Rogue Lawyer (19 page)

At six o'clock, the anchormen scream the news that the police have a suspect in the Kemp case. They show footage of Arch Swanger being mobbed by reporters as he tries to leave Central not long after I did. According to sources, unnamed of course but undoubtedly from within the building, he's been interrogated by the police and will soon be arrested and charged with kidnapping and murder. To prove his guilt, he's hired Sebastian Rudd to defend him! They show me scowling at the cameras.

Finally, the City can breathe easier. The police have the killer. To relieve the enormous pressure on them, and to begin the process of poisoning public opinion, and to establish the presumption of guilt, they are manipulating the press, as always. A leak here and there and cameras show up to capture the face that everyone has been desperate to see. The “journalists” chase their tails, and Arch Swanger is as good as convicted.

Why bother with a trial?

If the cops can't convict with evidence, they use the media to convict with suspicion.

I spend a lot of time in a building officially and affectionately known as the Old Courthouse. It's a grand old structure, built around the turn of the century, with soaring Gothic columns and high ceilings, wide marble hallways lined with busts and portraits of dead judges, winding staircases, and four levels of courtrooms and offices. It's usually crawling with people—lawyers doing their business, litigants searching for the right courtroom, families of criminal defendants wandering fearfully about, potential jurors clutching their summonses, and cops waiting to testify. There are five thousand lawyers in this city, and at times it seems as though every one of us is hustling around the Old Courthouse.

As I leave a hearing one morning, a man who looks vaguely familiar falls in beside me and says, “Hey, Rudd, got a minute?”

I don't like his looks, his tone, or his rudeness. What about “Mr. Rudd” to start with? I keep walking; so does he. “Have we met?” I ask.

“It doesn't matter. We have something to discuss.”

I glance at him as we walk. Bad suit, maroon shirt, hideous tie, a couple of small scars on his face, the kind left behind by fists and beer bottles. “Oh really,” I say as rudely as possible.

“Need to talk about Link.”

My brain tells me to keep walking but my feet simply stop moving. My stomach does a long, nauseous flip as my heart races away. I stare at the thug and say, “Well, well, where is Link these days?”

It's been two months since his dramatic escape from death row and I haven't heard a word. Not that I would; however, I'm not completely surprised. Frightened, maybe, but not shocked. We move to the edge of the hallway for privacy. The thug says his name is Fango, and there's a 10 percent chance Fango is the name on his birth certificate.

In a corner, with my back to the wall so I can observe the foot traffic, we converse in voices that are low, our lips barely moving. Fango says, “Link's having a hard time of it, you know. Money's tight, real tight, because the cops are watching everybody even remotely connected to the businesses. They watch his son, his people, me, everybody. If I bought a plane ticket today for Miami, the cops would know about it. Suffocating, you know what I mean?”

Not really, but I just nod. He goes on, “Anyway, Link figures you owe him some money. He paid you a pile, got nothing in return, you really screwed him, you know, and now Link wants a refund.”

I fake a laugh like this is just the funniest thing. And it is laughable—a client who loses wants his money back when the case is over. Fango, though, is not in a humorous mood.

“That's funny,” I say. “And how much of a refund?”

“All of it. A hundred grand. Cash.”

“I see. So all of the work I did was really for free, is that it, Fango?”

“Link would say that all of your work really sucked. Got him nowhere. He hired you because you're a hotshot gunslinger who was supposed to reverse his conviction and get him off. Didn't happen, of course, in fact he got slammed every which way. He thinks you did a lousy job, thus the refund.”

“Link got slammed because he killed a judge. Oddly enough, when this happens, and it's quite rare, it really pisses off the other judges. I explained all this to Link before he hired me. I even put it in writing. I told him his case would be very difficult to win because of the overwhelming proof the State had. Sure he paid me in cash, but I put it on the books and sent Uncle Sam about a third of it. The rest of it was spent a long time ago. So, there's nothing left for Link. Sorry.”

