Still trying to find a way to get on the District Attorney’s office, my short unhappy life as a defense attorney continued.  

On a bleak Monday morning in November, the clerk of the Woodlake Justice Court called me at the law office where I was working.  She informed me that Judge Chris White had appointed me to a Kidnapping for Ransom case and I needed to formally accept the appointment.  

I had been a practicing lawyer less than six months.  I did not feel I had the requisite experience to defend a capital case.  I expressed my doubts to her.  She said she would discuss my concerns with the judge and get back to me.  An hour or so later she called back and said the Judge told her to assure me I could handle the case.  I would just be serving as “advisory counsel.”  The accused was representing himself.  I didn’t know what an “advisory counsel was though my instincts were braying “beware!” Rather than betray my ignorance, I accepted the appointment.  Putting down the phone, I hurried over to the law library and pulled some books to find out what an “advisory counsel” was.  Any accused has the constitutional right to represent himself in court proceedings.  My role was to give him guidance in how to handle legal procedures and advice on how to conduct his defense.  Seemed simple enough.  I was soon to find I was in way over my head.

I managed to get the police reports from the D.A.’s office and started reading.  The man I would be counseling turned out to be a leader of a prison gang.  Mexican prison gangs were at the height of their power in California at the time. What most folks didn’t know was the loose border between the claimed Territories of the Mexican Mafia (Surreno/Southern) and Nuestra Familia (Norteno/Northern) prison gangs ran right through the Central Valley.  One result of being in the middle, was that the some of the higher ups in the gangs made homes for their families in the central valley away from the prisons. A few even lived in Tulare County.  Actual violence between the gangs was kept to a minimum because of the presence of families.

Understandably nervous I went to the jail to visit with my new client.  The Sheriff deputies brought him to meet me in the Attorney interview room.  George B. wasn’t a large man, but he was scary.  Soft spoken, but with an unquestioned air of authority, he looked me over, never smiling, and with the understated courtesy of a gentleman who could kill you, asked me to explain what I was doing there.  In court he had informed the Judge he would assert his constitutional right to represent himself and didn’t understand what role I was to play.  I came to realize he had asserted his right to represent himself, because he had learned from the experience of fellow gangsters, there were certain advantages.  It gave a prisoner access to libraries, time to prepare for court, and not the least, subpoena power.  The prisoner could, by issuing a subpoena, have other prisoners from anywhere in the state prison system transported to Tulare County ostensibly to be witnesses in his defense.

Once George B. was satisfied I could be of assistance, he nodded his head and gave me my first assignment.  To help with a subpoena.  It was for a prisoner currently housed at Folsom.  I prepared the paperwork, had him sign it and served it on the Sheriff and the State Officers. They weren’t happy about it, gave me a little flak, but had no choice but to comply.

The “witness” Arthur T. was transported from Folsom to the Tulare County jail within the week. I was to learn he too was considered a “shot caller” in the prison gang. The staff at the jail called my office and informed me my client was demanding a private conference with the newly arrived “witness” and I was required to be there.

When I showed up at the jail, the jailers still resenting my enforcement of the subpoena took a bit of revenge.  They put me in a very small room, about the size of a closet, with no windows,  no table, just three chairs. I was left there with my client and his associate.  And the jailers made a production of locking the door.  The way they clanged it shut and rattled the keys in the lock and stomped off down the hallway, gave me a chill.  

I sat there.  George B. looked at me, then looked over and smiled at Arthur T., who was sneering at my obvious discomfort.  They then began to speak Spanish to each other.  I was thankful.  I didn’t understand a word they were saying. However, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were plotting something.  Someone’s murder?  Mine?  Having grown up in Farmersville, I did my own share of fighting. But these guys were of a different order of magnitude. I felt helpless.  Were they to choose to visit violence on me, I didn’t know what I would do.  Succinctly put, if they wanted to kill me, I would be dead.   I studiously ignored them and pretended to be reading from my file and not hearing anything while they spoke.  

Finally, the meeting was over.  The jailers, intentionally I’m sure, didn’t respond to my knocks on the door for a good fifteen minutes before they let us out.  

I was happy to leave the premises that day.  Didn’t head back to the office.  Went straight home.  A stiff cocktail was needed to reclaim my equilibrium.

I met with my client a couple of more times, thankfully under different circumstances.  Finally, the day of the Preliminary Hearing arrived.  A “prelim” is a probable cause hearing for felony cases.  It is a method to screen cases out of court that should not have been filed in the first place. The burden of proof is low and most defendants are “bound over” for trial in Superior Court. 

