Against the Wind (19 page)

The buzz goes up, particularly among the reporters clustered in the rear, as the woman is pushed down the center aisle, all the way to the gate in the rail that separates participants from spectators. The deputy stops, awaiting instructions. The woman laboriously turns in her wheelchair, staring at the defendants. It’s painful to watch; even Lone Wolf looks away.

“May we approach the bench, your honor?” Moseby asks.

Martinez nods curtly. I join Moseby in front of the judge. He’d better have a solid reason for this bullshit.

“This is pretty damn unusual, counselor.” Martinez admonishes Moseby with more than a touch of annoyance in his voice.

“I know it is, your honor.” He turns to me, dripping with contriteness. “I don’t mean to step on you, Will, I really mean that, it’s just …”

“Hold on, ace,” I interject vigorously. This is pissing me off royally, momentum is vital, this could completely fuck me up with the jury before I even get started. “Who the hell is this woman and why is she being brought in here just as I’m about to start my opening statement, judge?”

“Her name is Cora Bartless,” Moseby says, throwing down a trump. “The victim’s mother.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Talk about a kick in the balls.

“We expected her here first thing this morning, your honor,” Moseby says, turning back to Martinez, “but there was a screw-up on her airplane connection out of Salt Lake City because of the wheelchair. They made her sit in the airport half the day before they figured it out. She put up her own money to fly out here from Arkansas, you can tell by looking at her she doesn’t have money to throw around but this is everything to her. She wants to be at this trial, your honor,” he says aggressively. “She deserves it.”

“You didn’t handle this very well, counselor.” Martinez is mad and wants Moseby to know it.

“It was the airline’s fault,” Moseby whines.

“The airline my ass. It was
your
fault. For cutting it so close.”

He steeples his fingers. “Well, she’s here now. Can’t shove that one back in the jar.” He turns to me. “Do you want to recess until tomorrow, counselor? If you do just say so.”

I look at my team, at the defendants, at the poor unsuspecting woman sitting in the wheelchair, an unknowing pawn in a tawdry game Robertson and Moseby are playing.

“I’d prefer to do it now, your honor,” I tell him. “In fact, I insist on it.”

“I’m going to call a half-hour recess so we can get her settled somewhere unobtrusive,” Martinez tells us. “Then you’re on.”

During the recess I let the defendants and my colleagues in on Robertson’s dirty little scam. My erstwhile friend and Moseby are carefully seating her at the far edge of the front row where the jury can clearly see her.

“Motherfucker’s dead,” Lone Wolf says in his high whispery voice, looking over at her and them. “Stone fucking cold dead.”

I lean towards him, keeping my voice down so no one will hear. “Listen to me, shit-for-brains. I am not going to tell you this again: you are to shut up in this courtroom and anywhere else where you might be overheard,
comprende
? I’m not going to see this case go down the drain because some reporter or court officer hears that kind of garbage from you. You do what I tell you when I tell you and nothing else or we’re walking and I mean all four of us.”

The other bikers look at him, at me.

“Do what he says, man,” Roach whispers.

Lone Wolf wheels on him, as much as he can sitting in his chair.

“It’s all of us,” Dutchboy adds. For the first time since I’ve met them, they’re asserting themselves as individuals, not just being dummies letting Lone Wolf do not only their talking, but their thinking as well.

“Don’t bring us all down ’cause you’re pissed at something,” he says.

“It’s all our lives,” Goose pleads. “You know we’re all together with you, Wolf, but come on, man. Please.”

Lone Wolf is obviously taken aback by these sudden declarations of independence. “It’s an expression, for Christsakes.” He puts his hand on Goose’s shoulder. “Just an expression. You know me better’n that.”

“I do know you,” Goose answers. I’ve never seen him stand up to Lone Wolf before. “That’s why I’m saying what I’m saying.”

“It’s just an expression. Anyway … how am I going to get to him when I’m locked up tighter than a virgin’s ass?”

“You got your ways,” Roach says.

“All right,” I say. “Let it go. But no more loose talk. From any of you.”

“Fine by me.” Lone Wolf leans back in his chair.

