Free Sullivan's Justice by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg Page B

bench-press two hundred pounds. “Open the damn door.”
    The smell of human waste was sickening. He checked the chair before he sat down to make certain Moreno hadn’t defecated on it, then pulled a silver microrecorder out of his pocket. Placing it in the center of the table, he depressed the record button. “Officer Brad Preston, Ventura County CSA,” he said. “Defendant is Raphael Moreno, case number A856392.”
    He stared at Moreno, waiting to see if he would speak without prompting. When he didn’t, he began. “Want to tell me why you killed those people?”
    Moreno’s eyes narrowed into slits. His face was dripping with perspiration. His shirt was saturated. It had to be a hundred degrees in here, Brad thought, using his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
    “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Brad told the inmate. “You probably think there’s no reason to cooperate since your term of imprisonment has already been decided. That might not be true. If you show no remorse for your actions, it’s doubtful if you’ll ever taste freedom. You’re a young man. There’s still a chance you might be released in a reasonable amount of time.”
    He was trying to mimic Carolyn’s style—bullshit him until he dropped his guard. He didn’t agree with her about all this early-release stuff, that the parole board kicked everyone out as soon as it was legally possible. She was right, though, when it came to truth in sentencing. When the judge had sentenced Moreno to serve eighty-four years, he’d failed to point out that he would be eligible for parole in less than half that time. If the judge had sentenced him concurrently instead of consecutively, Moreno could conceivably be out in six years. Victims should be told the earliest date a criminal would be eligible for release. The courts didn’t tell them.
    As far as Moreno was concerned, even if he turned out to be a model prisoner, it was doubtful if the parole board would ever release him. If he’d taken out an entire street gang, it might be different. The seriousness of a crime rested not only on how a person was killed but whom they killed. His mother and sister didn’t count. Their next of kin were a couple of cousins who resided at an unknown location in Mexico. The Hartfields, however, had been a middle-class family. Their relatives and friends would appear at every parole hearing.
    Brad glanced at his watch in frustration. It was almost four-thirty and Moreno hadn’t moved or said a word. Carolyn had more patience than he did. “Listen, punk,” he said, leaning down so he could look in Moreno’s eyes. “You’re not worth my time. Besides, you stink. What did you do? Shit your pants like a baby? Guess your mama won’t be able to clean you up since you chopped her head off.”
    When the prisoner didn’t react, Brad hurled the plastic chair against the wall. Deciding not to waste any more time, he walked over to press the buzzer for the jailer.
    It happened in an instant.
    Moreno sprang to his feet. Raising his arm high, he whipped his leg irons with tremendous force and struck the probation officer in the back.
    Brad collapsed, his body blocking the door. He had trouble catching his breath. “Help me,” he gasped, fearing he might be hit again. “Get me out of here! God, get me out of here!”
    He felt something pushing him in the side. The guards were trying to force the door open. Moreno leaped across the room and straddled him.
    “No one talks about my mother, comprende ?” he said, his body trembling with rage. Reaching down, he squeezed Brad’s crotch. “If I had a blade, I’d cut your fucking balls off and eat them. But you ain’t got balls. All you got is a mouth.”
    Bobby grabbed Moreno’s arm while Norm Baxter shocked him with a stun gun. Moreno’s body jerked, then became limp. The two officers pulled Moreno out of the room. The sergeant instructed them to take the inmate back to solitary.
    Brad had used