I had gotten comfortable with my client and worked with George B. on cross examining the witnesses, basics of evidentiary objections and how to address the witnesses and the court.  I didn’t have that much courtroom experience myself, but had some, had done well in the practical training sessions in Law School, and always had a good feel for court.  George was an intelligent person.  He seemed to understand it all well enough.

The first witness was a young woman who was the girlfriend of the man whom my client (it was alleged) had ordered to be kidnapped for a ransom.  In actuality, the whole thing was over money owed for a drug deal of some sort.  (No, I wasn’t particularly interested in knowing too many details about the transaction.) The reports also had detailed some of the woman’s love interests and sexual escapades, which appeared to be considerable. That information on her sexual exploits wasn’t germane to the investigation.  It was in the reports for no apparent reason other than perhaps some prurient interest of the investigators.  Still, I knew enough to realize it might be a fruitful avenue by which to set up attacks on her credibility, make her life uncomfortable for when the case got to trial months later in Superior Court.  With my client, I had gone over how to bring out the items in the reports in a way that undermined her credibility without provoking the ire of the judge, who had the reputation of being something of a prude.  As to testimony about personal sexual matters, he was notoriously intolerant.  

To my chagrin, the first words out of George B’s mouth when the witness was turned over for cross examination was “How’s your sex life, Lady?”  The judge came unglued and started yelling at my client and glaring at me as if I had been the one who had planned this.  I kept my head buried in my file and remained silent hoping it would blow over.  The judge started in on my client again and stated he didn’t think he was qualified to continue as his own counsel and suggested he sit down and have me handle the cross examination.  

I looked at George B.  He was pale from the verbal lashing of the judge, and he nodded his assent. He was obviously cowed by the Judge’s admonitions.  It surprised me. 

I stood up and took over the cross-examination and handled the rest of the “prelim” without incident.  The evidence was strong.  There had never been a doubt he would be bound over for trial. And he was.  

Before he was loaded on the jail transport, I got the deputies to let me have a private conference with him in an empty office.  I asked him, what had happened.  I had gone over how to do the examination, including writing out questions for him.  He told me something I never forgot.

He said, “You know, I’ve been in court maybe a hundred times.  But there is something about being there with all those suits, the judge and his black robe, the court reporter, the bailiffs with their guns, I just couldn’t think. Gets me all muddled up.”

In prison, in jail, among his peers, he had a palpable sense of authority, but not in a courtroom environment.  There, at least then, the authority lay elsewhere. 

As an attorney it is easy to get used to things.  We sometimes forgot the intimidation of the atmosphere even for the most hardened criminal.  In my career, I prosecuted tough men and women of all types for crimes both venal and unimaginably violent.  And I never forgot that regardless of how nonchalant, defiant and in control they acted, they had a fear of authority. At least in those days they did.

The areas where we, as a society, have ceded lawful authority are many.  In movies, literature, the media, portrayals of the abuse by those in authority are commonplace and accepted as true. Even though they are mostly gross exaggerations of fact, they influence how we conduct our lives. Cracks are made in the foundations of our institutions and proper authority is gradually undermined. Churches, courts, classrooms, even the national borders, have no one with authority to enforce rules.  Retailers no longer have authority to prevent thieves and thugs from blatant theft and robbery. Citizens can no longer move along the city streets or on the trains and subways without fear for there is no longer someone present with the authority to stopped them from being victimized by criminals or crazies. And the last frontier, the authority of parents over their own children is now being questioned.

In my early years as a prosecutor, I did many “ride a’ longs” with police officers.  I found it educational to see what happens in the street.  It gave me a knowledge, a kind of edge in court in how to make a fact pattern real to judge or jury.  Plus, I liked and respected the cops who worked the streets. The had a sense of control about them; they were savvy about those they encountered; they had an unquestioned courage in facing dangerous situations.  

One such encounter I never forgot. I stood next to the hood of our patrol car as the Visalia Police Officer I had been riding with walked alone into the middle of a group of angry men who had gathered to fight each other.  There was something about how he did it. He walked slowly, no weapon drawn, no night stick in his hand, he moved right into the middle and began speaking softly.  By his very presence and the way in which he handled himself, he managed to disperse a group of angry men.  It was only him, his uniform, and his authority.

When we lose that.  We lose a lot.

Courthouse Tales is published Sundays.

The photograph is of the Tulare County Jail where my encounter occurred.

For more writings by Phil Cline, visit philcline.com

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