Paradise Interrupted
PARADISE INTERRUPTED
A Carole Ann Gibson Mystery
By
Penny Mickelbury
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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CHAPTER ONE
As judges went, Esteban Villa de los Campos was considerably better than the worst of them, and in the same league, if, perhaps, at a lower rung, than the best of what the bench had to offer. What set him apart most strikingly from the other judges was that he was brash, fearless, and willing to intimidate and threaten—witnesses and lawyers alike—when it suited his purposes. Not many lawyers would enumerate those qualities as ones to admire in a judge, but then, Carole Ann Gibson reminded herself, she was as different from most lawyers as Steve Campos was from most judges. And the truth of the matter was that qualities such as intellectualism and scholarship and erudition more often were feigned than achieved anyway. Besides, there wasn’t much call for scholarship and erudition in D.C. Superior Court, and DCSC is where Steve Campos reigned.
Carole Ann was only marginally interested in what was going on in the courtroom. She was a criminal defense attorney by profession but earned her living these days as a partner in a lucrative international security consulting firm. She practiced law occasionally—to keep her hand in, as her business partner Jake Graham liked to phrase it—and because, only occasionally, she missed it. Her presence this day in Steve Campos’s courtroom was on behalf of an accountant accused of helping the owner of a chain of high-end jewelry stores, who also happened to be a major importer of cocaine, launder millions of dollars in drug money. Her client, the accountant, hadn’t known about the drugs and she was looking forward to the challenge of proving that at trial. Today was a status call that would take all of five minutes when her case got called. She glanced at her watch and wondered whether she’d be on time for her one o’clock lunch meeting.
As usual, D.C.Superior Court was overburdened. Judge Campos plowed through the packed docket as rapidly as humanly—and legally—possible, with his usual blend of temerity and theatrics, along with a display of his legendary temper: A defense attorney called him ‘Judge Campus.’ The judge whipped off his glasses and glared down at the harried lawyer. “If you can’t read, Mister, and if you can’t speak even ghetto Spanish, then at least have enough sense to ask my clerk how to say Campos. It’s not nearly as tough as Esteban.” The lawyer wilted like an orchid in the sun and the judge, still glaring, smacked his glasses back on his face.
He dispatched half a dozen cases with his usual mixture of impatience and sympathy for the often unprepared and over-worked civil service barristers, a lack of sympathy for the career criminal, and compassion for the woman or man overwhelmed by the exigencies of life in a city like Washington, all with an over-lay of easy, if ironic, humor.
Then came District of Columbia v. Denis St. Almain. She watched with heightened interest, first as Fritz Barber strode through the gate to the defense table, and then as a manacled Denis St. Almain was led into the courtroom from the almost invisible door behind the judge’s bench.
He was a very small man, though nobody with common sense or eyesight would make the mistake of thinking him frail; and as he drew closer, Carole Ann found herself slightly surprised to note that he was probably in his early thirties. Most drug dealers were younger simply because few lived to become thirty-something, and Denis St. Almain was one of the most discussed drug dealers in town. As infamous as his high-priced attorney, and every bit as regal in his bearing, he
finally reached the defense table. There was no word or other sign of acknowledgment between counsel and client. St. Almain stood erect and silent beside Fritz Barber who towered over him.
“I have several motions, Judge,” Barber began as soon as his client was beside him.
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Barber, and I’m just as sure that I don’t want to hear any of them because I’m also sure that I’ve heard them all before. Am I correct?”
“That’s not the point, Judge. The point is I have a right to make them.”
“And I have a right to dismiss them, which I’m doing if they’re the same ones you’ve been re-phrasing and re-introducing for the last month and a half. I’m setting a trial date for Mr. St. Almain of—”
Barber interrupted. “I think you owe it to my client, Judge, to at least hear the reason for my bail reduction motion.”
“If you interrupt me again, Mr. Barber, you’ll spend the next twenty-four hours in the cell with your client. And there is no reason compelling enough for me to reduce this defendant’s bail, given the government’s evidence.”
“Quel dommage. You are making a very grave error, Sir.” Denis St. Almain’s words were spoken loudly enough to be heard throughout the courtroom though he had not yelled or screamed; and despite the implied threat of the words, there was an eerie lack of passion contained in them. In fact, the tone almost was sorrowful. But the words sparked the crowd. Several voices called out in anger, in English and in French, and a woman wept and moaned and cried out. St. Almain’s head whipped around. His eyes, searchlights, roamed the crowd and stopped. “Be quiet, Maman. Do not beg him for mercy. You disgrace yourself and me.”
“Sit down and shut up, Mr. St. Almain!” Judge Campos called out in a voice that would have been heard down the hallway had the courtroom door been open, pounding his flat hand on the table instead of wielding the gavel, and making a much more impressive sound. “And everybody related to Mr. St. Almain sit down and shut up! And I’ll say that for you in Spanish in case you didn’t understand my English. And do not get up or speak up again, any of you, because if you do, you all will spend the next twenty-four hours in jail, and that goes for you, too, Mr. Barber.”
