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
Another pleading look/slap-down exchange between the cop and the judge. “No.”
“So would you agree that your earlier testimony
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
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.
2
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.
3
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.
Brobauer never actually spoke to me. They went right into chambers, came out five minutes later, and he whispered something to my grandfather, who was sitting in the first row of the courtroom.
And yeah, in case you haven’t guessed yet, they’d sold me out again. I was going into a private treatment program in Humboldt County, the judge informed me, and if I behaved myself, eventually the drug charges would be expunged.
So much for the fruit of the poisoned tree. So much for justice. “Thank you, your honor,” Brobauer said smugly, earning him a coveted spot on my fantasy revenge list, along with Fred, Evelyn, and of course Agent Pender.
Things moved pretty quickly after that. I wasn’t allowed to attend my father’s funeral. I don’t even know if he had one. Instead I was bundled into the back of a white van with THE MOUNTAIN PROJECT stenciled on the doors. The driver, a thirtyish, sandy-haired psychologist called Dr. O, wore a corduroy jacket and a skinny tie. Kara, a relentlessly cheerful Viking with a long blond braid, rode shotgun. I wasn’t allowed to talk, but there were sandwiches and bottles of juice, and at least this time I wasn’t handcuffed. I couldn’t help noticing, however, that there weren’t any inside handles on the back doors of the van. I was still a prisoner, even though I’d never been convicted of any crimes.
On the drive north we stopped in San Francisco to pick up another prisoner at Juvenile Hall, high on a hill overlooking the city. The creepy Dr. O (his full name, I later learned, was Owen Oliver) stayed with me while Kara went inside with a paper bag full of clothes. Twenty minutes later an odd procession trooped out to the car. Behind Kara, there was a skinny little blond girl my own age, sandwiched between two uniformed deputies, each of whom had her by an elbow. Her feet were barely touching the ground.
I slid over, Kara opened the door, the deputies shoved her in. “Luke, this is Dusty. Dusty, that’s Luke. You can say hello now, but after that, no talking for the rest of the ride.”
I said hi, she mumbled something back, but in our mutual humiliation we could scarcely look at each other. An hour or so into the ride, however, I glanced over and saw tears running down Dusty’s cheeks. As a show of
