Steve Martini - The Arraignment

“I’ll do what I can. I’ll get back to you.”

With Nick and Metz dead and the cops chasing rainbows looking for the killer, the only viable lead at the moment is the man Espinoza. For the time being, he’s rotting in a federal detention facility downtown, waiting for the federal public defender to have bail set.

What I’m afraid of, given the vagaries of federal judges, is that some magistrate with a wild hair up his ass might set a figure that Espinoza or one of his associates could match. In which case, they would turn the man loose and Espinoza would disappear in a heartbeat-my last chance to get information.

So this afternoon I’m sticking my head in the legal lion’s mouth, running and capping, trying to snag him as a client to keep him in jail.

As I approach the front door, I can hear a television set inside, the zany music and voices of cartoons.

Over the top of this, a baby is screaming.

I knock on the door. Whoever is inside doesn’t hear it. I check the street number stenciled over the front door one more time. If Miguelito Espinoza’s family or whoever lived here with him hasn’t moved, it’s the right address.

This time I knock louder. After a couple of seconds, a shadow moves inside through the frosted glass.

“Who is it?”

“My name is Paul Madriani.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for the family of Miguelito Espinoza.”

All I can hear is the sound of the television and a baby crying on the other side of the door.

“What do you want with them?” The door opens a few inches, safety chained at eye level. A blue eye bounded by some straight, blond, straggly hair peeking through at the level of my chest.

“Hello.” I beam my most disarming, nonthreatening smile and slip a business card through the opening. She takes it with a hand, trying to hold the baby at the same time while she reads.

“I’m a lawyer. I think I can help Mr. Espinoza.”

“You’ve seen Michael? You talked to him?”

“Are you his wife?”

She looks at me again but doesn’t answer, then checks the card one more time.

“He had nothing to do with that stuff,” she says. “I know Michael. He wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Besides he told me when they took him away they had nothin’, no evidence.” She is talking as if I am going to try the case standing here on her front steps, through a chained door.

“That’s what I thought,” I tell her. “Can I come in?”

“When did you talk to him?”

“I really don’t want to stand out here and talk about something like this on the front porch. I have some papers for you to sign.”

“What for?”

“So I can represent him.”

Suddenly the door closes. I hear the chain being slid across the brass groove. It opens again, this time all the way. There in the doorway is what can only be described as a child-woman, maybe five-foot-two, a hundred pounds soaking wet. She has long, dirty-blond hair and is wearing a threadbare pair of jeans and a man’s flannel shirt four sizes too large. She is bare footed standing on the dirty carpet inside the door. In her arms she is holding an infant wrapped in a blue blanket. I cannot see its face. Hers is oval, its features fine, almost birdlike, a drooping mouth that looks as if it has lost the ability to smile.

“He’s hungry,” she says.

From the wailing tones issuing from the blanket, there is nothing wrong with the baby’s lungs.

“What did Michael say? Did he ask about me?”

I ignore her questions. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” As I step inside, she looks behind me, out toward the street as if maybe she is expecting someone else. Then she closes the door, holds the child in one arm as she turns the bolt on the lock and slides the security chain back into place.

She turns and crosses into the living room, stepping over articles of clothing, old newspapers and empty soda cans, and what looks like a discarded disposable diaper. There are discolored stains on the carpet that cause me to suspect that pets may have been part of Miguelito’s life at some point. An empty pizza box lies on the middle of the floor, melted cheese hardened like white plastic stuck to its cardboard innards.

Child-woman reaches for the button on the television. The baby stops crying for a second, then starts up again.

“He likes the noise of the television,” she says. “Sometimes it quiets him.” She pulls the blanket back and strokes the infant’s head, cradling him in the other arm, as she tries to comfort him.

“What did he say? Can you get him out of jail? I don’t have any food left in the house,” she says. “Can Michael get some money to me?”

“Are you his wife?”

She nods.

“What’s your name?”

“Robin. Robin Watkins. Espinoza,” she says. “We were married last summer.”

“Do you have some proof? A marriage license.”

“Why should I have to prove it?”

“It’s necessary if I’m going to represent your husband.”

“Somewhere,” she says.

“Can you find it?”

“Just a minute.” She half runs and skips down the hall, footfalls nearly imperceptible even on the worn pad of this threadbare carpet. I stand near the entrance to the living room surveying the litter on the floor. Against the wall is a sofa that has seen better days, upholstery that has been shredded on one arm. Signs of a cat.

I hear mother and child rummaging through things in the other room, drawers opening and slamming closed, things dropping on the floor. After a minute or so, I hear her coming back down the hall. Walking this time, quickly but more composed. She straightens her hair with one hand, conscious for the first time that her appearance may be important to her husband’s welfare. She juggles the baby and an envelope in the fingers of the hand cradled under the child. She holds the envelope out and I take it.

“Can you get him out on bail?” she asks.

Inside the envelope is a single-page document. I take it out and unfold it. It’s a marriage certificate issued in this county the previous July to Miguelito Espinoza Garza and Robin Lynn Watkins. Robin lists her age as eighteen. I would not want to have to verify this under oath.

“Can you?” she says. “Get him out?”

“I don’t know. I need you to sign something.”

“They wouldn’t let me even talk to him,” she says. “They got him down there in that big building. The tall white one downtown. I went inside and they won’t even tell him I was there.” Her right cheek has a smudge of dirt on it, Little Orphan Annie. “They told me I had to leave or they’d arrest me.” More than likely they’d call a truant officer to pick her up.

“Do you know if he’s represented by anyone else?” I ask. “The federal public defender?”

She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head. “Like I said, they wouldn’t tell me nothin’.” She looks at me with big blue empty eyes.

“How long have you known Michael?” I ask.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“It would help to know some background.”

“We met at the fair up in Pomona. Last summer. I was working one of the kiddy rides and Michael came by. He saw me.” She smiles with thoughts of love at first sight, not looking at me, but off into the distance, kind of dreamy. “We lived together for a while,” she says. “But then Michael said I could get some money from the county if we were married. He wasn’t here a lot so… Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“It’s all right.”

“I get welfare. It’s for my baby,” she says. “I’m probably not supposed to. But Michael’s not around. He travels. I’m getting worried,” she says, “cuz I got no more money for formula. I spent it. My baby’s hungry.” She’s back to stroking it’s head, kissing the little face lost in the blanket.