Rogue Lawyer (32 page)

By 2:00 p.m. eastern time the parking lot of the West Ivy Shopping Center is crawling with federal agents, all dressed in a wide variety of casual garb and driving nondescript vehicles. Those with more substantial weapons are hiding in unmarked vans.

The unlucky john is a forty-one-year-old car salesman named Ben Brown. Husband, father of four, nice home not far away. After therapy, he leaves Atlas through an unmarked door, makes it to his vehicle, a demo, and is allowed to drive half a mile before being pulled over by a local cop. Ben's first words are to the effect that he damned well wasn't speeding, but when a black SUV wheels to a stop in front of him he suspects deeper trouble. He is introduced to two FBI agents and led to the rear seat of their vehicle. He is placed under arrest for soliciting prostitution and told he will probably be indicted for all manner of federal offenses at a later date. Atlas, he is informed, is part of an interstate sex ring; thus the federal charges. Ben's life flashes before his eyes and he's barely able to hold back tears. He tells the agents he has a wife and four kids. They are not sympathetic. He's facing years in jail.

The agents, however, are willing to deal. If he tells them everything, they will allow him to hop in his car and drive away, a free man. On the one hand, something tells Ben to clam up and demand an attorney. On the other, he wants to trust them and save his skin.

He starts talking. This is his fourth or fifth visit to Atlas. He usually had a different girl; that's what he likes about the place, the variety. Three hundred bucks a pop. No paperwork, of course not. He was recommended by a friend at the car dealership. Everything is kept very quiet. Yes, he has vouched for two other buddies. Recommendations are required; security seems tight; confidentiality ensured. Inside, there is a small reception area where he always meets the same man, Travis, who wears a white lab coat, tries to look the part. Through a door there are six to eight rooms, all about the same—small bed, small chair, naked girl. Things go quick. It's sort of like a drive-through sex shop, in and out, unlike one time in Vegas where the girl hung around and they ate chocolates and drank champagne.

No smiles from the FBI. “Any other men there?”

Yes, maybe, seems like there was one other guy one time. Everything's real clean and efficient, except the walls are pretty thin and it's not unusual to hear some rather graphic sounds from other therapy sessions. The girls? Well, of course there is a Tiffany and a Brittany and an Amber, but who knows what the real names are.

Ben is told to go and sin no more. He speeds away, eager to run tell his buddies to stay away from Atlas.

The raid happens moments later. With all doors blocked by heavily armed agents, there is no time to even think about resistance or escape. Three men are handcuffed and hauled away. Six girls, including Jiliana Kemp, are rescued and taken into protective custody. Just before 3:00 p.m., she calls her parents, sobbing hysterically. She had been abducted thirteen months earlier. And, she had given birth in captivity. She has no idea what happened to her baby.

Under enormous pressure, one of the three men, an American, takes the bait and starts singing. Names pour forth, then addresses, then everything else he can think of. As the hours pass, the web grows rapidly. FBI offices in a dozen cities put everything else on hold.

One of Mayor Woody's banker buddies has a corporate jet and the guy is eager to send it. By 7:00 p.m. on a day when she would normally be ending another nightmare at Atlas and preparing for a night of stripping and table dancing, Jiliana Kemp is suddenly flying home. A flight attendant takes care of her and will later say she cried all the way.

Once again, Arch Swanger slips through the net. There is no sign of him after he disappears into the cornfield. The police think they could have caught him then and there, but since they were ordered to wait until after the raid, they somehow lost him. It's apparent that he has an accomplice. From the point where I picked him up at the stop sign in Jobes, it's about forty miles to Dr. Woo's sign beside the interstate. Someone had to be driving a getaway car.

I doubt I've heard the last of him.

After dark, Partner and I drive to the jail to deliver the great news to Tadeo. He is being offered the deal of all deals—a light sentence, an easier prison, a guarantee of early parole for good behavior. With some luck, he'll be back in the ring in two years, his career bolstered by the ex-con aura and that famous YouTube video. I have to admit I'm getting excited thinking about his comeback.

With great satisfaction, I lay it all on the table. Or most of it. I spare him the details of the Swanger adventure, and instead place emphasis on my prowess as a negotiator and much-feared trial lawyer.

Tadeo is not impressed. He says no. No!

I attempt to explain that he cannot simply say no. He's facing a decade or more in a tough prison, and now I'm delivering a deal so fantastic that the presiding judge can't believe it. Wake up, man! No.

I am stunned, incredulous.

