Rogue Lawyer (15 page)

Partner calls me at four. Sean King died of a cerebral hemorrhage. I make coffee and drink it in the dark while gazing down on the City, still and quiet at this hour. The moon is full and its light reflects off the tall buildings downtown.

What a tragedy. Tadeo Zapate will now spend at least the next decade or so behind bars. He's twenty-two, so he'll be too old to fight when he gets out. Too old for many things. I think about the money, but just for a minute. I invested $30,000 in the kid for a quarter share of his career earnings, which to date total about $80,000. Plus, I've picked up another $20,000 betting on him. So I'm slightly ahead on the cash side. I try not to think about his future earnings, which were going to be substantial. All that seems trivial now.

Instead, I think about his family, their hard life and the hope he gave them. He was their ticket out of the street life and the violence, to the middle class and beyond. Now they'll sink even deeper into poverty while he rots away in prison.

There is no defense, no credible legal strategy to save him. I've watched the video a hundred times now. The last flurry of blows to Sean King's face were absorbed while he was unconscious. It won't be difficult to find an expert who'll say those were the shots that did the fatal damage. But an expert will not be needed. This case is not going to trial. I'll serve my client well if I can somehow pressure the State to make us a decent offer. I just hope it's ten years and not thirty, but something tells me I'm dreaming. No prosecutor in this country would pass up the opportunity to nail such a high-profile murderer.

I force myself to think about Sean King, but I never knew the guy. I'm sure his family is devastated and all that, but my thoughts return to Tadeo.

At six I shower, get dressed, and head for the jail. I have to tell Tadeo that his life, as he knew it, is over.

The following Monday, Tadeo Zapate and I appear in court again, though the mood is quite different. He's charged with murder now, and thanks to the Internet he's famous. It seems as though few people can resist the temptation of watching him kill Sean King with his bare hands.

As expected, the judge denies bail and they take Tadeo away. I've had two brief chats with the prosecutor and it looks like they're out for blood. Second-degree murder carries a max of thirty years. For a plea, they'll agree to twenty. Under our screwed-up parole system, he'll serve at least ten. I have yet to explain this to my client. He's still in denial, still in that fog where he's sorry it happened, can't explain it, but still believing that a good lawyer can pull some strings and get him off.

It's a sad day, but not a complete waste. In the large open hallway outside the courtroom, there is a crowd of reporters and they're waiting for me. There is no gag order yet, so I'm free to say all the ridiculous things that lawyers say long before the trials. My client is a good person who snapped when he got a raw deal. Now he is devastated by what happened. He cries in sympathy for the family of Sean King. He would give anything to have those few precious seconds back. We will mount a vigorous defense. Yes, of course, he hopes to fight again. He was helping his poor mother support her family and a house full of relatives.

And so on.

With Harry & Harry churning out the paperwork, and with Judge Samson haranguing the City's lawyers whenever they get close to his courtroom, the civil action moved ahead at an unusually rapid pace.

We are in a race here, one that we will not win. I would love to try Doug Renfro's civil case in a packed courtroom before his criminal case is called. The problem is that we have a speedy-trial rule in criminal cases, but not in civil. In theory, a criminal case must be brought to trial or otherwise disposed of within 120 days of indictment, though this is routinely waived by the defendant's lawyer because more time is needed to prepare. There is no such rule in civil cases, which often drag on for years. In my perfect scenario, we would try the civil case first, get a huge verdict that would be front-page news and, more important, influence prospective jurors in the criminal case. The press can't get enough of the Renfro debacle, and I relish the chance to grill the cops on the witness stand for the benefit of the entire city.

If the criminal prosecution goes first, and if Doug Renfro is convicted, then the civil case will be much more difficult to win. As a witness, he'll be impeachable because of his conviction.

Judge Samson understands this and is trying to help. Less than three months after the botched SWAT raid, he orders all eight cops to appear in his chambers to be deposed by me. No judge, federal or otherwise, would ever consider suffering through a single deposition; it would be far beneath his or her dignity. But to set the mood and deliver the message to the cops and their lawyers that he is highly suspicious of them, Judge Samson orders the depositions to be taken on his turf, with his law clerk and his magistrate in the room.

