Free Night Is the Hunter by Steven Gore Page A

murder. The Sureños wanted Edgar Rojo Senior dead. Israel Dominguez wanted the Sureño brand and killing Rojo was his ticket. That was the prosecution’s theory of the case and that was the testimony they produced. Pretending otherwise would’ve torpedoed Dominguez for sure.”
    Ordloff turned toward Donnally.
    â€œArguing second-degree murder was our only hope. We had to attack their informants as liars who cut deals to get out of jail or stay out of jail by testifying the crime was a gang executionand at the same time give the jury something to latch onto, something they could convict Dominguez of that would keep him off death row.”
    Ordloff held up his conference binder.
    â€œThe first thing they teach you in these seminars, and I’ve been coming here for decades, is that if you claim innocence in the guilt phase of the trial, the jury will hammer you in the penalty phase. Hammer you. A defendant can’t claim he didn’t do it, then do a one-eighty and say he committed the crime because of abuse he suffered as a child and express remorse and expect the jury to believe him and show mercy.”
    That had been Judge McMullin’s argument, but now there seemed something wrong with it. Why couldn’t the defendant still claim innocence and ask the jury to let him live so he has a chance to prove it? Jurors knew about convicts who were later freed by DNA evidence and by confessions from the real perpetrators.
    Donnally pointed at the binder. “What about what they call lingering doubt? When a jury isn’t really positive about guilt and decides it’s better to keep the defendant alive just in case.”
    â€œYou’re still not listening to me. There . . . was . . . no . . . doubt left lingering.”
    Ordloff threw up his arms.
    â€œWhat was I supposed say to the jury? I know you found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, but you were wrong, you really had a doubt and you lied to the court in your verdict?”
    Ordloff stood there, hands raised like a tent preacher or the crucified Christ, until the absurdity of the gesture was revealed to him in the averted gazes of a young couple walking on the path behindthem. He lowered his arms, looked down at the binder, gripped it like a Frisbee, and tossed it toward the just-risen moon on the horizon. It spun in flight, disklike, then opened and dropped, flailing like a buckshot pheasant into the kelp-carpeted sea.
    â€œThat stuff is useless,” Ordloff said, staring at it.
    â€œThen why do you come down here?”
    â€œWhy do you think? The bar association makes us take continuing education courses. And this way I can stay drunk for three straight days and still get credit.”
    Ordloff pointed back toward the yellow lights of the conference grounds, now muted by a wispy fog skimming the water toward them. The stars above still shined bright and clear.
    â€œThe only thing . . . the only thing . . . you learn down here is how to protect yourself from your former clients and from the appeals and habeas corpus lawyers that sniff over the carcass of your work.”
    â€œYou make it seem like all that moves these trial lawyers is money and fear.”
    â€œYou got that right, pal. The twin sisters of human motivation.”
    â€œWhat about justice?”
    Ordloff paused, staring at Donnally, then snorted. “I don’t think you’ve understood a single thing I’ve said.” He jabbed a forefinger at Donnally’s chest. “You brain dead or something? It’s not all that complicated.”
    Donnally took in a breath and felt his stomach tense. The flailing lawyer had nailed him in the gut with an inadvertent strike. There were few things Donnally knew about Alzheimer’s, but one of them was that it was genetic. In his preoccupation with his father and McMullin, he now realized he might not have heardthe starting pistol shot announcing the beginning of his own descent toward