“What about the aggrieved mother?” Tommy asks. He’s worried, he’s not experienced at being surprised like this.

“What about her?” I repeat. “She’ll watch.” I pause. “Like everyone else. Maybe she’ll learn something.”

Paul and Tommy smile at that. The big gun’s ready to fire his first salvo. Mary Lou smiles too. I like it—the knight errant going out to slay the dragon; at least inflict some serious damage. Poor woman; I’m going to be beating her off with a club after I finish my opening. I catch myself: get your cock out of this, man. People’s lives are at stake here. Your cock’s going to take a holiday.

“Your honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” I pause, look around.

The sun is almost setting, bathing the room in a warm, enveloping magenta light. It’s peaceful, almost lulling, until you remember that four men are on trial here for murder. Then the chamber doesn’t look so peaceful; more sarcophagus-like.

I face the jury, establishing eye-contact with them, these twelve men and women. They do not know me, yet in some basic way I will know them intimately. I will try to find a way to get them to trust me, so that what I tell them isn’t simply a lawyer’s language of client-defense but the real thing, the truth of the matter.

“You’re here for a reason,” I tell them. “A very simple reason. To see that justice is done. That’s why I’m here, too. That’s why the judge is here, and the prosecutor. We may have different ideas about what justice is in any particular case, but we are all here to serve it. To find it. Even the spectators watching us, the reporters in and out of this courtroom—we’re all involved, no one is impartial, because one of the basic tenets of this great country of ours is that we’re all in it together, we’re all responsible. We’re all here to judge innocence and guilt.”

I pause, turn and stare at the victim’s mother. She looks around until she realizes I’ve fastened on her, abruptly turns away. Robertson and Moseby look back at me for her. During the break Ellen, one of the paralegals, had done some quick research using one of the phones in the lobby, getting back inside before court resumed with a smile of triumph, pressing a note in my hand.

“That lady over there,” I continue, pointing to Mrs. Bartless, fixed in her wheelchair directly in their line of vision, they don’t know who she is yet, Moseby was hoping to save that for a delicious moment, “she’s here to find justice, too. She has a special interest in finding justice in this case. Because it was her son who was the murder victim.”

The expected murmur arises from the crowd. A couple reporters dash out. Robertson and Moseby stare at me, at her, finally at each other, a study in consternation. Judge Martinez looks at me with renewed interest; it’s going to be a good contest, he won’t have to worry about falling asleep up there under the hot lights.

“She wants to find out who did it,” I say, “and when she does she wants the guilty party put away. Not just stuck in a cell for the rest of his life: she wants him exterminated, eliminated, wiped off the face of the earth like her son was.”

Another seed goes in the ground. One person, not several. One person did it, I’m saying. Which one, if one of those in the dock? A much harder call than to throw a blanket over the whole gang.

Mrs. Bartless’s mouth is open, her eyes darting about nervously, looking to Robertson and Moseby for reassurance. They’re preoccupied. She sits, stuck in the wheelchair.

“I can understand her feelings. I’m sure you can, too. They’re legitimate feelings, heartfelt feelings, and if anyone deserves to be present here, it is this unfortunate woman.” Now I fire a shot across the prosecution’s bow. “But what is not legitimate is that this woman is being used!”

“Objection!” Moseby’s on his feet, his face florid.

“Over-ruled.” Martinez turns to the jury. “You are to disregard that outburst by the prosecution. Opening and closing remarks by their very nature are subjective and not bound by the same rules we adhere to during the body of the trial.” He swivels around to the prosecution side, leaning forward. He is one unhappy judge, and he wants everyone to know it, especially the prosecutors. All he needs is to have the trial overturned on some petty legality like that.

“You are out of order,” he tells Moseby harshly.

“Yes, sir.” Bastard won’t even look the judge straight in the eye.

“Another such outburst and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Yes, sir.”

Martinez turns back to me. “The court apologizes for the interruption.”

“No apology necessary, your honor,” I say deferentially. My team, lawyers and defendants, are smiling. A bird’s nest on the ground which we’ll gladly take.

“Proceed.”