He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, such an arrogant little punk, and says no over and over. No deal. He will not plead guilty under any circumstances. He has seen his jurors, and, after a few doubts, he is once again confident they will not convict him. He will insist on taking the stand and telling his side of the story. He is cocky, hardheaded, and irritated by my desire to see him plead guilty. I keep my cool and go back to the basics—the charges, the evidence, the video, the shakiness of our expert testimony, the composition of the jury, the bloodbath that awaits him on cross-examination, the likelihood of ten or more years in prison, everything. Nothing registers. He's an innocent man who sort of accidentally killed a referee with nothing but his hands, and he can explain it all to the jury. He'll walk out a free man, and when he does, well, then it'll be payback time. He'll find a new manager and a new lawyer. He accuses me of being disloyal. This makes me angry and I tell him he's being stupid. I ask him whom he's listening to back there in the cell block. Things go from bad to worse, and after an hour I storm out of the room.

I thought I might sleep tonight, but it looks like I'll go through the usual pretrial insomnia.

At 5:00 on Thursday morning, I'm drinking strong coffee and reading the
Chronicle
online. It's all about the rescue of Jiliana Kemp. The largest photo on page one is just what I envisioned: Mayor Woody at the podium in all his glory, with Roy Kemp beside him, a wall of blue behind them. Jiliana is not in the photo, though there is a slightly smaller one of her getting off the jet at the airport. Baseball cap, big sunglasses, collar turned up, you can't tell much but she looks reasonably good. She is resting at home with her family and friends, it says. The sex-trafficking story runs for pages, and the FBI operation is obviously still in progress. Arrests are being made across the country. So far, about twenty-five girls have been rescued. There was a shooting in Denver but no serious injuries.

Thankfully, there's not a word about Jiliana's heroin addiction, or about the lost baby. One nightmare is over; others continue. I suppose I should take some measure of quiet satisfaction in having had a hand in this, but I don't. I bartered information to benefit a client. That's all. Now that client has gone stupid and I get nothing out of the deal.

I wait until 7:00 a.m. to send a text message to both Max Mancini and Judge Fabineau. It reads, “After extensive discussions, my client refuses to accept the plea agreement now being offered by the prosecution. I have strongly advised him to accept it, to no avail. It appears as though the trial must go on, pending the health of the judge. Sorry. SR.”

Mancini responds, “Let's tee it up. See u soon.” He, of course, is thrilled because he's back on center stage. Evidently, Judge Fabineau has made a quick recovery. She texts, “Ok, the show must go on. We'll meet in chambers at 8:30. I'll inform my bailiff.”

The players assemble in the courtroom as if nothing happened yesterday, or at least nothing that would in any way affect the trial. A few of us know—me, the prosecutor, the judge, Partner—but no one else knows, nor should they. I whisper to Tadeo. He has not changed his mind; he can win this trial.

We retire to the judge's chambers for our early morning update. To cover my ass, I inform her and Max that I want to put my client on the record, so there will be no doubt in the years to come about his refusal to take a plea. A bailiff brings him in, no cuffs, no restraints. He's smiling and being very polite. He's put under oath and says he has a clear mind and knows what's going on. Fabineau asks Mancini to recite the terms of the plea agreement: five years for a guilty plea to manslaughter. Her Honor says that she cannot promise any particular prison facility, but is of the opinion that Mr. Zapate would do quite well just down the road at the county penal farm. Only six miles away; his mother can visit frequently. Furthermore, she does not control parole, but as the sentencing judge she has the authority to recommend an early release.

Does he understand all of this? He says he does, and goes on to say that he ain't pleading guilty to anything.

I state that I have advised him to take the deal. He says yes, he understands my advice, but he's not taking it. We go off the record and the court reporter shuts down. Judge Fabineau folds her fingers together like a veteran kindergarten teacher, and in a painfully deliberate manner tells Tadeo that she has never seen such a good deal for any defendant charged with the death of another person. In other words, boy, you're a fool to refuse this deal.

He doesn't budge.

Next, Max explains that he, as a career prosecutor, has never offered a plea deal as lenient as this one. It's extraordinary, really. Eighteen months or so in the pen, full access to the weight room, and there are excellent facilities at the penal farm, and you'll be back in the cage before you know it.

Tadeo just shakes his head.

The jurors file in and glance around expectantly, nervously. There is an air of excitement in the courtroom as this drama is about to unfold, but I feel nothing but the usual thick knot in my stomach. The first day is always the hardest. As the hours pass, we'll settle into a routine and the butterflies will slowly dissipate. At the moment, though, I'd like to go vomit. An old trial lawyer once told me that if the day came when I walked into a courtroom and faced a jury without fear, then it was time to quit.

Max rises purposefully and walks to a spot in front of the jury box. He offers his standard welcoming smile and says good morning. Sorry about the delay yesterday. Again, his name is Max Mancini, chief prosecutor for the City.

This is a grave matter because it involves the loss of life. Sean King was a fine man with a loving family, a hardworking guy trying to earn a few bucks on the side as a referee. There is no dispute as to the cause of death, or who killed him. The defendant, sitting right over there, will try and confuse you, try and convince you that the law makes exceptions for people who temporarily, or permanently, lose their minds.

