Corrupt Practices (34 page)

I arrive at court at seven thirty in the morning, though trial won’t start until nine. Unlike the more exalted federal court where the Tyler Daniels case is pending, this is LA Superior, where the more routine personal injury and landlord tenant and marital dissolution cases go forward. While the federal court retains some character and gravitas despite its age, this building reminds me of a dilapidated self-storage facility.

The courtroom doors usually stay locked until eight thirty, but yesterday I arranged with the judge’s clerk to have them opened early. I use the time to try and soak up the dated atmosphere of the room. I want to get reacquainted with the tinny rattle of the ventilation system, with the stagnant air, with the uncomfortable wooden chairs set aside for the attorneys. I want to lay out my pens and legal pads, to arrange the black vinyl notebooks containing the trial exhibits, to plug in my laptop computer and watch it boot up, to rub my hand over the dark mahogany attorney table. I want to schmooze the clerk and the court reporter, stand behind the lectern, scout out the jury box. I try to focus on the events that lie ahead—the cattle call of prospective jurors; the judge’s explanation of the case;
voir dire
, the prelude to jury selection; and the lawyers’ opening statements.

Before I left my condo this morning, I popped a Xanax and a Valium without even checking for adverse interactions. But still, my mouth is dry, and I can feel the droplets of perspiration forming on my upper lip, which I keep wiping with a paper towel from the courthouse men’s room. Despite these symptoms, I still hold out a faint hope that the pills will blunt enough of the fear for me to communicate. Right now, all they’re doing is producing an ever-thickening glaze between me and reality. I have to make a conscious effort to accomplish the most reflexive tasks, like picking up a legal pad or turning the page of a document. Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe.

At eight fifteen, the rest of the world starts trickling in. Lovely, Jonathan, and Kathleen escort a dour Raymond Baxter into the courtroom. Since I told him about my stage fright, he’ll speak to me only when it’s absolutely necessary to prepare our defense. He’s made no secret of his desire to hire another attorney, but no one else is foolhardy enough to step into a hopeless case against the Assembly and Frantz on the eve of trial. During our phone conversation last night, I impressed upon Raymond how critical it is that the jurors not perceive the tension between us. Yet as soon as he sits down, he swivels his chair so that his back is toward me.

The students begin unpacking and organizing our trial exhibits. This is the last week of school, but they’re all cutting classes. I urged them to work shifts so that they’ll have enough time to study for finals and the bar exam, but they all insist on attending the whole trial.

“The luxury of being second-semester 3Ls,” Kathleen said.

“We’re taking a trial advocacy class, and this is a trial,” Jonathan said. “Anyway, it’s only for a week or two.”

We don’t have to work out courtroom logistics. Everyone assumes that Lovely will sit on the other side of Raymond at the defense table and that Kathleen and Jonathan will sit behind us on the bench reserved for younger lawyers and paralegals.

Lou Frantz enters the courtroom with his team—a swaggering Nick Weir; a younger female attorney whose name I don’t know, undoubtedly responsible for legal research; and a case assistant, a young man appearing uncomfortable in his tight suit, who’ll keep track of the exhibits and just generally carry his bosses’ bags. The woman waves to Lovely, who nods in reply. They set up on their side of the room, moving like a precision drill team on its home turf.

Moments later, Christopher McCarthy arrives with his Assembly functionaries, their facial expressions as starched as their clothing.

With little time to spare, Deanna Poulos hurries inside. She’s dressed in a white blouse and navy blue skirt and looking unhappy about it. She and I agreed last night that she’ll sit in the gallery unless I need her help. If I manage to muddle through this first day, tomorrow she’ll go back to running her coffee house.

Five minutes later, Manny Mason walks in. To my surprise, he’s with Andrew Macklin. Standing beside Manny, the five foot five Macklin looks more like a cartoon gnome than ever.

In the final moments before a trial, everything is frenzied, and yet it feels as though the trial will never begin. But it does.

“All rise,” the clerk says, and I flinch.

Judge Valerie Schadlow takes the bench. A petite woman in her early fifties, she has a sparrow’s face and short straight hair, which she colors light brown. Her cream tortoiseshell glasses are too large for her face. She’s attractive in a perennially cute sort of way, a look that must have hindered her when she started out, especially with older male lawyers and judges. Her ascent to this lofty position shows how tough and competent she is. She’s a recent appointee, a former partner in the labor and employment department of a large downtown firm. Word is that she’s smart but unsure of herself.

“The Church of the Sanctified Assembly versus the Estate of Baxter,” Schadlow says. “Counsel, state your appearances.” Her voice, too, is birdlike—not the expected voice of a judicial officer.

Frantz stands. “Louis Frantz for the Church of the Sanctified Assembly.”

“The great Lou Frantz,” the judge says, beaming. “When was the last time?”

The vast majority of lawyers want to impress judges. With Frantz, it’s the other way around, even at the expense of propriety. Such is his power in the legal profession.

“We shared a table at that California Business Trial Lawyers Association soiree last December when they gave me their lawyer of the decade award,” he says. “The Biltmore.”

“Right, The Biltmore,” Schadlow says.

Raymond clears his throat, and Lovely shuffles her feet under the desk.

When the judge looks at me, her smile is gone. I lift myself inches off my chair, only pretending to stand, because I don’t dare test the stability of my legs. “Parker Stern for the defendant.” My voice isn’t much louder than a whisper, but at least I can say my name. The drugs have enabled me to do that much. I hear Lovely exhale. Raymond just stares straight ahead, his gnarled hands clasped on the table.

“Bailiff, bring the prospective jurors up,” Judge Schadlow says.

