Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

3.

The last thing I need is more trouble with the police. But, as we say in the trade, we don’t always get to choose our clients. And every defendant, regardless of how despicable the person or his crime, is entitled to a lawyer. Most laymen don’t understand this and don’t care. I don’t care either. This is my job. To be honest, I’m initially thrilled Swanger picked me, thrilled to be allowed to stick my nose smack in the middle of another sensational case.

This one, though, will haunt me forever. I’ll curse the day I hustled over to Central to have my first chat with Arch Swanger.

The police department has more leaks than old plumbing, and by the time I arrive at Central word is out. A reporter with a cameraman catches me as I enter the building and demands to know if I represent Arch Swanger. I offer a rude “No comment” and keep walking. From that moment on, though, everyone in town knows I’m his lawyer. It’s a perfect fit, right? A monstrous murderer and the rogue lawyer who’ll defend anyone.

I’ve strolled through Central many times, and the place is always bustling with an urgent energy. Street cops in uniforms rush around, bantering crudely with those stuck behind desks. Detectives in cheap suits swagger through the halls, scowling as if they’re pissed at the world. Frightened families sit on benches waiting for bad news. And there’s always a lawyer huddled up with a cop in a tense negotiation, or hurrying to get to a client before he spills his guts.

Today, the air is especially heavy, the mood tense. I get more stares than usual when I walk through the front door. And why not? They’ve caught the killer; he’s just down the hall. And here comes his lawyer to save him. Both should be grabbed and put on the rack.

Present too is the lingering rawness of the Renfro trial. It was only three weeks ago and cops have long memories. Some of these guys would like to take a nightstick and break a few of my bones, or worse.

They lead me through the maze to the interrogation rooms. Down the hall, smoking and looking into a one-way mirror, are two homicide detectives. One is Landy Reardon, the cop who called me with the news that, out of all the lawyers in the City, I had been chosen. Reardon is the best homicide detective in the department. He’s nearing retirement now and the years have taken their toll. He’s about sixty but looks ten years older, with thick white hair that goes untouched for the most part. He still smokes and has the jagged wrinkles as proof.

He sees me and nods. Come on over. The other detective disappears.

The good thing about Landy Reardon is that he is brutally honest and will not waste time on a case he can’t prove. He digs hard for the evidence, but if it’s not there, then it’s not there. In thirty years, he’s never charged the wrong murder suspect. But if Landy collars you for murder, the judge and jury will fall in line and you’ll probably die in prison.

He’s had the Jiliana Kemp case since the beginning. Four months ago, he had a mild heart attack and his doctor told him to retire. He found another doctor. I stand beside him and both of us look through the mirror. We do not say hello. He thinks all defense lawyers are scum and would never stoop to shake my hand.

Swanger is alone in the interrogation room. He’s kicked back in his folding chair and has his feet on the table, totally bored with everything. “What’s he said?” I ask.

“Nothing. Name, rank, and serial number, and after that he called for you. Said he saw your name in the newspaper.”

“So he can read?”

“IQ of 130, I’d guess. He just looks stupid.”

Indeed he does. Plump with a double chin; large brown freckles from the neck up; head practically shaved but for a few waxed bristles, like the old butch crew cut from sixty years ago, pre-Beatles. To attract either attention or ridicule, he is wearing a pair of round-frame glasses, absurdly large and aqua blue in color.

“About those glasses,” I say.

“Drugstore, cheap and fake. He doesn’t need glasses but he fancies himself clever when it comes to disguises. Actually, he’s pretty good. He’s slipped our surveillance a few times in the past month but always comes home.”

“What do you have on him?”

Landy exhales in fatigue and frustration. “Not much,” he says, and I admire the guy’s honesty. He’s a brilliant cop and knows better than to level with me, but he inspires confidence.

“Enough for an indictment?”

“I wish. We’re not even close to an arrest. Chief wants to hold him for a week or two. Crank up the pressure, you know, see if the guy’ll break. But really to see if lightning will strike and we get lucky. Fat chance. We’ll probably let him go again. Between me and you, Rudd, we ain’t got much.”

“Seems like you have plenty of suspicion.”

Landy grunts and laughs. “We’re good at that. Look at him, talk about suspicious. I’d give him ten years in solitary just based on the first impression.”

“Maybe five,” I say.

