“Oh, thank you,” Sanz said. “I am innocent.”
Bosch just nodded. I noticed that she spoke with a slight accent.
“I also need to tell you something up front,” I said. “I am not promising you anything. If you agree to take me on as your attorney, we will diligently investigate your case, and if we find a cause of action that we can take into court, then we will do that. But again, no promises. As you probably know, being innocent is not enough in court. In your situation, you must prove your innocence. In fact, at this point, you are guilty until proven innocent.”
She was nodding before I finished.
“I understand,” she said. “But I did not kill my husband.”
“Your ex-husband, you mean,” I corrected. “But let me finish. If you want me to represent you in this matter, I will need you to sign an engagement form that gives me your power of attorney and allows me to represent you in all criminal and civil matters that may arise from this case. That means if this criminal case happens to lead to a civil case, I am your attorney all the way on that. You understand?”
“Yes. I will sign.”
I opened the file I had placed on the table upon our arrival and removed the engagement letter and agreement.
“There is a fee schedule attached to this that you may want to look at before you sign,” I said.
“I don’t have money,” Sanz said.
“I understand. You don’t need money. I collect only if you collect. I get a portion for my good work in getting you money. But we don’t have to think about that. That is far off in never-never land at the moment. What is important now is seeing if we have a shot at getting you out of here.”
I slid the document across the table to her.
“Before you sign, one more thing,” I said. “The document is in English. Are you comfortable with that and with speaking English with us today?”
“Yes,” Lucinda said. “I was born here. I’ve been speaking English my whole life.”
“Okay, good. I just needed to check because I noticed a slight accent.”
“My parents came from Guadalajara. When I grew up, we spoke Spanish at home.”
I took out a pen and put it down on the document. Because one of her hands was manacled to the bar at the side of the table, I anchored the document with my hand so it wouldn’t slide when she signed it.
“Do you want to read it first?” I asked.
“No,” Sanz said. “I trust you. I know what you did for Jorge Ochoa.”
She signed the document and I slid it back across the table and into the file. She handed me the pen and I put it away.
“Thank you,” I said. “We now have an attorney-client relationship. This includes Mr. Bosch as my investigator. You can tell me anything right now and it will never be revealed outside of these four walls.”
“I understand,” Sanz said.
“And I also need to make you aware of what’s at stake here so that you can decide what the risks are and whether you want us to proceed.”
“I’m already in prison.”
“Yes, but you have a sentence that you are serving and will eventually be released from. If we move forward with a motion to reexamine your case in what is called a habeas petition, there is a risk involved. There can be three outcomes. One is that the petition is denied and you serve out your sentence. Another is that your conviction is vacated and you are set free. But there is also a third possibility: that a judge vacates your conviction but you are held to stand trial. And if that happens, you could be convicted by a jury and face a much harsher sentence — up to life without parole.”
“I don’t care. I am innocent.”
I paused for a moment to consider how quickly she had responded. No hesitation about the risks. She had said it without blinking or taking her eyes off mine. It reassured me that if this case eventually did land in a trial, Lucinda would be able to look at the jury — whether from the defense table or the witness stand — with the same indomitable stare.
“Okay,” I said. “I just want you to be aware of the risks of moving forward.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Okay, then, like I said, we have attorney-client privilege now. Anything you say remains confidential. So I need to start by asking: Is there anything you need to tell me and that I need to know about this case?”
“I did not kill him. That’s what you need to know.”
I held her eyes for a long moment before continuing. Again, she didn’t look away as liars often do. It was another good sign.
“Then, hopefully, there is something we can do for you,” I said. “I have a few questions and then Mr. Bosch will have more. We have about forty minutes left and I want to make the best of them. Is that okay, Lucinda?”
“Yes, okay. But people call me Cindi.”
“Cindi. Okay. Cindi, why don’t we start with you telling me how you came to hire Mr. Silver as your attorney back when you were arrested?”
Sanz had to think for a moment before responding.
“I didn’t have money for a lawyer,” she finally said.
“So he was appointed?” I asked.
“No, I had the public defender. But then Mr. Silver, he went to them and he volunteered. He said he would take my case.”
“But you said you had no money. I saw that you signed a document with credit card information.”
“He told me he could get the credit cards for me and I could pay that way.”
I nodded and knew that my early assessment of Silver as a weasel had been spot-on. Lucinda Sanz was in trouble from the start.
“Okay,” I said. “Now, looking over your sentence, you got midrange plus the gun enhancement and that totaled eleven years. With good behavior, you’d do about nine years max. So here you are, more than halfway through your sentence, and your letter to me indicates a desperation to get out. Is there something going on in this place? Are you in danger? Do we need to get you moved?”
“No, this place is good. Very close to my family. But my son, he needs me now.”
“Your son. That’s Eric, right? What’s going on with him?”
“He’s with my mother in the old neighborhood.”
“How old is Eric?”
“He’s going to be fourteen.”
“Where’s the old neighborhood?”
“Boyle Heights.”
East L.A. I knew that the White Fence gang was deeply entrenched in Boyle Heights and membership recruitment started as young as twelve years old. I turned and gave Bosch a slight nod. We both understood that Lucinda Sanz wanted to get out of prison to save her son from going down that path.
“You grew up in Boyle Heights?” I asked. “How did you end up in Palmdale?”
“Quartz Hill,” Sanz said. “When my husband got out of jail division, they put him there at Antelope Valley. So we moved.”
“Was he from Boyle Heights too?” Bosch asked.
“Yes,” Sanz said. “We grew up together.”
“Was he White Fence?” Bosch asked.
“No,” Sanz said. “But his brother and his father... yes.”
“What about when he started at the sheriff’s department?” Bosch asked. “Did he join any of the deputy gangs?”
Sanz was silent for a long moment. I wished Bosch had eased into that question with a little more finesse.
“He had friends,” she said. “He told me they had cliques, you know.”
“Did Roberto join a clique?” Bosch asked.
“Not when we were married,” Sanz said. “I don’t know what happened after. But he changed.”
“How long before his death did you divorce?” I asked.