Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

7.

The courtroom is packed by 9:00 a.m., the appointed hour for all two hundred potential jurors to show up and get processed. And, since capacity is only two hundred, there is gridlock when a horde of spectators and a few dozen reporters also show up and jockey for position.

Max Mancini struts about in his finest navy suit and sparkling black wingtips, flashing smiles at the clerks and assistants. With all these people watching, he’s even nice to me. We huddle and chat importantly as the bailiffs deal with the throng.

“Still fifteen years?” I ask.

“You got it,” he says, smiling and looking at the audience. Obviously, between Moss and Spurio, the word has not yet made its way to Max’s ears. Or maybe it has. Maybe Max was told to cut a deal and get a plea, and maybe Max did what I would expect him to do: told Woody and Moss and Kemp and everybody else to go to hell. This is his show, a big moment in his career. Just look at all those folks out there admiring him. And all those reporters!

Presiding this week is the Honorable Janet Fabineau, quietly known among the lawyers as Go Slow Fabineau. She’s a young judge, still a bit on the green side, but maturing nicely on the bench. She’s afraid to make mistakes, so she’s very deliberate. And slow. She talks slow, thinks slow, rules slow, and she insists that the lawyers and witnesses speak clearly at all times. She pretends this is for the benefit of the court reporter who must take down every word, but we suspect it’s really because Her Honor also absorbs things…real slow.

Her clerk appears and says the judge wants to see the lawyers in chambers. We file in and take seats around an old worktable, me on one side, Mancini and his flunky on the other. Janet sits at one end, eating slices of apple from a plastic bowl. They say she’s always fussing over her latest diet and her latest trainer, but I’ve noticed no progress on the reduction front. Mercifully, she does not offer us any of her food.

“Any more pretrial motions?” she asks as she looks at me. Chomp, chomp.

Mancini shakes his head no. I do the same and add, for reasons that are solely antagonistic, “Wouldn’t do any good.” I’ve filed dozens and they’ve all been overruled.

She absorbs this cheap shot, swallows hard, takes a sip of what looks like early morning urine, and says, “Any chance of a plea bargain?”

Mancini says, “We’re still offering fifteen years on a second degree.”

I say, “And my client still says no. Sorry.”

“Not a bad offer,” she says, slinging a cheap shot back at me. “What would the defendant take?”

“I don’t know, Your Honor. At this point, I’m not sure he’s willing to plead guilty to anything. Things might change after a day or two of trial, but right now he’s looking forward to his day in court.”

“Very well. We can certainly accommodate him.”

We talk about this and that and kill time while the bailiffs process the jurors and get things organized. Finally, at 10:30, the clerk says the courtroom is ready. The lawyers leave and take their places. I sit next to Tadeo, who looks a bit awkward all dressed up. We whisper and I assure him things are going swell, just as I expected, so far anyway. Behind us, the prospective jurors stare at the back of his head and wonder what awful crime he has committed.

When instructed, we all rise in deference to the court, as Judge Fabineau enters, her bulky figure nicely camouflaged by the long black robe. Because so much of their dreary work is done without an audience, judges love crowded courtrooms. They are the supreme rulers over everything in sight and they like to be appreciated. Some tend to grandstand, and I’m curious to see how Janet conducts herself with so many watching. She welcomes everyone to the proceedings, explains why we’re all here, rambles on a bit too long, and finally asks Tadeo to stand and face the crowd. He does so, smiles as I instructed him to do, then sits down. Janet introduces Mancini and me. I simply stand and nod. He stands and grins and sort of opens his arms as if welcoming the people into his domain. His phoniness is hard to stomach.

The jurors have now been numbered and Fabineau asks those holding 101 through 198 to leave the courtroom and take a break. Call the clerk at 1:00 p.m. and see if you’re needed. Half of them file out, some in a hurry, some actually smiling at their luck. On one side of the courtroom, the bailiffs place the remaining prospects in rows of ten, and we get our first look at the likely jurors. This drags on for an hour and Tadeo whispers that he’s bored. I ask him if he prefers staying in jail. No, he does not.

