Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

24.

D is for donut. After another sleepless night I meet Nate Spurio at a bakery near the university. For breakfast he’s having two honey-glazed filled with jelly, and black coffee. I’m not hungry, so I choke down the coffee. After a few minutes of small talk, I say, “Look, Nate, I’m pretty busy these days. What’s on your mind?”

“The trial, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I hear you’re getting hammered.”

“It’s pretty ugly in there. You called. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’ve been asked to pass along some kind words from Roy Kemp and family. They took the girl off to rehab someplace. She’s a mess, obviously, but at least she’s safe and with her family. I mean, look, Rudd, these people thought she was dead. Now they got her back. They’ll do whatever it takes to make her whole again. And, they might have a lead on the baby. This thing is still unfolding all over the country. More arrests last night, more girls taken into custody. They got a tip related to the baby-selling angle and they’re all over it.”

I nod, take a sip, say, “That’s good.”

“Yes it is. And Roy Kemp wants you to know that he and his family are very grateful to you for getting the girl back and making all this happen.”

“He kidnapped my child.”

“Come on, Rudd.”

“His daughter was kidnapped, so he must know how it feels. I don’t care how grateful he is. He’s lucky I called off the FBI or he might be sitting in jail.”

“Come on, Rudd. Let it go. There’s a happy ending here, thanks to you.”

“I deserve nothing and I want no part of it. Tell Mr. Kemp to kiss my ass.”

“Will do. They got a lead on Swanger. Last night, a tip from a bartender in Racine, Wisconsin.”

“Great. Can we meet in a week or so and have a beer? I’m rather preoccupied right now.”

“Sure.”

25.

I huddle with Partner and Cliff in the hallway before the trial resumes Friday morning. At this point Cliff’s job is to sit in various places among the spectators and watch the jurors. His reaction to yesterday is not surprising: The jurors have no sympathy for Tadeo and they’ve made up their minds. Grab the plea deal if it’s still on the table, he keeps saying. I tell him about my conversation with Miguel the day before. Cliff’s response: “Well, if you can bribe one you’d better do it quick.”

As the jury files in, I steal a look at Esteban Suarez. I planned to just glance at him quickly, as I normally do during trials. However, he’s gawking at me as if he expects me to hand over an envelope. What a goofball. There is little doubt, though, that someone has made contact with him. There’s also little doubt that he can’t be trusted. Is he already counting his money?

Judge Fabineau says good morning and welcomes everyone back to her courtroom. She goes through the standard routine of quizzing the jurors about any unauthorized contact with sinister people hoping to sway them. I glance back at Suarez. He’s staring at me. I’m sure others are noticing this.

Mr. Mancini stands and announces, “Your Honor, the State rests. We may have additional witnesses for rebuttal, but for now we’ll rest.”

This is not surprising because Max gave me a heads-up. He’s called only two witnesses because that’s all he needs. Again, the video says it all, and Max is wise to let it speak for itself. He’s clearly established the cause of death and he’s certainly nailed the perpetrator.

I walk to the jury box, look at everyone but Suarez, and begin by stating the obvious. My client killed Sean King. There was no premeditation, no planning. He hit him twenty-two times. And Tadeo doesn’t remember it. In the fifteen or so minutes before he attacked Sean King, Tadeo Zapate was struck in the face and head a total of thirty-seven times by Crush, also known as Bo Fraley. Thirty-seven times. He wasn’t knocked out, but he was mentally impaired. He remembers little past the second round, when Crush landed a knee to his jaw. We will show you, the jury, the entire fight, count the thirty-seven blows to the head, and prove to you that Tadeo did not know what he was doing when he attacked the referee.

I am brief because there’s just not much I can say. I thank them and leave the podium.

My first witness is Oscar Moreno, Tadeo’s trainer and the man who first saw his potential as a sixteen-year-old boxer. Oscar is about my age, older than Tadeo’s gang, and he’s been around the block. He hangs out in a gym for Hispanic kids and offers to train the more talented ones. He also happens to have a clean record, a real asset when calling witnesses to the stand. Past criminal convictions always come back to bite you. Juries are tough on felons under oath.

With Oscar, I lay the groundwork for the events leading up to the fight. It’s an effort to appeal to the jury’s sense of compassion. Tadeo is a poor kid from a poor family whose only real chance in life so far has been inside the cage. We finally get around to the fight and the courtroom lights go down. The first time through, we watch the fight without interruption. In the semidarkness, I watch the jurors. The women are turned off by the sport’s brutality. The men are thoroughly engrossed. During the rerun, I stop the tape each time Tadeo takes a shot in the face. The truth is that most of these were not that damaging and Crush scored only minor points with them. But to jurors who don’t know any better, a punch to the face, especially one blown out of proportion by Oscar and me, becomes a near-lethal blow. Slowly, methodically, I count them. When they are displayed in such exaggerated manner, one can easily ask how in the world Tadeo stayed on his feet. With 1:20 to go in the second round, Crush is able to yank Tadeo’s head down and bang it into his right knee. It’s a nasty shot all right, but one that hardly fazed Tadeo. Now, though, Oscar and I make it look like the cause of permanent brain damage.

