races. The Aryan Nation would claim him as their own, force him to join whether he wanted to or not, and kill him if he refused. To the Black Brotherhood, he’s a dead man walking, top priority to be shanked in the shower or have his throat cut in the yard at the first opportunity. If they could do this in the middle of the trial, it would send a message-the only one that counts when you’re behind bars: “Don’t fuck with us.”
“Quiet!!!” Suddenly the booming voice of the sergeant at the back door again. “Everybody sit down.” The festivities out in the audience are over. As if somebody had pulled the plug in a game of musical chairs, there is a dash for seats. Within seconds the noise level drops.
Herman comes back to the table. On the way by, he slaps out a quick if low rendition of the brothers’ handshake with Carl-crossed palms, cupped fingers, and a light slap.
“Hey, man, you’re gettin’ better,” he says. Herman has been doing this ever since Carl’s first week in jail, after they broke the ice on information from the kid, leads that Herman had to run down with the leather of his shoes.
As Diggs sits, Carl leans over. “I owe ya, man.”
Herman shakes it off. “You owe me nothing.”
“No. No. I mean it. You nailed that guy,” says Carl.
“If I didn’t, the cops would have.”
“Yeah, but you did it.”
“Now let’s see if I can get outta bed in the morning, and after that I’ll have to see if I can move.” He laughs it off.
I know that Herman is taking heat. He has received some ugly phone calls, wrong numbers to “Uncle Tom.” Some hip artist did graffiti on his car. I’ve told him that there is no dishonor in begging off on this case. It’s one thing for a lawyer to take on a controversial cause. If John Adams was right, even the devil deserves a defense. I’ve told him that there are other investigators who can step in. Herman would be busy full-time just doing the other cases in our office.
To all of this Herman has said no. Part of this is the man’s nature. No one is going to tell him what case he can or cannot work. He is not a joiner of clubs-social, political, or otherwise. He is not afraid of anything that walks on two legs and could probably thrash most that walk on four. If you’re counting on group dynamics to change his mind, be advised that organized intimidation, whether racial or political, is much more likely to fuse his backbone into titanium than turn it to jelly.
And there is one thing that I know about Herman, because he has told me. Herman Diggs is the progeny of slaves. If the laws of genetics hold true, they must have been proud people, because if they are any kin to Herman, their masters never broke them.
I see a shadowed figure approach from the hallway leading to chambers. It’s Ruiz, the judge’s clerk. The show is about to begin.
Ruiz comes out and stands near the foot of the bench, his shoulders back, his chest puffed out, and in almost a squeaky tone, what passes for the voice of authority from R2-D2, announces, “All rise. Superior Court for the State of California, County of San Diego, is now in session, the Honorable Plato Quinn presiding.”
There is the hushed friction of cloth as it leaves every seat in the room, all on their feet. Quinn strides out, black robes flashing. He climbs the few steps to the bench and takes his seat. The high-backed leather throne swivels a little. He tries the gavel, and there is the shot-like clap of hard wood. “You may be seated.”
Everybody in the room drops as if legs just gave out.
The judge sits for a moment looking out at the courtroom, a death stare, his eye scanning the crowd, his expression one of paternal irritation. “Before we start,” he says, “I want to make a few things clear. Those of you in the audience, no matter what you might think or how strongly you might feel, you are not participants in this trial. You are here to watch and observe, and that is all. There will be no demonstrations or disturbances allowed in my courtroom. Any talking, clapping, booing, hand signals, written signs, or other gestures, any demonstration of emotion of any kind, and you will be removed. I don’t want to see any newspapers, books, magazines, or anything else being read in this courtroom while the trial is going on. If I do, you will be removed. If you want to read, go to the library. There will be no food or beverages anywhere in the courtroom, no candy or gum. If you want to stick gum under a chair, do it at home at your kitchen table, not here under my benches.”
He goes through the routine about cell phones, cameras, and recorders not being allowed inside the courtroom. “If you have any one of these, give it up now or lose it.” He pauses a second. Nobody holds up a hand or steps forward. “If I hear a cell phone ring, you may as well hand it to the bailiff to answer, because that phone now belongs to the county.
“Cause a problem in my courtroom and you will go to jail.” He gestures with his gavel toward the door at the lockup, which is now closed. “You will not pass go, and no one from the press will be allowed to talk to you so as to immortalize your message to the world. Do I make myself clear?”
Some in the audience are probably wondering whether this includes having Herman pulverize them in the form of a human blocking sled before they get to go to jail.
“If it becomes necessary, I will clear the courtroom. If this happens, no one will be allowed back into the audience. You can watch the trial on closed circuit downstairs. I will tell you right now that that room is tiny, the chairs are uncomfortable, and the bailiffs are just as uncompromising.”
He continues directing his death gaze out at them for what seems an uncomfortable eternity, then settles back in his chair.
“The clerk will call the case.”
Ruiz reads from a single typed sheet in his hand. “People of the State of California versus Carl Everett Arnsberg. Case number…”
We waive a formal reading of the charges, and then Quinn looks over at one of the bailiffs. “Bring in the jury.”
From a door just off to the right and next to the jury box, they come out, two men, one of them middle-aged, wearing a suit and a stern expression, followed by a younger man in blue jeans and a slip-over shirt. Then three women file out, two of them African American, one dressed neatly in a pantsuit, the other in jeans and a brightly colored top. The third woman is older, wearing a black wool skirt and a matching top with a Chinese red cashmere scarf around her neck, one end tossed over her shoulder. She is sporting bright jewelry-large rings on three fingers of one hand and a gold bracelet on the wrist of the other. When she leaves at the end of the day, you’ll be able to find her by following the parade of felons attached to her jewelry after she passes the probation office downstairs.
The procession into the jury box continues.
We have dossiers on all of them, information down to whether they have nicknames and if so what they are, their jobs, income levels, the churches they attend if any, the number and names of their children and grandchildren. If it is possible to psychoanalyze them without shooting them up on drugs, we have done it, both sides, Tuchio with his state-paid consultant-cum-shrink and we with ours.
Like any jury, this one is a microcosmic social cauldron, an economic, racial, and political melting pot with the burner turned off. Other than being voters or having a driver’s license-which is how they got pulled into the jury pool to begin with-and besides the fact that they breathe air and will bleed if cut, there is almost nothing that any of them have in common. They’re here for two reasons: because the witch doctors of jury consulting believe they possess some hoped-for bias that will help either one side or the other or because one of us, Tuchio or I, ran out of bullets in the form of peremptory challenges to blast them off the jury.
They file into the jury box until it is full. The last six take chairs that have been set up just outside the railing to the box, directly in front of it. These are the alternates. For the time being, all of them are sleeping at home, comfortable in the thought that at least at night they can return to the real world and their families.
As soon as the last one takes his seat, Quinn starts in.
“Good morning!” He beams down at them from the bench-Mr. Happiness. Those in the audience have to be wondering if they’ve drawn Jekyll and Hyde as a judge and, if so, where he keeps his syringe.
Plato Quinn may play God in his own court, but he has presided over enough trials to know that in a case like this there is one group he has to cater to, come hell or high water. He’s looking at them now, flashing more teeth than the average alligator. He will feed them, worry about their bladders, give them regular breaks along with a steady diet of entertaining homilies from the bench, and if possible get them home early whenever he can.
This is an expensive, high-stakes case. Quinn knows that if he ends up with an unhappy or rebellious jury, he
