Gangster's Court Page 25

  El Flaco flashed his perfect smile. “Come on, sing for me Hijo.”

  Tomás shook his head.

  El Flaco looked across the suite at the bed. “Let me sleep on it.”

  Tomás sighed. “I’m sorry, but there is nothing to think on. I am boss. If you refuse to leave, my captains and all our men will come for you.”

  El Flaco got up, threw off his robe, and stood in his red boxers staring at Tomás. “I am boss. You must never forget that.”

  “I know.” Tomás stood. “I would not come to Los Angeles without your permission. I would never move against a judge, or operate there without your permission first. You are boss. And so am I.”

  “The judge? She shot my man. She will die?”

  Tomás shook his head. “Too valuable.”

  “You control her?”

  Nope. Tomás hoped his body language wouldn’t betray him as he nodded yes.

  El Flaco rubbed against his washboard abs. “If you have American judge, maybe you can be boss, El Hijo.”

  “If I get Oliva bail tomorrow, you know I have a judge.”

  El Flaco stood rigid.

  He’s impossible to read. “This morning, one of your guys and one of mine will go to hearing. The rest stay with us here. When Oliva is released, and I kill him, you call me boss?”

  El Flaco flashed his pearly whites. “If he not released, you don’t have the judge. You back me as boss of L.A. through TJ?”

  Omar, you better fucking deliver. Tomás nodded. “And I would be your loyal captain.”

  * * *

  After sixty-three minutes and seven miles on the treadmill, Jo, drenched with sweat and no more certain about her future, put the key card into her hotel room and entered as quietly as possible. She gently closed the door behind her and glided into the bathroom. She peeled off her clothes and opened the glass shower door.

  One little bar of soap, a half little bottle of shampoo, and a whole little bottle of conditioner helped Jo return her focus on her first day as a real judge. As she shut the water off, she paused and turned her head.

  Are you up, Dzuy? She grabbed a towel to dry off when she heard Dzuy rapidly knock on the bathroom door. “Jo! Jo! Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” she wrapped the towel around her body as Dzuy came through the door in his underwear.

  “Omar just called my cell. He said it’s over. El Flaco’s leaving San Diego. MS-13 is done with us as long as you can close out your two tasks.”

  “That’s real?” Jo’s legs suddenly felt weak. She leaned against the marble wall for support.

  “You okay?” Dzuy asked.

  Jo nodded. “Come here.” She waved him into the shower with her hand.

  He stepped into the large shower and into her arms. “Can it really be over?” he asked with excitement in his voice.

  She didn’t respond.

  Dzuy kissed her forehead. “He sounded so sure. We haven’t known him to be wrong. So, I think this can really be over. What did he ask you to do?”

  Jo pulled back from Dzuy. “Fifty thousand and to let Jose Oliva out of jail.”

  Dzuy’s eyes lit with excitement. “That’s it? We’re out! No problem! It’s over!”

  “Jose Oliva is still a problem. I can’t let him out on a technicality or with a low bail without getting in trouble. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  35

  “People v. Jose Oliva,” the young female bailiff called out.

  “Matt Terry for the People,” a tall black-haired man announced as he stood at his desk.

  “Debbie Weaver for Jose Oliva,” a blonde woman declared as she walked past the gate from the gallery and approached the lectern. “Mr. Oliva is present and in custody. I have met with him and discussed the charges in the Complaint. He understands the charges. We waive a reading of the Complaint.” She nodded towards a Hispanic man in jailhouse greens standing in a tall plexiglass box.

  What do I do? What do I do? Jo looked down from her bench at both the attorneys. She glanced across the felony arraignment department. A dozen attorneys, three court clerks, four deputies, a few family members of the victims and accuseds, and Detective Browning. With no cell phones permitted in Jo’s Department, all eyes were on her.

  If she set bail too low or let Oliva go, Browning would be after her. If she didn’t recuse herself, the judicial council would be after her. Come on Jo, we can figure this out. She tried to swallow away a sour taste in her mouth when she lifted her eyes from the computer monitor.

