CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was a loud noise, like an explosion. Louis sat straight up in his bed, wondering if he had heard it in a dream. His neck was covered in sweat. He shook it off, figuring he must have had a nightmare, and slid back down, his head hitting the damp pillow. Then, he heard it again. Then the alarm went off. Louis reached into the nightstand drawer and got his gun. This time, instead of feeling strange and dangerous in his hand, it gave him comfort. He felt safer. The phone rang, and he whipped the gun in the direction of the ringing, as if it were an intruder and not one of the most common household instruments, doing what it was supposed to do.

  He answered.

  “This is Atlas Security. Do you have an emergency?”

  “Yes, I think there’s someone in my house.”

  “We’re sending the police right away, sir. May we have the code, please?”

  “The what?”

  “The code.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s back street boys.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sit tight, the police are on their way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Every shadow in the house became an intruder as time slowed and every tick of the clock in the kitchen echoed loudly and slowly through the house. Every creak of settling foundation haunted struck at Louis’ very being, as he moved, from room to room, with his gun in his outstretched hand like a police officer on a raid.

  He quickly checked the living room, kitchen, and went on to the two vacant bedrooms, frantically flipping open closet doors and peering under the beds. Nothing. Turning to the garage door, he noticed it had not been bolted. Had he forgotten to lock it? Placing his hand on the brass knob, he turned it slowly, and opened it, the hinges creaking as the door swung into the darkness. He heard something inside.

  “Who’s there?”

  No answer. Just some shuffling. Bigger than a rat.

  “The police are on their way. You’d better get out of here, now!”

  Still nothing. Then, out of nowhere, Louis saw something charging him. He was knocked over by a tall stack of boxes. The top box spilled out its contents, raining an assortment of plastic and metal items on his head. He shot the gun, emptying the cylinder, and kept shooting as the gun just clicked.

  Louis struggled to get back on his feet, his head aching, his gun still in his hand, hanging at his side. The corridor was illuminated with a blinding light. He turned to face it.

  “Police! Drop the gun, now!”

  “I…I’m the owner of this house. I called you.”

  “Drop the gun!”

  Louis dropped the gun to the floor and felt the impact of a linebacker on a college football field as the police officer rammed into his body, pinning him down against the rubble on the floor. He felt the full weight of the officer’s body against his stomach and could now see there were several speeding by him and others standing over him. He felt himself being flipped over and felt the now familiar bite of metal of the handcuffs sinking into the skin above his wrists.

  “I said, I’m the owner. I called you!”

  He heard the officers call out from the garage.

  “There’s a victim here. He’s dead.”

  “Dead? Who’s dead?”

  The officers lifted Louis to his feet and pushed him outside the corridor. They sat him down in the kitchen and put bags on his hands. Louis looked past them into the corridor, where there was a flurry of activity going on. He shook his head back and forth.

  “I shot someone?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “He’s dead? You don’t understand. I called you. My alarm went off and…”

  The young officer who had handcuffed him spoke.

  “Please, sir. The detectives are on their way. They’ll take your statement.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not at the moment. The detectives will be here shortly.”

  “I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “You’ll have a chance to do that, sir. Just wait for the detectives.”

  Louis, once again tormented by police intrusion in his own home, was now waiting to be interrogated by detectives. And, worse yet, there was an unknown dead man in his garage. Louis bowed his head and prayed. Not for his life, not for his freedom. For forgiveness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Brent sat across from Louis on the other side of the thick glass of the holding cell of the courtroom early before his arraignment. He hung his head in shame.

  “They say I killed Councilman Greene. I deserve whatever’s coming to me.”

  “Now don’t talk like that, Louis. What was Greene doing in your garage anyway?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. Why on earth would he be snooping around in my garage?”

  “I’ve got the preliminary report here from the D.A. They’re charging you with murder.”

  Louis’ eyes widened.

  “Murder?’

  He dropped his face into his hands.

  “This is a nightmare.”

  “And they won’t be talked out of it. I spoke to the Deputy D.A. but her job is just arraignments. I’ll meet with her boss later today.”

  “Okay. In the meantime, what happens?”

  “I try to get you released on your own recognizance. If that doesn’t work, we’ll ask for bail.”

  “How am I going to get bail money with my house in foreclosure and all those fines?”

  “We’ll ask the people in your parish. The Lord works in mysterious ways, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “They’re releasing the crime scene to Jack today. If there’s anything there that will tell us what Greene was doing there, Jack will find it.”

