The Advocate's Homicides Read online

  "I read that a couple of days ago. Jeannine was doing fine. The recommendation was to return the kids."

  "There's a supplemental report this morning. It appears your client started using again."

  "Mr. Clark," a woman screamed as she stomped down the hallway toward Sabre and Bob.

  "And there she is—my lovely, effervescent, sardonic, delusional, narcissistic mother of the year," Bob said before the loud woman reached his side. When she was in earshot, he said, "Good morning, Ms. Copley. Are you looking for me?"

  "That social worker is trying to keep my kids from me. I want them back. Today."

  "Now, Ms. Copley, you know I'm going to do everything I can for you. We'll march right in there and set this for trial," he said in a tone similar to hers. "Don't you worry; you'll get your day in court."

  "I don’t want a trial. I want the kids now. She told me they'd be returned today."

  "It seems we have a bit of a snag, but as soon as we can get our hands on those drug test results and show you are clean, we'll get those kids home for you."

  "They wouldn't test my pee. They said it wasn't mine," Jeannine yelled.

  Bob moved his hands in a downward motion gesturing that she speak a little more quietly.

  She lowered her voice. "They said it couldn't be mine because it was too cold. But it was."

  Bob cocked his head to one side, looked into her dilated eyes, and listened to every word she said as if he believed her. Sabre chuckled. He was so good with his clients and he would fight for them as if he believed them, but he seldom ever bought what they tried selling him.

  Bob put his arm around his client's shoulder and led her down the hallway far enough so no one else could hear them.

  "So why was the urine cold?"

  "Because I brought it from home."

  "Why?"

  "I have trouble peeing in their stupid little cups, so I did it ahead of time."

  "I'll make an argument to the court for your kids to go home today. Probably not the one you just gave me, however. We'll save that one for trial. I don't expect the judge will send your children home today, so you need to be ready for that when we go in there. For now, you need to keep calm. Getting out of control isn't going to help your case, especially in front of the judge. Understand?"

  "Yeah, but I get so tired of her butting into our lives."

  "I know, but you have to trust me." He smiled at her. "I know you're having some problems today. I can see it in your eyes."

  She started to object, but Bob raised his hand to stop her. "You must let me do all the talking in there. Any outburst in court will go against you."

  The bailiff, Michael McCormick, stepped into the hallway and called for the Copley case.

  "That's a trial set," Bob said to McCormick.

  "Okay, let's just have the attorneys."

  Sabre, Bob, and Mike Powers, the attorney for Shanisha's father, all entered the courtroom, took their seats at the table, and waited for the court clerk to find a trial date. When all three attorneys finally agreed on the date, the clerk summoned the judge. Bob stepped outside and came back with his client. The court clerk called the case.

  The county counsel sitting at the far left of the table said, "Deputy County Counsel Dave Casey on behalf of the Department of Social Services."

  Sabre stood. "Sabre Brown for the minors, Tray and Shanisha Copley, who are not present in court."

  Mike Powers, a tall, heavy-set man with curly, salt-and-pepper hair stood up next. "Michael Powers appearing for Shanisha's father, James Darden, who is not present in court."

  "Robert Clark, for the mother who is present," Bob said as he rose to his feet. "This is a request for a trial set, Your Honor."

  Judge Hekman, a gray-haired woman in her late sixties, stared at Bob and then asked the clerk for the date.

  "I'm joining in that request on behalf of the father," Mr. Powers said.

  Bob remained standing.

  "Is there something else, Mr. Clark?" the judge asked.

  "There is some concern about the drug testing, Your Honor."

  "I know I'm concerned about it, Mr. Clark," Judge Hekman said.

  Bob ignored her sarcasm, and continued, "My client is asking that the children be returned to her pending the trial. She has been involved in all her programs and her recent unsupervised visits went very well."

  “She only had unsupervised visitations under the condition that she test clean—which she is not, Counselor. I’m amending my previous order. There will be no unsupervised visits until the trial. We’ll revisit the issue then. You know I'm not going to give her unsupervised visits if she tests dirty," the judge said. “Please explain that to your client.”

