The Juke (Changes Book 2) Page 6

  “Dad, I can help you. I can work. I can cut grass…”

  “No, everything is fine, son. Run along, Mark. It’ll be okay.”

  “But Dad…”

  “Not now, Mark!”

  Mark turned and left the room.

  Frank squeezed his hands together and prayed with all his emotional strength. He prayed for an end to his struggle. For an end to his suffering. For an end to his trauma. He prayed that the onrushing change would stop in its tracks even though it was picking up speed.

  PART II: THE FALL

  VII

  The two men sat closely together, speaking in low tones. The flags. The wooden barrier railings. The high seat and the judge’s black chair. The jury box. It had the look of every courtroom he had seen on television. Is there a rulebook somewhere for courtroom construction? Frank wondered. Some master plan for the room where guilt and innocence are decided?

  Frank had never imagined his entire life would be judged in just two hours. He sat there hunched over, holding his stomach, which felt like it was twisting inside him. Eyes down, nervously rocking. Any time now…any time.

  Two hours. That was all it had taken.

  Opening arguments. Witness testimony. Motions to dismiss. All so very swiftly managed. Rote even, as if everybody had done this a hundred times, and they were just going through the motions. Performing in the same roles they had acted for years. This was a play, and all the actors performed it every day, with one guest performer after another. Today it was Frank, and tomorrow it would be someone else. A theater of life changes and heartbreak. Théâtre de la ruine.

  His life now hung in the balance. All that he had worked for. All that he had accomplished. Everything he would be in the future, now just a matter of decisions and forms. It didn’t matter what he thought. At this point, it didn’t matter what he did. Determinations would be made about his life, and they would be made by others. Others who only knew him by what they read and the testimony given. Here, in those two hours.

  He could walk out of this room a free man, or he could leave it in handcuffs, based solely on what a jury found after two hours of testimony. They knew him enough to judge him, and that’s all that mattered, it seemed. They didn’t know who he was; they knew what other people portrayed him to be. Good? Bad? Innocent? Guilty? Each had made their case.

  It hadn’t been like he had expected. He was expecting Perry Mason moments. Shouts of “I object!” and witnesses exposed on the stand, acknowledging their deceit. ”Okay, I lied…Mr. Joseph is innocent!” and sharp intakes of breath as the judge dismissed the case.

  None of that had happened. No game-changing revelations. No exculpatory evidence. No witness breakdowns.

  Instead, it was a mostly rehearsed performance. The court followed a script. The judge read long, meaning-filled passages, giving points of law and directions to the parties involved. Witnesses, the jury, and Frank all heard more about legal proceedings than they could ever care to know or could even remember. Opening statements were flatly given. No shouting or theatrics…each side simply stating what they wanted the jury to believe. Witnesses related what was given in sworn statements, carefully rehearsed so as not to contradict themselves.

  And he learned everybody’s name. People he had been with for just minutes turned into real people with full lives. Just like his. The bouncer who had held him down was named James “Jimmy” Huber, and he was the evening security supervisor at the I-Ball. The pretty waitress who served them beers was Lisa Everson, a student at Sacramento State University, studying education. Red was Randall Karrick. He lived in Alameda, but that night was in Sacramento visiting his friends Hector Garcia and Tommy Laughridge.

  The I-Ball witnesses had all refused to pick sides, and instead simply identified the people they saw. “I didn’t see who started it” and “I came in after the fight was almost over.”

  “They are probably fearful of being sued,” Matthews had told him. “It’s smart business on their part to stay out of it.” So, then, it had become Frank’s word against everybody else, and he knew that wouldn’t end well for him.

  All of them wore their best clothes. Red’s hair was cropped short, devoid of its curls. He looked different in a suit—almost looked like someone Frank might hire in another situation. Something about a dark suit, white shirt, and good tie…they could make anybody look respectable. Frank knew this himself, so he wore his navy Hugo Boss two-button and Versace tie. His Italian shoes cost more than Red’s entire outfit.

  Randall Karrick’s testimony was lucid, and that surprised Frank. His deep, growling voice gave him a presence on the stand.

  “What happened when Mr. Santos exited the restroom?” the DA had asked.

  “My friend Hector was bumped from behind. I don’t know who did it. We all stood up, just to figure out what had happened. We spoke to Mr. Santos for a minute. Out of nowhere, I saw Mr. Joseph. He was standing in front of me.”

  “Did Mr. Joseph strike you when he arrived?”

  “No.”

  “When did he strike you?”

  “At one point, I remember him swinging at me. I don’t know what made him start, but I remember being hit in the face.”

  Matthews had tried to crack him on cross.

  “Mr. Karrick, you swung first at Mr. Joseph, didn’t you?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “Why would a smaller man attack a much larger man?”

  “I don’t know, but my guess is he knows how to fight, based on my face afterwards.”

  That had earned a chuckle from those in attendance. His otherwise unremarkable testimony was brief.

  Frank had been wounded to the soul when his best friend took the stand. He had expected Red and his friends to testify against him. But Tony? Why would he? What was his motivation? Tony never once looked at him. He sat erect, eyes only making contact with the attorneys and the jury. His best friend was the best witness for the prosecution. His best friend became Brutus, driving a sword into his friend’s innards. For what? What would Tony possibly get out of this?

