Act of Deceit

Chapter 13

T he assistant public defender reached down and rested her hand on Charles Brown’s shoulder at the defense table in the arraignment department of the Superior Court in Oakland. It was as if to say to the judge about Brown, Poor, tormented man.

The pretense reminded Donnally why so many court proceedings had repelled him as a cop. They too often devolved into theater in which every person and every thing-every fact and everything done and suffered-was reduced to an image to be manipulated.

And he suspected Brown’s competency hearing two decades earlier had begun the same way: with a wordless attempt by his attorney to cast him in the role of the victim.

What the public defender said aloud was “I’d like the defendant sent under Penal Code 1368 to determine whether he’s competent to stand trial.”

Judge Julia Nanston looked down toward Chief Assistant District Attorney Thomas Blaine.

“Do the People have any objection?”

Her raised left eyebrow told everyone in the courtroom the People had better not.

“No, Your Honor,” Blaine said. “We’ve already discussed the selection of psychiatrists with the defense.”

“So the People are contesting the issue?”

Blaine glanced back at Donnally sitting in the front row of the gallery, then back at the judge.

“You bet the People are.”

Despite his annoyance, Donnally let his eyes go dead as the judge looked down at him. Like the public defender’s gesture, Blaine’s had been a performance: a pretend solidarity that falsely included Donnally in a process over which he had no control.

The courtroom door opened, followed by a rush of footsteps. Donnally turned to see a pack of reporters hurry to take seats in the second row. A longtime San Francisco Chronicle crime reporter recognized Donnally, then pointed at his open notebook.

Donnally shook his head, then shrugged and mouthed the words, I’m just a spectator, then rose and walked out.

His cell phone rang as he was driving back across the Bay Bridge to Janie’s.

“How did the fucking press find out about this so soon?” Blaine said, his voice rising.

Donnally pictured the flush-faced prosecutor stomping around his office.

“It wasn’t me,” Donnally said. “What’s the storyline?”

“What do you think it is? How the fucking DA’s office fucked up and let a fucking maniac get away with a fucking murder for over twenty fucking years.”

Donnally heard the beep of an incoming call. “Hold on.” He connected the call. “Harlan Donnally.”

“It’s me.” It was his waitress at the cafe. “I got a couple of calls from the press. Apparently you’re the hero.”

“What did they want?”

“A picture of your handsome face and to find out how you got involved in this.”

“What did you tell them?”

“What could I tell them? I don’t have a clue.”

Donnally imagined camera crews camping out in front of Mauricio’s junkyard and ex-prosecutors and marginal defense lawyers standing by in a cable news studio, all made giddy by a truth-is-stranger-than-fiction elixir of murder, attempted rape, a maniac on the loose, incest, and patricide.

“Tell them I was doing research for a book and happened to run across the case.”

“Really? What’s it about?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She laughed. “I get it.”

“Try to sound sincere.”

Donnally reconnected to Blaine. “You seem a little deficient in the adjective department today.”

“Asshole.”

“And the noun department.”

Donnally heard Blaine drop into his chair.

“You know what else is going on?” Blaine said.

“All I know is what you’re telling me.”

“The Crime Victims for Justice group held a press conference on the courthouse steps. They want the state attorney general to take over the prosecution, claiming that we’re incompetent. And get this. The Albert Hale Foundation jumped in.”

“The what?”

“Albert Hale Foundation. Some kind of do-gooder organization put together by some rich guy who’s never been robbed.”

“What’s their angle?”

“That Brown has been abused by the courts and failed by the mental health system.”

Donnally’s anger shifted from Brown to his equally misguided defenders. “Sounds like they’ve forgotten who the victim is.”

“Hey, man, this is California.”