Witness for the Defense Read Free

stick around…”
    “You didn’t stick around,” I said wearily, “because you weren’t there to begin with.”
    “But you have to believe me.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s the truth.”
    “Then tell me, Bobby, what did the house look like? The one where they were shot?”
    Again, the kid hesitated and lowered his head. But this time his hands were formed into fists.
    “Tell me anything about the house,” I persisted. “The color. Anything.”
    His voice rose. “I don’t remember. But I’m telling you, I was staying just a couple of blocks over.”
    “And I don’t doubt that for a second. What I do doubt is that you were out taking a walk.”
    “You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t do.”
    “No, but if I feel this way, a jury will, too. You’d better tell Martinez to prime you a little better next time.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “There was only one shotgun blast, Bobby. Not two.”
    “So?” he whined. “I already told you, I wasn’t counting. I thought there was two, but it all happened so fast; there may have only been one. I can testify there was only one. Anything you want.”
    “Wouldn’t work.”
    “Please believe me,” he said, starting to cry.
    “Why?” I leaned closer to the glass partition. “Is it because of what Martinez may do to you if I don’t?”
    By now tears were running freely down his face. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me,” he whimpered. “Please help me. I’ll testify to whatever you want. Just tell me what to say. Attorneys do it all the time.”
    “Maybe some do. But not this one.”
    The young man didn’t respond. I watched as he began to shake uncontrollably. I knew exactly what was going on here; it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. Most urban California jails have an inmate population of eighty percent minorities, and San Francisco’s was no different. When a young white kid is arrested, he’s in for quite a shock. For the first time in his life, he’s the minority. Sometimes he is the only white in his cell block. Unless he manages to get either the Chicanos, the blacks, or the Asians to take him under their wing, he is fair game for all. Obviously, Martinez’s group had been willing to help the kid—and this was their price.
    “My client promised to help you if you did him this favor. Am I correct?”
    “Listen, man,” his voice lowered to a shaky whisper, “they will kill me in here.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I felt sorry for him. He might have broken the law, but that shouldn’t mean he had to face what this place had in store for him. More than likely, he would survive his ordeal. But I wouldn’t be able to convince him of that. Not now. Not when he could become some slimeball’s punching bag—or worse yet, wife—as soon as he walked out of the room.
    “I’m sorry, Bobby. I wish you could get on the stand and tell the lie of the century.” The kid swiveled on his stool, turning away from me. I threw my pen and yellow pad into my briefcase, snapped it shut, and stood up. “But frankly, you’re not that good a liar.”

Chapter 2
    San Francisco County Courthouse is an aging gray stone structure, built in the aftermath of the 1906 earthquake. The elegance of the wood paneling surrounding the long hallways and the magnificence of the carved courtroom doors fail to mask an ever pervasive odor. It is faint, and for years I couldn’t identify it. Then one day the light went on. It was the scent of fear. The smell of the human animal being stalked. The benches along the corridor were peppered with the hunted. Eyes wide as they awaited their turn. The same eyes that often looked to me to save them from their hunter, the criminal justice system.
    Division Three’s spectator section was lined with churchlike pews filled with a mixture of bored reporters, retirees, and the worried family members and friends of the day’s featured performers.
    Stage whispers and furtive conversations echoed around the