I stop the video after the end of the second round, and through carefully rehearsed questions and answers I elicit from Oscar his impressions of his fighter between rounds. The kid’s eyes were glazed over. He could only grunt, not speak. He was unresponsive to questions fired at him by Norberto and Oscar. He, Oscar, thought about waving the ref over and stopping the fight.

I would put Norberto on the stand to verify these lies, but he has two felony convictions and would be humiliated by Mancini.

Left unsaid in this testimony is the fact that I was also in the corner. I was wearing my bright yellow “Tadeo Zapate” jacket and trying to act as though I was somehow needed. I have explained this to Max and Go Slow and assured them that I saw and heard nothing crucial. I was just a spectator; thus I cannot be considered a witness. Max and Go Slow know I’m here out of love and not money.

We watch the third round and count more blows to Tadeo’s head. Oscar testifies that when the fight was over Tadeo thought he had one more round. He was out of it, barely conscious but still on his feet. After he attacked Sean King and was pulled off by Norberto and others, he was like an enraged animal, unsure of where he was or why he was being restrained. Thirty minutes later, as he was changing in the dressing room while the police watched and waited, he began to come around. He wanted to know what the cops were doing there. He asked who won the fight.

All in all, not a bad job of creating some doubt. However, even a casual viewing of all three rounds clearly shows a fight that was fairly even. Tadeo dished out as much damage as he absorbed.

Mancini gets nowhere on cross. Oscar sticks to the facts he has created. He was there, in the corner, talking to his fighter, and if he says the kid took too many shots to the head, so be it. Max can’t prove otherwise.

Next I call our expert, Dr. Taslman, the retired psychiatrist who now works as a professional witness. He wears a black suit, crisp white shirt, tiny red bow tie, and with his horn-rimmed glasses and long, flowing gray hair he looks incredibly smart. I slowly walk him through his qualifications and tender him as an expert in the field of forensic psychiatry. Max has no objections.

I then ask Dr. Taslman to explain, in layman’s terms, the legal concept of volitional insanity, the standard adopted by our state a decade ago. He smiles at me, then looks at the jurors in much the same way an old professor would enjoy chatting with his adoring students. He says, “Volitional insanity means simply that a person who is mentally healthy does something wrong, and at the time he knows it’s wrong, but at that moment he is so mentally unbalanced, or deranged, he cannot prevent himself from doing it anyway. He knows it’s wrong, but he cannot control himself and thereby commits the crime.”

He has watched the fight many times, and the video of its aftermath. He has spent a few hours with Tadeo. During their first meeting, Tadeo told him he did not remember the attack on Sean King. Indeed, he remembered virtually nothing after the second round. However, during a later session, Tadeo seemed to recollect certain things that happened. For example, he said he remembered the smug look on Crush’s face as his arm was raised in victory. He remembered the crowd screaming its disapproval of the decision. He remembered his brother Miguel yelling something. But he remembered nothing to do with the assault on the referee. Regardless, though, of what he remembered, he was blinded by emotion and had no choice but to attack. He had been robbed and the nearest official was Sean King.

Yes, in Dr. Taslman’s opinion, Tadeo was so deranged he could not stop himself. Yes, he was legally insane, and therefore unaccountable for his actions.

And there is another, quite unusual factor in play here that makes the case unique. Tadeo was in a cage designed for fighting. He had just spent nine long minutes trading punches with another fighter. He makes his living punching people. To him, at that crucial moment, it was okay to settle the matter with more punches. Put in context, and in the environment of that instant, he felt as if he had no choice but to do what he did.

When I’m finished with Taslman, we break for lunch.

26.

I stop by Domestic Relations to check the court file. As expected, old Judge Leef has denied Judith’s request for an emergency hearing, and has scheduled the matter four weeks from now. His order also states that regular visitation will continue unchanged. Take that, sweetheart.

Cliff, Partner, and I walk a few blocks to a diner and hide in a booth for a quick sandwich. The morning’s testimony could not have gone better for Tadeo. All three of us are surprised at how well Oscar did on the stand, and how believable he was in telling the jurors that Tadeo had been knocked out, but was still standing. Few fight fans would believe that, but there are none on our jury. For $20,000, I expected Dr. Taslman to perform admirably, and he did. Cliff says the jurors are thinking now, with some doubt firmly planted. However, an acquittal is impossible. A hung jury is still our only chance. And it could be a long afternoon as Mancini goes after our expert.

Back in court, Max begins by asking, “Dr. Taslman, at what moment did the defendant become legally insane?”

