THE CANDLESTICKS
Lillian is out so I am answering my own phone. On such days I never get anything done, can’t help but listen to every train wreck that calls in. This call was typical. Her older brother is in jail on two counts of robbery and he has a couple prior prison terms, which means strike priors. Probably looking at 25 to life at a minimum. She is calling for her mother, who only speaks Spanish, so I have to wait for the translation on both ends.
“I know you don't want to go with the Public Defender, but some of them are very good and they are appointed to represent people who cannot afford a lawyer on cases just like this,” I am pleading now, even though I know it’s lost in translation.
“My mother wants to know if we can come and see you today.”
Oh boy, here we go again, why can’t I just say no. “Ahhhh, I have other appointments this afternoon…” “Okay, we’ll come now, then.”
They arrive at 10:30 AM, a half hour early for their eleven o’clock. Well dressed, overly polite and appreciative, I take them into my office right away. Mrs. Ramirez stands all of five feet with white hair making her look older than she is. Her daughter, Cecilia, is perhaps twenty. Bright and respectful, she patiently repeats my words in Spanish, listens to the response, and then speaks for her mother in perfect English. Clenched in Mrs. Ramirez’s fist is a copy of my advertisement torn from the phone book.
I hear the facts as best as they know them, and that, “Rico has been a bad boy, but he has a good heart.” Heard that one before. “He was doing good, graduated from the Victory Outreach men’s home, until he back slid.”
Now they had my attention. Over the years I have represented dozens of men who were saved from prison and ordered to do a hard year at the men’s home. My first backslider almost put me over the edge, knowing he would become the poster child for why programs don’t work.
Bobby Frescas was a heroin addict and his first stay at the men’s home didn’t stick. When I saw him in court again, I almost threw him against the wall; Pastor Bob had to restrain me. “Phil, we planted a seed, he’s back for cultivation. It only has to work once.”
Pastor Bob was right; he made it the second time. Ten years clean and sober, government job, married with four beautiful kids, working as a traveling evangelist on the Victory Outreach circuit, paying it forward by new saving souls.
The facts are miserable. Rico, with shaved head, prison tattoos on bulging neck and arms, got really drunk and walked into a shoe store at the Oxnard Promenade. At first the two young ladies working the counter ignored him. He kept slurring his demand for all the money in the cash drawer, but they had seen ugly drunks before. Not until he got loud and angry did one of them slip downstairs and call mall security. Finally, alone and getting nervous, the remaining clerk opened the drawer, took out sixty bucks and handed it to him. Rico tried to stash the three twenties in his back pocket, but didn’t quite make it. Stumbling out, he barely made it to a planter where, as he sat down, the money fell out of his pocket onto the flowers below. He stayed there dazed and confused just long enough for Oxnard P.D. to show up. Hooked up, twenties seized as evidence, victims interviewed enough to establish that they gave him the money due to “force or fear,” Rico was booked on two counts of robbery.
With his prison priors added to his three strike priors, I figured he was looking at 33 to life.
I don’t want this case, nowhere to go with it, no money.
“My mother wants you to know something, Mr. Dunn. She says she was praying over the phone book and God led her to your ad.”
What do I say to that?
“She is just asking that you go see him, visit him in jail, then you will know what to do.” Her dark brown eyes remain fixed upon my blue ones; she will not let me go until I agree to her request. I am at her mercy.
“I’ll go see him, but I’m not making any promises. I won’t take his case unless I believe I can help somehow. Forgive me, but it looks pretty hopeless. They probably won’t offer him anything, plead and apply they call it, or go to trial and get hammered – that’s just the way it is.”
As the translation comes through, I see a smile come across her weathered lips, she leans forward and stretches her hand across my desk to take mine in hers. “Thank you, sir,” she tells me, squeezing my palm with the strength only a career laborer has. I am hers now and she is mine, further resistance is futile.
. . .
I see Rico is short, perhaps 5’6”, as he walks through the steel door on the other side of the visiting glass in the Ventura County Jail. He has spent 18 of his 42 years behind bars. He walks slowly with a little bounce in his step, reflecting the cocky attitude of the con wise. His hair has started to grow out, covering some of his tattoos, but his arms and neck are covered in ink, some of which I recognize as crudely done in prison. No artistry, but mucho respect on the street; Rico’s been slammed down with the big homies.