The pool is purged of those over the age of sixty-five and those with doctors’ excuses. The ninety-two we are now staring at are ready to be examined. Fabineau breaks for lunch and we’re told to be back at 2:00 p.m. Tadeo asks if there’s any chance of a proper lunch in a nice restaurant. I smile and say no. He’s headed back to the jail.

As I huddle with Cliff, the jury consultant, a uniformed bailiff approaches and asks, “Are you Mr. Rudd?”

I nod and he hands me some papers. Domestic Relations Court. A summons for an emergency hearing to terminate all parental rights. I curse under my breath, walk to the jury box, and take a seat. That bitch Judith has waited until this moment to further complicate matters. I read on and my shoulders begin to sag. Yesterday, Sunday, was my day to spend with Starcher; twelve hours, from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., a modified, verbal agreement between Judith and me. Being preoccupied with the trial, I of course forgot about this and stiffed my kid. In Judith’s twisted way of thinking, this is clear proof that I’m an unfit father and should be completely banished from my son’s life. She demands an emergency hearing as if Starcher is in imminent danger, and if one is granted it will be the fourth in the past three years. She’s 0 for 3! And she’s perfectly willing to go 0 for 4 to prove something. What, I don’t know.

I buy a once-frozen Fresh! Sandwich out of a machine and stroll down to Domestic Relations. Machine food is often underrated. Carla, a deputy clerk I once hit on, pulls the file and we look it over, our heads just inches apart. When I hit on her about two years ago she was “in a relationship,” whatever the hell that means. What it really meant was that she had no interest in me. I took it in stride. I’ve had my balls busted so many times I’m surprised when a woman says, “Maybe.” Anyway, Carla must be out of her relationship because she’s all smiles and come-ons, which is not that unusual among the army of deputy clerks and secretaries and receptionists who clog these offices and hallways. A single straight male lawyer with a little cash and a nice suit gets plenty of looks from the unmarried ladies, and from some of the married ones as well. If I played the game, had the time and interest, I could run these gals into the ground. Carla, though, has chubbed up considerably in recent months and is not looking nearly as good as before.

She says, “Judge Stanley Leef.”

“Same one as last time,” I reply. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“Looks like your ex is a tough one.”

“That’s a huge understatement.”

“She’s in here from time to time. Not very friendly.”

I thank her, and as I’m leaving she says, “Call me sometime.”

I want to say, “Well, if you’ll hit the gym for about six months, then I’ll take a look and consider it.” Instead, and because I’m such a gentleman, I say, “Sure.”

Judge Stanley Leef stiff-armed Judith in her last effort to strip me of parental rights. He had no patience with her and ruled on the spot in my favor. The fact that she rolled the dice with this latest filing and got stuck with Leef again says a lot about her integrity, and her naïveté. In my world, if the case is critical—and what could be more drastic than cutting off a respectable father’s right to see his child—all measures must be taken to insure a fair hearing before the proper judge. This might require the filing of a motion to ask an unwanted judge to step aside. It might require a complaint with the State Board of Judicial Ethics. My preferred method, though, is simply a cash bribe to the right clerk.

Judith would never consider any of these tactics. Thus, she’s stuck with Leef again. I remind myself that this is not about winning or losing, not about this judge or that one. It’s nothing but abuse of the court system to harass a former spouse. She has no worries about legal fees. She has no fears of retribution. She roams this section of the Old Courthouse every day, so this is her turf.

I find a bench and read her petition as I finish my sandwich.

8.

For the afternoon session, we move our chairs to the other side of our tables and stare directly at the jurors. And they stare at us as if we’re aliens. Under Fabineau’s selection scheme—and every trial judge is given great leeway in devising methods to pick juries—those with numbers one through forty are seated in the first four rows, and from there we’ll likely find our final twelve. So, we zero in on them as Her Honor rambles on about the civic importance of jury service.