“There is not always a clear beginning and ending. Obviously, Mr. Zapate became furious over the judges’ decision awarding the fight to his opponent.”

“So, before that moment, was he insane by your definition?”

“It’s not clear. There is a strong likelihood that Mr. Zapate had been mentally impaired during the last few minutes of the fight. This is a very unusual situation, and it’s not possible to know how clearly he was thinking before the decision was announced. It’s pretty obvious, though, that he snapped quickly.”

“How long was he legally insane?”

“I don’t think it’s possible to say.”

“Okay, under your definition, when the defendant whirled around and struck Sean King with the first punch, was that an assault?”

“Yes.”

“And punishable by some standard?”

“Yes.”

“And excusable, in your opinion, because of your definition of legal insanity?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen the video many times. It’s clear that Sean King made no effort to defend himself once he fell to the deck and was sitting against the cage, right?”

“That appears to be the case.”

“Do you need to see it again?”

“No, not at this time.”

“So, after only two punches, Sean King is down and out, unable to protect himself, right?”

“That appears to be the case, yes.”

“Ten punches later, his face is bleeding and basically pulverized. He cannot protect himself. The defendant has hit him twelve times around the eyes and forehead. Now, at that point, Doctor, was the defendant still legally insane?”

“He could not control himself, so the answer is yes.”

Mancini looks at the judge and says, “Okay. I want to run the video again in slow motion.” The lights are dimmed yet again, and everyone stares at the large screen. Max runs it in super slow-mo and announces loudly as each punch lands, “One! Two! He’s down now. Three! Four! Five!”

I glance at the jurors. They may be tired of this footage but they’re still captivated by it.

Max stops with blow number twelve and asks, “Now, Doctor, you’re telling this jury that they’re looking at a man who knows he’s doing wrong, violating the law, but cannot physically or mentally stop himself. Is that right?” Max’s tone is one of incredulity and mockery, and it’s effective. What we’re watching is a slaughter by one pissed-off fighter. Not a man driven insane.

“That’s correct,” Dr. Taslman says, not yielding an inch.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, Max counts them off slowly and stops at twenty. Max calls out, “Now, at this point, Doc, is he still insane?”

“He is, yes.”

Twenty-one, twenty-two, and bodies land on Tadeo as Norberto finally dives on and stops the carnage. Max asks, “How about now, Doc, they’ve pulled him off and the attack is over? At what point does the boy return to sanity?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“A minute later? An hour later?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“It’s hard to say because you don’t know, right? In your opinion, legal sanity is like a switch that flips on and off, rather conveniently for the defendant, right?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Max pushes a button and the screen disappears. The lights are brightened as everyone takes a breath. Max whispers to an assistant and picks up another legal pad covered with notes. He shuffles to the podium, glares at the witness, and asks, “What if he hit him thirty times, Dr. Taslman? You’d still diagnose him as legally insane?”

“Under the same set of facts, yes.”

“Oh, we’re talking about the same facts. Nothing has changed. What about forty times? Forty blows to the head of a man who’s clearly unconscious. Still legally insane, Doc?”

“Yes.”

“This defendant showed no signs of stopping after only twenty-two. What if he landed a hundred shots to the head, Doc? Still legally insane in your book?”

Taslman earns his money with “The greater number of punches is clearer evidence of a deranged mind.”

27.

It’s Friday afternoon and there’s no way we can finish the trial today. Like most judges, Go Slow likes to jump-start the weekend. She warns the jurors about unauthorized contact and recesses early. As the jurors file out, Esteban Suarez glances my way one more time. It’s as if he’s still looking for the envelope. Bizarre.

I spend a few minutes with Tadeo and recap the week. He still insists on taking the stand, and I tell him that will probably happen Monday morning. I promise to stop by the jail on Sunday and go through his testimony. I repeat my warning that it’s never a good idea for the accused to testify. He’s taken away in handcuffs. I spend a few minutes with his mother and family and answer their questions. I’m still pessimistic but I try to hide it.

Miguel follows me out of the courtroom and down a long hallway. When no one is listening, he says, “Suarez is waiting. Contact confirmed. He’ll take the money.”

“Ten grand?” I ask, just to make sure.

“Sí, senor.”

“Then go for it, Miguel, but just leave me out of it. I’m not bribing a juror.”

“I guess then, senor, that I need a loan.”

“Forget it. I don’t make loans to clients, and I don’t make loans that’ll never be repaid. You’re on your own, pal.”

“But we took care of those two thugs for you.”

I stop and glare at him. This is the first time he’s mentioned Link’s boys—Tubby and Razor. Slowly, I say, “For the record, Miguel, I know nothing about those two. If you whacked ’em, you did it on your own.”

