PORKCHOPS FOR THE PROSECUTION

PORKCHOPS FOR THE PROSECUTION

If you’re lookin’ for Justice… take a number.





A cigarette stubbed out in a sodden take-out container sends tendrils of smoke wafting out a third floor window of the Los Angeles Public Defender’s Office on downtown Second Street. It mingles with an updraft of heat and grease from the street below, curling slender fingers around a flashing neon sign that reads “Mizuki Musuyo Japanese Foo_”.

A Zippo lighter engraved “Da Nang‘67” clicks open to ignite another smoke, illuminating the lone silhouette of a man hunkered down over a cluttered desk, in a corner office above the darkened streets of Little Tokyo. Soon, sunlight will inch brilliantly over the horizon, but for now, only the glow of a goose-neck lamp brightens the look of disgust enveloping his chiseled features. “Damned idiot!” he snarls, slamming a folder down. He stares into the blackness and inhales deeply.

The sharp ring of the telephone interrupts his concentration.
“Terrick, Lord of the Third Floor,” he growls into the receiver.

“All hail to Terrick!” public defender Rowan MacGreggor, deadpans. “You get the envelope?”

“Got it.”

“What do you think?”

“I think Detective Gary Dick is a bigger one than anybody realizes.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Somebody should yank this Dick’s badge before he hurts himself.”

“You find anything?”

“It’s early, Mac. I’ll get back to ya’.” He disconnects.


Terry L. Kearrick, Chief Investigator for the L.A. Public Defender’s Office, is no newcomer to the mean streets of Los Angeles. His nickname, “Terrick,” a combination of bad-ass reputation and clerical error is an inside joke that caught fire, and spread like an urban legend on steroids… an indication of honor not undeserved.

Operating below the radar in the steamy underbelly of the city for more than three decades, his genuine affinity for even the most broken of beings, over years, has resulted in a complex web of contacts and informants that rivals the L.A.P.D., D.A., and FEDS combined.

He’d barked on the other side of the fence early in his career, with a sweet spot in the D.A.’s office uptown, but soon found that the padded salary and all the secretaries one man could juggle couldn’t wash away his distaste for the “tactics” used by his peers to elicit information and confessions. What set him apart was his ingrained belief in “Justice for All” in a system rife with men of little conscience but a hunger for power. To them, convictions equal numbers, nothing more, and guilt or innocence is of absolutely no consequence.

This stuck in his craw and wouldn’t leave him alone nights. Those cases haunted his days and pushed the secretaries out of his bed at night, until one morning after a fifth of Jack and one hell of a round of demon-wrestling, he made two phone calls and joined the other side.

This desertion was bad news to many. Terrick’s scrappy doggedness would work against them in a court of law. He knew their strengths and weaknesses. There were set formulas for finding people guilty. His solid investigative techniques and uncanny ability to uncover missing equations would tip the scales, giving those who’d been manhandled by his beloved system a fighting chance.

His business card read;

“Justice ain’t nothin' but a number”

There was a new gunslinger in town and he could do the math.


The hallways echo with voices and slamming doors. The smell of fresh coffee struggles through musty vents. Terrick pushes the intercom. “Darla, coffee on in there?”

“It’s on. Come and get it, boss.”

“Seen the news? Miss Piggy’s ours.”

“You’re gonna’ be a star again, handsome.” She switches on a T.V. as he enters the reception area.

“…live in Fullerton where Christina Vasquez, aka the ‘Miss Piggy Bandit,’ is due to appear this morning for arraignment. While no cameras are allowed in the courtroom, our correspondent, Miranda White, is already inside and will be twittering the action live as it happens. Stay with us as details unfold. This is Carl Frankle, ABC News.”

Over the past two years, a series of bank robberies had captured the city’s imagination. Perpetrated by a three-hundred-pound, fair skinned, Caucasian woman wearing baggy clamdiggers and dingy floral print blouses, “Miss Piggy’s” M.O. was not sophisticated, but successful. With one hand thrust deep inside a pocket, the other produces a note threatening to "Shoot the teller’s face off." This threat amps the fear factor up to full tilt. No one has ever seen a gun, but no one wants to be the one to prove she has one. With eight robberies under her considerable belt, she’s stolen somewhere in the vicinity of seven hundred thousand dollars.

She was high on the most wanted list until yesterday morning at 8:50 a.m., when the L.A.P.D. surrounded the vehicle of twenty-seven year old single mother Christina Vasquez, minutes before dropping her daughter off at Heart Elementary School, thus heralding the capture of the infamous “Miss Piggy Bandit.”

The distraught young mother is hawked on every news station within bandwidth, in varying degrees of anguish as she’s shoved by detectives into a patrol car only to re-appear again at the Fullerton Police Station. Today, the sideshow travels to the courthouse, where the stricken woman is to be arraigned.

“Notice anything immediately crazy?” Terrick asks his secretary.

“Only the elephant in the room. Is that The Dick over there with the newsmen?”

