Debbaudt / Gold Jurisdiction Terminated

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-68222-823-4
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 232 Seiten

A Judge and his D.A. carry out their regular duties in court until a criminal conspiracy threatens to take down the whole system. The reader is swept along, witnessing what occurs in actual juvenile court proceedings but when a strange death takes place and involves the court we are taken into a maze of mystery as the judges curiosity pull himself and his fellow deputy further into the conspiracy, the judges background and the help of various relatives close to both the judge and the law enforcement community get involved. Delve deeply into the thoughts of the Judge as he handles his criminal cases. Never before has any novel addressed this issue. This is Los angeles at its darkest moments.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Debbaudt, Marc

Gold, Jack

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE It could get really hot in the San Fernando Valley. It was always fucking hot here. My trip took me fifteen minutes, give or take, to reach the prepubescent armpit of the San Fer Valley. At forty-five I was living the good life. A nice home in Studio City. An Acura TL leased every three years with a Bluetooth, eight speaker stereo, V6 engine, the works. I was insulated from the heat in a cool cocoon. I looked at the outside temp and saw it was hitting the eighty-degree mark, heading upward. It was only 8:00 a.m. I headed towards the bleak city of Sylmar on my way to the Juvenile Court which was nestled comfortably next to high tension wires, mysterious satellite arrays, and newly-built custom homes. Makes me wonder why people would want to live under the wires, near the huge satellite dishes, near a Juvenile Hall filled with gang members and other ne’er-do-well juveniles accused of crimes that range from petty theft to rape and murder. I had been assigned to this court for a year now. Before that, I was at the adult San Fernando Court where real law was occasionally practiced. I got into it with the supervising judge over the way to handle a case that was, well, considered newsworthy. They call them “media cases.” It involved a murdering adult and some possible exonerating evidence that was not turned over to the defense lawyer by the prosecutor. I dismissed the case and my actions brought me into the hall of public servant shame. The head of the court did what they always do when they get mad at us. They moved me. They put me in a place where I could do no harm. Or at least that’s what they thought. It’s called “freeway therapy.” It’s the only power they have over us judges. The power of a transfer to the ass-crack of the county. But, the way I saw it, that is, as a judge, it’s our duty to punish the prosecutor when they withhold evidence. Suffice it to say, the case was refiled and a jury found the defendant, who was accused of homicide, not guilty. So it goes. Maybe I was right all along. Stranger things have happened. As I pulled off the 210 freeway I could see the giraffe that lived on the corner of Foothill and Yarnell. This out-of-place anomaly was the highlight of the drive and the landmark where I would turn right and then left on the way to the court. The giraffe’s home also housed a number of other animals that were rented out to the studios for movies. I passed one makeshift zoo on the way to another which caged far more dangerous animals. The giraffe and his furry friends were nothing as bad as the parents and siblings that came and went from the court and juvenile hall to visit their delinquent loved ones. They would feed the giraffe papers and other nutritious junk, which forced the owners to make a giraffe house and keep it confined inside for a good part of the day. Consequently, giraffe sightings became rarer, and that upset me. I liked seeing this bizarre head on top of a long slender neck bobbing away as I approached the gates of hell. It made me feel that I somehow fit in. I drove past the guard booth, waving at the deputy in his small shack, and entered the place where justice for juveniles was dispensed like McDonalds serves hamburgers. Hold the pickles and the lettuce. The dirty gray concrete bunker was straight ahead. Four courtrooms, additional administration offices, a juvenile traffic hearing room, all soon to be closed for budgetary reasons. This majestic crap was the gateway behind which was a housing facility able to hold 700 Juveniles. From the outside it looked bleak. From the inside it was bleak. The sun bounced brightly off the hood of my TL and I knew that the interior of the car at noon would be like a sauna. I still remember being sent here, pissed off as hell. But now I really like the place. So when I’m asked how I like it at Sylmar by any of my peers and their snitches, I say “I hate it” and they continue to leave me here. If they are out to punish you, you need to look like you are being punished. They don’t appreciate it when you are indifferent to their wrath. Off to the right, there they were—TV