BEYOND JUSTICE Read online

  Tax attorneys typically don’t get to see the seedy side of the criminal court system. My wrists chafed under the white plastic tie-wraps. Ankle chains scraped the floor. When I entered the courtroom, my ears and cheeks burned. The gaze of every person in the courtroom drilled into my skin. I felt like a pig led to the slaughterhouse.

  Behind a wooden table, I stood next to Rachel. Dave sat right behind me in the gallery. The honorable Judge Matthew Crawford awaited the reading of the docket number.

  His Honor was a short man with a balding pate, delineated by two white strips of hair on each side of his head. Every now and then he wiped his glasses with the sleeve of his robe. The scowl permanently etched into his features testified to the fact he was not as impatient as he looked.

  He was much more so.

  Across from Rachel was Thomas Walden, the District Attorney. He stood at least a head taller than her. A robust man in his fifties, he wore a dark suit, a bright yellow tie and spoke with a haughty New England accent.

  When the case number was announced, my attorney stepped forward. "Rachel Cheng for the defendant. Waive reading and enter a plea of not guilty. I’m requesting that the charges be dropped."

  "Thomas Walden for the State, your honor, and is counsel joking? The State would request that the defendant be held without bail."

  "My client is innocent."

  "All right, Ms...Ms..." Crawford narrowed his eyes at Rachel and glanced down at his notes.

  "Cheng, your honor. Rachel Cheng."

  "Right." He cleared his throat. Let’s continue." My heart pounded. Where was the real killer? He needed to be here, standing before this judge, not me.

  "My client is not a flight risk."

  Walden scoffed. "You think he’ll sit around waiting for his conviction?"

  "His four year old son is lying in a coma at Children’s hospital right now."

  Crawford’s shoulders slowly rose, then fell.

  "Your honor," Rachel said, "I respectfully request O.R."

  "Are we even talking about the same case?" Walden said, with a sneer. "You know the severity of the charges, and you want him released on his own recognizance?"

  "Do I even get a chance to make an argument, your honor?"

  "All right, all right, fine," Crawford said, barely interested. "Does the defendant have strong ties to the community? Relatives, extended family?"

  "His in-laws."

  A grunt and the judge scribbled something, no longer looking at Rachel. "And how long has he resided in his community?"

  "He’s lived in Rancho Carmelita for four months."

  "Not very long."

  "But he’s lived in San Diego for about five years."

  "Current employment?"

  "Unemployed. But he was a tax attorney for a reputable law firm—"

  "From which he was recently fired for possession of child pornography," Walden interrupted.

  "Alleged possession," Rachel said.

  Walden huffed. "Your honor, seriously. This man should be held without bail. God forbid he kills again, before the trial. The child pornography alone—"

  Unable to contain myself, I bolted up from my chair and said, "It wasn’t mine!" The chair fell back and hit the floor.

  "Bailiff," Crawford said. The deputy leaned in my direction with his hand conspicuously resting on his gun. I sat back down in my chair after Dave propped it back up.

  "Sam, please. Keep calm," he whispered.

  Rachel glanced over to me. Then back to Crawford. "Your honor. My client denies the allegations. There’s no definitive proof that the downloaded images are actually his."

  Walden smiled. "It was in his own network directory."

  "Sticking to the case at hand," she said, "my client has no priors."

  "One out of four," Walden said, containing the chuckle. "Not bad."

  "All right," said Crawford. "Bail is set at three point five million dollars." He lifted his gavel and just before he rapped it down, Rachel interrupted.

  "Your honor, the Eighth Amendment requires that the bail not be excessive."

  "Excuse me?" His left eyebrow cocked upwards.

  "Bail should not be used to punish a person for being suspected of committing—"

  "Believe it or not, Counsel, I am familiar with the Eighth Amendment," Crawford said, his pitch rising.

  Walden stood there, resting his chin in the sling between his thumb and index finger, his elbow on his other hand. He was smiling as Rachel rolled out more and more rope to hang herself with.

