The Laws of our Fathers (10 page)

    'Is there a rule here or something? I'm just asking.'

    'You could call it a rule. My practice is to make sure that nobody has anything to worry about. I have lawyers in front of me all the time who I know well, but generally, while a trial's ongoing, I don't pass the time with them - or their close friends.'

    'Sonny, really, I don't have a clue about this case. Honestly. Hobie's got me in an isolation booth.'

    We both turn abruptly again. Marietta has walked into the empty courtroom once more, using the front entrance this time and arriving purposefully on the other side of the bench. She's a caution: a lot of busy officiousness, shuffling files and humming to herself. Nonetheless, her full, dark eyes slide over this way with foxy calculation and I meet them with a look that sends her back out like mercury.

    'Really, Seth, it's wonderful to see you. You seem well. And I look forward to sitting down with you as soon as this case is over, to hear about everything you've been up to.'

    'How about you?'

    I thought we covered this ground already, but I answer that I'm fine.

    'Married?'

    I hum a bit, not sure when I should simply quit. ‘I seem to have passed through that phase.' 'Kids? Do you have kids?' 'A daughter who just turned six.' 'Six!' He's impressed.

    'Late start,' I answer. 'What about you, Seth? From the column, I think I've counted what, two children?'

    A knotted expression tightens his long face as I continue slipping farther away. He tells me that his older child, his daughter, is a college senior. At Easton, he says, his alma mater, an admission that brings forth the same wondering, self-conscious grin.

    'Great school,' he adds. 'Astonishing tuition, but a great education. That's another reason I'm here. I get to see a little more of her.'

    I nod again and say something polite. How wonderful. I pull open the door.

    'It's just,' he says and stops. He's stepped nearer. 'What?'

    'How many people do you get close to in a life?' he asks. ‘I feel really badly I lost track of you.'

    'We'll make amends, Seth. Just not now.' 'Sure.'

    I offer my hand again. He takes it, with a bewildered, defeated look, and holds on just a bit longer than he should before letting go-

    A bench trial is still a trial. When it's over the defendant is just as guilty - or not guilty - his prison sentence can be as long. When I was practicing I always felt the same high anxiety at the moment of decision which I did confronting a jury's verdict. But a bench trial is usually conducted without the same atmosphere of flamboyance or chicanery. Frequently, the bench trial is the refuge of the lawyer with a technical defense, an argument too intricate, or offensive, for lay people to freely accept. With a judge as the decision-maker, instead of rubes off the street, the proceedings are usually more understated, sometimes even more legalistic.

    Nonetheless, there's an alert air in the courtroom this afternoon. The spectators' section remains cheek to jowl, but there's more room in the well of the court, since the journalists have repositioned themselves in the jury box. All sixteen seats are occupied by reporters and sketch artists, while a number of latecomers have helped themselves to chairs from the counsel tables, which Annie has discreetly positioned in the corners of the courtroom, against the glass partition to the spectators' gallery. In the front row, Stew Dubinsky is getting it from two colleagues, who are clearly ribbing him. I can imagine what that's about: Stewie gets more leaks than a plumber. Beside Stew, Seth Weissman sits in his rumpled blazer. The man with a national byline, Seth is clearly a center of attention. In spite of the call to order, one of the TV guys has slunk along the jury rail to shake his hand and pass a word which entertains them both.

    Marietta cries out the case name and the three lawyers step forward. Nile lingers closer to the defense table, where two square leather document cases and a banker's box are piled.

    'All set?' I ask.

    Everyone answers ready for trial. Joint motions to exclude witnesses from the courtroom are granted. I take a breath. 'Opening statements?'

    'Your Honor,' Hobie says, 'I'd like to reserve my opening until after the prosecution has put on their evidence.' His motion, a matter of right, is allowed. In one of those untutored gestures of power which I was astounded to find came so naturally to me, I lift my hand to Molto.

    'May it please the court,' says Tommy, and waits for the courtroom to settle. The other participants now are seated and Tommy has the floor to himself. In the intense light over the podium, his scalp shines amid his sparse hair, held fast by spray.

    'Judge, since Mr Tuttle is going to pass up opening for the moment, I can make this brief. I know you'll want to hear the evidence yourself. So let me just outline what the People will be proving.