Partner approaches and I give him the nod. Fango sees him, recognizes him, says, “You got one pit bull, Rudd, Link still has a few more. You got thirty days to get the money together. I'll be back.” He turns and deliberately brushes by Partner as he leaves. Partner could break his neck, but I gesture for him to be cool. No sense starting a fistfight in the middle of the Old Courthouse, though I've seen several here.

Most involved angry lawyers taking swings at each other.

Not long after Tadeo got famous for killing a referee, I began receiving solicitations from doctors claiming to be expert witnesses, all wanting a part in the show. There were a total of four, all with medical degrees and impressive résumés, all with experience in courtrooms in front of juries. They had read about the case, seen the video, and, to varying degrees, all offered the same opinion; to wit, Tadeo was legally insane when he attacked Sean King in the ring. He did not understand right from wrong, nor did he appreciate the nature of what he was doing.

“Insanity” is a legal term, not a medical one.

I talked to all four, did some research, called other lawyers who'd used them, and settled upon a guy named Dr. Taslman, out of San Francisco. For $20,000, plus expenses, he is willing to testify on Tadeo's behalf and work his magic with the jury. Though he has yet to meet the defendant, he's already convinced he knows the truth.

The truth can be expensive, especially when it comes from expert witnesses. Our system is chock-full of “experts” who do little in the way of teaching, researching, or writing. Instead, they roam the country as hired guns testifying for fat fees. Pick an issue, a set of facts, a mysterious cause, an unexplained result, anything, really, and you can find a truckload of PhDs willing to testify with all sorts of wild theories. They advertise. They solicit. They chase cases. They hang around conventions where lawyers gather to drink and compare notes. They brag about “their verdicts.”

Their losses are rarely mentioned.

They are occasionally discredited by nasty cross-examinations, in open court, but they stay in business because they are so often effective. In a criminal trial, an expert has to convince only one juror to hang things up and cause a mistrial. Hang it again on the retrial, and the State will usually throw in the towel.

I meet Tadeo in a visiting room at the jail, our usual spot, and discuss Dr. Taslman's possible role in his defense. The expert will testify that he, Tadeo, blacked out, went crazy, and has no recollection of what happened. Tadeo likes this new theory. Yes, come to think of it, he really was insane. I mention the fee and he says he's broke. I've already mentioned my fee, and he was even broker. Needless to say, I'll represent Tadeo Zapate simply because I love him. That, and the publicity.

It's the O. J. Simpson theory of legal fees: I'm not paying you; you're lucky to be here; go make a buck with your book.

Using Harry & Harry's paperwork, I file the proper notice telling the court that we will be relying on an insanity defense. Mr. Ace Prosecutor, Max Mancini, howls in response, as always. Max is fully in control of the Zapate matter, primarily because of the overwhelming proof of guilt, as well as the publicity. He's still offering fifteen years for second-degree murder. I'm stuck on ten, though I'm not sure my client would plead to that. As the weeks have passed and Tadeo has become the beneficiary of hours of free jailhouse legal advice, he has become even more rigid in his belief that I can somehow pull the right strings and walk him out. He wants one of those technicalities all of his cell mates know about.

Dr. Taslman comes to town and we have lunch. He's a retired psychiatrist who never liked to teach or listen to patients. Legal insanity has always fascinated him—the crime of passion, the irresistible impulse, the moment when the mind is so filled with emotion and hate that it commands the body to act violently and in a way never contemplated. He prefers to do all the talking. It's his way of convincing me how brilliant he is. I listen to his bullshit as I try to analyze how a jury will react to him. He's likeable, intense, smart, and a good conversationalist. Plus, he's from California, two thousand miles away. All trial lawyers know that the greater the distance an expert travels, the more credibility he has with the jury.

I write him a check for half of his fee. The other half will be due at trial.

He spends two hours evaluating Tadeo, and, surprise, surprise, he is now certain the kid blacked out, went crazy, and does not remember pummeling the referee.

So we now have a defense, shaky as it is. I'm not that encouraged because the State will haul in two or three experts, all at least as credible as Taslman, and they will overwhelm us with their brilliance. Tadeo will testify and do a credible job on direct, perhaps even manage some tears, then he'll get chewed up by Mancini on cross-examination.