A strong man, broad shouldered and heavily muscled from countless hours of working out in the yard, his first impression is menacing. Then he speaks.
“Mr. Dunn, thank you for coming.” His tone is apologetic; I search for signs of insincerity, but find none.
“My mother said you would be coming, I really appreciate it, your being here. I heard about you when I was at the men’s home, those guys you represented love you.”
A little embarrassed, I try to get down to business. I go over the facts in the police reports, Rico doesn’t dispute any of it, mainly because he doesn’t remember most of it.
“I think I was drinking vodka that day, most of the bottle, pretty sure I blacked out. I kinda’ remember getting arrested, that’s about it.”
Now the hard part. “Do you know what you’re looking at?”
“The P.D. said I was never getting out. That’s not right, not for this, those dump trucks work for the man, they don’t care about people like me.”
Having started my career as one of “those dump trucks,” I am offended.
“The truth hurts, but it doesn’t change the facts. You have three strike priors, two prison priors, and two new robbery counts, with no real defense. You can’t testify because you don’t remember what happened, you’ll be impeached with your prior convictions, and voluntary intoxication never works as a defense. Unconscious or otherwise, jurors don’t really care once they hear about your prior record. The Public Defender may not have much bedside manner, but he was telling it like it is.”
Rico is angry now, I see it in his face, I have dashed his hope. “Murders don’t get that kind of time, and I didn’t hurt nobody. What kind of justice system is that?”
“One neither one of us agree with, but it is what it is,” my tone is aggressive, I want to see if he will back down. I’m not taking this on if I have to fight with my client the whole way. Been there, done that, it’s miserable.
“Come on, Mr. Dunn, there has to be something you can do for me. I’m really not a violent person, an addict, yes, and a thief, but I’ve never really hurt anyone.”
I scan his record again, “What about this ADW with a gang allegation?”
“Oh, that was a long time ago, just young punk crap, hit a guy with a stick in the park, he was alright. Hey, how come they can use that against me, that happened long before the Three Strikes Law, what’s up with that?”
“Just another one we lost on appeal. We did win one recently, the Romero case, it says a judge can dismiss your strike priors if he concludes it is in the interest of justice to do so.”
Hope makes its way back into Rico’s demeanor, I realize he gets angry when he is afraid. I can feel my heart softening, not the direction I wanted to go in, it’s time to leave.
I’m standing now, still holding the receiver to my ear, I don’t want to talk anymore; I know what I’m going to do.
“Thank you, Mr. Dunn, I know you don’t have to do this, God bless you sir.” The sir is a bit much, but I’ll take it, maybe it will play in front of a judge.
. . .
Julie McCormick is my DDA. Hate prosecutors like Julie, it’s hard enough slugging it out with some dude who is used to being a punching bag, but fighting with a woman, especially a total pro like Julie, is something I dread. Actually, it’s worse than that, Julie is smart and hard working, and to top it all off, a good person. She started a couple years after I did and so we have crossed swords before, never to my advantage that I can recall. She will eventually tell me “no” politely and remind me of “office policy” and then say “where you going with this one Phil, I thought you got into private practice so you didn’t have to take all the losers.”
That’s what really hurts, using my own words against me. I’d get mad if I thought it would do any good. So, once again, I’m reduced to professional groveling.
“Oh, come on, Julie, you don’t want to try this case just because there’s no offer, you’ve got to give me something.”
“What’s the defense?”
“Voluntary intoxication,” I say as if I mean it.
Julie smirks at my bravado, “Good luck with that one.”
“Look Julie, he didn’t hurt anyone, he was too loaded to even run away, 33 to life for this, really?”
Her demeanor softens. Unlike most prosecutors she is not without a heart, that’s why she’s so good, she actually cares about doing the right thing.
“You know it’s not my call, but I’ll see what we can do. What’s he looking at if we strike a couple of the old strikes?”
“16 to 23 years at 85% ought to be enough time on this one,” I’m almost desperate now, letting her know I’d take any deal I could get.
“We’ll see” she says with a little smile, “do your Romero and I’ll run it past the powers that be.”
Our conversation concluded, I nod to her in humility, knowing she will help if she can.
Romero vs. Superior Court was the first recognition of the brutality of the California ballot initiative that made any new felony conviction punishable by 25 to life in prison if the defendant had ever suffered two violent or serious felony prior convictions.