Of the first forty, there are twenty-five whites, eight blacks, five Hispanics, one young lady from Vietnam, and another one from India. Twenty-two females, eighteen males. Thanks to Cliff and his team, I know their names, addresses, vocations, marital situations, church memberships, and histories of litigation, unpaid debts, and criminal convictions, if any. For most of them, I have photographs of their homes or apartments.

Picking the right ones will be tricky. Carved in stone is the belief that you want all the black jurors you can get in a criminal trial, because blacks have more sympathy for the accused and a greater distrust of the police and prosecutors. Not so today. The victim, Sean King, was a nice young black man with a good job, a wife, and three clean-cut kids. For a few bucks on the side, he refereed boxing matches and cage fights.

When Fabineau finally gets around to the matters at hand, she asks how many in the pool are familiar with the facts surrounding the death of Sean King. Out of the ninety-two, about a quarter of the hands go up, an enormous percentage. She asks them all to stand so we can jot down their names. I glance at Mancini and shake my head. Such a response is unheard of and, in my opinion, clear proof that the trial should be moved. But Mancini just keeps smiling. I write down twenty-two names.

To prevent further contamination, Judge Fabineau decides to take each of the twenty-two and quiz them individually. We return to her chambers and gather around the same table. Juror number three is brought in. Her name is Liza Parnell and she sells tickets for a regional airline. Married, two kids, age thirty-four, husband sells cement. Mancini and I are all charm as we attempt to curry favor with this potential juror. Her Honor takes charge and starts questioning. Neither Liza nor her husband is an MMA fan, in fact she calls the sport disgusting, but she remembers the riot. It was all over the news and she saw the video of Tadeo pounding away. She and her husband discussed the incident. They even prayed at church for the recovery of Sean King, and were saddened by his death. She would have a difficult time keeping an open mind. The more she is quizzed, the more she realizes how firmly she believes Tadeo is guilty. “He killed him,” she says.

Mancini asks a few of the same questions. I take my turn but do not waste time. Liza will get the boot soon enough. For now, though, she is instructed to return to her seat on row one and not say a word.

Juror number eleven is the mother of two teenage boys, both of whom love cage fighting and have spent hours discussing Tadeo and Sean King. She hasn’t watched the video, though her boys begged her to. She does, however, know all about the case and admits to having plenty of preconceived notions. Mancini and I politely poke and prod but get nothing. She, too, will be excused.

The afternoon grinds on as we work through the twenty-two jurors, all of whom, it turns out, know far more than they should. A couple claim they can set aside their initial opinions and decide the case with open minds. I doubt this, but then I am the defense lawyer. Late in the day, after we have finished with the twenty-two, I renew my motion for a change of venue. Armed with fresh and irrefutable evidence, I argue that we’ve just seen clear proof that too many people in this city know far too much about the case.

Go Slow listens and acts as though she believes me, which I think she does. “I’ll overrule your motion for now, Mr. Rudd. Let’s proceed and see what tomorrow brings.”

9.

After court, Partner drives me to the warehouse where Harry & Harry conduct their operations. I meet with Harry Gross and we review Judith’s latest petition. He’ll prepare a response, one similar to the other three already on file, and I’ll sign and file it tomorrow.

Partner and I go to the basement, where Cliff and his team are already at work. From the first four rows of the pool, numbers one through forty, nine people were quizzed privately during the afternoon session. I expect all nine to be excused for cause, or for good reason. Each side has four challenges, four automatic hooks that can be used for no reason whatsoever. That’s a total of eight. There is no limit on the number who can be excused for cause. The trick, the skill, the art, is reading the jurors and trying to determine which to challenge. I get only four strikes, same as the prosecution, and one mistake can be fatal. Not only do I decide whom to keep and whom to strike, but I also play chess with Mancini. Whom will he get rid of? Certainly the Hispanics.

I do not expect an acquittal, so I’m angling for a hung jury. I have to find the one or two jurors who might show some sympathy.

For hours, over bad carryout sushi and bottles of green tea, we dissect each potential juror.

10.

