Why I Don’t Trust Prosecutors (Part 3)
The Testimony of Spooky Brown, Esq. (First Series)
For Part 1, click here. For Part 2, click here.
(Part 3 of 4)*
Who’s Cross-Examining the Witness?
“Fucking motherfuckers,” I murmured to myself, shaking my head as I looked at the photo more closely.
In my hands, I had proof that the officers framed Byron.
In their story, Officers Alpha and Beta said they’d found the gun underneath the couch where Byron slept. They said that there was at least eight inches of space between the floor and the base of the couch. Officer Beta said he’d placed his hand in that space and found the gun and some bullets in a cardboard shoebox.
From the photo, however, I could clearly see that the couch rested entirely on the floor, leaving absolutely no such room. In other words, the gun couldn’t have been found beneath the couch as the officers had said.
I was floored. I was mostly mad at myself for not following my gut. I immediately asked the court for a brief recess. The judge, anxious to get the trial started, gave me only five minutes.
I called Officer Alpha from my cell phone. Although I hated his guts for lying to me, I calmly asked him to tell me, one more time, where they found the gun. I wanted to box him in, leaving no room for escape. Officer Alpha repeated the story he’d told me previously. I asked him how big the gap was between the couch and the floor. He told me it was about eight inches, give or take. I asked him if he was 100% certain, giving him one last chance. Without hesitation, he said, “100 percent, brotha.”
Waiting a beat, I told him that I was looking at a photo of the couch. “It. Has. No. Space.” I heard five seconds of silence followed by, “Hmmmmmm.”
“You lyin’ asshole,” I thought.
“We have to make sure that we get our stories straight,” Officer Alpha finally said. “I’m gonna talk to Officer Beta and let him know since he was the one who found the — ”
I hung up the phone, not wanting to hear another word.
I rushed over to my boss’ office and enthusiastically explained the situation. When I was finished, I expected him to congratulate me for a job well done and praise me for bringing forth the evidence that exonerated Byron. I looked forward to hearing him curse out the cops for trying to fuck up a young man’s life. I was expecting a response that was synonymous with justice.
“Will Byron take a misdemeanor with probation and no further jail time?” he asked.
I sank into my chair and frowned. “Really?”
Slowly, I stood up, looking my boss in the eyes, “What’s the point of making him plead if the officers lied?”
His goal, he told me, was to “keep Byron from suing the officers in civil court.”
I shook my head and said firmly, “We must dismiss this case.”
After a few seconds of contemplation, my boss replied in a firmer tone, “Fine. We will dismiss this case, but without prejudice. That way, we could threaten to refile if he decides to sue the officers.” My boss closed the case file and handed it back to me.
“And the officers?” I asked.
Without looking up, my boss said, “Let their Internal Affairs handle it.”
His tone told me he’d pull me off the case if I said one more word. I held my tongue because I didn’t think another prosecutor would be courageous enough to do the right thing.
So, I took the file and left his office.
*The opinions here do not reflect the official views of the L.A. District Attorney’s Office, my current employer. To avoid fierce harassment and oppressive retaliation, I’ve decided to conceal my identity, for now.
