The Inmate
Jose “Bull” Lopez has served twelve years of a life sentence for a murder he claims he didn’t commit. The trial evidence all seems to point to Lopez’s guilt, but attorney Lucius White is sure that there is more to the story than what appears in the record.
The murder of Lopez’ trial attorney with the gun that was supposedly used by Lopez raised new questions about his guilt
White succeeds in getting Lopez a new trial, but somebody wants Lopez kept in prison – and is willing to kill to make sure it happens.
As White investigates his client’s case, he ventures into the violent world of motorcycle gangs and drug and gun dealers – all of whom have interests in keeping Lopez in prison. Witnesses who are ready to testify for Lopez at his retrial are being murdered and White life is threatened.
White ultimately faces off against the government in a life-or-death trial that tests all of his legal skills.
SAMPLE CHAPTER
Security in the E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse, home of the U.S. District Court for Washington D.C., was at its highest level. Threats made against the life of the judge and anyone connected to the trial of Jose “Bull” Lopez required it.
The trial had concluded a month before with the verdict that Lopez was guilty of first-degree murder in the killing of U.S. Park Service officer Richard Maynard. Now it was time for the judge to pronounce Lopez’s sentence. The government sought the death penalty. The defense argued for twenty-five years to life in prison.
Lopez was led into the courtroom by two prison guards whose guns were drawn and held at their sides. Lopez wore the tangerine jumpsuit worn by all prisoners in the federal detention facility in Washington. As he shuffled across the well of the courtroom, his chains and ankle shackles clanged together, but the sound could not be heard over the bedlam emanating from the mass of spectators.
Half the gallery was occupied by Lopez’s supporters wearing black leather jackets adorned the colors of the Lords of Chaos motorcycle gang or “club” as it euphemistically called itself. They were a motley assembly reminiscent of the long-haired, drug-addled freaks of the 1960s except they had much bigger beer guts and were far more dangerous. Some of them cheered for their leader. Others booed and shouted profanities at the court staff as they gave vent to their feelings about the judicial system in general and assailed the parentage of the judge in particular.
The judge, flanked by two more armed guards, pounded his gavel and repeatedly shouted, “Order. Order in the courtroom.” The cacophony arising from the spectators drowned out his words, and his continued calls for order went unheeded.
After a minute of continued pandemonium, the judge’s stern face grew taut and edged toward the color of boiled ham as he leaped up from his chair and shouted. “If the spectators can’t control themselves, I’ll clear the courtroom.”
The continuing shouts from the crowd drowned out the judge’s warning. After several more poundings of his gavel had no effect, the judge stood and shouted, “Guards.”
A phalanx of six additional armed guards dressed in riot gear rushed into the courtroom and toward the gallery. Immediately, the boisterous onlookers began to quiet and slowly, but with unmistakably defiant reluctance, returned to their seats. Most of them continued to express their feelings with a variety of obscene gestures – one-finger salutes and hands grasping the biceps of bent arms.
The judge returned to his maroon leather high-backed chair and swiveled to face Lopez.
Lopez’s body quivered as another burst of adrenaline coursed through him. What the judge said next would determine how he spent the rest of his life and whether he would even have a chance to live it out.
“Does the Defendant have anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”
Lopez’s attorney, seated by his side, gripped his arm and whispered, “Don’t say anything. You’ll just piss off the judge.”
Lopez shook his head violently as he ripped his arm out of his attorney’s grasp. He was sure the judge had decided what his sentence would be, and nothing he could do or say would change anything.
Together, Lopez and his attorney stood. “Your Honor,” his attorney said. “Against my advice, my client wants to make a statement.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed as he scowled at Lopez. “Go ahead,” he said. His tone, harsh and brusque, made it clear he had no desire to hear anything from the defendant and resented being obligated to let Lopez speak
Lopez turned his head toward the prosecutor and stared at him defiantly before facing the judge. “This whole fucking trial was bull shit.” His shackles rattled as he strained to add motion to his words.
The guards standing behind Lopez moved closer in anticipation of the judge’s instructions to silence Lopez. The judge’s face hardened, and the veins in his neck stood out but, with a flip of his hand, he waived the guards back.
“I didn’t do a damn thing, and I sure as hell didn’t murder no one.” Lopez’s face grew flush, and all the muscles in his neck bulged. “This trial was a sham, and everybody knows it.”
The members of Lopez’s gang shouted their agreement with his statement and support for their leader.
The judge stood and hammered on the desk with his gavel. “Order! Order in the court! The court will not tolerate this kind of behavior or language.”
The guards moved forward in anticipation of the judge’s order to clear the courtroom.
Slowly, the room quieted as those in the gallery begrudgingly returned to their seats.
The judge’s nostrils flared, and his lips hinted at the beginnings of a sneer. “Are you quite through?”
“I’m never going to be through, but you’ve already made up your mind. You’re not going to listen to anything I have to say anyway.”
“You had your chance to speak at your trial. You waived your opportunity when you chose not to testify in your defense.”
“I didn’t choose anything. My so-called lawyer wouldn’t let me.”
A smattering of “boos” came from the gallery.
“Are you quite finished?” the judge said. His inpatient tone made it clear that he had heard all he was willing to listen to.
“Yeah. I’m through, for all the good it’s gonna do.”
A guard gripped Lopez by the shoulder and forced him onto his chair.
The judge eyed Lopez warily for several seconds before returning to his seat and shifting his eyes on Lopez’s attorney. “Counselor?”
The attorney shook his head. “Nothing else.”
The judge pulled his chair closer to his desk, put on his wire-rimmed reading glasses and opened a file on the desk in front of him.
“Mr. Lopez, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree for the killing of a federal law enforcement officer. I’ve heard all the testimony at your trial and your sentencing hearing and have read your pre-sentencing report. If it were up to me, I would accept the argument of the government and impose the death penalty. However, the jury has, for whatever reason, recommended life in prison. Whether I do or don’t agree with their recommendation, which I do not, is irrelevant. The jury has spoken, and I feel duty bound to give due consideration to their judgment. Accordingly, you are hereby sentenced to a term of life imprisonment, without the possibility of parole, to be served at a facility to be determined by the Department of Corrections.
“Court is adjourned. Guards, take the prisoner out of my sight.”