Corrupt Practices (6 page)

“Rich thinks Harmon was murdered,” I say. “I also met with Layla Cherry. She thinks the same thing.”

She looks at me strangely. “You’re not taking them seriously, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Representing Rich is one thing, but if you’re going to believe some crazy theory—”

“I’m not sure I am going to represent him. Manny thinks it’s too soon.”

“Manny’s a wimp. It’s like he’s from our parents’ generation.”

“If I do it, I’ll need your help.”

“Of course.”

“I mean I’ll need your legal assistance.”

“As a lawyer? No. I run a coffee house.”

“You’re still an active member of the bar.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do it out of loyalty. Remember what Harmon said about loyalty.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “God damn you, Parker.”

In its most idealistic formulation, the law exists to defend life and liberty by substituting common forces for individual action. But the architect who designed the campus of the St. Thomas More School of Law apparently took a more militaristic view, having built the campus to resemble a contemporary version of a medieval fortress. The buildings all have irregular walls and turrets and parapets. Inside, there are nooks and crannies that serve no utilitarian function, and two staircases that lead nowhere, as if to confuse invading armies. I’m surprised there isn’t a moat around the place.

I didn’t really expect my students to keep my past as a child actor a secret, especially Lovely Diamond. But maybe they stayed quiet. No one on campus has come up to ask me if I’m Parky Gerald. Of course, it could be that people know but just don’t care.

When I walk into classroom, Jonathan and Kathleen are dressed casually, but Lovely is wearing a business suit.

“Job interview, Ms. Diamond?”

“No. Job.”

Despite her curt tone, I’m not ready to give up on trying to establish a rapport with her. We have an entire school year ahead of us. “It’s admirable that you’re working and going to school at the same time.” During my years in law school I did nothing but study, living off guild residuals and savings from my acting career. “Mind if I ask where you work?”

“The Louis Frantz Law Office.”

“As a law clerk?”

“Paralegal.”

“Very impressive.”

Landing a job—even as a paralegal—with Lou Frantz’s law firm is a major accomplishment. He’s one of the top trial lawyers in the country, specializing in any case that might generate a sizeable fee. Not only does he own a share of a pro football franchise, but he also set up a seven-figure endowment for this law school. One of the buildings on campus bears his name.

A few days ago, I asked Manny about Lovely. He called her a loner. He also called her one of the brightest students to come around in years. She’d be ranked number one in her class, except that last year she got into an argument with her prolife constitutional law professor over abortion rights. The debate got so heated that two of her fellow students had to restrain her from going after the guy. She took an
F
in the class rather than sitting for the final exam.

“Let’s get started,” I say to the class. “Your assignment was to find a pro bono case to work on. Where are you on that?”

Jonathan says that he’s going to represent an eighteen-year-old Ukrainian named Dmitri Samoiloff, who’s being sued by some videogame companies for copyright infringement. Kathleen is going to work on a case involving a battered woman seeking sole custody of her children. Both are acceptable. I turn to Lovely. “OK. Ms. Diamond, what do you have?”

“I want to represent a website called The Wild Cavalier Erotic Story Site. The site owner is being hassled by the morality cops who say it’s obscene. But Tyler—that’s the website owner—writes stories. So it’s pure speech and absolutely protected by the First Amendment.”

“Jurisdiction?”

“The client lives in the Mojave Desert. Riverside County. So, the Central District. No charges filed yet.”

“Is there a lawyer involved who’ll mentor you on the court appearances and meetings?”

“Tyler can’t afford a lawyer, and none of the First Amendment groups have gotten involved.”

“So the answer is no?”

“The answer is no. But I thought you could mentor me for now, Professor.”

This could be a chance to start over with her. And if it doesn’t work out, I won’t be stuck helping her. At some point, a public interest group will get wind of the case and want to replace me. “We’ll try that, Ms. Diamond. It sounds like a very cool matter.”

When she smiles, her eyes beam with a childlike luminescence.

“A final announcement,” I say. “There’s going to be an optional case for you all to work on.”

Since there are only three of them, none of them groans out loud, but there’s a collective slump of shoulders. They obviously don’t take the word
optional
seriously.

“It’s a criminal case. The defense of a man named Richard Baxter against allegations that he embezzled money from the Church of the Sanctified Assembly.” To represent Rich adequately, I’ll need more than a reluctant Deanna Poulos for backup.

“What would we be doing?” Jonathan asks.

“Research. Fact-gathering. Strategizing. Attending court hearings or meetings or depositions where appropriate.”

Kathleen raises a limp hand. “I read . . . I mean, there are rumors that this Sanctified Assembly group is some cult and that . . .”

“Say it, Ms. Williams.”

“That it abuses its members. Commits violence against its critics.”

