit case.” As the jurors filed in, the DA passed me a note that read. “How about a drunk in public with time served?” I scribbled back, “OK, with no probation.” She frowned, then shrugged, and asked to approach the bench. Ten minutes later, my man pled and the case was closed.
Leaving the court, I got tied up in traffic and was twenty minutes late to the restaurant where I was meeting Josh. The place was a typical Westside bistro, whitewashed walls, black lacquered chairs and tables, concrete floors and atonal music, like drips of rain, falling between syllables of trendy conversation. It was hard to believe that this was in the same city where dead bodies were dumped in alleys and looted for the price of a bottle of Tokay.
A pretty girl in a white Spandex dress pointed me toward Josh, who sat against the wall at a back table. He was wearing a black leather jacket over an Act Up T-shirt, black denim pants and clunky black shoes, that season’s garb for the gay urban revolutionary. In my gray pinstripes I felt conspicuously Older Generation though, in fact, we were simply at opposite poles of the same generation.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down.
“I just got here myself,” he said, sipping absently from a glass of white wine. Ordinarily, he refrained from drinking around me, and I was irritated at how quickly his habits were changing.
“You order yet?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
I grunted acknowledgment. We spent a couple of minutes on the hand-written menus and then gave our orders to the handsome waiter who, after
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