It is a brutal marathon that pushes me to the limits. I begin with Lieutenant Chip Sumerall, the leader of the SWAT team. I elicit testimony regarding his experience, training, and participation in other home invasions. I am deliberately dull, tedious, poker-faced. It's just a deposition, the purpose of which is to establish sworn testimony. Using maps, photos, and videos, we walk through the Renfro affair for hours.

It takes six full days to depose the eight cops. But they're on the record now, and they cannot change their stories at either the criminal or the civil trials.

The only time I spend in Domestic Relations Court is when I'm dragged in to account for my sins. I wouldn't handle a divorce or adoption at gunpoint. Judith, though, makes her living in the gutter warfare of divorce trials and this is her turf. His Honor today is one Stanley Leef, a cranky old veteran who lost interest years ago. Judith represents herself, as do I. For the occasion she's dragged in Ava, who sits as the lone spectator, in a skirt so short you can see her name and address. I catch Judge Leef gazing at her, enjoying the scenery.

Since we're both lawyers, and representing ourselves, Judge Leef dispenses with the formalities and allows us to just sit and talk, as if we're in arbitration. We are on the record, though, and a stenographer is taking it all down.

Judith goes first, states the facts, and makes it sound as though I'm the worst parent in history because I took my son to the cage fights. Then, four days later, Starcher got in his first fight at school. Clear proof that I've turned him into a monster.

Judge Leef frowns as if this is just awful.

With as much drama as she can muster, Judith proclaims that all visitation rights should be terminated so the kid will never again be subjected to my influence. Judge Leef shoots me a quick glance that says, “Is she crazy?”

But we're not here for justice, we're here for a show. Judith is an angry mother and she's once again dragged me into court. My punishment is not the loss of visitation rights; rather, it's just the hassle of dealing with her. She will not be pushed around! She will protect her child at all costs!

From my seat, I tell my side of the story without embellishing a single word.

She produces a copy of the newspaper, with “her son” on the front page. What humiliation! He could have been seriously injured. Judge Leef is almost asleep.

She produces an expert, a child psychologist. Dr. Salabar, female of course, informs the court that she has interviewed Starcher, spent an entire hour with him, talked about the cage fights and the playground “brawl,” and is now of the opinion that the carnage he witnessed while under my supervision had a detrimental effect on him and encouraged him to start a fight of his own. Judith manages to string this testimony out until Judge Leef is practically comatose.

On cross-examination, I ask, “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a son or sons?”

“Two boys, yes.”

“Did you ever take either son to boxing matches, wrestling matches, or cage fights?”

“No.”

“Did either son ever get into a fight with another kid?”

“Well, I'm sure they did, but then I really can't say.”

The fact that she won't answer the question speaks volumes. Judge Leef shakes his head.

“Did your boys ever get into a fight with one another?”

“I don't recall.”

“You don't recall? Were you a loving mother who gave your sons all the attention possible?”

“I'd like to think so.”

“So you were there for them?”

“As much as possible, yes.”

“And you can't remember a single time when one of them got into a fight?”

“Well, no, not at this time.”

“What about some other time? Strike that. Nothing further.” I glance at the judge and he's frustrated. But things brighten up considerably when the next witness takes the stand. It's Naomi Tarrant, Starcher's teacher, and she's wearing a tight dress and stilettos. By the time she promises to tell the truth, old Judge Leef is wide awake. So am I.

Schoolteachers hate to get dragged into custody and visitation battles. Naomi is no exception, though she knows how to handle this situation. We've been swapping e-mails for a month now. She still won't agree to dinner, but I'm making progress. She testifies that Starcher had never shown any violent tendencies until a few days after his first trip to the cage fights. She describes the playground incident without referring to it as a fight or a brawl. Just a couple of boys who had a misunderstanding.

Judith calls her as a witness not to help in her search for the truth but to show Naomi, as well as everyone else, that she has the power to drag them into court and bully them.

On cross, I get Naomi to admit that, sooner or later, almost every normal boy she has ever taught has been involved in some type of scuffle on the playground. She's on and off the witness stand in fifteen minutes, and when Judge Leef dismisses her he looks a bit disappointed.

