Misdemeanor Trials by Milton Schacter

in at least half an hour.  He was shaking as he could see the light blue line of the morning begin to grow.  Soon the sun would be up and Marty would be warm. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    MAUREEN
    Trader picked up the phone.  “Trader, this is Maureen up in sex crimes.  I was told you are the officer of the day, and I have an old witness out in the Foyer who just walked in and wants to talk to me.  I don’t have time.  I am already late for court.  Go to the fifth floor and he will be waiting outside.  His name is Marty.  He is solid.  See what he wants and then let me know when I come back for the noon recess.” “Click” was the next thing he heard.  Trader’s job that day was officer of the day.  He sat at his desk and read misdemeanor police reports.  When he finished the police report, he would determine what charges should go into a complaint against the defendant.  Most of the complaints charged a DUI, or sometimes domestic violence, and sometimes petty theft.  He would fill out the complaint with the charges against the defendant, sign it, and send it to the paralegals.  He had a stack on his desk that day that was two feet high.  They seemed to be all the same.  The police reports said the officer contacted someone walking downtown.  The citizen appeared under the influence of drugs and was arrested.  Or the police stopped a vehicle, the driver appeared under the influence of alcohol, and were arrested.  A guy exposed his genitals to some young girl.  He was identified and arrested.  Unrelated people doing the same thing in different parts of town.  It was like the movie Ground Hog Day, but a lot more boring.  He also waited for phone calls, and walk-ins by the public who wanted to talk to the D.A.’s office.  He would hear what they had to say, and if the issue warranted further attention, he would alert the D.A. who was in the unit handling that kind of crime and transfer the call, or he would direct the person to the police department.  Most of the time he took their telephone number and said someone would call them later.  Trader welcomed the opportunity to leave his desk and go to the fifth floor.  When he arrived at the fifth floor in the public waiting area there was only one person.  He saw a man who seemed like a transient or a hobo.  His face was well tanned brown with his beard stubble peppered with gray.  His skin seemed leathery and his clothes were old and worn.  Trader walked over to him and shook his hand. 
    “Hi! You must be Marty.  My name is John Trader.  Maureen is in court and could not see you.  What can I help you with?”  He saw that his hands were clean and he did not have any odor about him typical of the transients he often saw in court.
    Marty asked, “Can we sit down and talk for a few minutes.  I won’t take much of your time.”
    “Sure,” responded Trader.  He then moved with Marty to one of the closet sized interview rooms away from the public area of the fifth floor foyer.  They went into the room and sat down.  “Okay, Marty, what do we have?”
    “Well,” said Marty, “I was over at the docks this morning and I saw a man shoot and kill another man in the Cargo area.”
    “When did this happen.  Is the dead man still there?” asked Trader, his voice picking up speed.
    “About two and a half or three hours ago.  The dead guy was there when I left,” replied Marty.
    “Exactly where is it?” asked Trader.
    “It is on Bell Road about 50 yards from the end of the dock.  The gate was open to the cargo container area.  I think you could walk right in, and the dead guy is in an alley between the containers.”
    “Do you know who shot the dead man?” asked Trader.
    “Yes, I recognized him,” replied Marty.  “His name is Carlos Zelaya.”.
    “Do you know who was shot?” asked Trader.
    “I don’t know, but after Zelaya and a third man left, I went over and got his wallet, so that you can identify him.”  Marty reached