His next move was to file a habeas corpus petition in U.S. District Court seeking postconviction relief, a long-shot move to vacate his sentence. This was like shooting a three at the buzzer. The motion would be his last shot at a new trial unless startling new evidence was brought forward.
“What about a twenty-two fifty-five?” I asked, using the U.S. Code designation for a habeas petition.
“Yep,” Aronson said. “He went with ineffective assistance of counsel—claiming his guy never negotiated a plea agreement—and got blown out on that as well.”
“Who was the trial attorney?”
“Somebody named Daniel Daly. You know him?”
“Yeah, I know him, but he’s a federal court guy and I try to stay clear of the fed. I haven’t seen him work but from what I’ve heard, he’s one of the go-to guys over there.”
I actually knew Daly from Four Green Fields, where we both stopped in on Fridays for end-of-the-week martinis.
“Well, there wasn’t much he or anybody could do with Moya,” Jennifer said. “He went down hard and stayed down. And now he’s seven years into a life sentence and not going anywhere.”
“Where is he?”
“Victorville.”
The Federal Correctional Institution at Victorville was eighty miles north and located at the edge of an air force base in the desert. It was not a good place to spend the rest of your life. It was said up there that if the desert winds didn’t dry you up and blow you away, then the constant earthshaking sonic booms of the air force jets overhead would drive you crazy. I was contemplating this when Aronson spoke again.
“I guess the feds really don’t fool around,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“You know, a life sentence for two ounces of blow. Pretty harsh.”
“Yeah, they’re harsh all the way around on sentencing. Which is why I don’t do federal defense. Don’t like telling clients to abandon all hope. Don’t like working out a deal with the prosecution only to have the judge ignore it and drop the hammer on my guy.”
“That happens?”
“Too often. I had a guy once . . . uh, forget it, never mind. It’s history and I don’t want to dwell on it.”
What I did dwell on was Hector Arrande Moya and how a slick deal I made for a client ultimately landed him in Victorville with a life sentence. I hadn’t even really bothered to track the case after making the deal with a deputy DA named Leslie Faire. To me it was just another day in the salt mine. A quick courthouse deal; a hotel name and room number in exchange for a deferral of charges against my client. Gloria Dayton went into a drug rehab program instead of jail and Hector Arrande Moya went off to federal prison forever—and without knowing who or where the tip to the authorities had come from.
Or had he?
Seven years had gone by. It seemed beyond the realm of possibility to consider that Moya had reached out from federal prison to exact vengeance on Gloria Dayton. But no matter how farfetched the idea, it might be useful in the defense of Andre La Cosse. My job would be to make the jury second-guess the prosecution. To make at least one of the gods of guilt think for himself or herself and say, Hey, wait a minute, what about this guy up there in the desert, rotting in prison because of this woman? Maybe . . .
“Did you see any hearings in the docket on a motion to produce a witness or a motion to suppress based on lack of probable cause? Anything like that?”
“Yes, that was part of the first appeal on court error. The judge refused a motion to produce any confidential informants in the case.”
“He was fishing. There was only one CI and that was Gloria. What about anything on the docket that is under seal? Did you see anything like that?”
Judges usually sealed records pertaining to confidential informants but the documents themselves were often referenced by number or code on PACER so at least one knew that such records existed.
“No,” Jennifer said. “Just the PSR.”
The presentencing report on Moya. Those were always kept under seal as well. I thought about things for a moment.
“Okay, I don’t want to drop this. I want to see the transcript of that battle over confidential informants and probable cause. You are going to have to go to Pasadena and pull hard files. Who knows? Maybe we get lucky and there is something in there we can use. The DEA or FBI had to testify at some point about how they got to that hotel and to that room. I want to know what they said.”
“You think Gloria’s name could have been revealed?”
“That would be too easy and too careless. But if there is a reference to a specific CI we might have something to work with. Also, ask for the PSR. Maybe after seven years they might let you have a look at it.”
“That’s a long shot. Those are supposed to stay sealed forever.”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”
“Well, I can head to Pasadena right now. I’ll get back to these Gloria files later.”
“No, Pasadena can wait. I want you to go downtown instead. Are you still up for sitting in for me on the Deirdre Ramsey case?”
“Absolutely!”
She practically jumped through the phone.
“Don’t get too excited,” I quickly counseled. “Like I said this morning, the case is a dog. You just have to ask the judge for a little bit more time and patience. Tell him we know it’s an STD case and we are close to convincing Deirdre that it’s in her very best interest to take the state’s offer and get this behind her. And you have to persuade Shelly Albert, the prosecutor, to keep the offer on the table another couple of weeks. That’s it, just another couple weeks is all, okay?”
The offer was for Ramsey to plead to aiding and abetting and to testify against her boyfriend and his partner in the robbery. In exchange she’d get a three-to five-year sentence. With gain time and time already served she’d be out in a year.
“I can do that,” Jennifer said. “But I’ll probably skip the syph reference, if you don’t mind.”
“What?”
“Syphilis. You called it an STD case. Sexually transmitted disease?”
I smiled and looked out the window. We were cruising through Hancock Park. It was all big houses, big lawns, and tall hedges.
“Jennifer, I didn’t mean that. STD is shorthand from my days at the public defender’s. It means straight to disposition. When I was with the PD twenty years ago, that’s how we divided our caseloads. STDs and STTs—straight to dispo or straight to trial. Maybe now they call them STPs—straight to plea—to avoid confusion.”
“Oh, well, now I’m embarrassed.”
“Not as much as you’d be if you’d said to Judge Companioni that the case has syphilis.”
We both laughed at that. Jennifer had one of the brightest and hungriest legal minds I had ever encountered but she was still gaining practical experience and learning the routine and language of the criminal beat. I knew that if she stuck with it, she would eventually become the state’s worst nightmare when she walked into court.