Blood Defense

TWENTY

I wanted to get to Twin Towers first thing in the morning, but Deshawn’s hearing was at nine a.m., and there was no way Judge Raymond would let me put it over. A former marine and a slavishly devoted cop-lover, Judge Raymond was a prosecutor’s dream come true. And my worst nightmare. He wasn’t exactly a big fan of mine, either. Which is why I got to court a half hour early. I knew he’d jump at the chance to slap me with a fine.

Deshawn rolled in at five minutes to nine. That was early for him, and no doubt thanks only to his mother, Tamika Johnson, who was sitting in the audience, her eyes boring into Deshawn’s back. Deshawn had spiffed up for the occasion in black loafers, dark slacks, and a white shirt and tie-thanks again, I was sure, only to Tamika. He turned to glance at her every few minutes, feeling the wrath of her glare. Deshawn feared no one the way he feared his mother.

Seconds later, Rita Stump, the prosecutor, wearing a dress from Forever 21 (no one told her it was just a name, not a promise) and an irritated expression, marched into the courtroom. The cop, Bruce Ambrose, rolled in behind her. He was one of those red-necked (it’s not a pejorative in this case; his neck was actually red), fleshy cops who looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.

He’d busted Deshawn for a seat-belt violation, then claimed to have seen something “funny” about his glove compartment. The ensuing search turned up a handgun that Deshawn swore wasn’t his.

Ambrose got on the stand, and Rita took him through the fairy tale he’d written in his police report. Then it was my turn.

I started by having him describe what was so “funny” about the glove compartment. He claimed it didn’t seem to “line up right.” I made him get specific about it-which edges didn’t line up, how far off they were.

He stared at me with cold, hard eyes. “It looked to me like there was at least half an inch between the dash and the top of the glove box.”

“And yet the glove compartment was fully closed, wasn’t it?”

“It was closed.”

“Amazing feat of engineering, wouldn’t you say? That it could stay closed-”

“Objection!” Rita jumped to her feet. “Counsel’s sarcasm is inappropriate.”

I held up my hands. “I’m just asking for his opinion. I mean, he’s clearly an expert in glove boxes-”

The judge gave me a menacing look. “Ms. Brinkman, you’ll knock off the personal comments and the sarcasm or we’ll stop this hearing and start contempt proceedings.”

I turned back to my buddy Ambrose. “And of course, you took photos of that glove box so we could all see how ‘funny’ it looked-”

“No. I didn’t.”

I let that sink in for a moment, then moved on. “This wasn’t the first time you met my client, was it? You’ve had a few run-ins in the past.”

“I wouldn’t call them run-ins. I had information that indicated to me he might’ve committed a crime on two previous occasions, and I detained him for further questioning.”

But the descriptions of the suspects in those cases didn’t even remotely fit Deshawn. The first suspect was five foot seven, 150. The second one was even more ridiculous: he was five foot six-and Hispanic. Deshawn was six foot three. I told Deshawn to stand up next to me. “Your Honor, for the record, I’m five foot six.” I stared up at Deshawn. I glanced at the judge and saw that I’d made my point. Time to move in for the kill.

I picked up the gun Ambrose claimed to have found in Deshawn’s glove box and took it to the witness stand. “Officer, would you read the serial number on that gun for us?”

He stared at me for a moment, then slowly read it.

“Thank you. Now I’m going to show you a police report that was prepared about a month before you arrested Deshawn.”

“Objection! Irrelevant!” Rita bounced up again. “What does a police report on a different case have to do with-”

The judge cut her off. “I think we’re about to find out. Overruled.”

I put the report in front of Ambrose and pointed to the bottom of the page. “Please read those last two lines for us.” I watched to see if his lips would move. They didn’t. But when he finished, I saw him swallow hard. “That report was prepared one month ago by another LAPD officer, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And it shows that another officer seized this very gun from a suspect named Julio Ortiz and booked it into evidence one month before you stopped Deshawn Johnson, doesn’t it?”

Ambrose darted a look at Rita, then licked dry lips. “Yeah.”

I pulled out the follow-up report on Julio Ortiz and showed it to Ambrose. “If this gun had been released back to Ortiz, it would say so in this report, wouldn’t it?” Ambrose nodded. “But it doesn’t say that, does it?”

Ambrose stared at the report for a long moment. “No.”

“So can you explain to us how a gun that was booked into evidence a month before you stopped Deshawn Johnson wound up in his glove compartment?”

“I… someone must’ve taken it out of evidence.”

“And that someone had to be a cop, didn’t it? You guys don’t let people like Deshawn or me go check stuff out of the locker, do you?”

“No.”

“Any idea who that cop might be?”

Ambrose stared straight ahead. “No.”

“But there’s a video camera in the evidence locker, so we could find out, right?”

Ambrose turned a scary shade of red and gave me a death glare. “I guess so.”

“Did you ever have the gun tested for prints or DNA?”

“No.”

“But being a good police officer, you handled it carefully so as not to wipe off any prints or DNA that might be there, right?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t really worried about that. It was in his glove box.” Ambrose’s face got so red I thought the top of his head would blow off.

The courtroom had gone dead silent.

I glanced at Rita, then turned to the judge. “I’d ask the court to order that the videotape of the evidence locker be produced and that this weapon be tested for prints and DNA. By a neutral agency, like the sheriff’s office.” I sat down. Your move, Rita.

The judge looked like he’d just taken a bite of rotten fish. He turned to the prosecutor. “People?”

This time, Rita didn’t bounce. She didn’t even stand. “I have no questions.”

Judge Raymond didn’t want to do it. I could see it was killing him. But he had no choice. “I’m going to issue those orders.” He glared at Rita. “It’s not my job to tell you how to do yours. But if I were you, I’d give my superiors the heads up that the judge will be ordering an investigation. They might want to do one of their own.” He glared at Ambrose. “And I’m ordering you to go back to the station forthwith and tell your captain what happened here.” He banged his gavel. “We’ll be in recess.”

Rita stomped out with Ambrose trailing behind her. Neither of them looked at me. They knew as well as I did that the lab wouldn’t find Deshawn’s anything on that gun. This case was history.

Deshawn started whooping and fist-bumping the minute we got outside the courtroom, but I held up a hand and gave him the facts of life. “Deshawn, listen to me: Ambrose went to a lot of trouble to set you up. That’s how bad they want you. You’ve had a target on your back for a long time, and it just got ten times bigger. You keep crime-ing, they’ll get you for sure. And next time you won’t have me.”

“I hear you. I really do. Starting now, I’m out of the life for good.”

I knew he meant it. Now. But I also knew that tomorrow, or the next day, Lil’ J or Big Blue or whoever would show up and say, “I just need [fill in the blank] just this one time,” and he’d go for it. As the saying goes, it was in Deshawn’s nature.