  The district attorney had gotten right to the point very early in his questioning. “How did the physical altercation begin, Mr. Santos?”

  Frank could only stare dumbfounded as his best friend, whom he had known for decades, said, “Things were settling down. I had been talking to them, and things seemed to calm a bit. Then Mr. Joseph arrived and threw a punch at Mr. Karrick. Then the fight began.” He could feel the weight of the jury’s eyes on him. The rest of his testimony painted a portrait consistent with that of Red and his friends.

  After his testimony, Tony left the stand and stared blankly forward as he walked out of the courtroom. It wasn’t the last time Frank would see his best friend, but it was the last time he would consider him in that way.

  When Frank himself took the stand, he did all he could to remember every detail of the night. Matthews felt it was important to show recall. He recounted the colors of shirts, hair, brands of beer. He blushed when he recounted his eye contact with Ms. Everson’s cleavage. He reported the initial swing of fists and how he had just missed being hit by several punches.

  On cross-examination, he had held up well, keeping calm despite the accusations. He had stayed even-tempered and had not risen to the response-bait the prosecutor threw his way. He stuck to his own script and held firm to his view of events. He was clear, concise, and made confident eye contact. Years of leadership gave him a professional presence.

  He could feel his stomach turn, though, when the prosecutor produced poster-board images of their mug shots, State’s Exhibits 4 and 5. Frank’s face was unchanged, and even his profile shot didn’t reveal the large knot on the back of his head, and the small grill-print above his eye seemed more like a scrape. Though later his face would change after the beating in the jail, the booking image was of someone who had not been in much of an altercation.

  Randall Karrick’s mug shot, though, showed much worse. His eyes were swollen and black
from a broken nose, which had obviously been fixed since the fight. His lip was split, and his hair was clumped with dried blood. Frank couldn’t believe that his fists had done such damage.

  “Tell me, Mr. Joseph. How did Mr. Karrick receive the injuries we see on this mug shot?”

  His voice stayed cool, and he replied, “Yes, we were in a fight. I’ve never denied that.”

  “But what I don’t understand is how two men could have such different results from a fight if they were both fighting. Mr. Karrick’s injuries that night include a broken nose, multiple abrasions on the face, and a separated shoulder. He required multiple stitches.” Once again, the jury locked on him. “You, on the other hand, arrived at the county jail with only skinned knuckles, which seem to have been split when you repeatedly hit Mr. Karrick.”

  The room was now silent, and he could hear people move in their seats. Frank knew he needed to say something.

  “Success in a fight doesn’t indicate the cause of the fight, does it?”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Joseph?” The DA immediately regretted asking that question. He knew better, after all: never give the accused a platform.

  “I mean, just because I won the fight doesn’t prove Mr. Karrick didn’t start the fight, does it? There were three of them and two of us. We were outnumbered. I was defending myself…”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Joseph…”

  “…and Mr. Karrick obviously had too much to drink that night. When the punches started flying, I hit back, and I hit back with all I had. Which of you…” and he turned directly to the jury, “wouldn’t fight for your life if you were cornered like we were?”

  “Cornered, Mr. Joseph?” The DA felt the momentum change and had to regain control.

  “Yes, cornered.”

  “Funny, Mr. Joseph, but all the testimony we’ve heard previously indicates you initiated the fight that night. Did you call for a bouncer? Did you call for the police? No, you simply attacked another man and injured him badly. I have no further questions, your honor.”

  As he sat in the courtroom waiting for the jury, he could feel that it didn’t go his way. He felt that the evidence all went against him, including his best friend’s testimony. He had tried to read the eyes of the jury, but they were inconclusive; most of the jurors just looked away from him. He knew enough to know that wasn’t a good sign.

  “Court will resume in five minutes,” the tall bailiff announced, startling Frank. He hadn’t seen him enter the room.

  “That means the jury has made its decision, Frank,” Kevin Matthews said.

  Instantly, his heart began to pound furiously. This is it then, he thought. I’m finally here.

  “I’m scared, Kevin,” Frank said. “I’m not ready for what could happen.” His voice wavered and his hands were shaking. His mouth was like cotton, and he couldn’t swallow.

  His lawyer looked at him with consolation in his eyes. “Remember that whatever they decide doesn’t change who you are. You’re a good man…don’t let it fuck you up if the verdict goes against you.” Frank again felt his stomach flop inside him, and he hunched over again, holding it tightly. He knew he wasn’t built for prison.

  People began to move. Papers were shuffled. The DA returned to his chair at the next table.

  “All rise!” came the call. Doors opened, the jury filed in, and the judge took his seat on high. “Be seated,” Hizzoner called out. As they sat, Frank felt Kevin’s hand grab his. He couldn’t look up.

  “Madame Foreman, has the jury reached a decision in State of California vs. Christopher F. Joseph?”

  “We have, your honor.” Frank now hated the rehearsed sound, like a synchronized gambol around his grave.

  “How do you find the defendant in the charge of disorderly conduct?”