    'The state will show that the defendant, Nile Eddgar' - Nile has looked up at his name and now uncomfortably meets the prosecutor's glance, as Molto turns. It strikes me that Nile's eyes are the same penetrating marine shade as his father's, but his are fear-beset and seldom still - 'we will show that Nile Eddgar was not only a participant in a conspiracy to murder but, in fact, the prime mover. It is a conspiracy that went tragically awry, but a conspiracy to murder nonetheless. What the evidence will show is that Nile Eddgar
asked
his co-indictee, his co-defendant, Ordell Trent, to murder Nile's father, Dr Loyell Eddgar. Mr Trent is a member of the Black Saints Disciples, Judge. He is a gang member. He is a drug dealer. He is a repeat felon. And he was Nile Eddgar's friend.'

    'Objection,' says Hobie. I am pleased to see him take the trouble to rise, a gesture of respect the PAs often overlook when there is no jury present. His yellow pad is open before him on the light oval of the counsel table. Behind him, Nile, making his own notes, has looked up, startled. 'Guilt by association?' Hobie asks.

    'Sustained,' I say mildly. A small point. Hobie is merely trying to break Tommy's rhythm. Even Molto recognizes this and accepts the ruling indifferently.

    'Nile Eddgar and Mr Trent, whose gang name is Hardcore, first became acquainted,' Molto says, 'because Mr Eddgar - Nile, as I'll call the defendant to distinguish him from his father - Nile was Mr Trent's probation officer. He was - and I'm sure it's not disputed - Nile Eddgar was a probation officer in this very courthouse. And somehow, and you will hear this from Mr Trent, he, Hardcore, and Nile developed a personal relationship, a friendship of kinds. And as a result of this close acquaintance, it eventually came to pass that Hardcore also came to know Nile's father, the state senator from the 39th District, Dr Loyell Eddgar. Dr Eddgar, who is an ordained minister and a college professor, as well as an elected representative, will testify for the state.'

    Perhaps he's a Scout leader, too, and also helps old ladies cross the street? I grin privately at Tommy's paean to his witness.

    'Dr Eddgar's acquaintance, Senator Eddgar's acquaintance with Hardcore is complicated and it will be described in the testimony. But suffice it to say, Judge, there were political aspects to it. Senator Eddgar will tell you frankly that politics were involved. At any rate, because Mr Trent had also met Senator Eddgar, the senator was a frequent subject of discussion between Nile and Mr Trent, and it came out over time that Nile Eddgar, the defendant, resented his father. He hated his father, Judge.

    'Now, the evidence will show, Judge, that one day in September, the week of Labor Day, Nile Eddgar urged Senator Eddgar to meet with Hardcore. Nile told his father Hardcore had something important to discuss with him. And Senator Eddgar agreed to meet. What he did not know was that his son, Nile Eddgar, had promised to pay Hardcore $25,000 if Hardcore would arrange to murder his father. He did not know that Nile Eddgar had made a $10,000 down payment.' Tommy with his notes on yellow sheets looks up at me for the first time. 'The People, Judge, will offer in evidence cash, currency that Ordell Trent received from Nile Eddgar on which Nile Eddgar's fingerprints have been identified.'

    News. Movement in the jury box. In the bench book, I make my first note: 'Prints?' The harsh sibilance of whispers continues throughout the courtroom, and is brought to an immediate conclusion by another walloping smack of Annie's gavel. She scans the space with a menacing look. Tommy, in the meantime, has paused, and wiggles his shoulders about, appreciatively absorbing the impact he has made.

    'Indeed, Judge, Mr Trent's testimony about this will be corroborated not only by fingerprint evidence but by telephone records showing a long pattern of communication between Nile Eddgar and him, including a page to Mr Trent twenty minutes before this murder took place.

    'And you will hear the details of this murder plan, not only from Ordell Trent, from Hardcore, but from a young female gang member, a juvenile named Lovinia Campbell. Ms Campbell, Judge, is fifteen years old, and you, Judge, you will hear evidence that Hardcore told her that at Nile Eddgar's request -'

    Hobie has again taken his feet. 'Objection.'

    'Grounds?'

    'That is most emphatically
not
what the evidence will show. Mr Molto's engaged in argument.'

    'Overruled. I wouldn't know if it's argument or not. Mr Molto, I'm sure you recall your obligation to merely describe the evidence.' I smile, a gesture which Tommy finds momentarily confusing. Hobie resumes his seat, satisfied that he has tagged the issue.