It is safe to say that voters didn’t understand that the third felony conviction didn’t have to be serious or violent to warrant a 25 to life sentence. Countless press reports about defendants getting 25 to life for things like stealing a pizza, a petty theft with a prior, making it a felony, educated the electorate. Many years later two initiatives overwhelmingly passed modifying “Three Strikes” to apply to only a third violent or serious felony, but in the interim the damage was done. California went on an incarceration binge unlike any state in history quadrupling its prison population until the United States Supreme Court finally decided that California’s prison overcrowding amounted to cruel and unusual punishment. The Romero decision by the California Supreme Court was the first case to modify “Three Strikes,” allowing judges to strike prior felony convictions if the Court determined its was “in the interest of justice” to do so. This was Rico’s only chance.
Prosecutors in every county, but particularly in conservative ones like Ventura, are very reluctant to give a deal to a three strikes defendant. They don’t want to take the risk that he will be released someday, and commit a new violent crime. If that hits the press, someone’s career is over. Better to not ever take a chance on a convicted felon. Thus, the rationale for the pizza theft prosecution and countless others like it.
Romero made it possible for courageous judges to intervene on behalf of justice, that is the punishment should fit the crime, by dismissing a prior strike making a just sentence possible. At the time of Rico’s case, the Ventura D.A.’s office would review letters submitted by defense attorneys seeking dismissal of “strike priors.” They considered factors such as the significance of the prior convictions, age, competence, lack of maturity of the defendant, or the trivial nature of the new offense. Rarely did they agree to an outright dismissal of a strike. Rather, on occasion they might agree to “not object” to the judge dismissing a strike if the defendant pled guilty to the new charges.
After submitting my letter, and filing my Romero Motion on Rico’s behalf, I finally got a call from Julie McCormick. “We won’t object to the judge striking two of the strikes, leaving him with one strike, if he pleads guilty to both new robbery counts, he’s looking at a minimum of 16.”
“That’s 16 at 85%, Julie, a whole lot of time for this…”
“Beats forever, after trial, thought you’d be grateful,” her tone is aggressive.
“Don’t get me wrong I do appreciate it Julie, I know it’s not easy.” I bite my lip so as to say no more.
“Go do what you have to do Phil, and don’t disappoint me.”
I chuckle at this, as I know it is said in good humor. “Of course, not Julie, I’ll go see him as soon as I can.”
. . .
I can tell Rico is anxious when I see him waiting for the steel door to roll open. He moves quickly to sit on the other side of the thick glass that separates us, and reaches for the receiver.
“How are you Rico?”
“Scared, if you want the honest truth, Mr. Dunn, I’ve been waiting a long time to hear from you.”
“Sorry, they are never in a hurry to decide these things, but I do have a little good news for you, they have agreed to let the judge dismiss two of the strike priors, leaving you at 16 to 23, but I think the judge will give you low term, so 16 years at 85%.”
Rico’s face turns red, the gansta’ in him comes out, “that’s crazy, for that crap, I didn’t do anything to nobody. 16 years for getting drunk and being stupid, I ain’t taking that deal.”
Now I’m angry, it took a lot of groveling to get here and I don’t appreciate the attitude. “Look Rico, you have no choice, a jury won’t know the sentence you’re looking at, just that you threatened those girls and took the money, then its 33 to life, got it?”
Sorrow replaces anger as Rico slumps back on his stool so low I’m afraid he might fall off.
I have often wondered what other professions require its participants to deliver such bad news, “you have cancer stage four, if you live, you’ll be miserable; otherwise you’ll die, lots of pain regardless,” that’s what the patient hears. How do you have a bedside manner with such news, reality is brutal, only thing worse is denial. I have no patience with denial, so I have no bedside manner, perhaps I should try harder. No, false hope is dangerous. It may make him feel better for now, but it’s much worse in the end. It crushes a man’s soul, leaves him weak and vulnerable, a dangerous state of mind for someone about to do a long stretch in prison.
“So, look Rico, the D.A.’s going to expect you to take the deal at the next court date, she thinks she’s doing you a favor, we don’t need to make her mad by messing around with this.”
“My mom, I can’t tell her this, she thinks I’m going back to the men’s home. She prays for me, for you, all the time, she’s heard all the stories, she believes in you Mr. Dunn.”
