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  “Clearly,” Alex continued, “it would be impossible for my client to receive a fair trial in Ventura County under these circumstances. On the other hand there have been no such signs of prejudice in Sacramento.”

  Andi was watching Alex as he spoke. Sacramento was eleven percent Black and eighteen percent Hispanic.

  “Any addition to your earlier response Ms Jensen?” asked the judge, looking over at the prosecutor. Sarah Jensen rose, sweeping a strand of her black hair out of her eyes. She paused for a moment, as if trying to assess the judge’s current state of mind. This was a tricky matter, and one so sensitive that the entire outcome of the trial could hinge upon it. What happened here today could render everything that followed largely irrelevant. So the ADA had to pitch it right… just right.

  “My only argument is what I said in response to the defense counsel’s earlier argument, namely that the voir dire should be sufficient to weed out any prejudiced jurors, as long as the panel is large enough. However, I would also point out that defense counsel appears to be trying to relocate the trial to a venue with more favorable demographics.”

  “Are you suggesting that the demographics of Sacramento are likely to be pro-defense” the judge prompted.

  “Not necessarily. But it does have a higher percentage of bla – of Mr. Claymore’s own ethnic group. ”

  Alex knew that the ADA had to chose her words carefully. She wanted to accuse the defense of trying to get more blacks onto the jury, but by opposing it, she was effectively saying that prosecution was going out of its way to prevent that.

  “But there’s nothing constitutionally improper about the demography of Sacramento is there?”

  The judge was smiling as he said this. Sarah Jensen’s embarrassment was palpable

  “I... we.. that is, the prosecution accepts that there is a case for a change of venue. And obviously it should be away from the south and possibly in the Bay area. But Sacramento would not be the best choice”

  Alex saw his opportunity and pounced.

  “If the DA is concerned about the demographics of Sacramento, the defense is quite amenable to a county where the demography is more to their liking, like Santa Clara.”

  Sarah Jensen blushed. They both had the stats in front of them and Sarah knew that while Santa Clara County – Silicon Valley – was 2.7 percent Black and 62 percent white. But many of those white people were working in the computer industry, where there was a high proportion of liberals and libertarians, unlike the traditional conservatives of Simi Valley in Ventura. But Sarah Jensen could hardly use this in her argument.

  “We would prefer San Mateo or Marin County – or even Napa.”

  “What do you say, Mr. Sedaka” asked the judge.

  Alex knew that he had succeeded in the first part of his objective: getting the DA and the judge to accept relocation to the Bay area. Now he had to get the judge to choose the one he wanted. That meant making it look as if he wanted somewhere else.

  “Your Honor, we believe that many of the people who are most prejudiced against my client are actually those who the prosecution seems to think are biased in his favor.”

  “Does that mean you agree to Ms Jensen’s suggestions?”

  “Well we’d prefer San Joaquin or Solano. Maybe Contra Costa.”

  “What about Alameda?” asked the judge. Sarah Jensen looked as if she was about to say something, when Alex spoke up quickly.

  “Side bar Your Honor?”

  The judge agreed. Alex and Sarah approached the bench.

  “Your Honor,” Alex said putting on his most embarrassed tone of voice. “Alameda county is twenty percent Asian. It’s a well-known fact that a lot of Asians are prejudiced against Blacks and this would deny my client a fair trial.”

  “Oh do me a favor!” said Sarah. “There may be some limited residual prejudice against working class blacks. But Claymore is hardly working class. Besides, Mr. Sedaka can use the voir dire to weed out any biased jurors.”

  The judge turned back to Alex.

  “That makes sense doesn’t it?”

  Alex fought hard to maintain a neutral face and shrugged his shoulders.

  “That depends on how reasonable the judge is when it comes to accepting challenges for cause.”

  “Well I have to assume that a brother judge will be reasonable,” said the judge. “And if you think he abused his discretion you can always appeal.”

  Alex used the full range of his acting skills to look like a man who was trapped.

  “There’s also the problem of transportation. My office is in San Francisco and that means I’ll have to cross the Bay Bridge during commuter times.”

  “Yet you were ready for San Joaquin or Contra Costa,” said the judge, sarcastically.

  “Those were second choices,” said Alex feebly. “I still think Sacramento or Santa Clara jury would be more likely to approach this case with open minds.”

  “Well you can file an exception for the record. In the meantime it’s decided. The trial will be transferred to Alameda County.”

  As they returned to their places, Alex continued his struggle to suppress a smile that was just itching to appear on his face.

  Friday, 26 June 2009 – 12:05

  “So what’s this weakness you’ve found in their case?” asked Claymore.

  They were in a meeting room at the Ventura County Pre-Trial Detention Facility, where Elias Claymore was being held. Alex was taking the lead this time, while Andi sat in almost total silence. And he sounded quite enthusiastic.

  “She changed her story… about the attacker’s age.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well initially she told the police that her attacker was in his twenties. They had a photo line-up – they even had a suspect tucked in there with the pictures – but she didn’t chose him.”