Fritz Barber popped up like toast, his face alive with wild-eyed disbelief that turned quickly to barely suppressed anger.
“You’d better sit down, Mr. Barber, and remain seated until I give you leave to rise. This is my courtroom and I’m in charge and in here, we do it my way. Kinda like the Army. But then,” and he paused dramatically and looked out over the courtroom, eyes traveling from side to side, front to back, and coming to rest on defense attorney Fritz Barber. “I don’t imagine anybody in here has any first hand familiarity with the Army.”
The bailiff lifted his head and squared his shoulders and the movement captured judicial attention. “Duly noted, Mr. Bailiff,” the judge said with a tinge of honest reverence, before returning his attention to the defense table. “I hold you responsible for your client, Mr. Barber, for his behavior, and for the behavior of his entourage.”
Barber was half-way up before he remembered the judge’s order, and he eased back down, the veins in the backs of his hands protruding as he gripped the arms of his chair, and he lowered his head. Next to him, Denis St. Almain defiantly raised his and glared up at the judge, who returned the glare.
“All of your otions are denied, Mr. Barber. Your bond remains at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Mr. St. Almain, and your trial—”
“You’re dead, mother fucker!”
The threat came from one of the dozen or so spectators seated behind the defense bench and Denis St. Almain turned his head slightly to seek its source. Carole Ann was surprised by what she saw in
his face: Dismay and anger. She quickly shifted her glance from him to the bench.
Steve Campos stood up. He was not a large man—five nine or ten and wiry—but in that moment, his anger was enormous and he seemed swollen with it. His dark eyes flashed and the muscles in his jaws worked. He pointed at the spectator who had yelled the threat and at that moment, four bailiffs rushed into the courtroom from the door adjacent to the judge’s bench.
“You,” he thundered, still pointing at the offender, “are going to jail. It is a federal offense to threaten a sitting judge and I will be filing charges against you.”
Pandemonium erupted. While two of the bailiffs subdued and handcuffed the spectator who had threatened Campos, the other two grabbed St. Almain and began moving him toward the prisoners’ door. The judge’s bailiff drew his gun and ran up the stairs to the bench and placed himself before Campos. Half a dozen other bailiffs and several D.C. cops rushed into the room, the bailiffs from the court officials’ entrance, the cops from the public entrance. Those present who were not associated with the St. Almain case moved away from the scuffle, together, in a bunch, and clustered behind the defense railing. Carole Ann already was sitting in that front row with her client and she remained seated. And she remained calm, despite the commotion, until Denis St. Almain’s final and barely audible words as he exited the courtroom: “You are making a very grave error, Sir, and I hope it is a result of ignorance and not arrogance.”
The words were spoken in perfect, elegant French, not the patois of the uneducated immigrant that Carole Ann would have expected, and she found herself momentarily unnerved, both by St. Almain and by her thought that whoever—whatever—he was, he was no low-life, low level drug dealer. She watched Fritz Barber stride down the aisle toward the exit, head elevated, eyes straight ahead, seeing no one, and found herself relieved that Denis St. Almain was his problem and not her own.
Judge Campos remained standing until the courtroom was cleared and order restored. Then he straightened his robe, ran is hands through his thick black and silver hair, and sat, his face as calm and collected as if there had been no disturbance; as if he either hadn’t heard St. Almain’s parting words, or, more likely Carole Ann realized, hadn’t understood them. He wrote furiously for several moments before closing a folder and passing it to his clerk. Then he opened another folder. “Call the next matter, Madam Clerk.”
“District of Columbia v. Sirhan Ramsharam, Docket number 55732001.”
Carole Ann stood, looped her purse over her shoulder, picked up her briefcase, and sauntered toward the gate of the railing, Sirhan Ramsharam close behind her. She met assistant Corporation Counsel Edgar Van Buren at the gate and nodded as he stepped aside to allow her to precede him. She smiled at the bailiff as he opened the gate for her, and thanked him.
“Carole Ann Gibson for Mr. Ramsharam, Judge Campos,” she said, dropping her belongings on the table and facing the bench. “Good morning, Sir.” Denis St. Almain was gone from her thoughts. Nothing but the welfare of her client occupied her mind.
A wide grin spread across Campos’ bronze face, exposing a gap between his front teeth that made him appear mischievous and not in the least threatening. “What’s happenin’ Homey?” he queried with glee. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence. Don’t know why you’ve stayed away so long.”
She laughed out loud. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Judge Campos.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the judges. So, tell me the truth, Miss Gibson. You do miss the practice of criminal law, don’t you?”
“I miss the opportunity for such stimulating exchange with a wit such as your own, Your Honor.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. Then, a smile still lifting the corners of his mouth, he turned toward the city’s lawyer, the Corporation Counsel who was Carole Ann’s opponent in this case, a harried-looking man in his fifties, as over-worked as every public servant everywhere and obviously not pleased by the exchange of cordiality bordering on familiarity between the judge and defense counsel. “And good morning to you, Mr. Van Buren. What can I do for you today, Sir?”
