Текст книги "Rogue Lawyer"

Автор книги: John Grisham

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

3.

Later that afternoon, the police stop by and have a chat with Lance, the shiftless kid next door to the Renfros. Just three cops, in plain clothes, bravely approaching the house without assault weapons or bulletproof vests. They didn’t even bring their tank. Things go smoothly; no one gets shot.

Lance is nineteen, unemployed, home alone, a real loser, and his world is about to change dramatically. The police have a search warrant. After they grab his laptop and cell phone, Lance starts talking. He’s in the den when his mother comes home, and he’s admitting everything. He’s been piggybacking on the Renfros’ Wi-Fi system for about a year. He trades on the Dark Web, on a site called Millie’s Market, where he can buy any quantity of any drug, illegal or prescription. He sticks to Ecstasy because it’s accessible and the kids, his customers, love it. He does his business in Bitcoin, current balance valued at $60,000. All the details pour out in a torrent, and after an hour he’s led away in handcuffs.

So at 5:00 p.m., or about fourteen hours after the raid, the police finally know the truth. But their cover-up is already in play. They leak some lies here and there, and early the next morning I’m reading the Chronicle online and see the front-page news. There are photos of Douglas and Katherine Renfro, she now deceased, and Officer Keestler. He sounds like a hero; the Renfros sound like outlaws. Doug is a suspect in an Internet drug-trafficking ring. Shocking, a neighbor says. Had no idea. The nicest people. Kitty just got caught in the cross fire when her husband fired upon peace-loving officers of the law. She’ll be buried next week. He’ll be indicted shortly. Keestler is expected to survive. There’s not one word about Lance.

Two hours later, I meet Nate Spurio at a bagel shop in a strip mall north of town. We can’t be seen in public, or at least identified by anyone who might be a cop or know a cop, so we alternate our secret meetings between A, B, C, and D. A is an Arby’s roast beef joint in the suburbs. B is one of two bagel shops. C is the dreadful Catfish Cave, six miles east of the City. D is for a donut shop. When we need to talk, we simply choose a letter from our little alphabet game and agree on a time. Spurio is a thirty-year veteran of the police force, a genuine, honest cop who plays by the book and despises almost everyone else in the department. We have a history, which began with me as a twenty-year-old college boy who got too drunk in a beer hall and found myself outside on the sidewalk getting roughed up by the cops, one of whom was Nate Spurio. He said I cursed him and shoved him, and after I woke up in jail he stopped by to check on me. I apologized profusely. He accepted and made sure the charges were dropped. My broken jaw healed nicely, and the cop who punched me was later dismissed. The incident inspired me to go to law school. Over the years, Spurio has refused to play the political games necessary to advance and has gone nowhere. He’s usually hanging around a desk, filing papers, counting the days. But there is a network of other officers who have been ostracized by the powers that be, and Spurio spends a lot of time tracking the gossip. He’s not a snitch by any means. He’s simply an honest cop who hates what his department has become.

Partner stays in the van, in the parking lot, on guard in case other cops happen by and want a bagel. We huddle in a corner and watch the door. He says, “Boy oh boy, it’s a big one.”

“Let’s have it.”

He starts with Lance’s arrest, the confiscation of his computer, the clear proof that the boy is a small-time dealer, and his detailed admission about tagging along on the Renfros’ router. Their computers are squeaky-clean, but Doug will be indicted day after tomorrow. Keestler will be cleared of all wrongdoing. The typical cover-up.

“Who was there?” I ask, and he hands me a folded sheet of paper. “Eight, all from our department. No state boys, no Feds.”

If I have my way, they’ll be named defendants in a lawsuit seeking damages of, oh, I don’t know, how about $50 million.

“Who led the party?” I ask.

“Who do you think?”

“Sumerall?”

“You got it. We could tell from watching the news. Once again, Lieutenant Chip Sumerall leads his fearless troops into a quiet home where everybody’s asleep, and he gets his man. You gonna sue?”

I reply, “I don’t have the case yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Thought you were the best at chasing ambulances.”

“Only the ones I want. I’ll catch this one.”

Spurio chews on an onion bagel, washes it down with coffee, says, “These guys are outta control, Rudd. You gotta stop them.”

“No way, Nate. I can’t stop them. Maybe I can embarrass them from time to time, cost the City some money, but what they’re doing here is happening everywhere. We live in a police state and everybody supports the cops.”

“So you’re the last line of defense?”

“Yep.”

“God help us.”

“Indeed. Thanks for the scoop. I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t mention it.”

4.