  ***

  Stepping into the Riverside County courthouse was like taking a step back in time. The white, turn-of-the century building looked like a mini Vittorio Emanuele Palace, with its double ionic columns and cornerstone statues, and its marble interior. Brent took a seat in a row of chairs inside the well, reserved for attorneys only. Judge Joshua Ferguson took the bench with the usual pomp and circumstance. Ferguson was an old-timer in the county. Everyone wondered when he was going to retire. Nobody knew judges could serve on the bench as long as he did and not get forced off. But he was elected by the people, he could hear everything that was going on in court without a hearing aid, and the old guy still had a fiery spirit. He was dressed in his black robe, but Brent had the impression there had to be a cowboy hat hanging up in his chambers. He called out the attorney’s cases first.

  “The people of the state of California versus Louis LeRoy. Counsel, please state your appearances.”

  “Lana Deloitte for the people, Your Honor.”

  Louis stood up among the custodies in the jury box. He was wearing jail blues.

  “Brent Marks appearing with the defendant, Louis LeRoy, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you Mr. Marks. Do you have a copy of the information?”

  “I do, Your Honor, and we waive further reading of rights and charges.”

  “Very well then. To the charge of murder as alleged in the information, how does your client plead?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Your client’s plea is entered, Mr. Marks. Now, I’ll set a hearing on bail.”

  “May I be heard now on the subject of my client’s release?”

  Deloitte was taken aback by this. She knew her boss would like to weigh in on the bail hearing.

  “Your Honor, the people object.”

  “Your Honor, my client has a right to a speedy trial, and that includes a bail hearing. He is a long-time resident of the city of Riverside and the pastor of the Southern Baptist Church on Kings Street, which means he’s also not a flight risk, Your Honor, and he doesn’t have a prior criminal record. He’s as clean as a whistle.”

  “Except for this matter.”

  “For which he is innocent unless and until proven otherwise. I request the court release Reverend LeRoy on his own recognizance.”

  The judge flipped through the file while Deloitte held her demure temper tantrum.

  “I’m going to grant your motion, Mr. Marks, provided the defendant signs conditions of release that restrict his movement to the county of Riverside and turns in his passport to the Court Clerk.”

  “But, Your Honor.”

  “I’ve made my ruling, Ms. Deloitte. You’ll just have to explain it to Mr. Beasley. Is time waived for preliminary hearing?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Alright, then. I’m setting a preliminary hearing for June second at eight-thirty ”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Brent was sincere in his gratitude to the judge. Deloitte was less enthusiastic but had to thank him anyway. Whether you were given a pardon or a good, old fashioned butt-kicking, you thanked the judge for it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Brent barged in to the offices of District Attorney Craig Beasley without an appointment. The receptionist, a demure looking young brunette, was clipping newspaper articles to show off the glory of the prosecutor and his continual string of victories.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Attorney Brent Marks to see Mr. Beasley.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Just tell him I’m here.”

  “Sir, do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t. Just tell him it’s about the LeRoy murder case. I’ll wait.”

  Brent took a seat in one of the metal chairs against the receptionist’s protests. He glanced at his watch.

  “Miss, please tell him I’m pressed for time. It’ll only take a minute.”

  She nodded in frustration and picked up her intercom phone. Five minutes later, a portly man with thinning grey hair wearing a powder blue suit emerged.

  “Mr. Marks, I’ve heard a lot about you. Come in.”

  They shook hands and Beasley ushered Brent into his office. Beasley motioned toward one of the plush leather guest chairs and sank down in his judge’s chair behind an impressive, massive dark wooden desk. Brent glanced at the certificates and framed pictures bragging photo opps with various state and federal politicians that littered the wall.

  “So, are we going to have a trial?”

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about. We know nothing’s going to happen in these early stages, that the case will be propelled forward. But I think you’ve been a little hasty in your charging decision.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the man shot an intruder in his own home.”

  “It was his garage.”

  “After his alarm went off and he feared for his life.”

  “So you will contend.”

  “And that makes a murder charge? Why not negligent homicide or manslaughter?”

  “I’m sticking with the charge, Brent. And I’ve got an offer for you.”

  “What’s the offer?”

  “Life with a possibility of parole.”

  “My client’s in his 70’s. He’ll die in prison.”

  “He should have thought about that before he bought that firearm.”

  ***

  Brent met Louis at the county jail after he was processed and released. Together, they went back to Louis’ house, where Jack was still in the process of his investigation.

  “I just met the D.A.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s made an offer.”

  “Should I dare ask what it is?”

  “Life with possibility of parole. You’d be out in sixteen years.”

  Jack met them at the door.

  “Welcome home, Reverend.”

  Louis looked around at the old house. Despite all that had happened here, it still was the place where he and Maggie had made into a home and lived there happily for so many years.

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  The three of them stepped inside and sat at the kitchen table, which Jack had made into a command center. Polaroid photos were scattered all over the surface of it. Sitting on the floor in the kitchen were items that he had tagged and placed into plastic bags as evidence, among them two red, 20 gallon gas cans.