“I’m not a magician; I don’t pull rabbits out of a hat. I have to deal honestly with the facts, and the law, and with you. I can’t lie to you, give you false hope, it just makes it worse.” Rico is near tears now; his tough guy exterior has been beat out of him by his attorney.
Pity makes its way into my heart. “Okay, look I’ll get a letter from the home admitting you. You’ve been in jail 16 months actual, plus a year in the home, I’ll ask the judge to strike the third strike. Theoretically he can do that, but it isn’t going to happen Rico, don’t start hoping on that one, it doesn’t work like that man, no judge has that kind of courage.”
Rico recovers; it is the glimmer of hope he has prayed for, the chance he might not go back to prison. He believes in miracles; even if I do not.
. . .
Maria Ramirez wasn’t about to give up on any of her children, even Rico. He may have broken her heart countless times, but none of that mattered. She knew his true heart and would never stop fighting for it. She tried to discipline him when he was young, but with no help from his father, and having to work to support the family, Rico grew up wild like so many other kids in the neighborhood. As he came into adolescence, she pleaded with him not to be out all night, hanging with the homies in the ‘hood. It didn’t work, Rico started drinking when he was 12, and doing drugs at 13. First a “wannabe”, then a “hangers on”, then jumped into the neighborhood gang, Rico’s course in life was set like so many before him. Rico wasn’t 16 before Maria Ramirez retreated to the last refuge of defense of her child, she prayed for him unceasingly. Throughout all the years of bitter disappointment she never gave up. There could be no abandonment of her child, no protecting herself from the agony.
The prayer warriors I have known like Maria Ramirez have always unnerved me. Giving it all to God is not my nature, I’m too into self-reliance. My faith is not that strong.
Rico’s day of reckoning is upon us. His case has been assigned to the Honorable Charles “Chuck” McGrath. Judge McGrath is a conservative “law and order” judge, of course, there are no others. Judges in California, like other politicians, have to run for re-election every six years. In most counties the most powerful elected official is the District Attorney, particularly on criminal justice issues. The last thing any judge seeking re-election needs is the District Attorney to hand pick one of his deputies to run against a “soft on crime judge.” That judge is in for the fight of his life, better to color within the political lines drawn by the D.A., then risk your judicial career on a criminal.
Chuck McGrath is different. He won his seat in an election, and better yet, he comes from the gentrified farming community of Ventura County. Anyone driving the 101 freeway through the county likely would see a sign for “McGrath State Beach,” an obvious statement of his family’s generosity and influence in the community. Judge McGrath is intimidated by no one, and he would let this sentiment be known from time to time. Better yet, I know him to be a practicing Catholic, a conservative Irish Catholic judge with plenty of his own political clout. That’s as good as it gets.
The elevator in the holding cell arrives with Rico and a deputy guarding him. As Rico shuffles his way to the small bench where I’m seated, I recognize the hollow look of the truly desperate. Dressed in “jail blues” with white t-shirt, plastic sandals, and shackles around his ankles, he wears the uniform of the truly damned. It is much easier to punish people set apart from the rest of us, wearing chains that remind us, “he must be dangerous.”
Motioning Rico to sit on the bench I wait for the deputy to go back down the elevator. “How yah doing Rico?”
“I’ve been better, didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Sorry to hear that, okay so, let’s go over what we can expect to happen today. You plead guilty to two counts of robbery and admitted to having suffered three strike priors and two five-year prison priors. The D.A. won’t object to the judge striking two of the strike priors by finding it is in the interest of justice to do so. That leaves you with a minimum of sixteen years and a max of twenty-three. I think under the circumstances he’ll give you the low term of sixteen.”
“I’ll be an old man when I get out, if I get out alive.”
A familiar tone of hostility comes with Rico’s words. My response is standardized, “Look Rico, I don’t make the laws and I don’t create the facts. Your P.D. told you that you were never getting out, I got you a deal where you’re getting out someday. That’s as good as it is going to get.”
“My Mom came to visit me last night, she told me God promised her, “Mijo, you won’t go back to prison, He told me you won’t do one day in there.”
Wow, just what I didn’t want to hear. I thought I set this up better than that, time for another healthy dose of reality. “So, when God tells me the same thing, I’ll believe it Rico, until then we need to stay real here.”
Pain, the kind that comes with the loss of hope takes over Rico’s face. A moment passes in silence as I try not to let him know I share his pain. I must remain strong; weakness will only make it worse.
