The Gods of Guilt(26)

I remembered that part, too. That this guy was put away for life for having a couple ounces of coke in his hotel room.

“I’m assuming there was an appeal. Did you check PACER?”

PACER was the federal government’s Public Access to Court Electronic Records database. It provided quick access to all documents filed in regard to a case. It would be the starting point.

“Yes, I went on PACER and pulled up the docket. He was convicted in ’06. Then there was the plenary appeal—the usual global attack citing insufficient evidence, court error on motions, and unreasonable sentencing. None made it past Pasadena. PCA right down the line.”

She was referring to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. It had a Southern California location on South Grand Avenue in Pasadena. Appeals from Los Angeles–based cases would be filed through the Pasadena courthouse and initially reviewed by a theee-member screening local panel of the appellate court. The local panel weeded out appeals it deemed unworthy and kicked the others for full consideration to a merits panel composed of three judges drawn from the circuit that held jurisdiction over the western region of the country. Aronson’s saying that Moya never made it past Pasadena meant that his conviction was “per curiam affirmed” by the screening panel of judges. Moya had struck out swinging.

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?”