Woman of Light (43)
The revolving brass doors fanned Luz and David until they landed in an impressive marble hallway flush with morning. There were Anglo women in red lipstick, their hair held to their scalps with pins, folders in their arms, their feet sounding with the tap dance of work. David said hello to a man dressed like himself in the same black suit and shiny shoes. They walked deeper into the hallway, a tunnel of cream, stone benches, and unused water fountains. On the walls, murals depicted covered wagons, miners panning for gold, an abundance of white men coming to the land. The doors were wood-framed with frosted glass, words printed in black lettering, CITY COUNCIL CHAMBERS, COUNTY CLERK. David guided Luz with his hand at her hip until they reached the doors of COURTROOM 108.
“Take a seat,” he whispered, pointing to what looked to Luz like a church pew.
The courtroom was smaller than Luz had anticipated, nearly empty, an American flag, a high bench with two smaller desks before it, one on either side, everything made of wood and stone. There was an officer that David had explained was called a bailiff, a woman perched over a typewriter, a court reporter, and another attorney, a man with white hair and speckles of dandruff across the shoulders of his thick woolen suit. He worked for the city, David had mentioned on their walk over, a real dinosaur.
“All rise,” said the bailiff. “The Second Judicial District Court for the City and County of Denver is now in session, the Honorable Judge Roberts presiding.”
Luz watched as the ancient judge appeared from behind a wood panel as if emerging from a secret passage, stepping quickly in a black robe.
“Thank you,” he said, taking his seat above them. “Please be seated. This record is being made for Ruiz versus Carmichael and the City and County of Denver. Present for the proceeding is Attorney Tikas on behalf of plaintiff Celia Ruiz and Attorney Johnston on behalf of defendant Officer Mitchell Carmichael and the City and County of Denver.”
Luz listened intently but found it difficult to follow the judge’s words. She had the familiar sensation of being in church, half expecting a priest and altar boys to appear with incense and the Eucharist at any moment. The proceedings in the frigid courtroom felt like a ritual, a ceremony Luz didn’t recognize, but she was convinced that she could learn. She sat a little higher, leaned forward on the bench. The judge first called upon the city attorney, who stood and cleared his throat with a wet hacking sound. He was asking for something to be dismissed, a motion he called it.
“They have no claim here,” said the city attorney. “We could go on at length about the stated facts in this case. Yes, Mr. Ruiz is dead. Yes, his death occurred during an altercation with Officer Carmichael. The defense accepts those facts, but we reject the nature of the suit. The fact remains, the City and County of Denver cannot be held liable under sovereign immunity. You cannot,” he said, “sue the king.”
The city attorney continued before he was interrupted by his own cough, his voice wilting under the sounds. When he finished, the judge called David, who stood elegantly, buttoning the bottom of his suit and sliding his hands through his hair.
“Your Honor,” he said, “on behalf of Plaintiff Ruiz, we reject the basis of this motion. The defense claims the city cannot be held responsible, but with all due respect what will suing some drunk cop do? We all know Mr. Carmichael has nothing to his name but a lengthy record of excessive beatings, an abhorrence that the city knows of and has done nothing about. Mr. Carmichael chased my client’s brother, clubbed him unconscious, and threw his body from a metal bridge into an empty freight car. In the killing of Estevan Ruiz, Mr. Carmichael has denied an entire family food and shelter, for they relied upon the young man’s wages to care for them all. When an officer decides to murder a member of the community, it is not one life snuffed out. It is a web of consequences—one killing damages a thousand lives.”
Luz had never heard David’s voice used in such a way. He was turned slightly and Luz could see the outline of his face, a calmness over his jaw, illuminated like that of a performer onstage.
“Counselor,” said the judge, “as impassioned as your plea is, the simple fact remains, there is no claim to be settled here. I’ll make my ruling in a written statement by the week’s end. Court adjourned.”
David spun around slowly, an almost visible halo of anger rising around him. He neatly pushed his papers into his briefcase and looked to Luz. “We have another stop,” he said, ushering her out of the courtroom.
* * *
—
The streets were packed with midday crowds, young men selling newspapers, factory workers moving through lunch counters, bankers stepping into automobiles. David walked briskly along Seventeenth Street, his jaw clenched as he glanced at Luz, his coat and shoes the same gray as the clouds. It was cold. Their breath formed fog. The air smelled of manure and dead cattle.
David’s eyes seemed heavy with consideration. Luz hadn’t learned to read his expressions the way she could with Lizette and Diego. With Maria Josie, she never fully learned. Some people were like that.
“As you might have guessed,” said David, stopping at an intersection, “that did not go well.” He pointed across the street to a slanted building that resembled a public gym, only smaller. Above the entrance, as if impaled on iron rods, were the letters KQEZ glowing in pink. “I have a small favor to ask.”
* * *