“Talk to him, and if you want, I’ll show you the file tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’m going in, but I’ve never met this guy and I’m not sure I’ll be his lawyer. There’s always the issue of getting paid and he doesn’t look too prosperous. If he’s indigent, PD takes over and I’m out of the picture.”

“Have fun.”

4.

Swanger takes his feet off the desk, stands, and we make our introductions. Firm handshake, eye contact, easy voice with no trace of concern. Playing it cool, I restrain myself from telling him to take off those damned glasses. If he likes ’em then I’m crazy about ’em.

“I saw you on TV,” he says. “That cage fighter that killed the ref. Whatever happened to him?”

“The case is still pending, waiting for a trial. You go to cage fights?”

“No. I watch ’em on TV with my mum. I thought about getting into it a few years back.”

I almost laugh. Even if he dropped thirty pounds and trained eight hours a day, this guy wouldn’t last ten seconds in a cage. He’d probably faint in the dressing room. I sit at the table, empty-handed, and ask, “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“That girl, man, you know the case. These guys think I’m involved in some way and they’re hassling me. They’ve been on my ass for months now, always hiding in the shadows as if I don’t know what’s going on. This is the second time they’ve hauled me in here like something on television. You watch Law & Order? Well, these guys have watched way too much and they’re really bad actors, know what I mean? That old one with the white hair, Reardon I think, he’s the good guy, always just looking for the truth and trying to find ways to help me. Right. Then the skinny one, Barkley, he’ll come in and start yelling. Back and forth. Good cop, bad cop, like I don’t know the game. Ain’t my first rodeo, pal.”

“Your first murder charge, right?”

“Hang on, Superman. I ain’t been charged yet.”

“Okay, assuming you are charged with murder, I take it you want me to represent you.”

“Well, gee, why else would I call you, Mr. Rudd? I’m not sure I need a lawyer right now but it damned sure feels like it.”

“Understood. Are you employed?”

“Here and there. How much do you charge for a murder case?”

“Depends on how much a person can pay. A case like this, I’ll need ten thousand up front and that’ll just get us through the indictment phase. Once we’re looking at a trial, then we get to the serious fee. If we can’t agree, then you go elsewhere.”

“Where’s elsewhere?”

“Public defender’s office. They handle virtually all murders.”

“Figures. But what you’re not factoring in here, Mr. Rudd, is all the publicity. Ain’t too many cases as big as this one. Pretty girl, important family, and that thing with the baby. If she had a kid, then where is it, right? That’ll drive the press crazy. So you gotta figure that this thing is front-page news, starting right about now. I’ve seen you on television. I know how much you love to bark and growl and strut in front of the cameras. This case will be a gold mine for my defense lawyer. Don’t you agree, Mr. Rudd?”

He’s hammering the nail on the head, but I can’t admit this. I say, “I don’t work for free, Mr. Swanger, regardless of the publicity. I have too many other clients.”

“Of course you do. Big lawyer like you. I didn’t call no rookie in here to save my ass. They’re talking death penalty, man, and they mean it. I’ll get the money, one way or the other. The question is, will you take my case?”

Usually, by this point in the first meeting, the accused has already denied the charges. I make a mental note that Swanger has not done so, has not ventured anywhere near the issue of his guilt or innocence. In fact, he seems to be welcoming an indictment, with a big trial to follow. I say, “Yes, I’ll represent you, assuming we can come to terms on the money and assuming they actually indict you. I think they have a ways to go. In the meantime, don’t say a word to the cops, any cop. Understood?”

“Got it, man. Can you get them to back off, stop the harassment?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” We shake hands again and I leave the room. Detective Reardon has not moved. He’s watched our little meeting, and he’s probably listened to it too, though that would be illegal. Standing next to him, in casual clothes, is Roy Kemp, father of the missing girl. He glares at me with unbridled hatred, as if the few minutes I just spent with their first and rather weak suspect is clear proof that I’m involved in his daughter’s disappearance.

I have sympathy for the man and his family, but right now he wants to put a bullet in the back of my head.

Outside the building, more reporters have gathered. When they see me they start hopping and shoving. I brush by them with “No comment, no comment, no comment,” as they lob their idiotic questions. One actually yells, “Mr. Rudd, did your client abduct Jiliana Kemp?” I want to stop, walk over to this clown, and ask him if he might possibly come up with a dumber question. But instead I push by them and hop in the van with Partner.