Baloney. He rambles on a bit without notes, and I've known for some time that Max gets in trouble when he goes off script. The more skilled courtroom advocates convey the impression that they are speaking extemporaneously, while in truth they have spent hours memorizing and rehearsing. Max is not one of those, but he's not as bad as most prosecutors. He does a very smart thing by promising the jurors that they will soon see the now famous video. He makes them wait. He could, even at this initial stage of the trial, show the video. Go Slow has already said so. But he teases them with it. Nice move.

His opening statement is not long because his case is ironclad. Impulsively, I stand and tell Her Honor that I will reserve my opening statement until the beginning of our defense, an option under our rules. Max bounces forth and calls as his first witness the widow, Mrs. Beverly King. She's a nice-looking lady, dressed for church, and terrified of the witness chair. Max walks her through the standard sympathy ritual and within minutes she's in tears. Though such testimony has nothing at all to do with guilt or innocence, it is always allowed to hammer home the fact that the deceased is indeed dead and that he or she left behind loved ones. Sean was a faithful partner, devoted father, hard worker, breadwinner, loving son to his dear mother. Between sobs we get the picture, and, as always, it is dramatic. The jurors swallow it whole and a few glare at Tadeo. I've yelled at him not to look at the jurors, but instead sit attentively at the table and scribble nonstop on a legal pad. Do not shake your head. Do not show any reaction or emotion. At any given time, at least two members of the jury are looking at you.

I do not cross-examine Mrs. King. She is excused and returns to her seat next to her three children in the front row. It's a lovely family, on display for everyone, but especially the jurors.

The next witness is the medical examiner, a forensic pathologist named Dr. Glover, a veteran of these battles. Because my career has involved a number of grisly murder cases, Dr. Glover and I have tangled before in front of juries. Indeed, in this very courtroom. He conducted an autopsy on Sean King the day after he died and has photos to prove it. A month ago Mancini and I almost came to blows over the autopsy photos. Normally, they are not admitted because their gruesomeness is so prejudicial. However, Max convinced Go Slow that three of the milder ones are probative. The first is of Sean lying on the slab, naked but for a white towel over his midsection. The second is a close-up of his face with the camera directly above him. The third is of his shaved head, turned to the right to reveal considerable swelling from several incisions. The twenty or so photos wisely excluded by Go Slow are so graphic that no sane trial judge would allow the jury to see them: sawing off the top of the skull; tight photos of the damaged brain; and the last one of the brain sitting alone on a lab table.

The ones deemed admissible are projected on a tall, wide screen. Mancini walks the doctor through each one. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma inflicted by repeated blows to the upper face. How many blows? Well, we have the video to show us. This is another smart move by Max—to introduce the footage with the medical expert on the stand. The lights go dim, and on the large screen we get to relive the tragedy: the two fighters in the center of the ring, both confident of victory; Sean King raises the right hand of Crush, who seems surprised; Tadeo's shoulders slump in disbelief, then suddenly he hits Crush from the side, a real sucker punch; before Sean King can react, Tadeo lands a hard right to his nose, then a left; Sean King falls back and lands against the wire cage, where he sits, slumped over, defenseless, out cold; and Tadeo springs on him like an animal, pounding away.

“Twenty-two blows to the head,” Dr. Glover tells the jurors, who are mesmerized by the violence. They're watching a perfectly healthy man get beaten to death.

And my idiot client thinks he'll walk.

The video ends when Norberto rushes into the ring and grabs Tadeo. At that point, Sean King's chin is on his chest and his face is nothing but blood. Crush is out cold. Chaos ensues as others scramble into the picture. As the riot breaks out, the screen goes black.

Doctors tried everything to relieve the intense swelling of Sean King's brain, but nothing worked. He died five days later without regaining consciousness. An image of a CT scan takes the place of the video, and Dr. Glover talks about cerebral contusions. Another image, and he talks about hemorrhaging within the hemispheres. Another reveals a large subdural hematoma. The witness has been discussing autopsies and causes of death with juries for many years, and he knows how to testify. He takes his time, explains things, and tries to avoid esoteric words and phrases. This must be one of his easier cases because of the video. The victim was perfectly healthy when he walked into the cage. He left on a stretcher and the world knows why.

Arguing with a true expert in front of a jury is always tricky business. More often than not, the lawyer loses both the fight and his credibility. Because of the facts in this case, I have very little credibility to begin with. I'm not willing to lose any more. I stand and politely say, “No questions.”

When I sit down, Tadeo hisses at me, “What're you doing, man? You gotta go after these dudes.”

“Knock it off, okay?” I say through gritted teeth. I'm really tired of his arrogance and he's obviously distrustful of me. I doubt if things will improve.