He’s smiling and shaking his head. “No, senor, we did it as a favor for you.” He nods to Partner in the distance. “He asked. We delivered. Now we need the favor returned.”

I take a deep breath and stare at a huge stained-glass window the taxpayers paid for a century earlier. He has a point. Two dead thugs are worth more than ten grand, at least in the currency of the street. The breakdown comes with the communication. I didn’t request two dead thugs. But now that I benefit from their demise, am I obligated to return the favor?

Suarez is probably wearing a wire and maybe even a camera. If the money can be traced to me, then I’m disbarred and headed for prison. I’ve had close calls before, and I prefer life on the outside. I swallow hard and say, “Sorry, Miguel, but I will not be involved.”

I turn and he grabs my arm. I shake him off as Partner approaches. Miguel says, “You’ll be sorry, senor.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. A promise.”

28.

There are fights tonight, but I’ve seen enough bloodshed for one week. I need to find another sport, and at the moment it happens to be chasing the most lovely Naomi Tarrant. Since we’re still meeting on the sly, or at least afraid of being seen by someone who might recognize her as a teacher, we are visiting dark bars and low-end restaurants. Tonight we go to a new place, a Thai restaurant east of town, far away from the school where Naomi teaches Starcher. We are confident we will not be seen by anyone we know.

Not quite. Naomi sees her first, and since she can’t believe it, she asks me to verify. It’s not easy because we don’t want to get caught. The restaurant is sufficiently dark and it has a series of meandering nooks and alcoves. It’s a great place to hide and have a meal without seeing many people. As Naomi returns from the ladies’ room, she sees three booths in the rear of a dining room. Seated in one of them, side by side and deep in conversation, are Judith and another woman. Not Ava, the current partner, but someone else. A curtain of beads is partially closed at the booth and blocking some of the view, but she is certain it’s Judith. Common sense would say that the two women, if only friends or associates or colleagues, would be sitting across the table from each other. But these two women are shoulder to shoulder and lost in another world, according to Naomi.

I sneak around to the men’s room, duck behind some fake potted plants on a shelf, and see what I desperately want to see. I hustle back to the table and confirm it all with Naomi.

I consider leaving and avoiding an embarrassing situation. We don’t want Judith to see us, and I’m absolutely certain she doesn’t want us to see her.

I consider sending Naomi to the car, then crashing Judith’s little rendezvous. How cool it would be to watch her melt and start lying. I’ll ask about Ava, send my regards.

I consider Starcher and what this might mean in the war being waged by his biological parents. His mothers aren’t legally married so I suppose it’s okay for one or both to see other women, though I seriously doubt they have an open relationship. How am I supposed to know the rules? But if Ava finds out, there will be even more warfare, more grief for the kid. And more ammunition for me.

I consider calling Partner and getting him to follow Judith, maybe take some photos.

As I consider all of this and sip a whiskey sour, Judith appears from around the corner and walks straight to our table. In the distance I see her friend leave hurriedly through the front door, one last furtive, tell-all glance over her shoulder. Judith, in full-bitch mode, says, “Well, well, didn’t expect to see you here.”

I’m not about to allow her to intimidate Naomi, who’s temporarily stricken. I say, “Didn’t expect to see you either. Here alone?”

“Yes,” she says. “Just picking up some takeout.”

“Oh really. Then who’s the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the booth. Short sandy hair, buzzed on one side in the current fad. The girl who just broke her neck getting out of the front door. Does Ava know about her?”

“Oh, that girl. She’s just a friend. Does the school allow its teachers to date its parents?”

“It’s frowned upon but not prohibited,” Naomi says coolly.

“Does Ava allow you to date other people?” I ask.

“Wasn’t a date. She’s just a friend.”

“Then why did you just lie about her? Why did you lie about the takeout?”

She ignores me and glares at Naomi. “I guess I should report this to the school.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll report it to Ava. Is she keeping Starcher while you’re out fooling around?”

“I’m not fooling around and my son is none of your business right now. You blew it last weekend.”

A little Thai guy in a suit eases over and with a big smile asks, “Everything okay here?”

“Yes, she’s just leaving,” I say. I look at Judith. “Please. We’re trying to order.”

“See you in court,” she hisses and turns on her heels. I watch her leave and she does not take any food with her. The little Thai guy slides away, still smiling. We drain our drinks and eventually look at the menus.

After a few minutes, I say, “Our secret is safe. She won’t say anything to the school because she knows I’ll call Ava.”

“You’d really do that?”

“In the blink of an eye. This is a war, Naomi, and there are no rules, no thoughts of fighting fair.”

“Do you want custody of Starcher?”

“No. I’m not a good enough father. But I do want to remain relevant in his life. Who knows? One day he and I might be friends.”

We spend the night at her place and sleep late Saturday morning. We’re both exhausted. We awake to the sounds of heavy rain and decide to fix omelets and eat in bed.