  "What?" Jeannine blurted as she rose to her feet. "That's insane!"

  Bob took her arm and tried to ease her back into her seat. The bailiff stepped forward, taking a stance between the mother and the judge. Jeannine yanked her arm away from her attorney.

  "You stupid…." Her arms started flailing as she moved toward the judge.

  "Sit down," the bailiff shouted, but she pushed him. McCormick dodged to his right, getting only a light blow to his shoulder. He grabbed her by the arm, swung her around, and cuffed her. Three more deputy sheriffs poured into the courtroom and escorted her out.

  Bob turned to Sabre. "That went well," he said.

  Chapter 4

  Sabre entered the juvenile court attorneys’ lounge, which was once a storage closet. At the end of the room, opposite the door, stood a large, wooden structure. It had fifty cubbyholes, each of which was approximately ten inches wide, fifteen inches deep, and eight inches high, just large enough to hold file folders or reports. Every cubbyhole was marked with the panel attorney's name and served as their mailbox. On the right side adjacent to the mailboxes were two small padded chairs with an end table between them. The table had two wire baskets. One held the new detention reports in it; the other contained social studies and review reports from the Department of Social Services.

  A few minutes later, Bob walked in. "Good morning, Sobs."

  "Hey. Are you on detentions today?"

  "Yes, are you?"

  "No. The public defender has the minors, and I saw Richard Arroyo outside and he said he was on, so it's just you and the silverback."

  "That’s an interesting nickname.”

  "He probably got it from you. You're the one who comes up with most of the nicknames around here."

  “Not this one. Arroyo got it from that little clerk upstairs in records who had the hots for him—something to do with his animal magnetism.”

  Sabre chuckled. “This place is so ‘middle school.’”

  Bob picked up the blue detention petitions and shuffled through them. "There are four new filings this morning. That's the most we've had since the funding cutbacks started."

  "I know. The State cut funding at Child Protective Services, leaving the department short of social workers. Then the government claims child abuse is down because there're no petitions filed, when in actuality there is no one there to file the petitions. The ones who are there are so overworked it's ridiculous."

  "Uh, huh," Bob said, and continued through his petitions. "A tox baby case. Too routine.” He placed the petition at the bottom of his stack and read the next one. "Molest of a four-year-old. Disgusting!" Bob shuffled that one to the bottom. "Aha! Something a little more interesting."

  "What is it?" Sabre asked, trying to read the petition over his shoulder.

  "The mother is accused of negligence for taking her six-year-old son to work with her."

  "What? That's ridiculous. What is she? A drug dealer or something?" She reached for the blue paper in his hand. "Let me see that."

  "Better.” Bob chuckled as he handed her the petition. “She's a hooker."

  Sabre read the attached report. "It says she works at a brothel."

  "There's a brothel here in San Diego? How do I not know about that?"

  Sabre smacked him li
ghtly on the arm. "You dork." Then she went on reading. "And the other women kept him busy while she was with a client."

  "Lucky six-year-old," Bob muttered.

  "They let him play video games and would read to him sometimes."

  "Can you imagine how they'll keep him occupied when he's a teenager?" He reached for the report Sabre was reading. "And where is this brothel, anyway?"

  "It was in East County, not that far from where you live, but it's been shut down. Apparently, four working women lived in the house."

  "I want the mom on this case. I’ll bet I could win it."

  An announcement came over the loudspeaker. "Attorney Sabre Brown, please come to Department Three."

  "Department Three? That's Judge Trapnell's courtroom. I don't have a delinquency case this morning."

  "Or maybe you do. A rerun perhaps?"

  "It's possible." She gathered up her files. "Have fun with your hooker mom. I'll see you later."

  When Sabre walked into Department Three, Judge Trapnell was on the bench, the clerk and the bailiff sat at their desks, the Deputy DA was in her seat, and panel attorney Chris Firmstone was standing behind the counsel table. Everyone stopped talking when she walked in, giving her an uncomfortable feeling.