Doug Renfro is too physically damaged and emotionally overwhelmed to meet with me, and since a meeting would have to take place in his hospital room, it’s a bad idea anyway. The cops have the only door secured as if he were on death row. Privacy would be impossible. So I meet with Thomas Renfro and his two sisters in a coffee shop down the street from the hospital. The three are sleepwalking through their nightmare, exhausted, stunned, angry, grief stricken, and desperate for advice. They ignore their coffee and at first seem content to let me do the talking. Without the least bit of bluster, I explain who I am, what I do, where I come from, and how I protect my clients. I tell them that I’m not a typical lawyer. I don’t maintain a pretty office filled with mahogany and leather. I don’t belong to a big firm, prestigious or otherwise. I don’t do good works through the bar association. I’m a lone gunman, a rogue who fights the system and hates injustice. I’m here right now because I know what’s about to happen to their father, and to them.

Fiona, the older sister, says, “But they murdered our mother.”

“Indeed they did, but no one will be charged with her murder. They’ll investigate, send in the experts, and so on, and in the end they’ll all agree that she simply got caught in the cross fire. They’ll indict your father and blame him for starting the gun battle.”

Susanna, the younger sister, says, “But we’ve talked to our father, Mr. Rudd. They were sound asleep when something crashed inside the house. He thought they were being robbed. He grabbed his gun, ran into the hallway, then hit the floor when he saw figures in the dark. Someone fired a shot, then he began returning fire. He says he remembers Mom screaming and running into the hall to check on him.”

I say, “He’s very lucky to be alive. They shot both dogs, didn’t they?”

“Who are these goons?” Thomas asks helplessly.

“The police, the good guys.” I then tell them the story of my client Sonny Werth, with the tank sitting in his den, and the lawsuit we won. I explain that a civil lawsuit is their only option right now. Their father will be indicted and prosecuted, and once the truth is finally learned—and I promise them that we will expose everything—there will be enormous pressure on the City to settle. Their endgame is to keep their father out of jail. They can forget justice for what happened to their mother. A civil lawsuit, one put together by the right lawyer of course, guarantees a safer flow of information. The cover-up is already under way, I say more than once.

They’re trying their best to listen, but they’re in another world. Who could blame them? The meeting ends with both women in tears and Thomas unable to speak.

It’s time for me to back off.

5.

Uninvited, though it’s open to the public, I arrive at the large Methodist church just minutes before the service for Katherine Renfro. I find the stairs, climb up to the balcony, and sit in the semidarkness. I am alone up here, but the rest of the sanctuary is packed. I look down on the crowd: all white, all middle class, all in disbelief that their friend got shot seven times in her pajamas by the police.

Aren’t these senseless tragedies supposed to take place in other parts of town? These people are hard-core law-and-order. They vote to the right and want tough laws. If they think about SWAT teams at all, they think they’re necessary to fight terror and drugs in other places. How could this happen to them?

Absent from this ceremony is Doug Renfro. According to yesterday’s Chronicle, he has just been indicted. He’s still hospitalized, though recovering slowly. He begged the doctors and the police to allow him to attend his wife’s funeral. The doctors said sure; the cops said no way. He’s a threat to society. A cruel footnote to this tragedy is that Doug will live the rest of his life under the cloud of somehow being involved with drug trafficking. Most of these people will believe him and his denials, but for some there will be doubts. What was old Doug really up to? Surely he must’ve been guilty of something or our brave police would not have gone after him.

I suffer through the service, along with everyone else. The air is thick with confusion and anger. The minister is comforting, but at times clearly unsure of what has happened. He tries to make some sense of it, but it’s an impossible challenge. As he’s wrapping things up, and as the crying gets louder, I ease down the stairs and exit through a side door.

Two hours later my phone rings. It’s Doug Renfro.

6.

A lawyer like me is forced to work in the shadows. My opponents are protected by badges, uniforms, and all the myriad trappings of government power. They are sworn and duty-bound to uphold the law, but since they cheat like hell it forces me to cheat even more.

I have a network of contacts and sources. I can’t call them friends because friendships require commitments. Nate Spurio is one example, an honest cop who wouldn’t take a dime for inside information. I’ve offered. Another guy is a reporter with the Chronicle, and we swap gossip when it’s convenient. No cash changes hands. One of my favorites is Okie Schwin, and Okie always takes the money.

Okie is a mid-level paper pusher in the federal court clerk’s office in a downtown courthouse. He hates his job, despises his co-workers, and is always looking for an easy way to make a buck. He’s also divorced, drinks too much, and constantly tests the boundaries of workplace sexual harassment. Okie’s value is his ability to manipulate the court’s random assignment of cases. When a civil lawsuit is filed, it is supposedly assigned by chance to one of our six federal judges. A computer does this and the little procedure seems to work fine. There’s always a judge you’d prefer, depending on the type of case and perhaps your history in various courtrooms, but who cares when it’s completely random? Okie, though, knows how to rig the software and find the judge you really want. He charges for this, handsomely, and he’ll probably get caught, though he assures me there’s no way. If he’s caught, he’ll get fired and maybe prosecuted, but Okie seems unconcerned by these possibilities.