There are no phone calls in the middle of the night; nothing from Arch Swanger, nor Nate Spurio. Not a word from Moss Korgan. Evidently, my brilliant offer of a deal didn’t get very far. As the sun rises, I’m at my computer responding to e-mails. I decide to send one to Judith. It reads, “Why can’t you stop the war? You’ve lost so many battles and you’ll lose this one. The only thing you’ll prove is how ridiculously stubborn you are. Think about Starcher, not yourself.” The response will be predictably harsh and well crafted.

Partner drops me off in a strip mall out in the suburbs. The only store open is a bagel shop where smoking is illegally permitted. The owner is an old Greek who’s dying of lung cancer. His nephew has rank at City Hall and health inspectors don’t bother the place. It features strong coffee, real yogurt, decent bagels, and a layer of rich, blue cigarette smoke that’s a throwback to the days not long ago when it was common to eat in a restaurant while inhaling the fumes and vapors of those close by. Nowadays, it’s still hard to believe we tolerated that. Nate Spurio goes through two packs a day and loves this place. I take a deep breath out front, fill my lungs with clear air, walk inside, and see Nate at a table, coffee and newspaper in front of him, a fresh Salem screwed into the corner of his mouth. He waves at a chair and puts the paper away. “You want coffee?” he asks.

“No thanks. I’ve had enough.”

“How are things going?”

“You mean life in general or the Zapate trial?”

He grunts, tries to smile. “Since when do we talk about life in general?”

“Good point. Nothing from Mancini. If he’s in on the deal, he damned sure doesn’t act like it. Still offering fifteen years.”

“They’re working on him, but, as you know, he’s a prick who’s going places. Right now he’s onstage and that means a lot to him.”

“So Roy Kemp is hammering away?”

“You could say that. He’s tightening every screw he can find. He’s desperate—can’t say I blame him. And he hates you because he thinks you’re withholding information.”

“Gee, I’m sorry. Tell him I hate him too because he kidnapped my kid, but nothing personal. If he’ll get to the mayor, who can then get to Mancini, we might have us a deal.”

“It’s in the works, okay. Things are moving.”

“Well, things need to move faster. We’re picking a jury and based on what I’ve seen and heard so far my guy is in deep trouble.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably start calling witnesses tomorrow and there aren’t many of them. This could be over by Friday. We need to cut the deal quickly. Five years, county penal farm, early parole. Got it, Nate? Does everybody up the food chain understand the terms of the deal?”

“Plain as day. It’s not that complicated.”

“Then tell them to make it happen. My guy is about to get slammed by this jury.”

He pulls on the cigarette, fills his lungs, asks, “Are you around tonight?”

“You think I’m leaving town?”

“We should probably talk.”

“Sure, but now I gotta run. I have this trial today and we’re out here beating the bushes looking for some jurors to bribe.”

“I didn’t hear a word, and I’m certainly not surprised.”

“See you, Nate.”

“A real pleasure.”

“And you really should stop smoking.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay. You got your own problems.”

11.

Go Slow is late for court, which, on the one hand, is not that unusual because she is a judge and the party doesn’t start until she arrives. On the other hand, though, this is a high-water mark for her career and you’d think she would arrive early and savor the moment. But I learned a long time ago not to waste time analyzing why judges do the things they do.

Everyone has been waiting for at least an hour, with no word on what’s causing the delay, when her courtroom deputy snaps to attention and calls us to order. Her Honor sweeps onto the bench as if she’s already terribly burdened and tells everybody to sit down. No apology, no explanation. She launches into some introductory remarks, not a single word of which is even remotely original, and when she runs out of gas she says, “Mr. Mancini, you may examine the panel for the State.”

Max is quickly on his feet, strutting along the mahogany railing that separates us from the spectators. With ninety-two jurors on one side, and at least that many reporters and spectators on the other, the courtroom is again packed. They’re even leaning against the rear wall. Max rarely has such an audience. He begins with a dreadful, sappy monologue about how honored he feels to just be in the courtroom representing the good people of our city. He feels a burden. He feels an honor. He feels an obligation. He feels a lot of things, and within a few minutes I notice some of the jurors start to frown and look at him as if to say, “Is this guy serious?”