  “I need to make some disclosures regarding my potential recusal. She looked at Debbie. “I worked with Matt Terry for several years at the DA’s office. I know him in a professional and personal capacity.”

  Jo turned her head to Matt. “I have personal knowledge of this matter.” She looked at Jose Oliva. If I let you go, you’re dead—and I live.

  Jo’s legs tightened, almost to the point of cramping. Time to gamble. She looked to Debbie, willing herself to appear calm and in control. “I will recuse myself if either of you prefer. You don’t have to make a formal motion to presiding. I believe I can set aside any knowledge or potential bias and rule solely based on the evidence and arguments presented this morning. Or, I can recuse myself and we can have another judge handle this arraignment.”

  Jo glanced around her Department. Allegation of first degree murder. Allegation of being an MS-13 gang member. Everyone in my Department thinks there’s no chance of the charges being dropped or bail. The lawyers won’t bother to change judges. She reached her hand under the bench and steadied her twitching right thigh.

  Jo looked at Matt. “Would you prefer another judge hear this arraignment?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  She looked at Debbie. “Any preference?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Jo nodded, her thigh calmed. “For the record. I have disclosed a former professional relationship, and personal friendship, with Matt Terry. I have disclosed I have some personal knowledge of this case. Both counsel have heard and understood the disclosures and agree to let me hear this matter.” Jo looked back and forth between Matt and Debbie. “Correct?”

  “Yes,” responded Matt.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Debbie answered.

  Jo wished her department was empty so she could jump in jubilation. Instead, she remained calm as she looked at Jose Oliva. “Mr. Oliva, you have waived a formal reading of the Complaint. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty,” Debbie answered on Mr. Oliva’s behalf.

  Jo looked at Debbie. “Would you like to argue for bail now or schedule a review on Thursday?”

  “Uh, now,” Debbie said with a bit of surprise in her voice.

  Jo watched Matt’s face go rigid. You weren’t expecting the bail hearing now. While Jo had the power to set bail right then, normally bail review would be set in a few days, especially on a murder charge. Just wait. Jo stayed calm and cool. “Mr. Terry, does the State oppose bail?”

  Matt nodded. “Ya-yes, Your Honor.” Matt grabbed the file, fished out two pages of paper, and read, “Mr. Oliva has been charged with First Degree Murder. Mr. Oliva has been charged as being a member of a notorious street gang. He is a danger to the community and—”

  “—a danger,” Jo interrupted, “Has he been arrested for any crimes before?”

  “Uh, hmm, uh,” Matt stumbled as he grabbed the file and rifled through pages. “I don’t believe so.”

  “Ms. Weaver, has he?” Jo asked.

  Jo watched Debbie’s head turn to her client, Jose Oliva. She watched Oliva shake his head no, then she turned her attention back to Debbie.

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Debbie said.

  Jo turned back to Matt. “Counsel?”

  “Mr. Oliva has ties to a worldwide criminal organization. He could be across the border in a half hour and in El Salvador, Guatemala, or a half dozen other countries before our next hearing. He’s a grave flight risk.”

  Um, no. If he’s released, he’
s dead. But good argument.

  Jo turned to Debbie. “What kind of ties does Mr. Oliva have to the community?”

  “He has two children here. One is in school. His mother and one set of grandparents live here. He has held the same job for six straight years. He was born in San Diego, went to school here. This is his home.”

  “How old is he?” Jo asked.

  “Twenty-four. I think.” Debbie looked at Oliva, who nodded.

  “Mr. Terry?”

  Matt set the folder down on his desk. With pink in his cheeks, he looked up at her. “Your Honor, Mr. Oliva is charged with committing Murder in the First Degree. If he’s let out on bail and kills someone else, or escapes the charges by fleeing to a foreign country, I will have let the People of the State of California down. I respectfully implore the Court not to grant bail.”