“The Sanctified Assembly
is
a cult,” I say. “My old firm represented the Assembly, so I know them well. I don’t like them. I refused to work on their cases. But we’re not up against the Assembly. We’re defending Richard Baxter against the US government. That being said, if anyone is uncomfortable about becoming involved, you don’t have to work on the case. I promise it won’t affect your grade. So if you want to say no, please tell me.”

No one speaks up. I take their silence as assent. It’s not really fair, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t properly defend Rich unless my three law students serve as proxies for the nonexistent Law Offices of Parker Stern. It’s certainly not the curriculum that Manny Mason had in mind when he asked me to teach this class. I just hope I’m right about the Assembly not being our adversary.

I last appeared in court a week after Harmon Cherry died. I was representing Lake Knolls, the acclaimed film star who’s now a member of the US House of Representatives. A victory was crucial to the survival of the law firm, because it would mean that Knolls would stay on as a client at the firm despite Harmon’s death. And if a high-profile client like Knolls stayed, so would lesser lights.

Not long before his successful run for Congress, Knolls starred in a movie called
Repulsion
, portraying an aging rapist and serial killer. His performance was riveting, but after women’s groups and victims’ support organizations attacked the movie, he donated all his earnings from the picture to a shelter for abused women and exhorted his fans to boycott his own film, a move that dashed any hope of an Oscar nomination. Knolls didn’t care—he had higher aspirations. To everyone’s shock, he decided to give up his acting career to run for a congressional seat (a senate run was out of the question because he belonged to the incumbent’s party). He won the election hands-down. Of course, the House is a mere stepping-stone to higher office.

The producers sued Knolls for fifty million dollars. I thought of a way to get rid of the case early by arguing that the producers were using the lawsuit as a way to censor Knolls’s First Amendment rights. It was a novel legal theory, but I’d won eight consecutive jury trials, two in supposedly unwinnable cases. Six weeks earlier,
National Lawyer Magazine
had named me one of its top five attorneys under forty. I felt invincible.

I lost. Worse, I didn’t put up a fight. The Knolls hearing took place a week after I’d collapsed in court after learning of Harmon’s death. I’d kept telling myself that the incident was a one-time thing, an understandable reaction to the trauma of losing Harmon. But as soon as I walked into the courtroom for the Knolls hearing, the same debilitating fear overwhelmed me. Though the only way I could win was to plead my case—oral advocacy had always been my most potent weapon—I submitted on the papers, telling the judge in a barely audible voice that I had nothing to add to what I’d already said in writing. I could’ve shredded my opponent in less than five minutes, but I sat mute while she took pot shots at me, couldn’t get up from my chair to speak even after the judge urged me to. Knolls fired the firm the next day.

After that, I postponed as many court appearances as I could, and if I couldn’t get a postponement I invented a conflict and persuaded a colleague to cover for me. But I couldn’t hide in my office forever, not with major hearings and jury trials approaching. I lived in dread of the humiliation.

And then, six weeks to the day after Harmon shot himself, the law firm imploded. Although there were fifteen lawyers still at the firm, Harmon was responsible for generating something like 75 percent of the firm’s revenue. His clients found other lawyers within a matter of weeks. Rich Baxter could have kept the firm afloat with his representation of the Sanctified Assembly, but he announced he was leaving to open up his own office, a one-person operation with a single client.

The rest of us couldn’t afford to pay the rent, much less the firm’s considerable operating expenses. The last thing I wanted was to shutter the doors, but when it happened, I felt the way a criminal must feel when an unforeseen catastrophe obliterates the evidence of his crime.

United States v. Richard Baxter
is the only matter on the judge’s calendar this afternoon. Although I asked my students to help on the case, I didn’t tell them about the hearing, couldn’t tell them. I hope they haven’t found out about it. If they were to show up and watch me perform, they’d drop my class immediately.

The instant I walk into the courtroom, the muscles in the back of my neck tighten. My shoulders roll forward, giving me a slight hunchback. My feet turn cold and numb. My gut twists. I put my hands behind my back and interlace my fingers so no one will see them trembling. The odor of disinfectant and mildew constricts my breathing. My woolen suit weighs me down like armor, but unlike armor, offers no protection from my enemy. Worst of all is the flop sweat. I can more or less hide the other symptoms, but I can’t hide the flop sweat. I find a seat at the defense table, reach into my pocket, grope around for some tissue, and dab at my brow. At least I’m not feeling nauseated. Not yet, anyway.

I’ve met with Rich several times to prepare him for his arraignment hearing. He’ll enter a plea of not guilty to the charges against him, and the judge will set a trial date. Because of the phony passport and the cash stashed in his computer, there’s no chance of bail. During our meetings, I’ve tried repeatedly to get him to admit to a drug problem. He won’t, although on my third visit he finally owned up to knowing about the crystal meth.

“There are reasons,” was all he said. “I’m not an addict. Not a user.”