    'Ms Campbell will tell you that Hardcore described the plan to her. A plan in which the evidence will show - he turns briefly toward Hobie - 'Nile Eddgar's name was in fact mentioned. The plan, Judge, was for Ms Campbell, a member of Hardcore's narcotics operation, to meet Senator Eddgar. She would be there when Senator Eddgar drove up to the agreed spot. As the car approached, she would make a cell phone call giving a code word. And then she would greet Senator Eddgar. She would tell him she was going to get Hardcore. And she would exit that area. And as Senator Eddgar waited in his white Chevy Nova, a rider on a bicycle would come around the corner and sweep Senator Eddgar's car with gunfire from an automatic weapon. Ms Campbell would then approach the car, ostensibly to aid Senator Eddgar, to see if he was alive, and in reaching over the body, Ms Campbell, according to the plan, would plant a packet of drugs in Senator Eddgar's hand. And the story afterwards would be that Senator Eddgar was a white drug buyer, that his visits to the area were for drug reasons, not political reasons, and that he was killed randomly, in a drive-by shooting by a rival gang.' Tommy waits again to let the details, the horror, the cleverness of these calculations sink in. He knows it sounds right. The bicycle has become the murder wagon of today - maneuverable where cop cars cannot go, easily ditched behind a bush, and not identified by license plates.

    'That was the plan, Judge. It did not work out. Senator Eddgar was not able to make it that morning. Other commitments in the state house had come up. And unfortunately, Judge, Mrs Eddgar was here. She lives in Marston, Wisconsin, Judge. Lived. But although Dr Eddgar and she divorced many years ago they remained close and she was here visiting him and her son. She came to the Tri-Cities often to do that, Judge, she was often in the county, and on this morning Senator Eddgar, when he was called away to his other business, he and the decedent, he and Mrs Eddgar agreed that she would drive down to Grace Street. As I said, Judge, Senator Eddgar's acquaintance with Mr Trent had political aspects and he did not want to offend Mr Trent by missing this meeting. He could not reach him by phone and so June Eddgar agreed to go down and apologize in person for the senator.

    'And so she went, Judge,' says Tommy, 'and so she died. The evidence will show that when June Eddgar arrived in the area, when they realized that it was her in the car, not her husband, everyone - Lovinia Campbell and Ordell Trent - they tried to get her to leave quickly, but it was too late, Judge, to stop this plan that Nile Eddgar had put in motion. The zip bike came and it arrived too fast for the rider to see Ms Campbell's signals to stop. Ms Campbell was shot herself, Judge. And June Eddgar was killed. And I'm sure, Judge - it really isn't disputed - that Mr Turtle will tell you that Nile Eddgar didn't intend to kill Mrs Eddgar. Indeed, Judge, we'll offer a statement he made to the community service officer who came to inform him of his mother's death, in which Nile Eddgar all but admitted he intended to kill his father instead.'

    'Objection!' Hobie booms. Both arms are raised. ' "All but admitted"? Your Honor, that's argument, clearly argument. Defendant did no such thing.'

    I strike Molto's comment.

    'Sorry, Judge,' he says before I can reprimand him further. Molto's tiny, darting eyes shy away, knowing he was caught. 'The point, Judge, is we acknowledge that the defendant has lost his mother, Judge, which undoubtedly has caused him some anguish and some grief. But that, as you know, is no excuse in the eyes of the law.'

    With this, my attention falls again to Nile. I felt a momentary kinship with him this morning as I arrived on the bench, thinking about my mother and a childhood lived in the shadow of political commitments. But I'm struck now by a more distant perspective: Nile is simply odd. For the moment, he is occupied with his notepad. Defense lawyers often try to find a focus point like this for their clients, knowing that they are best off showing no reactions at all to the proceedings. But my sense of Nile is that he's beyond the grasp of any plan or discipline. There is an abiding ungainliness about him. He's potbellied, and when he walks he moves from the balls of his feet, in a loafing, dopey Alley Oop gait. Indeed, for someone who made his living in these courtrooms, he appears remarkably baffled. When he stood before me this morning, his head bobbed about like a barnyard hen's, and he is clearly uncomfortable in his go-to-court clothes. His tie knot is too large and askew, and his shirt collar will not stay in place. Yet Nile is my riddle to solve. What did he do? What did he intend? The most basic tasks in judging, they seem in this case frightening and enormous. Molto is winding up.