“So, you’re not going to try man, didn’t you tell me it’s possible, that he could strike the third strike and give me probation.” Rico is pleading now; a reflection appears in the corners of his eyes.
“Sure Rico, I’ll take a hook shot from half court, but don’t expect it to go in.”
As a visible tear forms, I can’t help myself. “Alright, I’ve got an argument, unconventional as it may be, and we got the Victory Outreach crew out there for you, they’ve given the judge a letter telling him they want you in the home, so yeah, we’ll give it a go.”
“Yeah man, you’ve got to go for it, I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom, she thinks it’s gonna happen, I can’t be the one to break her heart again.”
“She told me she got invited to a new church Sunday, a little place off the Avenue. The pastor did an altar call for those in need of prayer, she went forward, got down on her knees. A little girl, maybe twelve years old, came up and laid hands on her and told her, ‘This says the Lord your God, ‘do not weep for your child anymore, because I have chosen him to glorify myself through him.’”
This is way over the top for me. I don’t know if I should feel more stressed or just laugh it off.
“Look, Rico, you know I’m good with that, but I’m really afraid of disappointing a whole lot of people sitting in that courtroom looking for some kind of miracle. I’ve been crushed too many times Rico, I can’t go there anymore. It hurts too much, I’m just going to do the best I can for you, and not get caught up in everything else, okay?”
“Right, Mr. Dunn. I got it, it’s dangerous to have hope, faith in things unseen. Just like prison, it’s best to give up your hopes and dreams for the future, and just accept the brutal reality you live in, hope just makes you weak; vulnerable.”
“Yeah, that’s it Rico, I guess, something like that anyway. So, you ready to get this over with?”
I stand, move to the door, and knock so the bailiff knows I want to come out. I hear the large jailhouse key clang into the lock and turn before the door is pulled open.
“Give him a couple of minutes, Pete, and then let the judge know we’re ready.” McGrath’s bailiff is a kind man – a veteran of the system – and he can tell I’m distressed.
“No hurry Phil, whenever you’re ready.”
I look out upon the gallery past the bar that separates “us” from “them.” It’s packed with people all wearing their Sunday best. They are largely Hispanic of origin, but not entirely. All eyes shift to me as the courtroom goes quiet, the principal actor in this play has come on stage. Seated front row center is Rico’s family, Maria Ramirez, Cecilia and Rico’s little brother Eddie, who is now a Victory Outreach pastor. They look upon me with expectation, hoping I will tell them something, anything, good about what is about to happen. I turn away, instead focusing my attention on Julie McCormick, who is seated at counsel table, looking confident as always.
I tell her, “He should be coming out in a couple minutes, then we’ll get started.”
As I sit down at defense table Julie leans over and asks in a voice only, I can hear, “So who are all your friends, Phil, didn’t expect an audience.”
“Just some relatives, and the Victory Outreach crew, you got the letter from the men’s home, right?”
“Ahhh yeah, but that’s not how this is going to go Phil, it’s not as if he’s going to get probation.”
“Well, you know Julie, sometimes a man just got to do, what a man got to do.”
“Okay, go ahead and put on a show for the family, but I’m going to argue for mid-term, just so you know.”
Once again, I hear the clank of metal on metal as the extra keys on Pete’s chain bang against the steel custody door, then the turn of the lock before the door swings open. Rico emerges, with Pete as escort. Rico, as trained, keeps his hands clasped behind his back, and his strides short so as not to pull the shackles tight. Reaching the chair next to me he waits for Pete to pull it out before sitting. The look in his eyes, and every other aspect of his demeanor, reveal the terror of the moment. Forbidden from making contact with anyone, verbal or otherwise, Rico never once looks out upon the audience.
"Remain seated and come to order. Court is now in session." Pete's call to order is a little stronger than usual, he has civilians to look after.
Chuck McGrath is never in a hurry. He comes through the solid wood door behind the Judge's bench and makes his way up the steps to his chair as if it causes him difficulty. I know better, despite being in his mid-sixties he is still an athlete. At about six foot two, thin of build with only a hint of gray in his light brown hair, he is still a formidable figure physically. His appearance is softened by plastic framed glasses and a casual demeanor. All of this is a trap for unwary lawyers who might be fooled into believing it is all routine for this judge. He is paying close attention, even if he pretends otherwise.
“So, let’s call the case of People v. Ricardo Ramirez, it would appear both sides are ready. Mr. Dunn, I’ll hear from you first.”
