The Neon Lawyer (7 page)

Thirteen

Another late night of reading and research, and Brigham’s nerves were on edge from all the coffee he was drinking. He decided he needed a break. He went out to a gas station nearby and got bottled water and a sandwich.

Back at the office, he ate in the library as he read. Case law in Utah was notoriously sparse. Not much happened here that was worth the review of the Supreme Court, particularly in criminal cases.

A few cases discussed mental health defenses against homicide. Molly had been right—the standard was that the defendant didn’t understand the nature of what they were doing because of some sort of permanent or temporary mental dysfunction. The defense would have to show that the defendant didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, then they’d need to have a psychiatrist testify that the defendant didn’t understand this as a direct result of their mental illness or dysfunction. It seemed like an impossible standard to meet.

“Haven’t seen anyone read like that since law school.”

Tommy came and sat across from him. He lit a cigar and put a foot up on the table. Brigham guessed Tommy’s Italian leather shoes cost more than his own apartment’s rent for a year.

“We’re gonna try for manslaughter,” Brigham said.

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I don’t know if she should get that.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t seem fair. The guy killed her daughter. Who wouldn’t do what she did?”

“A lotta people.” He puffed out some smoke and then held the cigar low between two fingers. “What do you think justice is, Brigham?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nobody does. It’s all a guess. It may not even exist. But if it does, getting what you deserve is about as close to it as I can estimate. So you can’t think about justice. You’ll go crazy with how much injustice there is. You just gotta do your job and do whatever the client wants. Does she want to take manslaughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, your job isn’t to contradict her wishes.” He raised the cigar and took a few puffs. “Then again, some of our clients are stupider than a dim-witted cow. You gotta do what’s good for ’em ’cause they won’t.”

Tommy rose and placed his hand on Brigham’s shoulder. “You’ll get it done. Either way.”

Brigham researched every possible case similar to his that Utah had ever had, which wasn’t as many as he had hoped. The sun was coming up by the time he was through. Every muscle ached and his vision was blurry. He had stopped drinking coffee. For the first time, he realized his hands were trembling and he was getting a headache.

When he went home, his door was open a crack. He was always careful about locking it and would sometimes check it three or four times. Someone had been in there.

He opened the door wide and looked inside. His futon cushion had been thrown on the floor. His small television was off-kilter, and several drawers in the kitchen were open. Twisting the doorknob, he saw that the lock had been bashed in.

Moving quickly, he went through the apartment. The only thing he noticed missing was a pair of sneakers he’d had in the closet. Out of everything in his apartment, the only thing of worth they could find was a pair of old sneakers. He couldn’t tell whether that made him happy or depressed.

Forgoing calling the police, he woke the landlord instead and asked for a new lock before collapsing into bed.

When he woke, it was after midday. His head was pounding in a full-out migraine and pain shot through the left side of his back. He stood up and tried to stretch before he noticed he had a message on his phone. It was from Molly, letting him know that she had called the prosecutor and they had an appointment set for three o’clock this afternoon to see if they could resolve the case. The clock on his phone said it was 2:24.

Brigham jumped into the shower and out again a few minutes later, threw on his suit, and ran a brush through his hair. He was out the door and on his bike before he remembered he couldn’t lock his door. He ran back inside. In the air vent in the bathroom was a wad of cash, his emergency stash to buy food or pay rent if he ever ran out of money. He stuffed it into his sock and headed back out toward the district attorney’s office downtown.

Fourteen

The DA’s office was in a tall glass-and-chrome building across the street from a Thai food restaurant and a gym. Kitty-corner from it was another office building filled with law firms and stock brokerages. Brigham rushed into the building. He’d gotten there with three minutes to spare. Molly was sitting in a lounge chair doing something on her phone. She saw him and rose.

“Cutting it close.”

“Sorry. My apartment was burglarized.”

“Seriously?”

“They only took some old sneakers. Not a big deal.”

They strolled to the elevators and pressed the button. “You seem pretty calm.”

“What’s done is done. Besides, if they’re willing to break into an apartment to steal some shoes, they needed them more than I did.”

Molly pressed the button to the sixth floor and Brigham checked his hair in the mirror on the ceiling of the elevator. His top button was loose so he buttoned it and redid his tie.

The DA’s office took up three floors. Brigham hung back as Molly talked to the receptionist, who hurried off, then returned and told them that they were free to go back. They passed through metal detectors, and a security guard double-checked Brigham with a wand for a minute before letting him through.

Assistant District Attorney Vince Dale had the large corner office. Molly entered first.

