Corrupt Practices (30 page)

“They’re
not
responsible.”

“If they know about Grace’s role in this, they certainly won’t let me find her. They’ll lay the blame on her to get this case over with, and Rich will forever be branded a defective.”

She flinches at my use of the word. “What do you want from me?”

“Right now, just tell me all you know about Grace’s relationship with Rich and the Assembly. Then keep this information to yourself so I can find her. And I promise you—if she did have something to do with Rich’s murder, I’ll get the evidence to prove it.”

She takes a deep breath. “I got to know her when she first joined. She wanted to purge the impurities from her cells.” The Assembly preaches that insanity and addiction result from contamination of the body’s intercellular water and can be cured with faith and an intense exercise regimen. “She seemed like a true adherent, engaged in an earnest quest to heed the Fount. Sober and on her way to being crystalline.”
Crystalline
is Assembly-speak for contaminant-free.

“When did Rich become a member?”

“She ushered him into the Assembly in 2005.”

“My God, that was two years before he told us that . . .”

“Rich didn’t tell you because he was afraid of what you and the others would think of him. Especially what you, his good friend Parker, would think. I’m proud to say I helped him find the courage not to be ashamed of his beliefs.”

I glance down at my coffee for a moment, and then with difficulty meet her eyes.

“Grace’s transformation didn’t last long,” she continues. “She started dressing in a way that flaunted her body, started telling these crazy stories about herself, pursuing male members of the congregation. Especially married men, like they were some kind of challenge. She even seduced a pastor. And all this time, she was supposed to have been engaged to Rich. Everyone in the community knew what she was but him.” She shakes her head. “He was so trusting, so positive about his friends and partners, and they took advantage and destroyed him.”

“And you think I was one of those people?”

“That’s to be judged on a higher celestial level.” She stares at me, expressionless. “We’re a compassionate community. The hierarchy tried to help Grace, but intervention and reconditioning didn’t work. When she corrupted one of the new members—they were caught in the back seat of her car like rutting teenagers—she was excommunicated. She wanted Rich to leave with her, but he didn’t because I convinced him to stay. After that, she terrorized us with her constant phone calls and e-mails and threats and . . .” She stops to take a breath. “I don’t care what you say, she’s capable of great violence. I feared for our lives. She only left us alone after the hierarchal guard convinced her to stay away from us.”

I’m sure that the guard was quite forceful.

“Rich promised me in the name of the Fount that he wouldn’t see that woman again,” she says. “Why would he go to her for help? Why not Deanna or Manny? Or you, like he did when he was arrested?”

“When I find her, we’ll be able to answer that question.”

“There’s only one answer. He still had feelings for her.”

“Monica, Rich loved you and Josh. When I saw him at the jail that was the one thing that he was absolutely clear about.”

“No. That’s why he rented the apartment. So they could . . .” She curls her lips. She’s one of those rare women who looks prettier when she’s about to cry. She picks up her purse and gets up to leave.

“Wait. Will you keep what I’ve told you to yourself?”

Without answering, she hurries away.

“You’re going to unravel your coat if you keep doing that,” Lovely says.

I glance down at the sleeve of my navy blue suit and find myself tugging at a loose thread. We’re in Judge Harvey’s courtroom for the hearing on the motion to dismiss the indictment against Tyler Daniels. In deference to Judge Harvey’s admonition at the end of the last court hearing, she’s wearing a black woolen skirt that falls to midcalf.

When we sat down, I made sure to put my briefcase on the chair between us. I don’t want anyone to suspect that she and I have anything more than a teacher–student relationship. In a courtroom, everyone—the judge, the spectators, the jury if impaneled—has extrasensory powers of observation. The attorneys are particularly exposed, maybe because the courtroom resembles a stage, with the lawyers in the leading roles.

