Corrupt Practices (31 page)

Before she can finish her sentence, indistinct grunts come from the back of the room, followed by a commotional clattering of metal and shuffling feet and a loud shriek. A woman stands and points at Lovely. “You’re disgusting! Evil! You and your client are monsters. You’ll both burn in hell.” Others near her begin chanting the words “morality now” over and over.

“I’ll have quiet in this courtroom,” Judge Harvey says, his voice booming over the hubbub. The woman and her supporters keep shouting. He nods at a marshal and points at the instigator. “Escort that person and anyone else causing a disruption out of here.”

Frantz sits with arms crossed, his lips curved up in an incipient grin. McCarthy and his colleagues stare straight ahead. Lovely glances at me, her chest heaving with each breath. I go to the lectern and place my hand over the microphone. “That outburst was McCarthy’s and Frantz’s handiwork.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. It means they’re afraid of us. Just their being here proves that. Show them that their tactics won’t work.”

She shuts her eyes and nods. I return to my seat. When the marshal comes back, the judge tells Lovely to resume her argument.

“As I was saying, Your Honor, I’ve projected on the screen the cover of a novel called
The Apprentice
. Published in 1996. The author is a man named Lewis Libby, better known as
Scooter
Libby, once chief of staff to former Vice President Dick Cheney. Now, I won’t go into great detail, but this book is full of scenes involving homoeroticism, incest, and . . . how shall I put this delicately? Let’s say, descriptions of different kinds of intimate bodily fluids. One passage describes a madam putting a ten-year-old child in a cage with a bear trained to have sexual intercourse with young girls so that the girls will be frigid and not fall in love with their clients. Groups of men paid to watch this happen.” She lets her words sink in. “And yet, your honor, Scooter Libby wasn’t indicted. Well, at least not on obscenity charges.”

The spectators who remember that Libby was convicted for obstructing justice laugh loudly, more to release the tension in the room, I think, than because of the quality of the joke.

“OK, OK,” Judge Harvey says. “You’ve more than made your point. Please turn off the monitors now and move on to something else.”

She powers down the computer and seamlessly transitions into the next part of her argument—that the difference in literary merit between the books she just mentioned and Tyler’s stories not only doesn’t matter in the eyes of the law, but is just one of degree. She cites the sworn statement of our expert, a dual humanities–psychology PhD, who opines that Tyler’s stories have artistic, literary, and scientific merit because they explore
power dynamics in human relationships
—just like Shakespeare and Joyce Carol Oates do. From the way the judge is rocking back and forth in his chair with eyes focused on the ceiling, I’m guessing that he considers the expert’s report a load of nonsense.

He stops rocking and leans forward, tapping his pen on the counter of his desk. “Your time is short, Miss Diamond. I want to hear why I shouldn’t just follow
Kaplan v. California
and let this case go to a jury.”

“Your Honor, the Supreme Court decided
Kaplan
in 1973. A single case decided in a bygone era shouldn’t—”

“Careful,” the judge says, his eyes sparkling. “It wasn’t all that long ago.”

There are titters in the courtroom. Lovely smiles. “I stand corrected, Your Honor. I’ll put it this way. Since the early 1970s when
Kaplan
was decided, the world’s changed because the Internet has changed it. Today, the ready availability of the books I just mentioned for immediate online purchase—books no less distasteful than my client’s stories—proves that a democratic society
can
survive words about horrific behavior. And yes, even words glorifying the abuse of children.” The fervor in her voice intensifies. “If you make Tyler Daniels go to trial, there will be a chilling effect on speech that could stifle the next Henry Miller or Anaïs Nin who would ordinarily post his or her stories on the Internet. To quote Justice William O. Douglas, ‘Full and free discussion even of ideas we hate encourages the testing of our own prejudices and preconceptions. Full and free discussion keeps a society from becoming stagnant and unprepared for the stresses and strains that work to tear all civilizations apart.’ The defendant respectfully requests that you dismiss the indictment. Thank you, Your Honor.” She shuts her laptop cover and sits down. I stare straight ahead and nod slightly, hoping to convey that she did a masterful job. I allow myself to feel a flicker of hope that we can actually win this thing.

The judge sits with his hands steepled, considering her words. “Thank you, Miss Diamond. We’ll hear from Mr. Latham, now.”

Latham sidles up to the podium. He looks at the judge with a detached expression. When he speaks, his voice carries the utmost authority. “Section 1462 of the Criminal Code makes it a crime to distribute obscene matter by way of book, pamphlet, letter, writing, print, etc. So the statute itself contemplates that the pure written word can give rise to a criminal offense. As far as the issue of the statute’s constitutionality, the last pronouncement on the issue is the Supreme Court’s opinion in
Kaplan
, which holds that a purely written description
can
be held obscene. Your Honor, with all due respect, only the Supreme Court can overrule itself, which means that you’re bound by
Kaplan
and should not dismiss the indictment. The question of obscenity is for the jury. Thank you.” He sits down. His bare bones approach shows his vast experience. He’s refused to play our game, instead simply reminding Cyrus Harvey that a district court judge can’t countermand a ruling of the United States Supreme Court.

“Anything further from the defense?” the judge asks.

Lovely looks at me wide-eyed, unprepared for Latham’s brevity. “Should . . . should I respond?” she whispers.

“You nailed your argument. There’s nothing more to say.”

She tells the judge that she has nothing further. Before she can sit down, the judge says, “Stay up at the podium a moment, Miss Diamond. I want to say I was hesitant to let a law student handle a case as important as this. But your argument was excellent.”

Lovely smiles, but I cringe, because a compliment like that to a lawyer is usually a death sentence for her argument. Winners don’t need praise.