“Edgar Van Buren for the Government of the District of Columbia, Judge. ‘Morning. Ah, Your Honor—” He opened and began paging through a thick sheaf of file folders.
“Don’t have all day, Mr. Van Buren,” Campos intoned. “How ‘bout I help you out? You no doubt want to respond to that bunch of motions offered by Miss Gibson. I’m giving her way on the first three, you win on the next two, and I’m splitting the difference on the last. Mr. Ramsharam can stay out on PR, Miss Gibson, but I do take seriously the possibility that he could choose to return to his native land and therefore will revoke his passport as you requested, Mr. Van Buren. You will remain in lock-up, Mr. Ramsharam, until someone brings your passport here to me.” He shuffled some papers and wrote on one of them. Then, “Trial is set for six weeks from today, nine o’clock a.m. Anybody got anything to say?”
“If Your Honor please,” Carole Ann began, but was swiftly cut off before she could get any further.
“If you’re about to argue with me, Miss Gibson, or object, don’t. I’m not in the mood. Your client has both the means and the motivation to seek refuge on the other side of the ocean. Let’s not make a criminal out of an obviously honest man whose only mistake so far seems to be his willingness to do as he’s told.”
She stifled both a grin and a groan, lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug, and picked up her purse. “Yes, Sir, Judge. Thank you, Sir. See you in six weeks.”
Jake laughed with her when Carole Ann recounted the morning’s events for him, and then he quieted and his eyes narrowed, and she knew he was looking back into his memory to the time when he was considered an expert witness. “I’ve tangled with Campos once or twice,” he said in a musing tone, proving her correct. “He’s a good judge. Sounds like he’s smoothed out a lot of those rough edges that used to piss people off.”
“You consider this morning’s performance smooth?”
“Hell, yeah! Six or seven years ago if anybody had called him a mother fucker, he’d have been down off the bench into the well. You can take the boy outta the barrio, but the barrio will live forever in the boy, black robe or not.”
“He looked as if only the exercise of the strongest will power kept him out of the well this morning.”
“Wish we had more judges like him. Damn court system’s a mess.”
She held up a hand to halt his tirade before he got it fully cranked up. As close as they were as friends and business partners, the legal gulf that separated them never narrowed. Carole Ann Gibson was a criminal defense attorney and Jacob Graham was a homicide detective. No matter that she no longer practiced law daily. No matter that he no longer was a D.C. cop. No matter that they owned and operated a fast-growing security company with a West Coast office and international clients. They had spent too many years of their lives representing opposite and opposing sides of the law to easily relinquish their positions or the beliefs that buttressed those positions.
“The Court system is in better shape today than it’s been in years, Jake. There’s been a complete overhaul of the administrative operation and there are half a dozen new judges who are having a real impact.” And she listed them by name and profession: Two former defense attorneys, two former prosecutors, and two former law school professors.
“A good lawyer doesn’t always make a good judge, C.A., you know that, any more than a smart judge is always a good judge. Big damn difference between what’s in the text book and what’s alive in the real world. Your problem is you’ve been spending too much time in courtrooms these days, and not enough time out in the real world. A good under-cover job is what you need.”
She snorted and in imitation of him, muttered something that sounded a lot like cussing. “You know where you can stuff undercover, and I’m not due back in a courtroom for six weeks. Not until Mr. Ramsharam’s trial.”
“You’re finished in Montgomery County?”
“Yes, thank the Lord, as of yesterday. I wish we’d never gotten involved in that one.”
“Oh, don’t start, C.A. We gotta take the bad with the good. That case was a pain in the ass, but it paid well.”
She wagged a finger at him. “You’ve got to get your sights off that bottom, line, Jake.”
“So you keep telling me,” he replied with a snort of his own, and he leaned back in his chair, interlocked his fingers behind his head, making wings of his elbows, and propped his feet on the desk. “But I know better than to listen to you.”
She got up from the table went to stand before the wall of windows that was like the one in her own office. She looked out at the D.C. summer, and when it was hot in Washington, one literally could see it: The heat rising from the concrete shimmered and the haze hung low in the sky. Carole Ann had lived in Washington for almost twenty years, and every summer she threatened to leave, to move to a more hospitable climate, for Washington, D.C. was the south and it behaved like the south during the summer months.
“You’ve heard of Denis St. Almain, haven’t you?”
He groaned. “You feeling sympathy pains for the drug dealer or jealousy because you’re not his lawyer?”
She shook her head emphatically. “I wouldn’t trade places with Fritz Barber for all the good beer in Louisiana. I told you, Jake, I don’t miss that aspect of my former life at all. I can’t help wondering, though, who this guy is.”
“What’s wrong with you, C.A.?” His irritation caused him to drop his feet to the floor with a loud thud and sit up straight. “What’s to wonder? He’s a punk and a dealer and general all-around ass hole. That’s who he is, and that makes him just like all the rest of ‘em.”
“But that’s my point, Jake.” She turned away from the window and toward him. “He’s not like the rest of them. You should have seen him, should have heard him. That was University French he was speaking.”
“Then who do you think he is, C.A.? Charles DeGaulle?”