Juvenile Crimes - Chapter 14

...Goes Unpunished

The Interview continued…

“I want you to understand that even though you would be working out of the Juvenile Department, your job is still under D.A.’s Office,” Blanchett continued. “What that also means is that you’ll be expected to pick up the occasional overflow trial from our side of things in adult court.”

“No problem, I need the jury experience,” I replied.

“I don’t mind loaning him back to you every now and then,” Bob chipped in cheerfully.

“The District Court has a heavy caseload,” Peter added. “It’s not unusual for both of our District Court deputies to be double-booked with trials. When that happens, you could end up with one of them on very short notice.”

“Great!” I exclaimed with a slight grin and hint of sarcasm to re-establish my ease with them. Then I got serious again “I used to win speaking championships for impromptu speeches back in high school all the time. I’m sure I can adapt that skill to take on a few short notice trials…”

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Coos County, November 1995…

Walking into the District Attorney’s office the next morning was like entering a meat freezer…or going naked outside in a North Dakota January. If I caught someone’s eye, it was only the instant that they looked away from me and tried to look fully occupied.

The birds had been busily chirping away that morning. We all knew what was being talked about. What I didn’t know is if it was that: 1) Kevin was so known and loved by them and I was the new guy, so they’re naturally defensive of him; 2) they thought I had stepped on his authority or gone over his head somehow; 3) they thought I was some sleezy political fuck looking to score points somehow with the boss; 4) they thought I was a completely heartless cruel bastard who didn’t care about handicapped kids who were victims themselves and just wanted a big first win; or, worst of all and that I came very quickly to feel the most, 5) that it was a combination of all of the above.

Other than Peter, no one in the D.A.’s office spoke to me unless I directly addressed them first, with the exceptions of Bev (because she was all class all the time), all of the women in the Victims’ Assistance Unit, and the youngest secretary, I’ll call her Sandy, who remained neutral and friendly. The suddenly changed circumstances made everything I had to do a lot more tedious than it needed to be, like getting grand jury scheduled for my case and learning the entire grand jury process immediately. I got what I needed out of Bev on the administrative side (indictment forms, subpoenas, etc.) and Steve Keutzer (with the least energy I’d ever seen from him) for the legal process advice, and that was about it. Peter acted normal around me, like nothing had happened, I think primarily because he was in charge and had the entire office to manage. He put forth the image that he was still in full control, and nothing had changed.

That next day, Friday, just happened to be the first Friday of the month, meaning it was the day of the D.A. office’s monthly attorneys meeting led by Chief Deputy, Steve Keutzer. Friday afternoons were generally the least busy in the courthouse, unless someone had a trial happening. Even though I was the juvenile prosecutor, I had much to learn about both the District and Circuit courts. I had much more to learn about trial work generally and specifically how the Coos County courts operated. The laws on the books may be the same in each court but I had already learned from my practicing as a third-year law student that each judge was very different. Plus, I was told that I would have to pick up some of the overload of cases in District Court (misdemeanor court).

This attorneys’ meeting would only be my second since beginning the job. In the first meeting, in October, everybody was laid back, relaxed and joking about various stupid stuff happening in their cases. It was very informal. All the other attorneys made a point of being friendly and welcoming to me. They kicked around a few legal issues that had come up recently, usually involving how a given judge ruled on one thing or another. That first meeting was also the first time I got to talk to Sophie, the assistant D.A., immediately my senior by a few months, beyond my introduction to her when I started. Because we handled very different courts, we never saw each other except in passing. As I would be working on some of her cases on occasion, I wanted to get to know her and tap into her for advice as needed on the adult misdemeanor side of my job.

Walking into the meeting room this time was like I had just farted. I could feel very strongly that everything had changed.  Like I was no longer welcome to be there. Since Sophie was new to the job, too, and always overwhelmed with work, she stayed completely quiet toward me now. Neutral. As was Ted. But as that attitude continued over the days and weeks to follow, it got worse from others in the office. It started to feel like downright hostility by folks I had never even interacted with or spoken to beyond a greeting. To put simply, I got shunned in the D.A.’s office.

We made it through this quietly tense meeting in record time. The thing of significance that was addressed toward me was that I was being handed my first jury trial, scheduled for the following week. It was a low-level criminal trespass case involving a knucklehead who was guilty and knew it, but he still refused to accept any plea offer, including one that would have reduced his offense to the equivalent of a ticket. He refused, and because this guy had been harassing the complaining family for months, Keutzer thought it was worth going to trial to give this guy a wake-up before he got into outright stalking, or worse. Sophie was double-booked with another trial that day, so the criminal trespass case got handed to me with a promise that someone would help me with jury instructions before the trial date.

Going forward, the feeling I got from Chuck landed somewhere in between the shunners and Peter. We had bonded a little bit from the start and through my first autopsy experience, and he knew I had consulted him on the Freddy Nelson case first, so I didn’t get the air of hostility from him. But he wasn’t going to make any effort to take my side either. I would find out in a few days that he was already on his way to checking out – he got a new job with the State Attorney General’s Office and was moving to the Big Leagues in Salem. He gave me some useful advice about handling grand jury and witnesses during grand jury, so I was grateful.

What I didn’t appreciate is that as the weeks went on, it seemed like all of the other young attorneys made a point of talking about their weekend get-togethers in front of me. Places I wasn’t invited to, and they seemed to be making the point that I never would be. When I first started the job, less than two months before, I assumed my co-workers never invited me out because they heard I didn’t drink. I assumed they just thought I was a square or something. But after the blow-up with Kevin, it felt more like they’d talk and laugh about their weekend exploits – Chuck’s little boat was a party favorite for them – just to let me know that I wasn’t a welcomed member of their tribe. Call me paranoid (wouldn’t be the first time, or last), but there was nothing impairing my observation or judgment of how I was treated as an outcast. It was in the open (and much later, it would be admitted).

In stark contrast, the folks over in the juvenile department acted like they loved me from the beginning. Office staff and juvenile probation officers alike took a genuine interest in me. Offers of help moving my lady into my new place around the corner were generously provided by several people, two of whom later did help. The difference between how I was treated by the two departments was not subtle at all; it was palpable.

Fuck the haters. I had all I thought I ever really wanted and needed on the way soon – Tami. The people I was working with on a daily basis liked and appreciated me. Even better, though I was still on “probationary status,” both of my bosses (Peter and Bob) liked the job I was doing, making my job seem secure. I knew this job wasn’t going to be easy…onward I go.

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I met with Wendy, the mother of Freddy’s 5-year-old victim, in my office in the Juvenile Department the following Tuesday. She was an average looking sandy-haired woman in her early thirties who seemed smart and sincere. She was a very caring and concerned parent. Her husband was a logger out on a worksite, or he would have been with her, she told me. She cared for more than just her own child, who she adored (I’ll call him Logan), as she proved to me in short order.

“That kid is sick,” Wendy said after she sat down, “and I don’t mean his disabilities. He’s been made that way by his own goddamn parents. I’m sure of it.”