  "Ms. Brown, thanks for coming," Judge Trapnell said.

  "No problem. What can I do for you?"

  "I understand you represent Tray Copley in the dependency matter. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, he's a good kid. Has something happened to him?"

  "A petition was just filed on him. Mr. Firmstone was appointed to represent him, but when Mr. Firmstone went to see the minor, Tray wouldn't talk to him. I can't imagine some kid not relating to 'curly-haired, surfer-boy' Firmstone, can you?" In typical Judge Trapnell fashion, he didn't wait for an answer. "When Tray came into court, he said he wanted his 'old' attorney. His words, not mine. That would be you, Ms. Brown. He says he'll only talk to you."

  "I'll gladly speak with him. Where is he?"

  "He's in the hall. Can you go see him now so we can resolve this matter?"

  "I have a couple of cases in Department Four. Let me tell them I'll be a little late and I'll go see Tray."

  The bailiff stood up, and said, "I'll tell McCormick in Department Four."

  Sabre couldn't imagine what Tray might’ve been charged with. He was such a sweet kid, a little troubled from his past but very well behaved.

  "Thanks," she said to the bailiff. Then she turned back to the judge, and asked, "What are the charges?"

  "He's charged with PC 187."

  "Murder?" Sabre gasped. Something is wrong here. She took a deep breath.

  The judge said, "Mr. Firmstone has the petition and the reports. You two can sort out who's going to represent him and report back to me. Sometime before noon, please."

  "I'll go see him right now, Your Honor."

  Chapter 5

  Sabre walked through the tunnel that led from the courthouse to juvenile hall. The tunnel had been built so the delinquents didn't have to go outside in order to get to court. It cut down on the escape attempts and made life easier for the deputy sheriffs and the probation officers. Sabre hated that walk. The tunnel was gloomy and depressing and reminded her of something that might’ve been used to move prisoners on a chain gang. It was silly when she thought about it logically because there wasn't anything unusual about the hallway. It was just a lot of concrete, but it gave her that feeling nevertheless.

  While Sabre waited outside the interview room, she read through the report. What she read didn't seem real to her. This was not the Tray she knew. There had never been any sign of violent behavior from him, but it wasn't the first time she was surprised by a client's reaction to a terrifying situation. Tray was in C Block where the more violent offenders were housed. That bothered Sabre because he was so small and so vulnerable. She would see what she could do about that.

  Tray, accompanied by a probation officer, rounded the corner and walked toward her, Tray's face etched in desperation. He must be so scared. A glimmer of hope seemed to appear on his sweet face when he spotted Sabre, followed soon afterwards by that same desperate look.

  "Hello, Tray," Sabre said.

  "Hello." His voice was weak.

  "Are you his attorney?" the officer asked.

  "Yes."

  "I'll put him in the interview room so you can speak to him," the PO said, as he led Tray to a small room with two chairs and a small table. He opened the door, led Tray inside, and then held the door open for Sabre. "Would you like me to stay with you?" It seemed to be a service they offered whenever she saw a client in C Block, and on occasion Sabre had allowed the PO to stay right outside the door.

  "No, thank you. I'll be fine."

  "Suit yourself." He nodded toward a young man standing behind a podium. "Tell that guy at the desk when you're ready and someone will come get him."

  Tray’s height and his small frame suddenly concerned Sabre. How would he survive with boys twice his size? And he’s not streetwise like the gang members are. Tray had seen way more than he should have for a child his age, but his experience was different from most street kids. He didn’t know how to defend himself.

  "I'm so sorry you are in here. Are you okay?"

  He shrugged and his eyes glistened, but no tears fell.

  "I just got the paperwork from the court. Do you understand what you've been charged with?"

  "The cops said I killed Glen." He wrinkled his face in disgust when he said his name.

  "Can you tell me what happened?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know."