  “One thing I don’t understand, Mr. Marks.”

  “What’s that?’

  “Well, don’t you have to have intent to kill to be charged with murder?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Well, I didn’t intend to kill anyone.”

  “Louis, when you have a gun in your hand and you shoot it, it’s pretty sure someone is going to get killed or severely injured. In the law, that substitutes for intent to kill.”

  “What about the fact he was in my house?”

  “He was in your garage. You don’t live in your garage. If you’d shot him in the house, that would be a different story. One thing I’ve learned in this business and that’s that anyone can be convicted of anything. It doesn’t matter if you’re guilty or not. And, in your case, you killed Mr. Greene. There’s not a lot to do to prove your guilt.”

  “I see. So, what’s my defense?”

  “I don’t know yet. Let’s see what Jack’s found out. Jack?”

  “The outside door to the garage shows signs of tampering. And I found these gas cans just inside the door, full of gasoline.”

  “I don’t have any gas cans in the garage.”

  “You’re sure these aren’t yours, Louis? You do have a lot of stuff in that garage.”

  Louis nodded.

  “I’m sure. They’re definitely not mine.”

  “I dusted them – no prints.”

  “What are you guys talking about?’

  “Self-defense.”

  “Self-defense?’

  “Those gas cans means Greene came here to kill you, Louis.”

  “To kill me?”

  “That’s right, Reverend. I went through your garage. It’s a tinderbox in there. And it’s right next to your bedroom. With that much gasoline, your garage would have exploded like a bomb and you would have burned right in your bed.”

  Louis shuddered thinking about it.

  “It’s a good defense, but it’s not going to be easy by any means.”

  “Besides the fact that nothing is easy, what do you mean specifically?”

  “What I mean is that they’re going to call witnesses to say there’s bad blood between you and Greene, that he hassled you about your garage sales, that he had the garage sale ordinance changed to make what you were doing ex-post facto illegal, and banged on your door to complain every chance he got.”

  “What about the fact that he was in my garage?”

  “He’s a nosy pest. That doesn’t mean he meant to do you any bodily harm.”

  “And the gas cans?’

  “Even if his prints were on them, the only overt act we can prove is he carried them in. There’s no gas splashed all over your garage. But that’s the good part. We don’t have to prove anything.”

  “No?”

  “No. All we have to do is point out reasonable doubt. If the jury has a reasonable doubt as to your guilt, they have to acquit you.”

  “So all you have to do is convince a white jury in Riverside that a black man who shot a white man did it in self-defense?”

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  Louis clasped his hands and looked up at the heavens.

  “Sounds like I’m screwed, fellas.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The preliminary hearing was more or less a joke, as it always is. The D.A. called the first police officer on the scene and Detective Cardozo, who testified that Louis was found on the scene with a gun in his hand, and that Councilman Greene, the victim, lay dead in the garage. They testified that the records showed the gun was purchased by Louis and belonged to him. Their forensics expert testified that Louis had powder burns consistent with someone who had recently shot a handgun and that the caliber and rifling of the bullets matched those shot from Louis’ gun. A slam dunk for the judge, who only had to make a ruling that there was sufficient evidence to believe a felony had been committed. Louis was held to answer for the crime, his OR release continued, and another arraignment was set for the felony information that the D.A. was sure to file. Despite the fact that Louis was not in jail, Brent still refused to waive his rights to a speedy trial. Brent would be ready for trial. He had to keep the pressure up on the D.A. The less prepared they were, the better for dredging up reasonable doubt.

  Thanks to Rebecca’s funding, Jack was into overtime on the case, interviewing all the witnesses, including Louis’ neighbors, his parishioners, and the head of code enforcement, Merkel himself. He popped in, without an appointment, and Merkel was so flustered, he called the city attorney in a panic, who joined him immediately.

  “Just what does Mr. Merkel have to do with your murder case, Mr. Ruder?”

  Jack flashed a snide look at Rosenberg.

  “Why don’t you let him tell me?”

  “This is ridiculous, David. Of course I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Did you have any business dealings with Robert Greene?”

  “Business dealings?”

  “Yes. Real estate transactions? Distressed properties. Ring a bell, Mr. Merkel?”

  “Can’t say that it does.”

  “What about the Del Rey Development Company?”

  Merkel swallowed hard. He blinked incessantly and changed his tone from indignant to defensive.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jack fanned out a stack of papers on his desk.

  “These look familiar? All properties the city acquired after levying heavy code enforcement fines? And all sold to the Del Rey Development Company. Remember now, Mr. Merkel?”

  Merkel didn’t answer. Jack threw another paper in front of him.

  “This is a document that proves that the Del Rey Development Company is managed by New Dodge Corporation, and guess what? New Dodge has a bank account right here in the United States. And the signer on that account? Robert Greene.”

 

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