  Jo nodded. “Mr. Terry, I can assure you that you have not let the People of the State of California down. You have argued their case well. I’m just not convinced, given Mr. Oliva’s record of twenty-four years without being arrested for a crime, that he poses the danger you say he does. If we set a bail amount, it would be large enough to deter any risk of flight.”

  Jo watched Matt’s cheeks flush from pink to red. Sorry, Matt. “Does the State have an amount they request for bail?”

  “While the People request custody, if the Court grants bail, it should be set at a figure high enough to ensure Mr. Oliva returns.” Matt shrugged. “Fifty million dollars.”

  “Ms. Weaver?” Jo asked, moving her gaze to Oliva’s lawyer.

  “An amount that high would violate the Eighth Amendment. My client doesn’t have that kind of money or collateral to pledge.”

  “What kind of collateral can he pledge? What do you contend is not an excessive bail amount given his financial condition and the gravitas of the charges?” Jo asked.

  “My client rents, he doesn’t own a home. But his grandparents own a house. They could come up with a bond if bail was set at one hundred thousand.”

  That’s ridiculous. Jo bobbed her head forward slightly. “Seems awfully low given the nature of the charges.”

  “Given my client’s financial wherewithal, it isn’t low.”

  “You’re privately retained counsel, right?” Jo asked. A yes would indicate the accused has money to spend.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Mr. Oliva’s job?” Jo asked.

  “Auto mechanic.”

  Jo turned to Matt. “Do you think a mechanic can reasonably come up with ten, let alone fifty million dollars?”

  “If they’re also a gang member, yes.”

  Jo shook her head. “Is Mr. Oliva registered as a gang member by law enforcement?”

  Matt opened his file again, flipped through it. Every eye in the courtroom was now on Matt as he scanned through the twenty-page file. The only sound heard in the courtroom was him flipping pages. “I—I don’t believe so,” Matt admitted.

  Jo shook her head. “We’ve got a presumption of innocence. So, absent evidence, we cannot conclude Mr. Oliva is a gang member. We have an Eighth Amendment that prohibits excessive bail.”

  Jo looked at Debbie. “Your request of one hundred thousand is too low given the nature of the charges.” They are getting fifty thousand from me. That’s what they’ll have to pay in a bail bond to release and kill him. “The Court will set bail at half a million dollars. Does Mr. Oliva waive time?”

  Debbie nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. Defendant waives time.”

  Jo looked at the whiteboard. “The Court will set due course dates, with time waiver, for your readiness and trial.”

  Jo briefly closed her eyes and let out a breath. It’s over. May Omar never walk into my Court again. When she opened her eyes, she discerned a stunned look on Browning’s face. Bail that low, he knows something’s up.

  Jo made eye contact with her bailiff and signaled her to approach. She scribbled a note on a piece of paper, folded it, and asked the bailiff to bring it to Browning.

  She looked down at her docket as the bailiff called the next case.

  Browning unfolded the note. [Follow him close.]

  He left the courtroom and called his captain, explaining he needed men and overtime to follow Jose Oliva once he was released from jail.

  Four teams of two, eight casually-dressed officers, gathered in the plain conference room. “Have a seat everyone,” Browning said, walking to the head of the large white table.

  “Rule one, we don’t lose Oliva.” Browning held up one finger. “There are no other rules today.”

  Browning pressed a key on a computer and a screen behind him filled with pictures of Jose Oliva. “We will not lose him. We will take pictures of everyone he comes into contact with. And if a crime is going to be committed, we arrest everyone involved. Got it?”

  The seven other officers nodded their understanding.

  “Then let’s go follow that fucker.” Browning pointed to an image of Jose Oliva. Browning told the officers the tactical channel to use on their handheld walkie-talkies with earpieces. Each officer grabbed one, a set of binoculars, and a camera with a zoom lens on their way out of the room.

  Browning’s partner picked up the last set. “Lot of effort for this guy. You sure we should be on this instead of questioning all those guys we arrested?”

  “So they can repeat ‘I don’t know’? It’s the only words the gangsters know.” Browning shook his head. “I like our chances of following this ant and being led back to the queen.”

