I invited Sharon and her husband to the housewarming on Saturday and went back down to the garage. Just in case anyone changed his mind about releasing my car, I took it out of the lab garage and reparked it in the lot under the civic center mall.
The Conklin hearing was scheduled for two, giving me maybe an hour and a half to kill. I took the stairs up to the street level and caught a Dash bus to Chinatown, walked around the neighborhood.
I first met Mike Flint in Chinatown.
Ever since the night before, when I watched Roddy O’Leary make his explosive bounce across the pavement, it worried me that thoughts of death had taken up very assertive residence at the front of my mind. I couldn’t shake an unfamiliar sense of melancholy, a distressing preoccupation.
I’m sure that feeling of doom was why I ended up where my story with Mike had begun, because of all that I hold precious, Mike is in the top two. I stood for a while next to a six-foot plaster Buddha on Hill Street, watched the tourists and the locals go about their shopping, moving at two speeds: tourist stroll versus Chinese housewife sprint. I just stood still like the plaster Buddha, thinking things over. When I decided it was time to walk on, I felt much better.
The Dash dropped me right in front of the courthouse twenty minutes before the scheduled two o’clock hearing.
The hall outside the appointed courtroom was dotted by clusters of media teams and their captives; it was like homecoming. Mrs. Rhodes and Etta had their heads together with Ralph Faust. LaShonda and James Shabazz huddled with Jack Riley’s news team. Beth Johnson and a tall young man I guessed was Wyatt, Jr. stood with a third video crew. Leroy Burgess had two cameramen all to himself.
I ducked at least a dozen microphones that were thrust into my face, and made it, frazzled but intact, into the courtroom.
Mike was there, in suit and tie, sitting in the back row with Hector. When they saw me, they did some negotiating with their neighbors to clear a seat for me between them.
I slid my hand under Mike’s elbow. “Are you allowed to be here?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Boy, and I thought I was having a bad day.”
He squeezed my hand. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s two of us.”
The defense entered the court, Jennifer Miller in the same suit she had been wearing earlier that morning, a bit wrinkled in the lap, makeup faded, hair in need of a comb. I glanced up at Hector. “Did you at least give her enough time to go to the bathroom before she had to be here?”
All innocence, he said, “Guess I forgot.”
The district attorney came in and took a seat behind the defense table. After him came the media crowd from the hall, stumbling around the news pool’s camera emplacement in the middle of the aisle to get to the last available seats. I did not see Leroy Burgess come into the room.
Finally, Charles Conklin was led in by the bailiff.
Though I had seen his old booking pictures many times, I would never have recognized him on the street. Conklin was prison-yard buff, huge arms and shoulders, and tiny, undeveloped legs. He seemed uncomfortable in his new clothes. The sport coat fit tight, his slacks were too big in the waist and too long. His dress shirt was buttoned up to the neck, but someone had forgotten to get him a tie.
I thought that Conklin had a very strong sense of his star status. He waved to the crowd, preened for Jennifer, gave Marovich a complicated two-handed handshake.
The judge, a distinguished-looking senior, came in from chambers carrying a thick notebook identical to the one in front of Jennifer. After the bailiff announced the opening of the session, the judge asked Jennifer to state her case.
“From the beginning,” she said in a sweet, cultured voice, reading from notes placed on a lectern, “the police investigators grossly manipulated the case against Charles Pinkerton Conklin. They threatened the children who witnessed the killing of Officer Johnson, forced them to identify my client. They withheld evidence from the defense. They made a mockery of the system of justice they swore to uphold.”
She went over the case witness by witness, reading into the record the new affidavit signed by Hanna, but saying only, “Your Honor, the second child witness also signed a revision of her original testimony.”
I looked around for LaShonda, saw her shake her head and whisper to her neighbor, James Shabazz. What Jennifer had said was true in its words, but not in its intent. And so she went, point by point through the case, skating the edge of truth.
With every point, Mike grew angrier. When his name was brought into the proceedings, Hector reached behind me to grip Mike’s shoulder. Mike set his jaw, gripped my hand so hard it throbbed.
The district attorney was called to give his expert analysis. I swear he was staring at me during his testimony describing a flawed investigation and a flawed prosecution. He laid the heaviest blame on the police, neglecting to mention that he had been part of the original prosecution team. Mea culpa for believing the police, was how I read him.
There was no opportunity for rebuttal. The police were not called. Mike was not asked to explain his procedures, or to answer the charges placed against him.
LaShonda, the surviving witness, wasn’t even mentioned by name.
No one said anything about the man who had been killed. I imagined Marovich explaining that lacuna, “The loss of a man’s life was not germane to the issues here.”
The testimony lasted barely an hour before Jennifer, in tones that were almost weepy, closed. “Your Honor, Charles Conklin is an innocent man. He was an innocent man fourteen years ago when he was sentenced to life in prison because of a deeply flawed trial. We ask the court at this time to grant our writ of habeas corpus and release this man from custody.”
Jennifer sat down and the judge took out his own set of notes. The entire hearing had been only a formality, because he obviously had his decision prepared in advance.
After scolding the police for their misbehavior, the judge faced Conklin.
Conklin was scared. He had sweated through his new coat. He shook, he dabbed at his eyes with a large handkerchief. He did not face the judge, did not look over at Jennifer.
“Mr. Conklin,” the judge said, “on behalf of the state of California, I apologize to you for the gross injustice that has been done. No legal cause exists for your continued imprisonment. Your writ of habeas corpus is granted. The defendant is ordered released directly from this courtroom. You are a free man.”
I got up with Mike and slipped out the back door. Jack Riley ran out after us, dragging a cameraman with him.
“Detective Flint, will you give us a statement?”
“Damn right,” Mike said. I was afraid he was winding up to deliver a scorcher that might embarrass him later, but his statement was both brief and controlled.
“I stand by my original investigation. I absolutely believe that he’s guilty. All this hearing did was throw out the first verdict on a technicality, it didn’t declare Conklin to be innocent. Far from it. There is no statute of limitations on murder. The man should be retried. That is the proper procedure in a case of procedural error.”
Mike walked away toward the elevator as the courtroom began to spill into the hall, every significant player trailing a camera crew. As the din rose, Jack pulled me closer.
“Listen, Annie Oakley,” he said, “Lana wants to do a special about last night’s shooting. But not here. Meet me at the studio before five.”
“I’ll try.”
The D.A. walked by, distracted Jack. “Gotta go,” he said.
This time, I grabbed him. “Innocent man freed is a tempting story, but don’t get suckered into it. Go over and talk to LaShonda about the contents of her affidavit. She’ll help you see what’s screwy.”
From Jack’s reaction, I must have been babbling. “Maggie, you had your say last Friday. This is Monday. Conklin is Monday’s story.”