“Thank you, Your Honor, let the record reflect that Mr. Ramirez waives arraignment for judgment, and stipulates there is no legal cause as to why judgment cannot now be pronounced.”
"Your Honor, the Court will note we have filed a Romero motion as to Mr. Ramirez’s three strike priors. I believe The People will not be opposing the dismissal of two of these priors, which would leave Mr. Ramirez with one strike, plus two five-year prison priors which are required to be served consecutive to the low term of six years, that is three years doubled with the one strike for a minimum of sixteen years at eighty-five percent. Under 1385, the Court has no authority to strike either one of the five years prison priors, so that is why we have a minimum mandatory sixteen years here, at 85% should the Court only dismiss two of the three strike priors. However, should the Court find it is in the interest of justice, it can strike all three strike priors thus, making Mr. Ramirez eligible for probation.”
"Amen," Pastor Ramirez says loud enough for everyone to hear. Pete glares at him, but lets it go.
"Sixteen years at 85% on these facts is a sentence we might have seen out of medieval times, or perhaps in a novel by Victor Hugo about the French Revolution. It is absurdly harsh, brutally excessive, and thus in a word, unjust."
"Amen," again, but Pastor Ramirez is not alone this time, it is a collective "Amen" coming from the assembled parishioners, followed quickly by "Quiet, court is in session." Pete's doing his job, but I hear a tone of restraint in his voice. I can tell McGrath is amused; a tiny s mile formed at the corners of his lips before Pete's admonition swept it away.
“The punishment should fit the crime, regardless of someone’s record. Getting absurdly drunk and demanding money from a couple young ladies who only call mall security to get rid of a pathetic nuisance, may technically fit the definition of robbery, but it doesn’t justify throwing a man’s life away.” I hear a “that’s right” from the back row.
“Mr. Ramirez only recently back slid into a ditch by starting up drinking again. Up until then he had many years of sobriety, having become a respected member of Victory Outreach, so, they are still here to support him, they believe in Rico, as they believe in the value of every soul that comes through their doors.”
“Amen!” in unison this time.
“Alright ladies and gentlemen, that’s it, that’s my last warning, I’m going to be removing people from the courtroom if this keeps up.” Pete’s standing now, I’ve seen him bite before when he had to, this is his best professional bark. McGrath reveals no displeasure, he’s no more intimidated by a crowd than anything else in his courtroom.
I sneak a peek over my shoulder and notice my parishioners are properly chastised. They’re running on instinct, now that they know better, they won’t want to be disrespectful. We’re in white church from now on.
“Mr. Ramirez has done sixteen months actual and what we are proposing is that he be given credit for time served, and an additional hard year in the Victory Outreach Men’s Home as a condition of probation.”
I see Julie wince as if she didn’t believe I would really say it. “He will spend a year getting up at 4:30 in the morning to study the Bible, pray, work all day for his church and community, then more church at night before lights out, and then get up and do it all over again. The type of personal and spiritual discipline needed to save a man from the pit that has become our prison system. Your Honor, the absurdity of the law in this case allows for but one just option, a grant of probation with no prison time, credit for time served, and a year at Victory Outreach.”
“I realize what I am asking of the Court is an extraordinary remedy, one my client has no right to hope for. He is, in his current circumstances, much like the iconic literary character Jean Valjean of Les Miserables, who after spending seventeen years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread, was released back into the chaos and tyranny of French society during the revolution. Forced to wear the yellow vest of the parolee so people would know his status, he was shunned by everyone he met, and left to wander from town to town searching for scraps to eat. One night, having been denied food and shelter everywhere else, he lay down on a bench in the village square. There, someone took pity upon him.”
“See that light over a doorway there, that is the home of the Bishop. Sometimes he will take in men like you.”
“Tired and beyond discouraged, it was only the freezing cold that motivated Valjean to knock on the Bishop’s door. The maid answers and upon seeing Valjean, she attempts to slam the door shut, but the Bishop is there. Grabbing the door, he gently tells her, ‘No, no, invite him in, take out the good silver for dinner, and make up the bedroom, as we have a guest staying with us tonight.’ The maid, near despair, goes back inside to do what it is she has done countless times before.”