“But I feel that I have to deny the motion,” the judge continues. “I do believe that the defense has raised serious First Amendment issues worthy of consideration by a court. But not by this one. Mr. Latham is right. I simply cannot overrule a holding by the US Supreme Court.”

“Very well, Your Honor,” she says, her voice taut.

Even when a lawyer expects to lose a motion, the actual defeat inflicts a nearly intolerable sting. As I begin gathering up our files, I feel that sting intensely.

“Just a minute, counsel,” the judge says. “Before you go, we have a housekeeping matter. Because this is a complicated legal case, I’ll want ample time for everyone to prepare. Is there any objection to my entering an ends of justice continuance?” The judge has made an innocuous request. He doesn’t want to rush to trial under the Speedy Trial Act before both sides are ready, so he’s asking the parties to agree that the trial can be continued to a date later than the statute permits. Our side sure could use the extra time.

“No objection,” Latham says.

Lovely turns to me in confusion. She doesn’t know what the judge means. I stand, needing only to utter the words “no objection.” As I lift myself from the chair, my throat constricts and my head begins to spin. I flail my arms, and then darkness.

There’s a buzzing noise in my head, like the kind that comes from a dying fluorescent light. I’m lying on the floor a few inches from a table leg. Lovely and the judge’s courtroom deputy are kneeling beside me. So is Neal Latham. I realize what happened—I passed out from stage fright. I’m suddenly aware of that uneasy quiet that comes when a crowd of people witnesses a stranger’s distress. Fighting the feeling of disorientation, I try to stand.

“Stay down, man,” Latham says. “Take it easy.” He puts his hand on my shoulder to restrain me.

“Listen to him, Parker,” Lovely says, the color gone from her cheeks.

I shake Latham off and struggle to my feet. I look for the Assembly group. Everyone but Frantz is gone. No reason to stay once they’ve done their job. Frantz strokes his jaw with the tips of his thumb and fingers, as if he’s watching a sickly tropical fish flounder in a waiting-room aquarium. He turns abruptly and leaves the courtroom.

“Tell the judge we stipulate to the ends of justice continuance,” I whisper to Lovely.

“Parker, you—”

“Just do it.”

She hesitates, but Latham turns and says, “Your Honor, Mr. Stern is OK and wants to go on the record as agreeing to the ends of justice continuance.”

Once I realize that the hearing is truly over, my head clears. Out in the corridor, I tell Jonathan and Kathleen that I fainted because I haven’t eaten all day. I refuse to go to the ER. When Lovely and I reach the parking lot, we decide to go to her apartment, which is only a few miles from the courthouse.

She won’t let me drive. The day is still hot, even this late in the afternoon. I turn the air conditioner up full blast, the vents directed at my face. We drive down Sixth Street without speaking, the radio turned to some pop station that plays Lady Gaga and Pink. One thing I don’t appreciate about Lovely is her choice of music. I glance over at her. Her jaw is set, and her hands are choking the steering wheel so hard that all the blood has pooled at the tips of her fingers. I know she wants an explanation. And maybe because she hasn’t pressed me for one, I feel the need to fill up the silence with excuses.

“I’ve been working too hard,” I say. “Not enough sleep. And like I said, I haven’t eaten anything since—”

“Please spare me the horseshit. In case you don’t remember, I was there when you freaked out while we were watching that old movie of yours a few days ago. Last time we were in court there were signs.”

I reach over and shut off the radio. I feel as if I’m about to reveal a hidden deformity to her, one that will make her think of me as not only unmanly, but also grotesque. I take a deep breath and force out the words. “I . . . I suffer from something called glossophobia. It’s fancy term for fear of public speaking.”

She swerves hard to the right and parks at the curb, leaving the engine running. She waits for me to say more.

My first halting words unspool into a confession. I explain that unlike most people who suffer from the disorder, I panic only in the courtroom. I tell her how the stage fright started moments after I learned of Harmon’s death, how I botched that important motion for Lake Knolls a week later because of the fear. I remind her how much Harmon meant to me, and not only as a boss. I describe the drugs and the therapy and the meditation and the biofeedback and all the other failed treatment.

“No,” she says. “It’s can’t just be about Harmon Cherry. You panicked when we were watching
Fourth Grade G-Man
.”

Without replying, I flip the radio back on.

She closes her eyes for a moment and sighs. “We are all entitled to our secrets.” She puts the car in drive and pulls out into traffic. We don’t speak until we arrive at her apartment building. She finds a space on the street and parks at the curb. I reach for the door handle.

“Wait, Parker.”

I sit back in my seat.

“Have you told Raymond Baxter about the stage fright?”

“There’s no reason to.”

She pounds the steering wheel with her palms. “You’ve got a trial starting in six weeks. How in the hell do you expect to try a case against Lou Frantz and not have to go to court?”

“It won’t always be like today. You saw how I well I did last time we were here. And how we dominated McCarthy at his deposition. Frantz was the one who was on his ass.”

“Even if that’s true, you still have an ethical obligation to tell Raymond.” She turns toward me and takes both of my hands. “You’re courageous to take on the Assembly all alone. After the beating, most people would’ve quit. I admire you more now that you’ve told me how hard it is for you to . . . you know, to talk in court. It must be torture. So I hope that you’ll do something else that takes courage. Call Raymond Baxter right away and tell him the truth.”

“If I do that, he’ll fire me. I’m the only person who—”

“Then he’ll fire you. But I don’t think that’ll happen. No one else will take the case. Not so close to trial. Not at a discounted fee.”

“Lovely, I—”

“You have to tell him.” Her gray eyes, compassionate but unyielding, drill down into my conscience. I search my arsenal of argument for a reason not to tell Raymond the truth, but it’s been depleted.

“OK. You’re right.”

She leans over and kisses me.

And then I realize how selfish I’ve been. “I haven’t told you how terrific you were today. No one could have done a better job.”