  “Not guilty, your honor.” Clerks marked forms.

  “How do you find the defendant in the charge of assault?”

  “Not guilty, your honor.” More forms were marked and shuffled.

  Frank’s heart leapt. Could I walk away from this? He felt the briefest moment of elation. His head jerked left in the direction of the jury.

  “How do you find the defendant in the charge of simple battery?”

  “Guilty, your honor.”

  Frank’s head dropped again. His elbows went to his knees. The room was spinning. He took deep breaths to keep from fainting. He felt Matthew’s hand on his back.

  There it was. His entire life. Career. Gone. Burned before him. All that he had known was about to be swept away. Guilty of a crime. A record. On every job application for the rest of his life, he would have to list this crime. A violent crime. He knew how he would have viewed the same. He would never hold a senior leadership position again. No company in its right mind would hire a manager with a violent history. He’d be lucky to get a job turning a wrench, and he didn’t know any trades. And before all that…prison. Frank knew he wasn’t ready for that.

  The words that followed were a blur. The jurors were asked if the responses were unanimous. They agreed. They were thanked for their service and then excused from the courtroom. He heard the judge speaking, but he couldn’t understand the words.

  “Frank, you need to stand…Frank…” Matthews said to him.

  Frank pulled himself to his feet, but was unsteady. Matthews put his arm around him for support.

  “Mr. Joseph, the events of that night were egregious. Fighting another man in a bar may seem fine in the movies, but our society cannot support such violence. We rely on people to follow rules. We expect peace in our cities.”

  Frank felt faint.

  The judge shifted papers in front of him. “However, when I look at your life, you have been a model citizen. You haven’t received so much as a parking ticket in your adult life. You pay your taxes. You have a family. You’ve been very successful. You don’t strike me as a man who would attack someone wantonly.”

  He nodded, but didn’t have the strength to look up.

  At the table next to them, the DA sat up, as if to make a comment. The judge stared down at him above his reading glasses, and the DA slid back into his seat.

  “Therefore, Mr. Joseph, I’m going to assign the maximum fine of two thousand dollars. I’m going to assign one year of probation, in lieu of jail time. Do you understand?”

  Frank looked up. He wasn’t really comprehending more than basic ideas. He nodded, though, as he knew that was expected.

  “Therefore, you will be required to meet with a probation officer, and any offenses will void that probation and earn you jail time. In simple English, if you so much as jaywalk, you’ll be doing time. Are we clear, Mr. Joseph?”

  Frank again nodded.

  “Court is now in recess,” the judge announced, and his black robes whisked as he swept out of the courtroom. All around him, people moved. More papers. Doors opening. People talking. Frank sat down hard on his chair.

  Kevin Matthews shook the hand of the DA, and they spoke briefly. Frank just looked at his hands, which were trembling. He heard his lawyer and the DA laughing. Old friends, I see. Everybody in this profession is tied together…only the defendants and jury are interchangeable. This is their business. Do they even give a shit about whom they work with?

  “Frank, you okay?”

  “I don’t understand, Kevin. What happened?”

  “You got off very easy, Frank!” he said with a big grin, slapping him on the back. “You were only found guilty on one of the three charges, and the judge went light. He based his decision on your clean record. No prior arrests for anything. A citizen in good standing. Those were our points for the plea bargain we attempted, which the DA turned down. Anyway, I guess the judge got it, even if nobody else did. He gave you probation. Considering the testimony, the fact that we went to court, and the verdict, you were lucky to avoid jail time, though you probably wouldn’t have gotten much for the single offense…maybe a few months. Still, you’re going home today, so be glad!” He clapped him on the shoulder again
, but Frank was unmoved.

  “But I’m guilty.”

  “Yeah, you have a record now, Frank.” Kevin was putting his papers in his briefcase. His voice was conciliatory. “Sorry, we did the best we could. I think those photos…”

  Frank cut him off. “So what happens now?”

  “Well, you’ll need to complete some paperwork. Then you have a week to see a probation officer. They’ll require you to take periodic drug tests, most likely, and see that you’re working and staying out of trouble.”

  “But I lost my job.” Frank’s face was blank. His stare was a thousand miles away.

  I’m a convicted criminal, he thought. He remembered how he felt about convicted criminals he saw on the news. Whose applications he reviewed. He was now in that same group…an ever-growing fraternity. He was guilty of a crime, a crime he didn’t commit, though he was the only one who felt that way.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll help you get another one. It’s not like that.”

  “But then what?”

  “Then you find a job, work, wait until your probation is over, and then you’re in the clear. On this case anyway.”

  “What about the other?”

  “I can’t say. I just asked the DA if they were moving forward with the case. He said, ‘It’s being reviewed.’ After this long, I’m thinking there are issues…perhaps some evidence we don’t know about. Not sure, really…we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “How long could it drag on?”

  “There’s no timeline. They can wait months if they want. The longer they wait, though, the better it is for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, time fades the issue…the testimonies. Memories become less clear. No guarantees, but I’d say if we don’t hear anything in a couple more months then we know there is something terribly wrong with their case. We’ll just have to wait and see. Be patient, Frank.” He again smiled at him, but didn’t see any return.