5.

At six o’clock, the anchormen scream the news that the police have a suspect in the Kemp case. They show footage of Arch Swanger being mobbed by reporters as he tries to leave Central not long after I did. According to sources, unnamed of course but undoubtedly from within the building, he’s been interrogated by the police and will soon be arrested and charged with kidnapping and murder. To prove his guilt, he’s hired Sebastian Rudd to defend him! They show me scowling at the cameras.

Finally, the City can breathe easier. The police have the killer. To relieve the enormous pressure on them, and to begin the process of poisoning public opinion, and to establish the presumption of guilt, they are manipulating the press, as always. A leak here and there and cameras show up to capture the face that everyone has been desperate to see. The “journalists” chase their tails, and Arch Swanger is as good as convicted.

Why bother with a trial?

If the cops can’t convict with evidence, they use the media to convict with suspicion.

6.

I spend a lot of time in a building officially and affectionately known as the Old Courthouse. It’s a grand old structure, built around the turn of the century, with soaring Gothic columns and high ceilings, wide marble hallways lined with busts and portraits of dead judges, winding staircases, and four levels of courtrooms and offices. It’s usually crawling with people—lawyers doing their business, litigants searching for the right courtroom, families of criminal defendants wandering fearfully about, potential jurors clutching their summonses, and cops waiting to testify. There are five thousand lawyers in this city, and at times it seems as though every one of us is hustling around the Old Courthouse.

As I leave a hearing one morning, a man who looks vaguely familiar falls in beside me and says, “Hey, Rudd, got a minute?”

I don’t like his looks, his tone, or his rudeness. What about “Mr. Rudd” to start with? I keep walking; so does he. “Have we met?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter. We have something to discuss.”

I glance at him as we walk. Bad suit, maroon shirt, hideous tie, a couple of small scars on his face, the kind left behind by fists and beer bottles. “Oh really,” I say as rudely as possible.

“Need to talk about Link.”

My brain tells me to keep walking but my feet simply stop moving. My stomach does a long, nauseous flip as my heart races away. I stare at the thug and say, “Well, well, where is Link these days?”

It’s been two months since his dramatic escape from death row and I haven’t heard a word. Not that I would; however, I’m not completely surprised. Frightened, maybe, but not shocked. We move to the edge of the hallway for privacy. The thug says his name is Fango, and there’s a 10 percent chance Fango is the name on his birth certificate.

In a corner, with my back to the wall so I can observe the foot traffic, we converse in voices that are low, our lips barely moving. Fango says, “Link’s having a hard time of it, you know. Money’s tight, real tight, because the cops are watching everybody even remotely connected to the businesses. They watch his son, his people, me, everybody. If I bought a plane ticket today for Miami, the cops would know about it. Suffocating, you know what I mean?”

Not really, but I just nod. He goes on, “Anyway, Link figures you owe him some money. He paid you a pile, got nothing in return, you really screwed him, you know, and now Link wants a refund.”

I fake a laugh like this is just the funniest thing. And it is laughable—a client who loses wants his money back when the case is over. Fango, though, is not in a humorous mood.

“That’s funny,” I say. “And how much of a refund?”

“All of it. A hundred grand. Cash.”

“I see. So all of the work I did was really for free, is that it, Fango?”

“Link would say that all of your work really sucked. Got him nowhere. He hired you because you’re a hotshot gunslinger who was supposed to reverse his conviction and get him off. Didn’t happen, of course, in fact he got slammed every which way. He thinks you did a lousy job, thus the refund.”

“Link got slammed because he killed a judge. Oddly enough, when this happens, and it’s quite rare, it really pisses off the other judges. I explained all this to Link before he hired me. I even put it in writing. I told him his case would be very difficult to win because of the overwhelming proof the State had. Sure he paid me in cash, but I put it on the books and sent Uncle Sam about a third of it. The rest of it was spent a long time ago. So, there’s nothing left for Link. Sorry.”

Partner approaches and I give him the nod. Fango sees him, recognizes him, says, “You got one pit bull, Rudd, Link still has a few more. You got thirty days to get the money together. I’ll be back.” He turns and deliberately brushes by Partner as he leaves. Partner could break his neck, but I gesture for him to be cool. No sense starting a fistfight in the middle of the Old Courthouse, though I’ve seen several here.

Most involved angry lawyers taking swings at each other.