  Rachel went on. "But the purpose of bail is to afford an arrested person freedom until actually convicted of a crime, and the bail amount must be no more than is reasonably necessary to keep him from fleeing, before a case is over."

  Crawford, leaned forward, lowered his bifocals and glared. "You’re obviously a little wet behind the ears, Ms. Cheng, and that’s all right..." No, it’s not, I thought. I’m dead. "But let me give you a bit of advice—would that be okay?"

  Rachel nodded.

  "Do not lecture the court on the Constitution!"

  She kept her head up with a hint of defiance. Swallowed. "I apologize, your honor. But it seems to me that you're setting bail as preventive detention."

  Walden struggled to keep a straight face.

  Eyes widened again, the judge glared at her with incredulity. "Keep this up and I’ll bump it to four million." Crawford raised his gavel.

  "At this time," Rachel said, wincing as though the gavel was about to land on her head, "I would like to move for a probable cause hearing."

  Both Walden and Crawford threw their hands up, rolling their eyes. "Oh for the love of—"

  "Ms. Cheng," Crawford growled and then drew a long breath. "I am not known for my patience."

  "Oh my God," I murmured. The void in my chest was matched only by the sinking feeling in my gut. I put my head down into my arms on the table, but Dave reached over the rail and yanked me back up by the elbow.

  "Keep your head up," he said, releasing me before the bailiff noticed.

  I plastered on my ‘dignified’ face.

  "Prosecutorial misconduct, your honor," said Rachel. "My client’s Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights were violated."

  "You have evidence?" Crawford said.

  "Yes."

  Walden turned around and looked at Detective Pearson, who sat expressionless.

  "Go on, then," Crawford said.

  Rachel came back to the desk and pulled some papers from her briefcase. "Trust me?" she whispered.

  Did I have a choice? I nodded, tentatively.

  She patted my arm and approached the bench. Walden rolled his eyes again. I wondered if they might roll right out of his head.

  Rachel took a deep breath, then began. "Though my client was read his Miranda rights, he was not given access to a phone or an attorney for several hours. At least two attempts at interrogations were made, despite the fact that my client had in fact stated that he wanted an attorney. The District Attorney’s office sent Kenneth Dodd, DDA, in an attempt to extract a statement by knowingly and willfully misrepresenting himself as a State appointed defense attorney."

  Walden cleared his throat. "A simple misunderstanding, Your Hon—"

  Rachel clicked her tongue. "Give me a break." As she fired off her list of improprieties, the D.A. could barely get a word in edgewise. With each item, the smugness on his face faded. The judge’s scrutinizing glower gradually shifted to Walden.

  "My client was detained for over eight hours before he was booked in the San Diego Central Jail."

  Arms crossed over her chest, Detective Pearson tugged on her earlobe.

  "And finally," Rachel said. "I have eyewitness testimony that puts the Detective Anita Pearson at my client’s residence, conducting an illegal search."

  Walden pressed forward. "We had a warrant!"

  "Would you care to show it to the court?" Rachel said, placing her hands on her hips.

  Walden started turning back to Pearson,
but stopped. He looked to the judge, smiling like he had a perfectly reasonable explanation. "I can produce a copy if you just—"

  "Here." Rachel pulled a sheet of paper from her jacket and slapped it down under His Honor’s nose. Judge Crawford lowered his glasses and peered over the rims, held the sheet up closer. "That’s a copy of the search warrant which I got from the D.A.’s clerk." Rachel said.

  "What’s the problem, Counsel?" Crawford asked.

  "If Your Honor will kindly look closely at the clerk’s stamp, it will show that this warrant was issued yesterday at 4:55 PM. More than four hours after the search was actually conducted. Yesterday, at 12:15 PM, Detective Pearson broke down the door and conducted a warrant-less search of my client’s premises."

  Leaning back in his chair, Crawford rumbled and shot Pearson a withering glare. "Anything else, counsel?"