After he’s talked about himself for too long, I slowly stand, look at Her Honor, and say, “Judge, can we please get on with this?”

She says, “Mr. Mancini, do you have some questions for the pool?”

He replies, “Of course, Your Honor. I didn’t realize we were in such a hurry.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry, but I really don’t want to waste time.” This, from a judge who was an hour late.

Max begins with textbook questions about prior jury service, and experiences with the criminal justice system, and prejudices against the police and law enforcement. By and large, it’s a waste of time because people rarely reveal their true feelings in such a setting. It does, however, give us plenty of time to study the jurors. Tadeo is taking pages of notes, at my direction. I’m scribbling too, but I’m primarily watching body language. Cliff and his associate are on the pews across the aisle, watching everything. By now, I feel as though I’ve known these people, especially the first forty, for years.

Max wants to know if any of them have ever been sued. A standard question but not a great one. This is, after all, a criminal matter, not a civil one. Out of the ninety-two, about fifteen admit to being sued at some point in their past. I’ll bet there are at least another fifteen who are not admitting it. This is, after all, America. What honest citizen has never been sued? Max seems thrilled with this response, as if he’s really found fertile dirt to dig in. He asks if their experiences within the court system would in any way affect their ability to deliberate in this case.

Naw, Max. Everybody loves to get sued. And we do so without the slightest resentment toward the system. But he flails away with follow-up questions that go nowhere.

For nothing but spite, I stand and say, “Your Honor, could you remind Mr. Mancini that this is a criminal case, not a civil one?”

“I know that!” Max growls at me and we exchange nasty looks. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Move along, Mr. Mancini,” Her Honor says. “And please keep your seat, Mr. Rudd.”

Max fights his anger and lets it pass. Changing gears, he wades into a sensitive matter. Has anyone in your immediate family ever been convicted of a violent crime? He apologizes for intruding into such a private matter, but he has no choice. Please forgive him. From the rear, juror number eighty-one slowly raises a hand.

Mrs. Emma Huffinghouse. White, age fifty-six, a freight company dispatcher. Her twenty-seven-year-old son is serving twelve years for a drug-fueled home invasion. As soon as Max sees her hand he throws up his and pleads, “I don’t want the details, please. I know this is a very private matter and very hurtful, I’m sure. My question is this: Was your experience with the criminal justice system satisfactory or unsatisfactory?”

Seriously, Max? We’re not filling out a survey for consumer satisfaction.

Mrs. Huffinghouse stands slowly and says, “I think my son was treated fairly by the system.”

Max almost leaps over the bar to run hug her. Bless you, dear, bless you. What an endorsement for the forces of good! Too bad, Max, she’s useless. We won’t get close to number eighty-one.

Juror number forty-seven raises his hand, stands, says his brother spent time in jail for aggravated assault, and, unlike Mrs. Huffinghouse, he, Mark Wattburg, was not favorably impressed with the criminal process.

But Max thanks him profusely anyway. Anybody else? No more hands. There are three others, and I suppose I know it but Max doesn’t. This confirms that my research is better than his. It also alerts me to the fact that these three are not altogether forthcoming.

Max moves on as the morning drags. He steps into another delicate minefield, that of victimhood. Have any of you been the victim of a violent crime? You, your family members, close friends? Several hands go up and Max does a nice job of eliciting information that’s useful, for a change.

At noon, Her Honor, no doubt exhausted by two hours on the bench and probably craving apple slices, announces a ninety-minute break. Tadeo wants to stay in the courtroom for lunch. I make a pleasant request to his handler, who agrees, to our surprise. Partner hustles down the street to a deli and returns with sandwiches and chips.

As we eat, we talk softly, keeping our voices low so the deputies and bailiffs cannot hear us. There is no one else in the courtroom. The gravity of the setting and surroundings has settled in and Tadeo has lost some of his cockiness. He’s absorbed the unforgiving stares from those who might be called upon to judge him. He no longer believes that they are his peers. Softly, he says, “I get the feeling they don’t like me.”

Such a perceptive young man.