  “I don’t understand. When they said she picked me from a photograph, I thought that meant she picked me from a book of mug shots.”

  “No they don’t do that anymore. They discovered a long time ago that after looking at hundreds of pictures, the witness’s vision becomes so blurred, they can’t tell a stranger from their own mother. It actually led to erroneous arrests in the past and also let guilty people slip through the net. They sometimes use an artist’s impression or E-fit picture when they’re planning on asking the public to help find an unknown suspect.

  “But in this case they used mug-shots as a cheap alternative to a line-up if they already had a suspect. It’s called a “photo-lineup.” Instead of hauling in a suspect and risking a civil rights suit, they use photographs of suspects mixed in with pictures of law-abiding citizens matching the description. In fact they can even use out of date pictures. As long as the picture of the suspect is up-to-date and as long as the faces in all the pictures matched the description of the suspect given by the witness, then the identification is valid.”

  “But can they do that without my knowledge? Without an attorney present?”

  “Sure can. US versus Ash, 1973. But we can challenge it before the jury.”

  “But if she told them I was in my twenties, then what picture of me did they put in there? As I am now or when I was in my twenties?”

  “When you were in your twenties?”

  Claymore looked confused.

  “Doesn’t that invalidate the whole thing?”

  “No, you don’t understand, Elias. She didn’t pick anyone.”

  “So what was all that bullshit about her picking me from a photograph?”

  “That was later. After lunch she went back and told them that she’d had second thoughts and that the man who attacked her was older than his twenties.”

  “But I’m fifty eight. How’d she get from twenties to fifty eight?”

  “Good question. I think they were skeptical too, although their reports are written in that terse police language that doesn’t make it obvious what they were thinking. You have to read between the lines.”

  “But I mean what
did she say? Did she just come out with something like ‘he was twice as old as I said at first.’

  Alex handed Claymore a copy of the statements. Claymore picked it up and started reading through it as Alex spoke.

  “She said she now thought that he was in his fifties. But she explained that the reason for the change of heart was because she actually saw him.”

  “What do you mean saw him?”

  “I mean saw you. Not in the flesh, but on the TV. She said she was passing an electronics store and she saw you on a TV screen in the display window. It was your show. And that was when she realized – so she said – that it was you.”

  “But I mean didn’t they notice the age difference. I mean you said that she said. But didn’t they ask her about it. Didn’t they ask her to explain the discrepancy?”

  “They did, but she just said she was mistaken. She claimed that she was under stress. Which is reasonable.”

  “But how can stress make her mistake fifties for twenties?”

  “That’s the question they don’t seem to have asked. Or if they did, they didn’t receive any answer, as far as I can determine. And that’s the question that we’re going to ask if this case gets to trial.”

  “But how come you didn’t notice this before? I thought you were on the ball man.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. It looks like I took my eye off the ball. But you have to understand Elias, I was so pre-occupied by the DNA, I only speed-read her statements. Once I went back over them, it practically jumped out at me. But now that I’m onto it, we have an Achilles heel to attack. But they’re still going to keep hammering home the argument about the DNA.”

  JULY

  Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 12:40

  “The defendant, Elias Claymore is charged with Rape Under section 261 Part a, paragraph 2 of the California Penal Code. How do you Plead Elias Claymore, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

  “Not Guilty”

  Claymore sat down, looking around the courtroom nervously. He had been brought here for the arraignment on the Information – the document filed by the prosecution within 15 days of the preliminary hearing, setting out the details and particulars of the charges. They were in Court 11 of the Rene C. Davidson Courthouse on Fallon Street in Oakland, before Justice Roberts the judge who dealt with the Master Criminal Calendar.

  Alex remained standing.

  “Your Honor at this stage I would like to renew my request for bail in accordance with my written submissions.”

  Sarah Jensen – who had hung on to the case for the time being – rose to reply. But the judge stayed her with a raised hand.

  “I’ve considered your submissions carefully Mr. Sedaka, but I see no reason to re-open the original decision to deny bail. This is truly an exceptional case in every sense of the word, but I am bound to consider the defendant’s past as an escapee and for this reason I cannot grant bail.”

  Alex gritted his teeth. It was particularly hard on Claymore, because he was still being held at the Pre-Trial Detention Facility in Ventura to the Santa Rita Jail in Alameda County. To get to this hearing, he had been driven for six hours – across 375 miles from Ventura – to get here for this ten minute hearing.”

  “In that case, Your Honor, I move that the defendant be transferred to the Santa Ritter jail.

  The Santa Ritter Jail, in Alameda County had been modernized in 1989 and was now classified as a modern “mega-jail” complete with solar panels for power and a system of robotic carts to move food, laundry and garbage. However, despite this, it was heavily over-crowded and quite a violent place. There had been a number of “shank” stabbings there – several of them fatal. But Claymore was equally vulnerable in Ventura and at least in Santa Ritter he would be close to the trial venue… and close to Alex’s office.

  “So ordered. Now, regarding the trial date. Does your client waive the right to a speedy trial?”