Neil Latham is standing in the aisle, speaking to a group of news reporters. The Daniels case has become widely known to the media. The courtroom doors swing open, and Lou Frantz and Nick Weir walk in. They don’t have a case on the docket, so they have no business being here. Then Christopher McCarthy comes through the door, followed by a phalanx of his minions, all with the imperious bearing of followers of the Church of the Sanctified Assembly. From my half-twisted position I count eight of them in addition to McCarthy, all dressed in well-tailored blue suits, the men wearing red power ties, the women attractive and wearing skirts much shorter than the one that Lovely wore at the hearing when Judge Harvey snapped at her. It will cost the Church a fortune in time and legal fees to have all these people watch a criminal case that should mean nothing to them.

Latham greets Frantz warmly. The Frantz law firm likes to hire former US Attorneys, so maybe Latham is angling for a high-paying job in private practice. Lovely, who’s reviewing her notes, doesn’t seem to notice Frantz and McCarthy. Even as a child actor, I was acutely aware of everything that was going on around me. I envy Lovely’s ability to focus and detach, seemingly to shut out irrelevant stimuli. I wish I could do that, because maybe then I could stave off the stage fright.

Latham finally walks to the front of the courtroom, acknowledging me with a slight nod. I expect the Assembly crew at least to show enough restraint to take seats on the opposite side of the courtroom, but they all file into the two rows directly in back of us, with Weir behind me, Frantz behind Lovely, and McCarthy next to Frantz. Only then does Lovely turn around and see them. Her eyes narrow, but to her credit she goes back to studying her notes.

I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“You know what, Stern?” Frantz says. “When she worked for me, she wanted my firm to take on this case pro bono. I wouldn’t do it. There are some things you just don’t do, and representing a pedophile is one of them.”

“You should’ve followed your own advice before you decided to represent that cult,” I say, making sure that McCarthy hears me. “It’s nothing but racketeering enterprise masquerading as a religion.”

“Truth be told,” he says, “I advised her not to take your class. I’d never heard of you. I didn’t want some inexperienced hack posing as a trial lawyer to lead her astray.”

With her back still toward Frantz, Lovely raises her right hand to ear level and shows him her middle finger.

“That’s your idea of courtroom decorum these days?” he says. “I guess I was right about your working with this guy.”

At least for the moment, my disgust over Frantz’s tactic trumps my gathering stage fright. “And you want us to believe that you’ve acted respectfully by showing up and sitting right behind us and needling us just before an argument? Not to mention that stunt you pulled at McCarthy’s deposition. Under the circumstances, Ms. Diamond has shown remarkable restraint. And actually, I’m glad you’re here, because it’ll be good for you to see how someone young handles a case. You botched the McCarthy deposition. Time has passed you by.”

“My recent press clippings prove otherwise.”

I glance over at Lovely. Though she’s still looking down at her documents, she’s grinning.

I look around the courtroom. It’s filled with spectators. McCarthy stares straight ahead. He bears no resemblance to the terrified man who fled his deposition. Farther back, the news reporters wait with laptops poised. I can pick out the lawyers here on other matters, because they’re flipping through their own case files, oblivious to the gathering tension brimming up on all sides.

A man in the back row waves an arm. I have to stand up to recognize him as Jonathan Borzo. Dressed in a suit and clean-shaven, he finally looks like someone about to graduate law school rather than a high school sophomore interested in texting and videogames. Kathleen is sitting next to him. She’s wearing an ill-fitting polyester dress that makes her look plumper than she really is. I tap Lovely on the shoulder and point them out. She glances up, but doesn’t acknowledge them.

The
click
of the chambers door quiets the courtroom.

“All rise, this court is now in session, the Honorable Cyrus Harvey presiding, all those having business . . .” At the sound of the clerk’s voice, my heart starts hammering my ribcage.

The judge takes the bench. Usually, there’s a hint of detached glibness to Judge Harvey, as though he’s signaling that while everyone else in the room must take the proceedings seriously, he doesn’t have to. Today, he looks somber.

“Please be seated,” the clerk says.