“Naturally.”

“Nothing natural about him,” she replies.

“I’m off to the circus,” Terrick says. “If I hurry, I can catch a minute with our girl. Call me if anything breaks.”

“Will do, Lord Terrick. Don‘t step in any bull-elephant shit.”

At the courthouse he flashes credentials and moves past the barricades. The proceedings are quick and no-nonsense. The girl looks frail, like she is about to faint… or vomit. Afterwards Terrick interviews her in a small room with a male officer in attendance. “There’s no smoking in here,” the officer announces, eyeing Terrick’s emerging pack.

“Yeah, good old days are gone,” Terrick remarks, before introducing himself to Christina as half of her dream team. MacGreggor, the other half, arrives shortly thereafter. Whatever evidence Terrick uncovers will be wielded expertly by him as public defender against the prosecution’s allegations in open court.

Christina’s snarled hair and shell-shocked eyes speak volumes, but both men are wary. They’ve been lied to by the best. Terrick’s sixth sense goes fishing.

“So are you a bank robber?” he asks.

“No-o,” Christina stammers verging on tears.

“Do you know why they grabbed you?”

“No-o,” she stammers again.

“Got an informant that identified you from surveillance footage. A Dr.Sisal. Know him?”

“H-he was my doctor,” She answers, her eyes questioning… “But, why…?”

“That‘s for me to find out. I‘ve read your file. Later I’ll watch the interrogation tapes and interview the good doctor. When did you last see him?”

“Four years ago.”

“For what?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“No time to be coy.”

She cups her hands and whispers...

“NO SHIT?” gasps Terrick,

“No shit.” Christina answers.

“Do you have anything to prove that?”

“I have the receipt…”

“I’ll need it.”.

“It’s in my desk at home.”

“Anything else you can tell us before we go?”

“I didn’t do it.” She whimpers. “Where’s my baby?”

“Foster care. Any relatives she can stay with?”

“My mother.” She begins to cry.

“Give Mac her contact info. They’ll release her to Grandma. What else should I know about you?”

“I don’t know…” she sobs.

“I need time to dig around. See what adds up and what doesn’t.”

“Please, get me out!”

“Mac’s workin’ on that. Meanwhile, I’ll start following their evidence. We’ll talk again when I have a handle on what they got. Don‘t worry about your kid.”

“Thank you for helping me,” she whispers, grasping their hands.

Outside, Terrick lights up.

“No smoking on courthouse property, sir,” says a uniformed guard.

“Like hell,” he snorts, turning away.

The rest of his day is spent watching L.A.P.D.T.V. and scribbling notes on legal pads, before heading back downtown.

“HAIL TERRICK!” A colleague exiting his building quips, fist thrust skyward in a mock Roman Salute.

Holed up in his office with a cold container of Sukiyaki, he dials Doctor Sisal. “Terry Kearrick investigating the bank robbery case. Can we meet? Fine. See you then.” The light on the third floor burns long into the night as Terrick pours over his notes. At 7:30a.m., Terrick stands at the entrance to the Fullbright Medical Center.

“Dr. Sisal. You made the original identification?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know it was her?”

“She was my patient.”

“And what did she see you for?”

"That is protected information."

“How many times did you see her?”

“Twice. Once for a procedure, and again for post-op.”

“The surveillance video you saw resembled her at those two appointments?”

“Exactly.”

“Doctor, does this procedure achieve the weight loss results advertised in your waiting room pamphlets?”.

“Always. Unless of course, the patient dies. That…was… a joke.”

“Ah. The date on this surgical receipt… it’s correct?”

“I would say so.”

“You’ll be called to testify. I trust your testimony will be the same as you have stated today?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for your time.”

“Not at all.”

Back in the car, Terry shoves a hand down between the seat cushions mining for wayward tobacco before heading to Heart Elementary School.

He phones Darla upon arrival. “I’m off to Santa Barbara from here if anyone wants to know,” then notes time: 8:30 a.m., and mileage.

Pre-trial, he will make this test drive repeatedly. Always at the same time, always from the same place. The results vary only slightly.


As the trial date nears, an obvious point of evidence irritates him.

“Darla, get The Dick on the phone for me, please.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he sighs.

“You smoking in there, Terrick?”

“No.” He mumbles, flicking a butt out the window.

“Detective Gary Dick,” snaps a voice after one ring.

“Hello, is this Detective Gary Dick”

“I just said so, didn’t I?”

“Is this the Gary Dick, the Big Dick? The Biggest Dick on the Detective squad? The same Dick who comes from a long line of Dicks?”

“Whaddya’ want, Kearrick?”

“Just wondering if you’d looked at your evidence in the Piggy Case.”

“Of course I have, asshole, it’s my evidence.”

“Anything seem a little… ridiculous to you?”

“No. What’s your point?”

“About the identification?”

“I got seventy witnesses who picked her out of a six-pack. Plus the Doc. Juries love that shit. Why?”