At his suggestion, we meet in a seedy strip club far from downtown. The crowd is staunchly blue collar. The strippers are not worth describing. I turn my back to the stage so I don’t have to look. Just under the roar, I say, “I’m filing suit tomorrow. Renfro, our SWAT boys’ latest home invasion.”

He laughs and says, “What a surprise. Let me guess, you think justice will be best served if the Honorable Arnie Samson presides.”

“My man.”

“He’s 110 years old, on senior status, half-dead, and he says he’s not taking cases anymore. Why can’t we make these guys retire?”

“That’s between you and the Constitution. He’ll take this one. The standard fee?”

“Yep. But what if he says no and bounces it down the line?”

“I’ll have to take that chance.” I hand him an envelope with $3,000 in cash. His standard fee. He quickly shoves it into a pocket without even a thank-you, then turns his attention to the girls.

7.

At nine the following morning, I walk into the clerk’s office and file a $50 million lawsuit against the City, the police department, the police chief, and the eight SWAT boys who attacked the Renfros’ home six days earlier. Somewhere in the murky depths of the office, Okie does his magic and the case is “randomly and automatically” assigned to Judge Arnold Samson. I e-mail a copy of the lawsuit to my friend at the Chronicle.

I also file a request for a temporary restraining order to prevent the prosecutor from freezing Doug Renfro’s assets. This is a favorite strong-arm tactic used by the government to harass criminal defendants. The original idea was to tie up assets supposedly accumulated in whatever criminal activity the defendant was engaged in, primarily drug trafficking. Seize the ill-gotten gains and make things tough for the cartels. And like so many laws, it didn’t take the prosecutors long to get creative and expand its use. In Doug’s case, the government was prepared to argue that his assets—home, cars, bank and retirement accounts—were accumulated, in part, with dirty money he earned while peddling Ecstasy.

Say what? By the time we have the emergency hearing on the temporary restraining order, the city prosecutors are backing down and looking for a way out. Judge Samson, as feisty as ever, scolds them and even threatens them with contempt. We win round 1.

Round 2 is a bail hearing in state court, where the attempted murder charge is pending. With his assets free, I’m able to argue that Doug Renfro poses absolutely no flight risk and will show up in court whenever he’s supposed to. His home is worth $400,000 with no mortgage, and I offer to post the deed as security. To my surprise, the judge agrees, and I walk my client out of court. We win round 2, but these are the easy ones.

Eight days after getting shot and losing his wife and both dogs, Doug Renfro returns home, where his three children, seven grandchildren, and some friends are waiting. It will be a subdued homecoming. They graciously ask me to join them, but I decline.

I fight tooth and nail for my clients and will break most laws to protect them, but I never get too close.

8.

At ten on a perfect Saturday morning, I’m sitting on a bench at a playground, waiting. It’s a few blocks from my apartment, our usual meeting place. On the sidewalk, a beautiful woman approaches with a seven-year-old boy. He is my son. She is my ex-wife. The court order allows me to see him once a month for thirty-six hours. As he gets older, I will be entitled to more lenient visitation, but for now things are restricted. There are reasons for this but I’d rather not discuss them now.

Starcher does not smile when they get to the bench. I stand and peck Judith on the cheek, more for the kid’s benefit than hers. She prefers not to touch.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, rubbing his head.

“Hey,” he says, then walks over to a swing and climbs onto it. Judith sits beside me on the bench and we watch him kick and begin swaying.

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

“Fine. His teachers are happy.” A long pause. “I see you’ve been quite busy.”

“Indeed. And you?”

“The usual grind.”

“How’s Ava?” I ask about her partner.

“She’s great. What are your plans for the day?”

Judith does not like leaving our son with me. Once again, I’ve managed to offend the police and this worries her. Worries me too but I would never admit it.

I say, “I figure we’ll do lunch. Then there’s a soccer game at the university this afternoon.”

She thinks a soccer game is safe enough. She says, “I’d like to have him back tonight, if that’s okay.”

“I get thirty-six hours once a month and that’s too much?”

“No, Sebastian, it’s not too much. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Our fighting days are almost over, I hope. Take two lawyers with sharp elbows and even sharper tongues, give them an unwanted pregnancy, a nasty divorce with brutal aftershocks, and you have two people who can inflict serious damage. We’re still scarred, so we don’t fight, much.

“Fine,” I say, in full retreat. Truthfully, there’s nothing appealing about my apartment and Starcher doesn’t really like staying there, not yet anyway. He’s too short to shoot pool on my vintage table and I don’t own any video games. Maybe when he’s older.