  “Queen El Flaco,” he responded with a chuckle.

  Browning tapped him on the shoulder. “You drive.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Browning closed the conference room door behind him and followed the small parade of his plainclothes officers down the hall, to the stairwell, and down a flight of stairs into the parking lot.

  Their four cars pulled onto the street, into light afternoon traffic. Browning positioned his car on the same side of the street as the jail entrance, ten car lengths behind. “One is in position,” he said into his handheld.

  “Two is circling.”

  “Three is in position.”

  “Four is circling.”

  “Good,” Browning called into his handheld. “I can see half of two and four on foot in position. I’ll tell the deputy to walk him out now.”

  A moment later, Jose Oliva, a short man, with short black hair and wispy stubble from three days without shaving, walked out of jail.

  “He’s wearing a white t-shirt, khaki shorts, and white tennis shoes,” Browning called into his handheld.

  “He’s walking south on Front,” Browning called, watching Oliva walk right past him in his car. Browning had hidden the handheld near his feet when Oliva passed by.

  Once Oliva passed, he picked it back up, tracking him in the side view mirror. “He’s just standing on the corner. Must be waiting for a ride. Two and Four, expect a car to pick him up, traveling westbound.”

  Browning waited, watching Oliva in the mirror. He saw movement, Oliva was getting into the back seat of a black car.

  “Black Nissan Altima. 6-Delta-George-Unit-8-6-6,” a voice called into Browning’s earpiece. “It’s a fucking Uber. Turning north on Front.”

  “Got him,” Browning responded. “Communications?” Browning asked.

  “What do you need?” a female voice asked.

  “Get Uber on the line and see if they can say where this guy is going.”

  “Check.”

  His partner signaled and followed the Altima northbound. He turned to look behind him. Car number three was there. “Still on it. Three will follow at the next turn. We’ll circle back.”

  “Got it.”

  Browning’s car followed as Oliva’s Uber turned left. “He’s signaling left, think he’s going onto the 5. We’re still lead follow. Two and four, prepare to get on the 5, northbound.”

  A smooth five minutes later, Browning called, “Exiting Sea World Drive. Three, pass us and f
ollow.”

  “Got it.”

  Browning’s car stayed left and passed the exit, allowing car three to take the follow. He called, “We’ll get off at the next exit. Let me know if he’s going east or west. Two and Four, you close?”

  “Four is in line at the off-ramp.”

  “Two is a minute out.”

  Okay, okay. Browning calmed himself. He hated losing sight himself, but he’d already been tailing too long. If he exited Sea World, even an oblivious driver might recognize they were being followed.

  “West on Sea World.”

  Browning’s partner slammed on the gas and cut off a car to exit on Clairemont Drive, only to be stuck at a stop light.

  “Turning right, northbound on East Mission Bay Drive,” car three called out. “Car two, can you take the follow?”

  “We got him.”

  “Shit partner,” Browning said, “going smooth. He’s boxed in between the bay, highway, us, and car two. Think he’s going to switch cars? Should we turn around or hold position?”

  “Maybe he’s going to a barbeque, jail food is shit,” his partner responded with a little smile.

  “What?” Browning asked.

  “If we’ve got to sit around watching him all damn day, why not be by the water with the cool breeze and half-naked women?”

  “He’s pulling into a parking lot, northernmost one that’s south of the Hilton. About half a mile north of Sea World Drive,” came over Browning’s earpiece.

  “Know it?” Browning asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Let’s get there and get eyes on him.”

  “Uh, he’s out of the car and walking to the water. He’s not looking for anyone.”

  “What’s he doing?” Browning asked into his handheld. “Keep describing ‘til we get there.”

  “He’s got his shoes and socks off now and has his feet in the water.”

  Browning grabbed the binoculars from the back seat. He stared through them as they drove into the parking lot. “I see him.” He scoffed. “Just standing there.”

  “Do we get out?” car two asked.

  “Yeah. Two, send a guy north of him. Three, send a guy south. Us and four will stay ready in the cars.”