  Brushing back a strand of hair, Rachel met his gaze. "Given the gross improprieties in my client’s incarceration, I once again request he be released on his own recognizance."

  "This is ridiculous," Anita Pearson said, unable to remain seated. "The time discrepancy is immaterial. We had probable cause and found more evidence—"

  "Which is now fruit of a poisonous tree," Rachel said. "Let’s have that P.C. hearing now, shall we?"

  With his indignation now aimed at the detective, Crawford said, "Immaterial?"

  Walden tugged his collar. You could almost see the steam rise out.

  "Detective," the judge said. "The court does not condone what you’ve done. Nor am I interested turning the focus of this case towards constitutional rights." He turned to Walden. "If you want a Probable Cause hearing..."

  Walden frowned and shook his head tightly.

  With a bit more respect, Crawford said, "Nevertheless Ms. Cheng, I agree with the State about the severity of the charges. I cannot simply grant the O.R."

  "Presumption of innocence until proven—"

  "Request denied."

  "But Your Honor—"

  "Ms. Chen!"

  My heart plummeted. I could almost hear it splashing into the digestive acids which had already eroded the lining of my stomach. I would be spending God knows how many months in jail, just waiting for my trial. Unable to see Aaron, or be there for him.

  "Bail is set to fifty thousand dollars." Crawford rapped the gavel.

  The transformation on Rachel’s face was so drastic, her smile so wide, that it wouldn’t have surprised me if she ran up to the bench and gave Crawford a hug, planting a big, wet kiss on his shiny bald head.

  His Honor lifted a cautionary finger. "On the condition that he agrees to wear a GPS tracking device on his ankle until the trial."

  I nodded my consent.

  "My client agrees," said Rachel.

  The gavel hit the sound block again, and it was settled. Dave and I both exhaled. He thumped me in the back. "Yes!"

  With her back turned to the judge, Rachel gave me a thumbs up and a broad smile. She returned to the desk with a triumphant lilt in her step. "Congratulations," she said, shaking my hand.

  "Rachel, thank you."

  The deputy unlocked my wrists and ankles. I was free to go.

  For now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial. This part of the Sixth Amendment, derived from the Magna Carta, was a right I gladly exercised. The sooner we proved my innocence, the better.

  The trial was set for late December, less than two months away. When Walden announced he was going to seek the death penalty, I felt so ill I couldn’t eat for the entire day.

  Time passed too quickly in some ways, too slow in others. In addition to preparing for the trial, we had to find the killer and prove my innocence, all in a matter of weeks. As far as the D.A.'s office was concerned, the case had been solved. The trial was just a formality.

  Rachel started looking for a private investigator.

  With an anklet that tracked my location and movement anywhere on the planet, I couldn’t leave my house without the sheriffs’ watchful eye. My father-in-law was quite vocal in his protests against my visiting Aaron. Any visit by me had to be supervised by the hospital security staff. In Oscar's mind, I was guilty and therefore dangerous. He never liked me much from the start and I suppose finding me guilty would make it easier for him to cope with his daughter’s death. Who better to blame?

  The doctors said Aaron seemed to be out of the woods now, though complications always threatened. Visiting him was always the highlight of the day. And at the same time, the most heart-rending.

  I’d been terminated from my firm without severance. My life plummeted into a quagmire of anxiety, despair, and financial hemorrhaging. Bad enough I could no longer pay the mortgage, but the most painful blow was losing the medical benefits. Without Blue Cross, I had no way of paying for Aaron’s medical bills.

  The fifty thousand dollar bail was posted with a five thousand dollar bond. But it didn't take long before I completely depleted my reserves—exercised my options, sold my stocks, and maxed out my credit cards with cash advances.

  MetroLife would not process my claims because I was the defendant in my wife and daughter’s slaying. At best, they'd wait until I was proven innocent. How would it look if they paid out 2.5 million dollars to a convicted murderer?