“Just checkin’. You think she’s guilty?”

“Who cares?”

Terrick stubs out another cigarette. Hard.



Day one of the trial blitzes daytime TV. Inside the courtroom, all stand for the Honorable Judge Jonas Hedge, who’s resignation to the spectacle unfolding is as pronounced as his uni-brow which appears to pantomime his name.

The prosecution scores smug points on witness identification before turning the trial over to the defense. Macgregor cracks open the evidence folder provided by Terrick, Lord of the Third Floor.


“Defense calls Doctor Orem Sisal.”

“Doctor Sisal, you made the original identification of the defendant, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor, how did you recognize Ms. Vasquez?”

“She was my patient.”

“And what did she see you for?”

“Gastroplasy… stomach stapling… for weight loss.”

“Is this your surgical receipt?”

“Yes.”

“The date is correct?”

“Yes.”

“This receipt notes her weight on the day of surgery at three hundred and seven pounds, correct?

“Correct.”

“And the woman you identified in the Santa Barbara surveillance videos weighs about the same?”

“She is the same.”

“Doctor, how much weight does one lose with your procedure?”

“Eighty percent of excess weight by second year.”

“For Christina, that would be 80% of 177, subtracted from 307, meaning at two years out, which would be when the robberies began, Christina should have weighed 165 pounds soaking wetif her surgery was successful…

…Was it?”

“Of course. Always successful.”

“Then how is it you thought she could be that three-hundred-pound woman you identified?”

Terrick watches the jury wait for his answer.

“I identified her as I saw her."

“You saw her four years ago doctor. You said yourself, the results never vary… Unless the patient dies.”

"I..."

“No further questions.”



“Defense calls Detective Gary Dick.”


“Detective Dick, you were in charge of this case?”

“Yes,” he smiles, chest thrust forward.

“I have here six photos. Were these the photos used to identify our bank robber?”

“I think so.”

“Please be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“These HEADSHOTS are of five dark-complected African American women, and one very light-skinned Hispanic woman, that woman being Ms.Vasquez, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And your witnesses were informed the bank robber was indeed in this six-pack?”

“I don’t recall saying that…”

“According to witness statements, you did. Now, assuming the witnesses already know the robber is light-skinned, and believe she is among these photos…wouldn’t you consider this to be stacking the deck somewhat?”

The judges eyes narrow.

“All I know is eight out of ten identified my suspect.”

“Please look at the defendant and tell me how much you think she weighs?”

“She probably lost weight since then.”

“Really? That‘s very astute. Did you attempt to find that out? I have here a year’s worth of weekly weigh-in slips from the ‘Fabulous Fullerton’s,’ a Weight Watchers group Christina joined immediately after her surgery. Counselor Paulette Walker is waiting to testify that the week of the first robbery, Christina weighed in at one-hundred-forty-two pounds and has vacillated no more than three pounds a week since.”

“Anything else, Counselor…?” the judge encourages.

“Detective Dick… you’ve sworn to have personally road-tested the drive from Heart School, where Christina signs her child in daily at 8:30a.m., to Union Bank in Santa Barbara, then back to school, signing her out again at 12:30p.m.”

“Yes.”

“Your drive originated at the address noted in your report?”

“Of course.”

“Can you describe that location?”

“It’s a school.”

“Heart School?”

“Yes.”

“Detective, are you aware, that the address you list as your starting point is the administrative offices for Heart School, located thirty miles east of the school itself? My tests show your timing impossible from the actual school.”

“Wha…?”

“You’re under oath.”

“Uh….”

“May we interpret that as no?”

The judge glares at the witness. “Detective, are you telling this court that facts you swore to under oath are, in fact, untrue? Have intentionally miss-directed these proceedings?”

“Um…”

“Um is not an answer, detective.”

“Well, your honor…I looked the address up on Google and did the math.”

Terrick grins at MacGreggor.

The judge stiffens. “Mr. Prosecutor, it’s patently clear to me that evidence under which this young lady has been detained is faulty.”

MacGreggor leaps to his feet. “MOVE FOR DISMISSAL, YOUR HONOR!”

“YOU HAVE MOCKED MY COURTROOM DETECTIVE. Counselor, I’ve no choice but to grant your motion. CASE DISMISSED! Detective. My Chambers. NOW!”

The courtroom explodes and the courtyard follows. People crane to glimpse the disgraced detective. Outside, Christina grips both men’s hands amidst the rush of reporters. Terrick lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply as he shields Christina from the onslaught. His cell phone rings.

“You get the news, Darla? “ he asks. “I’m famous again. Yeah. We did good. No. I told you, I quit smoking.”

“You’re on T.V. Dumb ass!” Darla sighs through the receiver.






~taree Belardes ©2/09/2011
NYCMidnight Short Story Competition 2011
Assignment:
Genre; Mystery
Subject; A receipt
Word Limit; 2,500
Time Allowed; 1 week