As soon as I sit back down, my stage fright disappears, the way a constant din abruptly stops and leaves your ears ringing with the memory of it. The interior wall of my gut has unclenched; the skin on the nape of my neck no longer crawls. I feel that elation that lifts you into a sublime weightlessness. By trying to intimidate me, Frantz and McCarthy have accomplished just the opposite: their blatant grandstanding has freed me from an affliction far more powerful than they. I want to pump my fist in triumph.

When the clerk calls our case, I make my way to the defense table, while Lovely takes a place behind the lectern just as I told her to do. This is her motion, and she has the right to go first. Latham sits at the prosecution table across from us.

“Counsel, please state your appearances,” the clerk says.

“Neil Latham for the United States.”

“Parker Stern for the defendant, Tyler Daniels.” My voice sounds strong and clear, like it did the last time when I reflexively came to Lovely’s aid. “Arguing today will be Lovely Diamond, third-year law student at St. Thomas More School of Law and certified to represent the defendant in this case.”

“Oh, yes,” the judge says, casting his murky eyes at Lovely. “Our law student. Now, where’s your client?”

Lovely doesn’t waver. “Your Honor, we filed a motion asking that she be excused from—”

The judge raises a hand. As Lovely and I expected, he’s not pleased. He thinks for a few seconds before turning to Latham. “Any objection from the government?”

“None,” Latham says.

“Why should I excuse her appearing this time, Miss Diamond?” the judge asks.

“Because this is a legal argument, Your Honor. Unlike an arraignment, there’s no need for her participation. She’d play no part in these proceedings if she were here.”

The judge blinks his eyes hard several times, and then writes something on a legal pad. “The defendant is excused this time. But only because this is, indeed, a legal argument. I’m not going to keep doing this.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Lovely says.

“You want me to dismiss this case,” the judge says. “Tell me why I should.”

She presses a couple of keys on her laptop, and the courtroom monitors flash on. There’s an audible gasp from the gallery. The screens display a graphic drawing of two nude women lying on a bed, their bodies touching, their arms and legs intertwined—the cover art for de Sade’s
Justine, Philosophy in the Bedroom, and Other Writings
. I interlace my fingers and squeeze hard. She didn’t tell me about this because she knew I wouldn’t approve.

The judge shakes his head. “Miss Diamond, I don’t think—”

“Your Honor, this is the cover of a book I bought online from Amazon a few weeks ago. In one of the novels in this book—the one called “Philosophy in the Bedroom”—a fourteen-year-old girl is seduced by a woman and her brother and several other men, engages in group sex, and then willingly participates in the rape and mutilation of her own mother.”

There’s a shuffling in the courtroom, followed by murmurs of shock and discomfort.

“Kind of sounds like the stories on my client’s Wild Cavalier website, doesn’t it?” Lovely continues. “And believe me, Your Honor, this book isn’t any less explicit than my client’s stories. But you don’t see the government prosecuting Amazon or the publisher of . . . ,” she pauses for effect, “
Philosophy in the Bedroom
for obscenity. In fact, a lot of modern critics praise de Sade’s book as an early example of modern existentialist philosophy. And it gets First Amendment protection, just like my client’s Wild Cavalier website should.”

I expect Judge Harvey to cut her off, but he leans forward, his chin resting on his hand. I thought that by taking this route, Lovely had destroyed the case. I was wrong—she’s grabbed this unpredictable old man’s attention.

She moves to her next slide. “This is the cover of a novel called
Under the Roofs
of Paris
, by Henry Miller. He’s universally acknowledged as a groundbreaking writer of modern literature. This book begins with the protagonist having sex with a child prostitute in the presence of her father-pimp and another prostitute. Again, graphic and explicit. And again, the government isn’t prosecuting the publisher or Amazon for obscenity.” She goes on to make similar points about acclaimed books like a
Clockwork Orange
by Anthony Burgess,
The End of Alice
, by A. M. Homes, and
The Night Listener
by Armistead Maupin. She switches to a slide with the heading
The Apprentice
. “Your Honor, this book, published in 1996—”