  As for Rachel’s retainer, she had not yet brought it up, so I didn’t ask, which went against my nature. But I was so desperate, I swallowed my pride and accepted her services not knowing how I would pay.

  I began interviewing for jobs all over San Diego, and eventually as far as Orange County. But it was fruitless. No one wanted to hire a murder suspect.

  Brent Stringer wrote an editorial in the Union Tribune about my arrest. He expressed regret for having just a month ago written an article that made me out to be a modest hero—Superdad.

  To correct that mistake, he tarred and feathered me as a psycho who had fooled and shocked the community. In three scathing paragraphs I went from Superdad, national hero, to Super creep, a "sick deviant and a danger to society." He held nothing back. Like Matt Kingsley, I deserved to be put down like a rabid dog. It was too bad the State of California didn’t castrate animals like me.

  Thank you very much, Brent.

  Good to see that journalistic responsibility was not dead.

  After a month of failed job hunting, I admitted to myself that my legal career was over. My checking account dwindled to triple digits and charge cards went over their credit limits. I had to look elsewhere. Not even Carl’s Junior, Walmart, or the Chevron station would hire me.

  The best I could do to keep from going insane was to spend my time going over the case with Rachel, combing through the prosecution’s so-called evidence. I had forgotten to mention the CD of the pornographic images in my briefcase to Rachel. I had decided to keep that copy for my own evidence, in case anything happened to my network directory. A stupid thing to do, in retrospect. Thankfully, it was deemed inadmissible due to the illegal search.

  Walden, however, entered the original child pornography found in my network directory at the firm as evidence. He planned to profile me as sexual deviant who raped and killed his own daughter. The murder and assault weapons—a Henckels International classic 8-inch stainless-steel chef’s knife, Aaron’s aluminum baseball bat—both with my fingerprints, had been found in my garbage containers out at the side of my garage.

  I had no alibi. Though there were dozens of cars driving on the I-52 that night, who could possibly ID me in a moving vehicle—in the dark?

  There was, however, one ace in the hole that could make all the difference between execution and exoneration: my DNA results. Unfortunately, the report wouldn’t be back until well into the trial. And having what they considered enough physical evidence plus witnesses to testify against my character, the prosecution was certain they would get a big fat G.

  ___________________

  With each day more heart-breaking than the last, I had to
limit my visits with Aaron to once every three days. I simply couldn’t afford the gas or parking. And time was running out. I had to work with Rachel on the case.

  By Thanksgiving, I received the first of my medical bills since the insurance ran out. There was no way I could pay it. Even if I liquidated everything, sold the car, the house, there was barely enough for another month. At current market value, the profit margin looked anemic. We had taken a home equity loan and spent the money on that stupid home theater system I’d always wanted, and the swimming pool. Now, the water company and SDG&E were threatening to shut off service.

  With a heavy heart, I put the house on the market—Jenn’s beautiful dream house which she had made our home. I nearly wept when I signed the listing agreement with my agent.

  For days on end, I racked my brain, trying to work up theories on who the killer might be, and why he’d chosen my family. But I always came up empty.

  All the while, I kept Dave and the Bible study group at arm’s length. The day after they’d kindly offered to pray for Aaron, I got arrested. My one little venture into religion had left a bitter aftertaste. Despite my appreciation for all they had done, I would never let my guard down like that again. At this point, I simply couldn’t deal with a bunch of religious people.

  A month later, however, out of a job, money, and hope, I had come to the end of my rope, the end of myself. On Thanksgiving day, a knock came at the door. It was Dave.

  "Hope I’m not bothering you."

  I invited him in, offered him a drink. We sat and bantered at the breakfast nook table.

  "How’s Aaron doing?" Dave asked.

  I shook my head and studied the days-old crumbs on the table. "He’s still in the primary stage of his coma. The doctor says his GCS is 3." The Glasgow Coma Score consists of three components—eye, verbal and motor response, each rated from 1 to 5, five being the best. Aaron was basically non-responsive. With a GCS of 3, he was categorized as severely disabled—dependent on daily support.