The prospective jurors file in ten minutes later, sitting both in the jury box and the first three rows of the gallery, which have been kept empty for them. There are fifty people, twelve of whom will be chosen. Because this is a civil case, the verdict doesn’t have to be unanimous. The side that can convince nine of twelve will win. Jurors draw conclusions the moment they walk into the courtroom, so in front of the jury pool, I become self-conscious of my every move—my posture, the way I hold my pen, the direction of my gaze. Stage business, props, and costumes are my concern. I’m an actor again.

Judge Schadlow tells the panel what the lawsuit is about. This is by far the largest trial she’s had during her short tenure on the bench, and it shows—she reads too quickly and her voice quavers. The most important instruction she gives is that the Assembly, as the plaintiff, has the burden of proof by the preponderance of the evidence, meaning they win only if they prove their case by a fraction over fifty percent. It’s not a hard burden to meet—nothing like the
beyond a reasonable doubt
standard in a criminal trial—but it’s something.

During voir dire, the judge will first ask the prospective jurors basic questions and then Frantz and I will interrogate the jurors in more detail. The judge starts by asking whether anyone will suffer personal or financial hardship if they have to serve on the jury. Her voice is so high-pitched that, upon first hearing it, a few of the venire members titter. They soon learn that while her voice might seem weak, the judge isn’t. Many of the prospective jurors claim hardship and ask to be excused. Schadlow tersely rebuffs them all.

She then inquires about the panelists’ backgrounds, jobs, families, and hobbies to see if they have biases that require disqualification for cause. She asks each juror whether they’re affiliated with the Church of the Sanctified Assembly. None of them are, or so they claim. If, like Lou Frantz, I were still a high-powered lawyer with a wealthy client, I’d have hired a jury consultant and a private investigator to ensure that an Assembly mole doesn’t get on the jury. But now I have only my gut reaction to go on. Most important to me is religious affiliation—though we can’t ask about it directly, some jurors give hints when discussing their background. Foremost, I’m looking for jurors who are devout adherents of mainstream religions. People like that will probably mistrust the Assembly and dislike what it stands for. As a second choice, I want the exact opposite—jurors who distrust religion, who’ll view the Assembly as a predatory cult. So I’m looking for zealots and atheists and trying to avoid the in-between. Other than that, I don’t have a demographic preference—no juror, no matter what the age, race, or income, will sympathize with an alleged crooked lawyer, even a dead one.

Judge Schadlow excuses three jurors who say they’ve read unflattering things about the Assembly. One woman announces that she’s sure the Assembly is a demonic cult bent on taking over the government. She won’t be a juror, of course, but I’m grateful to her. If I were to say something like that, I’d land in jail for contempt.

Each time a panel member finishes answering one of the judge’s questions, I check with Raymond. He never ventures an opinion on whether he approves of the person or not, but I don’t care. My consulting with him is for show, to lead the prospective jurors to believe that he and I are working together in his defense.

When Schadlow runs out of questions, it’s Frantz’s turn. I brace myself. I wish we were in federal court, where the judges handle all the voir dire themselves. An artful lawyer like Frantz can frame questions that seem innocent but that can pollute the jury pool. And that’s exactly what he does, asking the prospective jurors to raise their hands if they believe that freedom of religion is an important right guaranteed by the founding fathers, and getting them to agree that a large institution like the Assembly has the right to a fair trial even against an individual like Raymond Baxter. He gets several panel members to promise to put aside any reservations they might have about the Assembly’s beliefs. I don’t object to any of this, because I worry I won’t sound articulate. But when he asks an elderly man if he agrees that a lawyer who steals from a client should be punished, my outrage trumps my fear.

“Objection, Your Honor. That’s argument, not voir dire.” I sound whiney, but to my relief, Schadlow sustains the objection. She goes out of her way to instruct the prospective jurors that they may not consider the lawyers’ questions in deciding the case. She admonishes Frantz in a curt tone that he can’t ask questions that go to the merits of the lawsuit. It turns out that she’s not a pushover for Frantz after all.

When my turn to ask questions comes, for a moment I consider passing. I’m light-headed and drenched in sweat. But Raymond and Lovely are looking at me expectantly, and Frantz is smirking, daring me to get up and try to speak in court. I stand on wobbly legs and say, “Is there anyone here who doesn’t understand the judge’s instruction that the Church of the Sanctified Assembly has the burden of proof by the preponderance of the evidence?” My voice is weak and thin. I sound nothing like the lawyer I was two year ago. But I’ve discovered something important—my phobia doesn’t stop me from asking questions. I think I know why. Courtroom argument, like acting, is about exposing yourself to an audience. But you can hide behind questions.

After a few hours, we’ve picked a jury of five men and seven women. There are two Asians, two African-Americans, three Latinos, and a newly naturalized citizen from Lebanon. There’s a retired financial manager, a twice-divorced waitress, two college students, a nerdy website designer, a health care consultant, a construction manager, an ex-school teacher who’s active in Catholic charities, a personal assistant at a talent agency, a legal secretary, a screenwriter, and a housewife. There are three alternates to whom I’ll pay little attention unless and until one of the first twelve drops off the panel. I’m happy with the ex-school teacher because of her religious work, the health care consultant because she sings in her church choir, and the financial manager because he seems like a political liberal who’ll recoil at the Assembly’s beliefs. Though I shouldn’t, I like the website designer because he reminds me of Jonathan Borzo. I’m leery of the waitress and the personal assistant, who are younger and edgier and might feel an affinity for the Assembly’s mysticism, and the writer because he’s the kind of person the Assembly most wants to attract. I don’t know about the others.

After the lunch break, during which I order only a cup of coffee to wash down a Valium, we go back into the courtroom. The jury is already in the box. The judge takes the bench and tersely announces, “The attorneys will now give their opening statements. We’ll hear from plaintiff’s counsel first. Please remember that the attorneys’ opening is an outline of the party’s case and not evidence.”