  "You don't know if you want to tell me, or you don't know what happened?"

  "I don't know what they're talking about. I didn't kill anybody. That's stupid."

  "Did the cops question you?"

  "Some old cop asked me a bunch of questions, but I didn't have any of the answers 'cause I don't know nothin' about that creep."

  "When was the last time you saw Irving?" Sabre asked.

  "When the social worker took us away."

  "From your mom?"

  "Yes. I never saw him after that."

  "It says in the police report that you were seen with Glen Irving the day he disappeared."

  "That's what that old cop kept saying. But I never saw him."

  "Did you ever talk to him after you left your mom's?"

  "No," he said sternly.

  "Have you had any contact with him of any kind? On the Internet? Anything?"

  "No. That's sick." His whole body shuddered, and his mouth turned down in disgust. "Why would they think I was with him?"

  "I don't know, but it says that they have an eyewitness."

  "I wouldn't be with that creep. He's disgusting. I hate him."

  "I know, and I'll try to find out what's going on."

  "Can I go home?"

  "We'll go to court this morning and your attorney will ask the judge to release you, but to be honest, I don't think he will. These are really serious charges and they have some reason to believe it was you. I know your attorney will do everything he can to help you."

  "But you are my attorney."

  "I'm your attorney on the dependency case, but this is a whole different kind of case. Mr. Firmstone was assigned to represent you and he's a really good attorney."

  "He came in to see me, but I want you to do it." He paused. His eyes were wet and his voice trembled as he said, "Please. I'm scared."

  "I know you are. Juvenile hall is a scary place to be. I'll do everything I can to get you out whether I represent you or not."

  "Please," Tray begged.

  "I'll talk to Mr. Firmstone and we'll tell the judge that you want me to represent you, but he's more experienced at this kind of case than I am."

  Tray seemed to relax a little with that news. The tension lifted from his face. "Okay."

  Sabre looked at his sweet face and couldn’t imagine he had committed this heinous crime.

  "Tray, remember last tim
e we talked, you said something to me about 'doing something really bad'. Do you remember that?"

  "Yes, but….” He stopped talking.

  "Does that have anything to do with this?"

  "No."

  "You're sure? Because it's like I told you before, I can't tell anyone. But if you've done something wrong, I need to know, so I can figure out how to help you."

  "It's nothing like that."

  Chapter 6

  Attorney Firmstone and Sabre sat outside of Department Three waiting for Tray's case to be called.

  "I just don't believe Tray murdered someone," Sabre said.

  "The petition says Irving died from a blow to the head. Could it have been self-defense or an accident?"

  "If Tray did kill Irving, which I’m sure he didn’t, then it would have to be self-defense." She shook her head. "Why would he even be with this guy? He can hardly stand to say his name."

  Chris raised his eyebrow.

  "I know," Sabre said. 'That doesn't bode well for his defense. It just shows that Tray hates him." Sabre sighed.

  "I take it he wasn't kidnapped or anything?"

  "No. He's never been reported missing. His foster parents would've surely let me know if he’d been missing." She looked at the report. "Irving's been dead, what...a week?"

  "He was seen on Saturday, if we can believe the witness, so nine days at the most."

  Sabre knew the answer, but she still asked, "There's no chance that Tray will be able to go back to his foster home today, is there?"

  "No." Chris glanced around the room. "Are his foster parents here?"

  "They are." Sabre raised her chin as if pointing at a couple sitting in the front row of seats about fifteen feet away. "They're over there—the mixed-race couple in the front. I spoke to them briefly. They don't believe he did anything either, and they're willing to take him home."

  "That says a lot. They must really like this kid."

  "He's a good kid."

  "I looked for his parents," Chris said, "but they weren't checked in and they didn't answer when I called their names. What's their story?"

  "Mom is a druggie and she just relapsed. He hasn't seen his dad in about three years. The department hasn't located him either, so he's probably not in prison, at least not in California. I'm sure he won't be showing up any time soon."