In closing, Judith repeats what's already been said and makes a strident plea to terminate all visitation rights.

Judge Leef stops her cold with “But the father is getting only thirty-six hours a month. That's not very much.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“That's enough,” Judith scolds me.

“Sorry.”

The judge looks at me and asks, “Mr. Rudd, will you agree to keep the child away from cage fighting, as well as boxing and wrestling matches?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“And will you also agree to teach the child that fighting is a bad way to settle disputes?”

“Yes, I promise.”

He glares at Judith and says, “Your petition is denied. Anything else?”

Judith hesitates for a second, then says, “Well, I'll just have to appeal.”

“You have that right,” he says as he taps his gavel. “This hearing is over.”

The criminal trial of Doug Renfro begins on a Monday morning, and the courtroom is packed with potential jurors. As they are processed and seated by the courtroom bailiffs, the lawyers meet in the chambers of the Honorable Ryan Ponder, a ten-year veteran of our circuit courts and one of our better presiding judges. As always on the first day of a significant trial, the mood is tense; everyone is on edge. The lawyers look as though they haven't slept all weekend.

We sit around a large table and cover some preliminary matters. As we wrap things up, Judge Ponder looks at me and says, “I want to get this straight, Mr. Rudd. The State is offering a deal whereby your client pleads guilty to a lesser charge, a ramped-up misdemeanor, and gets no jail time. He walks. And in return, he agrees to drop his civil suit against the City and all of the other defendants. Correct?”

“That's correct, sir.”

“And he is saying no to this deal?”

“Correct.”

“Let's get this on the record.”

Doug Renfro is retrieved from a witness room and led into the judge's chambers. He is wearing a dark wool suit, white shirt, dark tie, and is dressed better than anyone in the room, with the possible exception of me. He stands tall, erect, and proud, an old soldier itching for a fight. It has been ten months since his home was invaded by the police, and though he has aged considerably, his wounds have healed and he carries himself with confidence.

Judge Ponder swears him to tell the truth. He says, “Now, Mr. Renfro, the State is offering you a deal, a plea agreement. It is in writing. Have you read it and discussed it with your lawyer?”

“I have, yes, sir.”

“And you realize that if you take this plea agreement you will avoid this trial, walk out of here a free man, and never worry about going to prison?”

“Yes, I understand that. But I will not plead guilty to anything. The police broke into my home and killed my wife. They will not be charged and that is wrong. I'll take my chances with the jury.” He glares at the prosecutor, gives him a look of disgust, and returns his gaze to Judge Ponder.

The prosecutor, a veteran named Chuck Finney, hides his face behind some paperwork. Finney is not a bad guy and does not want to be where he is now sitting. His problem is simple and obvious—an eager-beaver cop got wounded in a botched raid, and the law, in black and white, says the guy who shot him is guilty. It's a bad law written by clueless people, and now Finney is compelled to enforce it. He cannot simply drop the charges. The police union is breathing down his neck.

A word here about Max Mancini. Max is the City's chief prosecutor, appointed by the mayor and approved by the city council. He's loud, flamboyant, ambitious, a driven man who's going places, though it's not clear exactly where. He loves cameras as much as I do and will knock folks out of the way to get in front of one. He's crafty in the courtroom and boasts of a 99 percent conviction rate, same as every other prosecutor in America. Because he's the boss, he gets to manipulate the numbers, so he has real proof that his 99 percent is legitimate.

Normally, in a case as big as Doug Renfro's, with front-page coverage guaranteed and live-action shots morning, noon, and night, Max would be dressed in his finest and hogging the spotlight. However, this case is dangerous and Max knows it. Everybody knows it. The cops were wrong. The Renfros are victims. A guilty verdict seems unlikely, and if there's one thing Max Mancini cannot risk it's the wrong verdict.

So, he's hiding. Not a peep out of our chief prosecutor. I'm sure he's lurking around somewhere in the shadows, gawking at all the cameras and dying inside, but Max will not be seen during this trial. Instead, he dumped it on Chuck Finney.