  “No Your Honor.”

  The judge peered down at the papers in front of him. If he had granted bail, Claymore would probably have been more amenable to waive his Sixth Amendment rights. But it was understandable, given that Claymore was to be held in custody, that his lawyer wanted the trial to take place as quickly as possible.

  “I see that the Information was filed in Ventura County on the 26th of June. That means the trial must commence by the 25th of August. I also see that there’s a vacant slot on Justice Ellen Wagner’s docket in Court 7 between the August 17th and September 4th. Does that allow enough time for the trial?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Alex, nodding.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Sarah Jensen confirmed.

  “So I’ll assign the case to that slot. Voir dire to commence on the 17th of August.”

  Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 15:15

  Later that day, Elias Claymore was looking around uneasily as he was escorted out of the central block where he had been processed to his assigned block. He had survived at the Ventura pre-trial facility, but this was a new and unfamiliar environment and he would have to go through the process of adapting and acclimatizing all over again.

  As he shuffled along, he was torn between whether to keep his head low and avoid antagonizing anyone, or to hold his head up to show that he wasn’t a natural victim.

  He opted for the latter and was surprised to hear some of his fellow inmates actually cheering him. That was an encouraging sign. But it didn’t alter the fact that prison was prison. He was familiar with it, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. He had never allowed himself to become institutionalized either before his escape or when he came back to serve out his sentence afterwards.

  Since then, his financial success had accustomed in the lap of luxury. But the last month had re-acquainted him with prison and all its horrors. And in many ways this time it was worse. Last time around he had been a hero – at least in the eyes of his brothers. He was the freedom fighter who had stood up to the enemy. But this time he could feel the hostility all around him, and he could count on no one.

  So when he walked now, it was with a sense of alertness and caution.

  He was not looking forward to the trial. Alex was a good lawyer, but the evidence was stacked up against him. Worse still he feared that Alex didn’t believe him. And it was hard to take his mind off the case. If he didn’t think about the future, then all he had left to dwell on was the past. And that was even more painful. For it was not just his childhood that he had to contend with, but also his young adulthood – when he had turned from victim into victimizer.

  He remembered the time he had followed a white woman home at the start of his campaign of vengeance and then forced his way into her house, smashing open the French windows from the garden to get at her. She had screamed as he approached her but he clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. He then threw her onto the sofa and ripped her clothes off her. And as she begged and pleaded, he raped her.

  But he didn’t hear her cries. He heard only those of his mother – those of his memory. But even those cries were drowned out by something else. In his mind he heard the smug voices of the callers to the talk radio station, who phoned in when they were discussing the rape of his mother. They came on the air one after another to say that the “black woman” was “lying” and that she was “probably just a hooker who didn’t get paid.” He was seeing the skeptical looks on the faces of the people on the TV show as some long-winded liberal lawyer tried to defend his mother’s reputation – not attacking the white “pigs” who raped her, just defending her reputation, but failing. And he remembered that the slanderous comments about his mother came from white women as well as men, speaking in their smug, sanctimonious middle glass accents about they “felt sorry” for this woman, but she “only had herself to blame.”

  It had been incomprehensible to him. His mother had been raped before his very eyes, but whenever people discussed the case, those who claimed to speak for his mother were on the defensive, while the viciousness of the fascist pigs was never even talk
ed about. His mother had complained to the police. But after his uncle had been beaten up and arrested on trumped-up drugs charges, she withdrew the complaint. It never even got to court.

  That was white man’s justice – and white woman’s.

  So when he raped white women as a “revolutionary act,” the pangs of guilt were numbed by the pain of anger.

  His thoughts were truncated by large shadow in front of him and a sharp pain in his abdomen. He looked up to see a man in front of him. But in seconds the man was gone. Then he felt something wet against his flesh and he looked down to see blood accumulating on his torso.

  Wednesday, 15 July 2009 – 16:30

  While Andi sat in lounge at San Francisco International Airport waiting for her flight, she decided to check her eMail on her BlackBerry. Most of the messages were routine and work-related, but one of them gave her pause even before she read it. The reason it leapt out at her was because of the sender’s name: Lannosea.

  What was it this time?

  Andi moved the pointer to the message and then clicked. The message read:

  You are playing with fire by helping that rapist nigger and that blackmailing sleaze-ball lawyer of his. If you had any guts – which you obviously don’t - you’d have told that slimy Sherman and that hypocrite Sedaka to fuck off when they badgered you into helping him. Instead you just lay down and spread you legs – figuratively speaking. I guess that makes you a rape victim too – or maybe just a whore!

  Lannosea

  A mixture of fear and revulsion broke out inside Andi as she starred at the message. Who was sending these messages?

  She logged onto the Internet and quickly looked up Lannosea on Wikipedia.

  Nothing.

  She did a general search for the name but only found three listings. Two were flagged by warnings that they were dangerous websites that might contain spyware. The third was one of those question-and-answer websites and all it said was that Lannosea was one of the daughters of the ancient English queen Boudicca or Bodecea.