Jonathan Nasaw - The Boys from Santa Cruz

The hearing, I found out later, was meant to be just a formality, in which the State would lay out enough of its case to convince the judge there was sufficient evidence to charge me. There wasn’t really supposed to be any cross-examination. But when the Marshall County detective testified that on the videotape they’d found on the premises, which showed Big Luke and Teddy raping and strangling a teenage girl, “the accused was clearly visible, reflected in the window behind the bed, holding the camera,” Arnold Hobby jumped up from the table.

“Your honor, that’s a gross, bordering on prejudicial, mischaracterization of the evidence.”

The detective looked like he wanted to spit. “How would you know? You haven’t even seen it.”

“Have you ?” Hobby asked quietly. The detective went beet red to the tips of his ears and clamped his lips together like somebody was trying to feed him a spoonful of buzzard puke. Hobby gave him a few seconds, then prompted him again: “Well, have you?”

He shook his head reluctantly. “Not personally. But I have it on good authority from Special Agent William C. Izzo, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, that the accused comes into clear view during the course of the tape.”

Now Judge Higuera, a Mexican-looking woman with black hair and bright red lipstick, looked over at the prosecutor, an assistant DA. “Can you produce this Agent Izzo?”

The assistant DA conferred with his assistant. “Not at this time, your honor. He’s been called back to New York. But-”

“Have you watched the tape yourself?”

“I’m afraid not, your honor. I understand it was sent to the crime lab in Sacramento last night for analysis. I was only assigned the case a few hours ago.”

“Can you produce anyone who has watched it?”

“Not at this time, your honor.”

The prosecutor looked sick. The judge looked disgusted. “Ball’s in your court, Mr. Hobby. Have you seen the tape in question, or can you produce anyone who has?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then on what grounds are you challenging the characterization of the evidence?”

“Just this.” Hobby reached into his briefcase, brought out a manila folder, opened it, and removed a single sheet of paper. “May I approach?”

The judge nodded. Hobby crossed the courtroom, followed quickly by the prosecutor, and handed the piece of paper up to the judge. Higuera read it, nodded again, then gave it to the prosecutor. He read it carefully and gave it back to her, then she gave it back to Hobby, who gave it to the detective.

“Would you please identify the document I’ve just handed you?” asked Hobby.

“It’s a photostat of a standard form we have to fill out when we send a piece of evidence to the CDOJ crime lab.”

“And this one is from your department, signed by yourself, referencing the videotape about which you’ve just testified?”

“Like I said, it’s a photostat, but yes, it is-and I’d like to know how you got your hands on it.”

“It was in with the copies of the search warrants I requested. I assumed you meant me to have it-you weren’t trying to hide it from the defense, were you?”

“No, but-”

“Read the highlighted paragraph for us, would you please, Detective?”

The detective looked up at the judge, as if to say, Do I have to? and she gave him a sharp, kind of sarcastic little nod.

“It says: ‘At apx minute fourteen, a figure wearing a red San Francisco 49ers jersey bearing the number 16 and holding a camcorder is reflected briefly in the window above the bed. Can you freeze-frame slash clean up slash blow up the image to clarify it for purposes of identification?’”

“To me, that doesn’t sound like whoever was holding that camcorder was clearly visible ,” said Hobby. “Does it sound like that to you?”

Another pleading look/slap-down exchange between the cop and the judge. “No.”

“So would you agree that your earlier testimony was in fact a grossly prejudicial mischaracterization of the evidence on this videotape?”

The detective didn’t even bother answering.

“Chambers, gentlemen,” said the judge. She and the lawyers were gone for ten minutes or so, and when they came back, Judge Higuera announced from the bench that not only would she not allow me to be tried as an adult, she wouldn’t even indict me as a juvenile unless the DA came up with some admissible evidence, with a strong emphasis on the word admissible. I gave Hobby a low five under the table, so happy I wasn’t going to be tried for murder that I clean forgot all about the drug charges down in Santa Cruz, at least until they slapped the cuffs on me again.

But Hobby told me not to worry about any of that, because of something called the fruit of the poisoned tree. If the arrest warrant had been obtained fraudulently, as the judge had just ruled, then the subsequent arrest would also be considered tainted, he told me. And so would any evidence obtained as a result of the search of my person and property during the course of the arrest.

While we were out in the corridor talking, the prosecutor came bustling up, grabbed Hobby by the lapels, and started swearing a blue streak. He told Hobby that he knew effing well that the effing evidence request form hadn’t “inadvertently” been provided to him along with the effing search warrants, but had to have been given to him by one of his effing contacts in either the effing sheriff’s department or the effing DOJ crime lab.

“Such language,” said Hobby, gently prying the guy’s fingers from the expensive-looking fabric. “And from an officer of the court.” Then he turned to me and winked. “Don’t worry about a thing, kid,” he said, as the deputies led me away. “After we walk you on all charges, we’ll sue the bastards for wrongful arrest.”

Like an idiot, I believed him.

Lordy, I have died and woke up in heaven, thought Pender. Big old canopied feather bed, white curtains stirring lazily in the open window, sky the color of faded jeans, little birdies singing like they were having a contest-and he wasn’t even hungover. Song lyrics jockeyed for position in his head, and “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” triumphed-it may not have been original, but it was awfully goddamn apt.

All the while, though, there was something small and nasty scratching at the back door of Pender’s consciousness. He tried to ignore it, but it slipped through while he and Amy were making sweet morning love, and he went embarrassingly limp.

“What is it?” Amy asked him, surfacing from under the covers.

“I just remembered where I’m supposed to be this morning.”

“I knew it-I knew you were married.”

“No, that’s not it,” he said miserably. “I mean, I am married, but that’s not it.”

Warily: “What, then?”

“I couldn’t…I mean, you wouldn’t want to- Aw, fuck it!” And suddenly, without any particular sense of having made up his mind, or even having thought it over, he knew what he was going to do. Or rather, not do.

The cop who drove me back down to Santa Cruz on Thursday afternoon made the one who’d driven me up to Marshall City seem like Mr. Rogers, but at least I got to sleep in my own bed that night. Seems that Fred and Evelyn had arranged for bail on the drug charges. But just in case you’re thinking the old folks aren’t so mean after all, here’s the kicker. They’d nailed down the bedroom window and hired an off-duty cop to sit outside my door all night. Probably afraid I was going to slit their throats while they were sleeping.

I wouldn’t have, though. I wouldn’t even have run away. I had faith in Hobby and believed him when he said he was going to get me walked. But when I appeared in court Friday morning, instead of Hobby, a red-faced old man with a bow tie, double-breasted suit, and white hair swept up into a pompadour was sitting next to the kid attorney from the first night. It was Ellis Brobauer, managing partner of Wengert amp; Brobauer. Even the judge seemed impressed. The kid attorney looked absolutely terrified.