Once again I turn and face the jurors. “This woman didn’t get here today by accident. She didn’t cash in her savings bonds and fly here from her home a thousand miles away so she could see the men the prosecution says killed her son. She didn’t even know the trial had started until yesterday, when she was called up and told about it by a member of the District Attorney’s staff. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution brought this woman here today. They’ve been looking for her for months and they finally found her and they bought her an airplane ticket and they got her a room in a motel down the street and they’re going to pay for that room and her meals and anything else she needs until this trial is over. Even her wheelchair attendants, who cost twenty dollars an hour. They’re paying for it; rather, you’re paying for it. The taxpayers of the state are paying for it.” I pause, letting that sink in.

“And they should. It’s the least they can do for her.” Immediately I regain the high moral ground. “But what they shouldn’t do, what none of us should do, is use her. Life has already used her enough, far too much. The prosecutors don’t want Mrs. Bartless here so she can see a trial; they want her here so she can be seen. By you.” I’m at the jury rail, practically leaning over inside it, pointing at them, looking at each of them in turn.

I turn back to look at her. Robertson is morose, his head down. Moseby glares at me. Good; maybe he’ll fuck up some more.

“The prosecution wants you to feel sorry for this poor woman.

They want you to feel so sorry for her that you’ll convict anyone that they tell you killed her son, even if who they tell you didn’t do it. Well … I guess that’s okay. Although this seems to me to be pushing it. It’s theatrical and a little underhanded, but they have a job to do.”

I walk back to my table, take a sip of water, cross the room so that I’m standing near the prosecutor’s bench, able to look at them, Mrs. Bartless, and the jury all at the same time.

“What isn’t okay,” I tell the jury, “is that they’re using her. And worse; they’re using you. They’re afraid they don’t have a real strong case against the defendants here, so they’re going to ask you to convict them not on evidence, but because this poor woman in a wheelchair lost a son and someone has to pay.

“The problem is, they’re right. They don’t have a strong case. So they’re going to cloud the issue. But ladies and gentlemen of the jury: this trial is
not
about Richard Bartless’s mother. Like him, she too is a victim, and she, too, is being made to suffer.” I pause once again. “Let me ask you this—hasn’t she suffered enough already?”

The jury looks at her. A few of the women squirm. This is a ticklish situation; I don’t want them to feel so sorry for her that they’ll eat anything thrown at them, but by the same token I must defuse this issue, get it out in the open and out of the way. I have to get them to stop seeing her.

“We’re all on trial here,” I tell them. “But in this trial, only these defendants can be found guilty, and they alone can permanently suffer. They can be sent to jail, or even executed, for a crime they
did not
commit. I don’t have to prove that; that’s the prosecution’s burden. As you deliberate during this trial, please remember that. The prosecution must
conclusively
prove guilt, beyond a reasonable doubt.

“There’s already been enough suffering over this murder. Let’s not put anyone through any more suffering. Not Mrs. Bartless. And not these four innocent men. I’m confident that you will judge this case on the facts presented, and although you’ll feel in your hearts, you’ll make your decision with your minds. And when you do that, you’ll make the only decisions you can. You will find my client and the other defendants not guilty.”

IT’S BEEN A
fucked weekend. It was inevitable, after the high of my opening statement—there was nowhere to go but down. That evening I was the toast of the town; I’d beaten the state boys at their own game, at least for one day. There isn’t a lawyer alive that doesn’t want to stick it to the prosecution whenever he can because they have everything going for them. So when they’re hoisted by the petard of their own clumsiness it makes all private lawyers feel good. That’s always been my personal feeling, anyway.

What I wanted was to be with a woman, and I couldn’t. Mary Lou is there but that’s out; after my holier-than-thou speech about professionalism I’d be a fool to make a play for her. The only way something like that would work would be if it was true love. I’m not ready for true love again, I don’t seem to be very good at it.

Saturday morning. We caucus in my office. Since the prosecution will lead off we’re in a holding pattern, kind of. We have an idea of what they’re going to do and we prepare as best we can around that.

Mary Lou lingers a moment after the others leave. She looks very young and appealing, in sandals, T-shirt and jeans, hair pulled back, almost no makeup.

“I thought about you last night.”