He is being raised by two women who freak out if another kid shoves him at school. I’m not sure I can toughen him up by popping into his life once a month, but I’m trying. Down the road, I suspect he’ll get tired of living with a couple of edgy, intense women and want more time with his old man. My challenge is to remain relevant enough in his life to offer him that option.

“What time shall we meet?” she asks.

“Whenever.”

“I’ll meet you here at 6:00 p.m.,” she says as she gets to her feet and walks away. Starcher, his back to us, soars through the air and does not see her leave. It does not escape me that Judith did not bother to bring an overnight bag for the kid. She had no intention of allowing him to sleep at my place.

I live on the twenty-fifth floor because I feel safer there. I routinely get death threats for a variety of reasons, and I’ve been honest with Judith about this. She is not wrong for wanting the kid at home, where things are probably calmer. Probably, but I don’t know for sure. Just last month Starcher told me his “two mothers” yell at each other all the time.

For lunch we go to my favorite pizza parlor, a place his mothers would never take him. The truth is I don’t care what he eats. In many ways I’m more like a grandparent who spoils the kids before sending them back home. If he wants Ben & Jerry’s before and after lunch, so be it.

As we eat, he comes to life while I quiz him about school. He’s in the second grade in a public school not far from where I grew up. Judith insisted he attend some crunchy little granola academy where all plastic is forbidden and all the teachers wear thick wool socks and old sandals. At $40,000 a year I said hell no. She ran back to court, and for once the judge sided with me. So Starcher is in a normal school with kids of all colors and a seriously cute teacher, recently divorced.

As I’ve said, Starcher was a mistake. Judith and I were in the process of ending our chaotic relationship when she somehow got pregnant. The split grew even more complicated. I moved out and she assumed total possession of him. I was stiff-armed at every point, though, to be honest, I have never clamored to be a father. He’s all hers, at least in her opinion, so it’s becoming hilarious to watch him grow into a little boy who looks exactly like me. My mother found my second-grade school photo. At seven, we could pass for identical twins.

We talk about fighting, the school-yard variety. I ask him if he sees fights during recess, and he says, “Occasionally.” He tells me the story of the day when kids began yelling, “Fight! Fight!” and everyone ran over to watch. Two third graders, one black and one white, were on the ground kicking and squirming, biting and clawing and swapping punches while the crowd yelled encouragement.

“Was it fun to watch?” I ask.

He smiles and says, “Sure. It was cool.”

“What happened?”

“The teachers came and got them and took them into the office. I think they got in trouble.”

“I’m sure they did. Has your mother ever talked to you about fighting?”

He shakes his head. No.

“Okay. Here are the rules. Fighting is bad and will only get you in trouble, so don’t fight. Never start a fight. But, if someone else hits you, or pushes you, or trips you, or if two guys jump on a friend of yours, then sometimes you have to fight. Never back down when the other guy starts a fight. And when you fight, never, never, never give up.”

“Did you get into fights?”

“All the time. I was never a bully and I never started a fight. And I didn’t like to fight, but if the other guy pushed me around, then I hit him back.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“I did. I took my punishment.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means the teacher yelled at me and my mother yelled at me and maybe they kicked me out of school for half a day or something like that. Again, bud, fighting is wrong.”

“Why do you always call me bud?”

Because I loathe the name your mother chose for you. “Just a nickname, that’s all.”

“Mom says you don’t like my name.”

“Not true, bud.” Judith will always be at war over the soul of her son. She cannot rise above the temptation of the silliest cheap shot. Why on earth would one parent tell a seven-year-old that the other parent doesn’t like his name? I’m sure I’d be shocked at the other crap she’s told him.

Partner has the day off, so I drive my van to the soccer stadium on campus. Starcher thinks the van is cool, with its sofa, swivel chairs, small desk, and television. He’s not sure why I use it as an office, and I have not gone into details about the bulletproof windows and automatic pistol in the console.

It’s a women’s soccer game, not that it matters to me. I don’t follow the sport, so if I’m forced to watch it I’d rather see girls in shorts than guys with hairy legs. Starcher, though, loves the excitement. His mothers do not believe in team sports, so he’s just been signed up for tennis lessons. Nothing wrong with tennis, but if he gets my moves he won’t last long. I always liked to hit. In youth basketball I was the kid with four fouls by halftime. Always more fouls than points. In Pop Warner football I played linebacker because I loved the contact.

After an hour someone finally scores, but by then I’m thinking about the Renfro case and any interest I had in the game is gone. Starcher and I share a popcorn and talk about this and that. The truth is, I’m so far detached from his little world that I can’t sustain a decent conversation.

I’m such a pathetic father.