Steven Gore - Act of Deceit

“Maybe he realized that once we got him locked up, he’d never get out again.”

“You think he’s sane enough to go to trial?”

Donnally had thought through that question during the time he’d spent searching for Rover.

“I think there are three issues,” Donnally said. “Does he remember what happened? I think he does. Does he know he’ll go to trial for murder? That’s why he fought us so hard. Can he help his attorney formulate a defense? Probably. He’s even got his defense ready: She got angry and they had a fight.”

“Except he’ll only be putting on a defense if the court finds him competent.” Navarro looked over at Donnally. “What do you think the shrinks are going to say?”

Donnally had also thought that one through.

“That depends on who’s paying them.”

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.”

B rown was already seated at the defense table, handcuffed to his chair, when Donnally and Blaine had walked into the courtroom. He was bracketed by two attorneys that neither of them recognized.

One bailiff sat five feet behind Brown and another next to the low swinging doors leading to the gallery.

“People versus Charles Brown.”

Donnally sat down behind the barrier as Blaine walked up to the prosecution table and faced Judge Julia Nanston.

“Thomas Blaine for the People.”

The thickset woman sitting next to Brown rose to her feet.

“Margaret Perkins substituting in for the public defender.”

Blaine glanced at Perkins, then said to Judge Nanston. “Your Honor-”

Judge Nanston raised her palm toward Blaine, then glared down at the new attorney.

“Ms. Perkins, two weeks ago I gave the public defender a date certain. And that date is today. The people of this state have waited over twenty years for a resolution in this case.” Nanston removed her half-height reading glasses, then pointed a thin finger at Perkins. “If this is some kind of stunt to get a continuance…”

Perkins smoothed the front of her gray suit. She looked to Donnally like an army captain adjusting her dress uniform.

“No, Your Honor. We’re ready to proceed.”

“And your colleague, for the record?”

“Doris Tevenian of my firm, Schubert, Smith, and Barton.”

Blaine’s head swung toward Tevenian, then toward Donnally, his eyes asking, Who’s paying for this? Then he mouthed the question, Albert Hale?

Donnally knew SSB’s reputation as one of the most expensive firms in the nation. Because of their ages, Donnally guessed that Perkins and Tevenian were partners, which meant that between them and their two assistants, the case was costing more than two thousand dollars an hour.

“Just to make sure we understand each other,” Judge Nanston said. “I hope you don’t think you’re making a special appearance to give yourself some time to see whether you want to take the case. You’re in for the duration.” Nanston nodded twice, expecting Perkins to nod along. She did. “Even if that means a forest of motions and a three-month trial.”

Tevenian rose. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Nanston looked at Blaine. “Any objection?”

“No, Your Honor, but the People want some assurance that the defendant consents to the substitution. There are appeal issues to be considered.”

The judge looked down at Brown. “Mr. Brown, would you like Ms. Perkins and Ms. Tevenian to represent you?”