7.

Not long after Tadeo got famous for killing a referee, I began receiving solicitations from doctors claiming to be expert witnesses, all wanting a part in the show. There were a total of four, all with medical degrees and impressive résumés, all with experience in courtrooms in front of juries. They had read about the case, seen the video, and, to varying degrees, all offered the same opinion; to wit, Tadeo was legally insane when he attacked Sean King in the ring. He did not understand right from wrong, nor did he appreciate the nature of what he was doing.

“Insanity” is a legal term, not a medical one.

I talked to all four, did some research, called other lawyers who’d used them, and settled upon a guy named Dr. Taslman, out of San Francisco. For $20,000, plus expenses, he is willing to testify on Tadeo’s behalf and work his magic with the jury. Though he has yet to meet the defendant, he’s already convinced he knows the truth.

The truth can be expensive, especially when it comes from expert witnesses. Our system is chock-full of “experts” who do little in the way of teaching, researching, or writing. Instead, they roam the country as hired guns testifying for fat fees. Pick an issue, a set of facts, a mysterious cause, an unexplained result, anything, really, and you can find a truckload of PhDs willing to testify with all sorts of wild theories. They advertise. They solicit. They chase cases. They hang around conventions where lawyers gather to drink and compare notes. They brag about “their verdicts.”

Their losses are rarely mentioned.

They are occasionally discredited by nasty cross-examinations, in open court, but they stay in business because they are so often effective. In a criminal trial, an expert has to convince only one juror to hang things up and cause a mistrial. Hang it again on the retrial, and the State will usually throw in the towel.

I meet Tadeo in a visiting room at the jail, our usual spot, and discuss Dr. Taslman’s possible role in his defense. The expert will testify that he, Tadeo, blacked out, went crazy, and has no recollection of what happened. Tadeo likes this new theory. Yes, come to think of it, he really was insane. I mention the fee and he says he’s broke. I’ve already mentioned my fee, and he was even broker. Needless to say, I’ll represent Tadeo Zapate simply because I love him. That, and the publicity.

It’s the O. J. Simpson theory of legal fees: I’m not paying you; you’re lucky to be here; go make a buck with your book.

Using Harry & Harry’s paperwork, I file the proper notice telling the court that we will be relying on an insanity defense. Mr. Ace Prosecutor, Max Mancini, howls in response, as always. Max is fully in control of the Zapate matter, primarily because of the overwhelming proof of guilt, as well as the publicity. He’s still offering fifteen years for second-degree murder. I’m stuck on ten, though I’m not sure my client would plead to that. As the weeks have passed and Tadeo has become the beneficiary of hours of free jailhouse legal advice, he has become even more rigid in his belief that I can somehow pull the right strings and walk him out. He wants one of those technicalities all of his cell mates know about.

Dr. Taslman comes to town and we have lunch. He’s a retired psychiatrist who never liked to teach or listen to patients. Legal insanity has always fascinated him—the crime of passion, the irresistible impulse, the moment when the mind is so filled with emotion and hate that it commands the body to act violently and in a way never contemplated. He prefers to do all the talking. It’s his way of convincing me how brilliant he is. I listen to his bullshit as I try to analyze how a jury will react to him. He’s likeable, intense, smart, and a good conversationalist. Plus, he’s from California, two thousand miles away. All trial lawyers know that the greater the distance an expert travels, the more credibility he has with the jury.

I write him a check for half of his fee. The other half will be due at trial.

He spends two hours evaluating Tadeo, and, surprise, surprise, he is now certain the kid blacked out, went crazy, and does not remember pummeling the referee.

So we now have a defense, shaky as it is. I’m not that encouraged because the State will haul in two or three experts, all at least as credible as Taslman, and they will overwhelm us with their brilliance. Tadeo will testify and do a credible job on direct, perhaps even manage some tears, then he’ll get chewed up by Mancini on cross-examination.

But the video doesn’t lie. I’m still convinced the jurors will watch it over and over and see the truth. They will silently scoff at Taslman and laugh at Tadeo, and they will return a verdict of guilty. Guilty means twenty to thirty years. On the day of the trial, I’ll probably get the prosecutor down to twelve to fifteen years.

How can I convince a headstrong twenty-two-year-old to plead guilty to fifteen years? Scare him with thirty? I doubt it. The great Tadeo Zapate has never scared easily.