Breach of Trust

8

I left home that morning estimating that court would adjourn early on Friday, and that I’d be able to hit the road with Talia and Emily by no later than five to go to her parents. Evening rain was predicted, she’d told me, so the earlier the better.

Court actually adjourned even earlier than that. Chris Moody, re-directing Joey Espinoza, had wanted to run through the recorded conversations of Hector several times, stopping at various intervals to ask Joey, “Did it sound to you like the defendant was joking there? Did that sound like sarcasm?” That kind of thing. But I made the point that Joey had testified on cross-examination yesterday that they sometimes misunderstood each other’s sarcastic exchanges, so how could Joey really say if Hector was kidding or not? It became enough of a distraction that Chris Moody dropped it altogether, opting to make his pitch in closing argument.

When Chris Moody sat down, he looked awful. He’d had a rough night, I imagined. His star witness hadn’t done well, and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do to rehabilitate him. This case was far more important to him than it was to anyone else in the courtroom, save Hector. This, I assume, was going to be his crowning achievement before he went for the big bucks in a major law firm, not starting as a junior partner like me, but at the equity level, the really big bucks. But if this went the other way on him, it would be a pretty black mark. And at this point, I figured it was even money, at best, that Chris Moody would convict Hector Almundo.

After court recessed at two o’clock, we retreated to the law firm. Hector’s spirits were relatively high. Paul tried to dampen enthusiasm, but I could see it in his eyes, as well. The prosecution hadn’t proven Hector’s knowledge of, much less involvement in, this conspiracy. There was no concrete evidence that he had any idea what was taking place. Joey Espinoza simply was not credible, and the tapes reeked of staging-Espinoza forcing the conversation, discussing the topic when Hector was distracted or making it sound like a joke so Hector would agree, sarcastically. Though Paul didn’t want to raise expectations, he had to acknowledge the current state of affairs, because we were debating whether we should call any witnesses at all or just rest.

“I’ll be back Sunday,” I told him. “If you’re sure it’s okay I go.”

“It’s more than okay. It’s an order,” said Paul. “You did a great job, kid. Go have fun and we’ll talk Sunday afternoon.”

I looked at my watch. It was half past two. I still had time for one more errand before I hooked up with Talia and we drove downstate.

I drove to Liberty Park, where I knew I would find Ernesto Ramirez. I got out of my car and passed through a tall chain-link fence at a spot where someone had torn open a human-sized portion. Why rip into this fence when there was a gate just down the way? Because kids are stupid. It’s the kind of thing I did, too, when I was a kid.

I walked across the wide expanse, grass and concrete. A grown man, without a child in tow, feels funny these days walking among children in a park under any circumstances, and throw in that I was wearing a suit, and I had white skin, and I pretty much stuck out like oil on snow. I was headed for the basketball court, where I’d previously talked with Ernesto.

They’ll know, he’d said.

Ernesto was with two other Latino men who looked to be in their mid-twenties. One of them was wearing a ripped tank top, long shorts, and court shoes. The other was scrawnier and wore an oversized shirt and blue jeans. I’d seen enough of them in my time as a prosecutor, the posture and cocky chin. Gangbangers, or I wasn’t a south-side Irishman.

The scrawnier one saw me first and said something to Ernesto, who looked my way. When he saw me, he started to come toward me, presumably to separate the two of us from his friends. But I was so close I could almost touch him, and for this function I was performing, I literally had to make contact with him.

He managed to say, “The hell are you doing,” before I slapped the envelope against his chest.

“A subpoena,” I told him. “You’ve been served. You must appear in federal court next week to testify in the case of United States versus Hector Almundo.” It was all very formal and unnecessary. The subpoena inside would tell him all of that. But I wanted the drama. I didn’t have anything left.

Instinctively, Ernesto had accepted the envelope before I’d explained its contents. He stared at it and then looked up at me, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t-I won’t-”

“It’s your decision,” I said. “You can appear at that date and time, or federal marshals will come and escort you. And then you can explain to a federal judge why you’re different from everyone else who is subpoenaed.”

“No,” he repeated. He seemed to be in shock, only now catching up with what was happening.

“And if you lie about what you know,” I went on, “you could be charged with perjury.”

“You threatening my friend?” It was the bigger guy, the one with the torn tank. Up close, I could see the tiny tattoo of a dagger on the inside of his upper arm. He was a member of the Latin Lords. He had only a slight trace of an accent. He’d learned English and Spanish simultaneously as a child, I assumed.

Standing face-to-face, as we were now, I towered over him. I was six-three and he was five-ten at best. He had wide shoulders and some muscle tone, a scar across his forehead, a crappy goatee. He was meaner and tougher than me, but only one of us knew that for sure. I looked down at him, making eye contact for a long moment before I uttered two words with sufficient conviction that I was making it clear, I’d only say them once. “Back. Off.”

It threw him momentarily. He’d expected retreat. Now he was reassessing. In my experience with the gangs, they respect the well-dressed white man who marches onto their turf, because they assume he’s law enforcement. For all this guy knew, I was an FBI agent.

“Oye,” said Ernesto, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. “Permitame.”

“Buen consejo,” I said. Listen to Ernesto and back off.

“You can’t make me say something I don’t want to say,” Ernesto said to me.

I slowly took my eyes off Ernesto’s friend and looked at Ernesto squarely. “I can put you on the stand and ask you questions all day. I have a pretty good idea of where to start. I’ll get there sooner or later. If you lie, I’ll know. And if you refuse to answer, you’ll go to prison for contempt.”

“No,” he said. “No, you can’t-”

“I can and I am. My card’s inside that envelope,” I told him. “Including my cell. You talk to me now or I’ll see you in court.”

It was my best pitch. I drove back to my office. I wasn’t feeling great about what I’d done, but I was out of options. I was betting that compelling his testimony would ease whatever conflict was plaguing him. I’d be making the decision for him. You can’t ignore a federal subpoena. So with his back against the wall, he’d come clean. Maybe.

My cell phone buzzed as I was exiting the highway into the commercial district. Traffic had been murder at four o’clock on a Friday night. It reminded me of our trip to see Talia’s folks tonight. But the phone call wasn’t from Talia. The call was from Ernesto Ramirez.

“Hello,” I said with as little feeling as I could muster.

“You said before-you made me an offer before. I tell you what I know and you keep me out of it.”

“Right, I said that. The longer you take to tell me, the harder it will be for me to use the information, the more I’ll need your live testimony.”

“What does that-”

“It means tell me right now, Ernesto. Right. Now.”

There was a pause. Electricity shot through me. I thought it was actually coming.

“Not over the phone,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, trying to conceal my reaction. I’d broken through. Easy and calm was now the right approach. “Where and when?”

“Later today,” he said. “I’ll have to figure out how. No phones, though. Face-to-face.”

“Then make it very soon. I’ll meet you anywhere. Don’t keep me waiting, Ernesto,” I told him. “Do not keep me waiting.”