Chapter Two
I slept in the twin bed in the second bedroom, the one I always slept in. Mom’s bed didn’t seem right. Not yet, anyway.
I woke early, the light streaming in around six. After a quick shower, I put on a pair of khaki slacks and a blue blouse. I needed to look like a lawyer today. As I searched for the pickup’s keys, my phone rang.
“Hi, Rosario,” I said. “I’m just heading into town.”
“Something’s happened.” She sounded frantic. “A friend of mine … a friend of your mom’s, too. The police want to question him. I was wondering if you could help. Maybe talk with him first.”
People think all lawyers can handle any type of law. But I was a civil litigator. “He’d be better off with a criminal lawyer.”
“There aren’t any good ones in town,” Rosario said, her voice pleading. “It’ll take just a few minutes. And like I said, Wilmer was a good friend to Lucy. He did some landscaping work for her. Those raised beds out back, he built those when she had her first stroke.”
I walked into the bedroom and looked out the window. Sure enough, some new raised beds with tomatoes and bush beans and carrots. I had never seen anything like that here before. Mom had been a terrible gardener.
“I can meet you at the intersection where Harbor Road turns toward town,” Rosario said. “Just a few minutes with him, and then we can see about Lucy’s lawsuit.”
This was how lawyers got in trouble, practicing in areas they shouldn’t. But Rosario had been a good friend to Mom. And apparently, this landscaper had as well. What harm could a couple of minutes do?
“You’re good at the guilt game,” I said.
“I learned from Lucy. See you in ten minutes.” She hung up.
* * *
I met Rosario and followed her north of town. We turned left down a dirt road, then up to a single-wide trailer on cement blocks. In front of it were two marked police cars and a third unmarked car. We walked up to a Hispanic man standing with a plainclothes cop who had a badge dangling around his neck.
“You his lawyer?” the detective said. He wore jeans and a polo shirt, with short-cropped hair and a trimmed beard.
“I am a lawyer.” I looked at Mom’s friend. “Would you like to talk?” He glanced at Rosario, then back at me, and nodded vigorously. “Would you give us a minute?” I asked the detective.
He didn’t appear to like being dismissed, squaring up to me. “Are you invoking his right to silence?”
“Relax,” I said. “We’re not doing anything. I just want to talk with him in private.” I grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him with me. “We can talk in my truck.”
He climbed in the passenger side, and we both closed our doors.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Wilmer.”
“Wilmer what?”
“Rojas. Wilmer Rojas. I don’t know what this is about. The cops showed up, asked to come into my house …” Wilmer was short, with a thick mustache and jet-black hair. He spoke with a slight accent.
“What did they say?”
“They asked me where I was last night, what I was doing.”
“Did you answer them?”
“Yes, at first.” Wilmer held a blue rag in his hands, and he was twisting it nervously. “I had nothing to hide. But then they asked to come in our house, started getting aggressive. My wife called Rosario. You are Lucy’s daughter, the lawyer, right?”
“Yes, but I’m not a criminal lawyer. This looks like a criminal investigation, so you’ll have to find someone with the right background to represent you. But I think you did the right thing. Until we know what this is about, you shouldn’t talk to the police.”
Wilmer looked down at his hands. “I think it is about the judge.”
“What judge?”
“Judge Smith, the county judge. Someone said he is dead. We heard all the sirens last night, even out here.” He looked up at me. “Someone said they found him at the courthouse, but I wasn’t there, I was at my shop …”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “I’m not your lawyer, and anything you say to me will not be privileged.”
He nodded. “Okay.” He looked out the windshield, maybe wondering why I was here if he couldn’t talk to me. I wondered myself. Then he said, “It’s probably what I said to Eric. I told him I wished the judge was dead …”
“Wilmer,” I almost yelled at him. “Don’t tell me anything, okay?”
Through the windshield, I saw officers coming out of Wilmer’s trailer. “Stay here.” I got out and headed for the detective. “Wilmer is revoking any consent to search that you think he might have given you.”
“That I think he might have given us?” He didn’t like my insinuation. “He consented all right.”
“Nonetheless, get your people out of his house now. If you tell us what this is about, maybe we can talk about cooperating.”
We both turned at the sound of a car on the dirt road. It was another police car pulling up. A uniformed officer got out and came toward us. “We got it,” he said to the detective, and handed over some papers.
The detective peeled off a couple of sheets and gave them to me. “This is a warrant to search his house, his truck, and all outbuildings.” I didn’t bother to look. “So we don’t need your consent after all.” He turned and walked toward the trailer.
Rosario had been standing by, listening. “A search warrant? Why would they need that? What do they think he did?”
I skimmed the court order. “Murder.” I glanced back at Wilmer in my truck, watching us. “They think Wilmer murdered someone named Arnold Smith.”
“The judge,” Rosario said. “Judge Smith.” She also glanced at Wilmer. Was she seeing him in a new light, wondering whether her friend was capable of murder? Then Rosario turned to look at the trailer. Standing by the front door was a woman holding a small child. “Anna Maria,” Rosario said, and headed for her.
I went back to my truck and climbed in, a little apprehensive to sit next to a man who might have killed a judge. I handed Wilmer the paperwork. “They got a warrant to search your house, your vehicles, and any outbuildings.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they think you killed Judge Smith.”
“I didn’t.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if that would make it all go away. “How can this happen?”
What could I say? He turned and looked at his trailer, all the cops. The detective walked up to Rosario and the woman I presumed was Wilmer’s wife.
“Can they talk to Anna Maria like that?” Wilmer asked.
“She’s your wife?” I asked, to confirm, and he nodded. “Yeah, they can talk to her,” I said, “but they can’t use anything she says as evidence against you.” The marital privilege rule was something I had never had reason to use in my civil practice, but it could be important here, and I wanted Wilmer to be aware of his rights.
Rosario was getting agitated with the cop. Wilmer said, “I don’t want her to get in trouble.” Things were spinning out of control. I opened the door to go help, but just then the detective turned toward us, so I stopped. We both watched him motion for a uniformed officer to come, and they walked up to Wilmer’s door.
“Open up,” the detective said.
“Just roll down the window,” I said. The truck was old, and it had a hand crank. Wilmer rolled it down partway.
“Mr. Rojas, I would like you to come down to our office and answer some questions.” The detective put his hand on the door and tried to open it. Locked.
Wilmer looked back at me, eyes wide, scared. I still didn’t want to get involved … but I couldn’t just sit there when he didn’t know what to do. I leaned over him and said to the detective, “He’s not going to do that. He is invoking his right to silence.”
“I figured.” The detective looked back at the uniformed officer, who stepped closer. “Mr. Rojas, I need you to step out of the truck. You are under arrest for the murder of Judge Arnold Smith.”
If you’re ready to continue the case, you’ll find The Defense Rests here.