trucks, vans with periscopes and satellite dishes attached to their roofs. More vehicles were off to the left. A big blue panel truck, which read EYEWITNESS NEWS on its side, was parked directly in front of the main public entrance. Another van riddled with mysterious antennas and radio and TV broadcasting equipment on its top and ABC written on the door was parked directly behind it. At least four other trucks with cameramen and doll’d-up reporters looking hot and sexy were standing nearby. If you are going to be fed a stream of awfully dreary crap, you might as well have it spoon-fed to you by a glossy-lipped vixen. I thought about how these bottom-dwellers, these so-called “news reporters” were going to feel later on when the temp hit 100 degrees. Their sweltering didn’t make me feel any better. I pulled into my parking space in front of the wire cage-like protection screen that separated the parking lot from the four courtrooms that were part of the Administration of Juvenile Justice. Beware all ye who enter here! It was through these doors that delinquents were marched into the “hall” and locked-up. Never mind that all of the out-of-custody juvenile defendants and their nurturing families could see our cars parked in the open like sitting ducks. They might as well have painted a sign on my TL that said “destroy me” or “graffiti this.” The guys who designed this dreary concrete bunker were indeed nitwits. It was then that I spied my Russian-Jewish bailiff, Deputy Mark Bernstein, with his awesome tree trunk neck. He approached my car. He opened my door like I was a celebrity. That, of course, called everyone’s attention to my presence. He just grabbed and swung the door open without giving me a chance to brace for the wave of heat that would wash over me. “Good Morning, Your Honor. Let me walk you in through the back. You can see it’s getting pretty busy out there.” I didn’t get mad at him for drawing a target on my forehead. I also couldn’t get mad at him for the frigging temperature. What was the point? I started to perspire. “What’s going on, Mark?” I asked. “You know the case with the masked suspects? The restaurant robberies? Well, it seems that it was a joint task force with LAPD, Sheriffs, and the FBI. One of the possible suspects, they were all juveniles, tried to jack an FBI surveillance car and was shot by the passenger, an Agent. He shot across his partner, the other Agent who was the driver…shot directly in front of the FBI driver’s face, killing the suspect.” “What the f….” I replied, but before I could get it all out Mark cut me off. “Sorry, Judge, but it gets worse. There were two more suspects who were with the dead kid, and they were caught, and since they’re juveniles, they’re here in the Hall.” I looked at Mark, looking for defects, and noticed that his hair was thinning quickly. Mark raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Judge… I can read your thoughts. The case is assigned to your court.” “Oh no … C’mon … Crap … Well, get me into the courtroom.” Just what I fucking needed, a high-profile media case, a built-in nightmare. No upside to that. Extra scrutiny. Every decision being second-guessed. Crap. I was soon to find out that these kids weren’t even the actual restaurant robbery suspects, but just random carjackers, taking advantage of an opportunity, albeit the wrong one. Ah, well, all in a day’s work shoveling shit. Life in the mire of stupid-ass kids. We walked into the court through the back entrance using the so-called security key dodging all the bottom feeders. Whoosh … and the heavy metal door unlocked. We walked up the cement hallway past the four courtrooms each of which had thick metal doors painted “State of California” in dull red. From the hallway I could see lawyers in the front lobby strutting around for the cameras, free advertisement. The cameras were outside the security screening entrance leering in. We don’t allow cameras in the foyer since virtually all juvenile proceedings are confidential. We entered my courtroom, and there were the players: Nathan Bartholomew, Deputy D.A.; my clerk, Marsha Wogatsky, sitting at the end of the long counsel table; and near the back of the room sat my Probation Officer, Shirley Voneckel, at her desk, which was always neatly arranged and sterile like it was housing the state’s secrets. In Juvenile Court there is always a court probation officer, the “PO,” who is supposed to speak up for the probation department, which is supposed to help decide what is in the “best interests” of the minor. In Adult Court, the Sheriff’s Department houses the incarcerated adults in county jails, like the Wayside Honor Ranchero, and they aren’t required to give a shit what is in the “best interests” of the adults. But in juvenile court it’s the probation department who handles the custody of kids who are, what is called, “detained.” “Detained” is a kinder and gentler way of saying that minors are incarcerated. They enter and leave the courtroom from the far back wall through another metal door. Behind that door is a holding area that we lovingly call the “tank” or...