“At dinner Valjean is a crude beast, eating with his hands. Valjean says little, eats ravenously, when offered more he stuffs it in his one bag for later. He barely grunts his appreciation, and maintains a demeanor of confusion and hostility, so unaccustomed to acts of kindness is he. Suspicion and fear control his every thought. When led to the bedroom and shown the finely made bed, Valjean is speechless. The Bishop can do nothing more than bless the man as he shuts the bedroom door behind him. Valjean attempts to sleep upon the mattress, but it is to no avail. Seventeen years of sleeping on the ground makes it impossible. A vision of the silver plates haunts his thoughts as he calculates their worth. Eventually, the temptation is too much; Valjean rises from the bed, goes to the dining room, and shoves all the silver plates into his bag.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see a mixture of amazement and panic take over the features of Rico’s face. He has never heard one of his attorneys talk like this before, and as he would later tell me, “I thought you were losing it, I wanted to stop you and tell the judge I’ll take the sixteen years, this is not my fault! I was afraid he would max me out after having to listen to a story that made no sense to me.”
“His bag stuffed with silver, Valjean leaves the Bishop’s home in the dead of night. The weight of the heavy bag slows his escape. In the early morning he is spotted by a constable making his rounds, who never lets such a man pass without inspection. Discovering the silver, the constable confronts Valjean, who barely mutters the story that ‘the Bishop gave it to me.’”
The point of my story is drawing near as I pause to draw a breath, the awkward silence in the courtroom shoots pangs of fear through my veins. Am I making a fool of myself? Will any of this make sense? Gone too far now, have to see it through.
“Brought in chains to the Bishop, the constable expects a reward as he explains the details of Valjean’s capture. Valjean never looks up, his head cast down in shame. He is resigned to his miserable fate.
“My good man, you don’t understand,” the Bishop’s tone carries the authority of his high office. “Yes, I did give him the plates, but Jean, I don’t understand…” The Bishop pauses as he walks to the dining room table and grasps the ornately cast silver candlesticks. Taking one in each hand, he turns to Jean, who in amazement looks up to catch the Bishop’s gaze and hear, “Jean, I gave you the candlesticks as well, why didn’t you take them?’”
“Mesmerized by the moment, Valjean cannot speak, only out of self-preservation does he extend the palms of his hands to receive the gift. The constable, stunned and dejected, bows slightly to the Bishop and slips away quietly through the open front door.”
“Now alone with Valjean the Bishop moves closer to the man he has set free and places his hands upon his shoulders saying, ‘today Jean, I give you your life back, to live for good, and not for evil.” “Take the candlesticks and go in peace.’”
My moment has finally arrived, and I pause for dramatic effect… the line is loaded and ready to be delivered.
“You see, Your Honor, today you stand in the shoes of the Bishop, the candle sticks are in your hands… you can breathe new life into this man or take it away, the choice is yours, Rico Ramirez’s life is in your hands.”
Having concluded I sit at counsel table, but Judge McGrath is still looking at me. His professional demeanor intact, he glances in the direction of my client. Rico is appropriately humble; he has understood enough to play his part perfectly.
“Ms. McCormick, let me hear from The People.” Julie jumps to her feet; she is not happy with me.
“Your Honor, we all know Mr. Dunn is a great story teller, but this one has nothing to do with the facts of this case.”
Oh, how I hate a good come back, couldn’t she just let the moment linger a little while longer. The parishioners are disturbed as well, they shift uncomfortably in their seats, stiffening for the oncoming verbal assault.
“The defendant didn’t just steal a loaf of bread,” Julie continues, “he terrorized two young girls over a prolonged period of time, until they gave him what he wanted, money, money taken in a robbery by force or fear. Mr. Dunn’s remedy might make some sense if this was his first offense, but his record indicates he is nothing less than a career criminal.”
Lord how I hate that label. It might as well be: “Trash, ready for complete disposal.”
“Not just two strike priors but three! It’s a gift that we are not objecting to the Court striking two of them, he really should be facing thirty-five to life, he’s earned it. His record dates back to the age of thirteen, first The Hall, the County Jail, and two previous prison terms, this defendant doesn’t get it. The People think this is a mid-term case plus the two five years priors, and the other enhancements for a total commitment of eighteen-years. Submitted, Your Honor.”
That was mercifully short, but brutal nonetheless.
The Judge looks intensely at Julie and asks, “Ms. McCormick, is it The People’s position that the Court does not have the authority to strike either of the five-year priors, because when I looked at this case, it seemed to me that would be the best way to arrive at an appropriate disposition in the matter.”