But the video doesn't lie. I'm still convinced the jurors will watch it over and over and see the truth. They will silently scoff at Taslman and laugh at Tadeo, and they will return a verdict of guilty. Guilty means twenty to thirty years. On the day of the trial, I'll probably get the prosecutor down to twelve to fifteen years.

How can I convince a headstrong twenty-two-year-old to plead guilty to fifteen years? Scare him with thirty? I doubt it. The great Tadeo Zapate has never scared easily.

Today is Starcher's eighth birthday. The battered and abused court order that dictates the time I spend with my son clearly says that I get two hours with him on each of his birthdays.

Two hours is too much, according to his mother. She thinks one hour is plenty; actually, no time would be her preference. Shoving me out of his life completely is her goal, but I won't let that happen. I may be a pathetic father, but I am trying. And, there might come a day when the kid wants to spend time with me in order to get away from his quarreling mothers.

So I'm sitting at a McDonald's, waiting to begin my two hours. Judith eventually pulls up in her Jaguar, her lawyer car, and gets out with Starcher. She marches him inside, sees me, scowls as if she'd rather be anywhere else, and hands him over. “I'll be back at five o'clock,” she hisses at me.

“It's already four-fifteen,” I say, but she doesn't acknowledge me. She huffs away, and he takes a seat opposite me. I smile and say, “How's it going, bud?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, almost afraid to speak to his father. I cannot imagine the strict orders she hit him with during the drive over. Do not eat the food. Do not drink the drinks. Do not play on the playground. Wash your hands. Do not answer questions if “he” quizzes you about me or Ava or anything to do with our home. Do not have a good time.

It usually takes him a few minutes to shake off this drubbing before he can relax around me.

“Happy birthday,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“Mom tells me you're having a big party on Saturday. Lots of kids and cake and stuff like that. Should be fun.”

“I guess,” he says.

I wasn't invited to the party, of course. It's at his home, the place where he lives half his life with Judith and Ava. A place I've never seen.

“Are you hungry?”

He looks around. It's a McDonald's, a kid's paradise, where everything is carefully designed to make people crave the food that looks far more delicious on the walls than on the tables. He zeroes in on a large poster hawking a new ice cream float called the McGlacier. Looks pretty good. I say, “I think I'll try one of those. You?”

“Mom says I shouldn't eat anything here. Says it's all bad for me.”

This is my time, not Judith's. I smile and lean forward as if we're now conspirators. “But Mom's not here, right? I won't tell, you won't tell. Just us boys, okay?”

He grins and says, “Okay.”

From under the table I pull out a box that's covered in birthday wrapping and place it on the table. “This is for you, bud. Happy birthday. Go ahead and open it.” He grabs it as I head toward the counter.

When I return with the floats, he's staring at a small backgammon board on the table. When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me to play checkers, then backgammon, then chess. I was fascinated with board games of all varieties. As a kid, I received board games for birthdays and Christmas. By the time I was ten, I had stacks of them in my room, a vast collection that I took meticulous care of. I seldom lost at any of the games. My favorite became backgammon, and I would pester my grandfather, my mother, my friends, anyone, really, to play. When I was twelve, I came in third place in a city tournament for kids. When I was eighteen, I was competing well in adult tournaments. In college, I played for money until the other students stopped gambling with me.

I'm hoping some of this might rub off on my son. It's becoming apparent that he will almost certainly look like me, walk like me, and talk like me. He's very bright, though I must admit he gets a lot of that from his mother. Judith and Ava are keeping him away from video games. After the Renfro trial, I am thrilled by this.

“What's this?” he asks, taking his McGlacier and looking at the board.

“It's called backgammon, a board game that's been around for centuries. I'm going to teach you how to play.”

“Looks hard,” he says as he takes a spoonful.

“It's not. I started playing it when I was eight years old. You'll catch on.”

“All right,” he says, ready for the challenge. I arrange the checkers and start with the basics.