but was less certain who had helped him murder the young rookie. He would never admit it, but nine years working in prison had instilled racism in him.
Captain Moon didn’t lock anyone up during the night. They weren’t going anywhere. He was waiting for the “snitch” letters that came in with the mail. Convicts wrote them out and put them in an envelope on the bars to be picked up with the regular outgoing mail. They were sorted in the Mail Room. Seven letters identified Eddie, Scott and Dupree.
“Lock ’em up,” said the Captain as he signed the Order. The next day the District Attorney filed a complaint charging them with 187 California Penal Code, Murder, and 4500 California Penal Code, assault with intent to do great bodily harm. Conviction carried a mandatory death sentence with no alternative. The wheels of justice were starting to grind.
On a bright, late Indian summer morning, Sally Goldberg sat in the breakfast nook of her home in the Berkeley Hills, overlooking the East Bay. She spread strawberry preserves on a croissant and poured her espresso. She munched on one, sipped the other and looked at the headlines of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.
The telephone rang in the adjacent room. Sally looked at her watch. It was not yet 8:00am. She would let the answering service handle it. Instead she heard her husband: “Hello… Yeah, Charlie, she’s here,” her husband appeared in the breakfast nook doorway with his hand over the telephone receiver. “Charlie Connelly,” he said, handing her the phone. She licked a bit of jam from her thumb and took the receiver.
“Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”
“Did you see the
Chronicle?
”
“I was just starting to when the phone rang.”
“Look at the top of page three, the young blacks. They were indicted for murdering that correctional officer down in Anselmo County. Anselmo County gives out the death penalty like the Salvation Army gives out Christmas candy.”
“So?”
“One of their mothers called the office. Name of Georgina Johnson. Her son is Eddie. She wants us to take the case.”
“Pro bono?”
“Ninety percent. She’s got a little money. I don’t think we should take it… the money, I mean.”
“You do think we should take the case?”
“At the very least we should look into it.”
“You mean I should look into it.”
“I looked at your calendar. All you’ve got today is an arraignment in the Solano case. Neal has a nine ninety-five hearing in the same court. He can handle both with no sweat.”
“Okay. Wait while I get a pencil and paper.”
She wrote the information, on a yellow legal tablet. Two hours later she turned off the highway where the sign read:
Anselmo Correctional Institution Next Exit
. Before reaching the prison she passed through the community of neat tract bungalows built by the State for its employees. They were in pristine condition, with lawns like gold greens and flowers in riotous profusion, obviously kept up by the inmate gardeners visible here and there. A STOP sign with a speaker-phone was beneath a gun tower.
The speaker crackled. “State your business.”
“I’m an attorney here to see an inmate. I called ahead.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sally Goldberg.”
“One moment.”
The static came on. “Park over to the left where it says ‘Visitors’. Come back here, and someone will meet you. The Captain wants to see you.”
Sally parked as directed. When she came back, a guard with Sergeant’s insignia on the collar of his shirt was waiting for her. He had her produce her Bar Membership card and driver’s license and had her walk through a combination metal detector and x-ray device. She knew the drill from previous prison interviews and had brought nothing that would make them suspicious. The Sergeant escorted her through the electric gates and up the walk toward the administrative wing and Captain’s office. They were in sight of two housing wings and, although Sally was not pretty,
Captain Moon didn’t lock anyone up during the night. They weren’t going anywhere. He was waiting for the “snitch” letters that came in with the mail. Convicts wrote them out and put them in an envelope on the bars to be picked up with the regular outgoing mail. They were sorted in the Mail Room. Seven letters identified Eddie, Scott and Dupree.
“Lock ’em up,” said the Captain as he signed the Order. The next day the District Attorney filed a complaint charging them with 187 California Penal Code, Murder, and 4500 California Penal Code, assault with intent to do great bodily harm. Conviction carried a mandatory death sentence with no alternative. The wheels of justice were starting to grind.
On a bright, late Indian summer morning, Sally Goldberg sat in the breakfast nook of her home in the Berkeley Hills, overlooking the East Bay. She spread strawberry preserves on a croissant and poured her espresso. She munched on one, sipped the other and looked at the headlines of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.
The telephone rang in the adjacent room. Sally looked at her watch. It was not yet 8:00am. She would let the answering service handle it. Instead she heard her husband: “Hello… Yeah, Charlie, she’s here,” her husband appeared in the breakfast nook doorway with his hand over the telephone receiver. “Charlie Connelly,” he said, handing her the phone. She licked a bit of jam from her thumb and took the receiver.
“Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”
“Did you see the
Chronicle?
”
“I was just starting to when the phone rang.”
“Look at the top of page three, the young blacks. They were indicted for murdering that correctional officer down in Anselmo County. Anselmo County gives out the death penalty like the Salvation Army gives out Christmas candy.”
“So?”
“One of their mothers called the office. Name of Georgina Johnson. Her son is Eddie. She wants us to take the case.”
“Pro bono?”
“Ninety percent. She’s got a little money. I don’t think we should take it… the money, I mean.”
“You do think we should take the case?”
“At the very least we should look into it.”
“You mean I should look into it.”
“I looked at your calendar. All you’ve got today is an arraignment in the Solano case. Neal has a nine ninety-five hearing in the same court. He can handle both with no sweat.”
“Okay. Wait while I get a pencil and paper.”
She wrote the information, on a yellow legal tablet. Two hours later she turned off the highway where the sign read:
Anselmo Correctional Institution Next Exit
. Before reaching the prison she passed through the community of neat tract bungalows built by the State for its employees. They were in pristine condition, with lawns like gold greens and flowers in riotous profusion, obviously kept up by the inmate gardeners visible here and there. A STOP sign with a speaker-phone was beneath a gun tower.
The speaker crackled. “State your business.”
“I’m an attorney here to see an inmate. I called ahead.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sally Goldberg.”
“One moment.”
The static came on. “Park over to the left where it says ‘Visitors’. Come back here, and someone will meet you. The Captain wants to see you.”
Sally parked as directed. When she came back, a guard with Sergeant’s insignia on the collar of his shirt was waiting for her. He had her produce her Bar Membership card and driver’s license and had her walk through a combination metal detector and x-ray device. She knew the drill from previous prison interviews and had brought nothing that would make them suspicious. The Sergeant escorted her through the electric gates and up the walk toward the administrative wing and Captain’s office. They were in sight of two housing wings and, although Sally was not pretty,
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