Julie doesn’t like this question.
“That’s right, Your Honor, under 1385(b), the Court is specifically prohibited from striking a five year prior listed in Penal Code 667, thus the minimum sentence is sixteen years.”
“Well, The People could agree to dismiss one or both of the five-year priors, couldn’t they?”
Julie’s face flushes red as she deals with the judge’s challenge. “Yes, that is legally possible, but would violate office policy and is completely inappropriate in this case.”
There is but a flicker of a flame in Judge McGrath’s eyes but no discernible change in tone, “So since The People will not strike either five year prior, in order to reach a sentence the Court deems appropriate, I will need to consider striking the third strike, correct?”
Julie is noticeably angry now. “The Court is not seriously considering…”
Wrong thing to say to this judge.
McGrath cuts her off, “Oh yes, I think that’s exactly what we are going to do, I find that based upon the facts and circumstances of this case, and the record now before me, that it is in the interest of justice to grant the Defendant’s Romero Motion as to all three strike priors, and thus I order them stricken.”
The courtroom is covered in silence. Time is standing still. “Having made that order Mr. Ramirez is now eligible for a grant of probation. I once again find that it is in the interests of justice to make such a finding and at this time release Mr. Ramirez from custody, on a grant of five years formal probation with credit for 482 days actual time served. As an additional term the Defendant is to serve the first year of his probation in the Victory Outreach Men’s Home of Oxnard, California. Mr. Ramirez, do you accept probation on those terms?”
Rico, mouth wide open, turns to me and whispers, “What do I say?”
“You say yes, Rico, and thank you.”
“Thank you, thank you your honor; ahhhh, yes, I do…”
“Well then that will be the order, seeing no further business before the Court we stand adjourned.”
McGrath gets to his feet quickly, pushing the large black leather-bound chair behind him, he turns and agilely steps down from the bench, opening the door to his chambers he disappears without making eye contact with anyone in the courtroom. His abrupt departure causes bewilderment in the gallery, a buzz of excited chatter grows as the more astute observers explain their interpretation of what happened.
Rico, still in disbelief, turns to me and asks, “What just happened?” “We won Rico, you’re not going back to prison, in fact you’re getting out today, going back to the men’s home, don’t screw it up this time, okay?”
Rico is speechless. He understands what’s been said, but he doesn’t dare believe it.
I look at Julie, the anger has passed, she is just softly shaking her head no. Her eyes catch mine; she almost smiles. Turning away she collects her file and then makes her way out the back of the courtroom.
The clamor in the courtroom continues to grow. Since court is no longer in session Pete doesn’t interfere. The audience members approach him for an explanation, “Judge released him, he should be processed out in three or four hours, you can pick him up at jail reception.” Pete’s smiling now, he loves it when his judge does something like this.
The assembled parishioners turn to me for further explanation. “Rico will be released in a few hours, you need to pick him up at the jail and take him directly to the Men’s Home, no stops along the way. He needs to stay there for an entire year before he can go back into the community. Thank you all for coming, it really helped a lot.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dunn and God bless, you.” It is Rico’s brother, the pastor, speaking for them all. I am humbled by their appreciation, but it passes quickly. Realizing the glory of the moment, and the result, I feel a large “S” come up on my chest. Barely containing my exhilaration, I begin making my way out.
“Forgive me, I have another courtroom to get to.” Polite and respectful to a fault, they clear the pathway letting me pass.
I am now fully consumed with my own brilliance. I can’t wait to tell my colleagues about this one. Passing through the foyer, I push hard on the handle opening the heavy oak doors out into the hallway. Outside, my stride quickens as I turn right to escape down the hallway. Then I can go no further. On their knees praying against the wall, surrounded by the faithful laying hands on them, are Cecilia and Maria Ramirez. I do not understand the words, but the tears and shrieks of joy say it all. They know who made this happen, and they are not about to forget Him.
The “S” vanishes from my chest as I recall what must have been prophecy. “Do not weep for your child anymore; because I have chosen to glorify myself through him.”
I recall how I scoffed at this prediction, and now that it has come to pass, I sought to take credit for it. Humbled for the first time, I turn and place my hand upon the shoulder of the man nearest me, and join the prayer. I do not remember what was said, or how long the prayer lasted, but the joy of that moment still resides within my soul.