“Vince, how are you?”

“Good, babe. How are you?”

“Not bad.”

She sat down and Brigham followed suit. Vince’s desk was huge, too large to reach across and shake hands. He was chewing gum loudly and popped it. His suit was immaculate and his shirt and bow tie combination could have come from the pages of
GQ
. His hair was slicked back and the watch on his wrist glimmered in the sunlight coming through the windows.

“So you must be Brigham,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Brigham, you’re in the big leagues now. How does it feel?”

“It’s fine, sir.”

Vince grinned and they stared at each other a moment. “Well, I’ll teach you the ropes. See, ask Molly here or your boss Tommy—I don’t file capital cases unless I’m gonna get a conviction. You understand? If there’s any chance of me losing, I wouldn’t file it.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Just so we’re both on the same page. Now, what is it I can do for you?”

Molly said, “We’ve reviewed the evidence. Given the mitigating circumstances, we were hoping you’d be willing to offer manslaughter.”

“Hm. I had thought about that. But babe, I just don’t see why I should. I got her cold. I could get a conviction in my sleep. So I don’t see why she should get a slap on the wrist for killing a man.”

“That man,” Brigham said, “raped and killed her six-year-old daughter.”

“It’s not her place to determine what happens to him.” His head tilted oddly to the side, a glimmer in his eye as he said, “It’s mine. So she can plead to agg murder, and I won’t seek the death penalty.”

“We’ll take manslaughter,” Brigham said. “Nothing else.”

Vince made a clicking sound through his teeth. “See, now you’re new at this so I’ll try and educate you some, son. I could have her killed. I’m offering not to have her killed. So you just gotta ask your client, ‘Do you want to live, or don’t you?’ ”

Brigham rose. “It was nice meeting you.”

Vince leaned back in his seat, one leg coming over the other. “You’re a fiery little bastard, aren’t you?”

Brigham strode out of the office, leaving the door open behind him. Molly followed. They didn’t speak until they were by the elevators.

“He’s trying to help,” she said.

“He’s a prick.”

“He’s offering to spare her life. That’s not worthless. You need to calm down and look at this case objectively.”

Brigham shook his head as he stepped on the elevator. “He doesn’t give a shit about her.”

She sighed. “No, he doesn’t. But it’s not his job to care. It’s ours.”

“I’m going to tell her not to take it.”

“That’s not up to you, Brigham. You take her the offer and let her make up her own mind. Life in prison, or death at the hands of the state.”

“She doesn’t deserve this, Molly.”

“
Deserve
has nothing to do with the law. You can’t think like that.”

He shook his head again. The elevator doors opened and he stepped out and headed for the front doors. By the time he was standing on the sidewalk, he had calmed down and felt stupid for showing his anger in front of Molly and Vince.

In law school, when he pictured himself as a lawyer, he always saw himself as cool and collected. The type of lawyer that judges would value input from, because they knew it came from an objective person. Now he felt like a child, throwing a tantrum because he wasn’t getting his way.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right. I can tell this is important to you. But this is your first big case. You’ll have dozens of others in your career. Are you going to storm out of every prosecutor’s office when they don’t see a case your way?”

“She . . .”

“I know. But you’re going to work with Vince again. A lot. He’s probably going to be the next DA. You need a good working relationship with him. Never blow your relationship with a prosecutor over one case.”

He nodded. “I better go. I wanna get the offer to her before dinner.”

On his third visit to the jail, Brigham began noticing the little things—the grinding sound the door made when it slid open, the way the gray paint on the cement floors was peeling off, how dirty the glass partitions, separating visitors from inmates, were.

This time, he was the first one in the cell block, and waited for the guard to bring Amanda out. When she came in, she smiled at him while looking him in the eyes: a first. She sat across from him and he smiled back.

“Are you doing okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. They have some classes here through the community college. I’ve been taking some. It keeps me busy.”

“Well, that’s good. Stay as busy as you can.” He glanced down to a fingerprint smear on his side of the glass. It was about the size of a child’s. “I’m obligated to relay to you any offers made by the prosecution. The lead prosecutor on this case offered to remove the death penalty option if you plead guilty to homicide. You would get life in prison instead—fifteen to life.”

The smile faded from her face. She looked like someone had just punched her in the gut and all the wind had left her.

“Fifteen to life?” she repeated.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She was silent a moment. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think . . . I think you should fight it. The chances of us winning are slim. If we lose, there is a very real possibility that you could be sentenced to death. The way it works is, after you’re convicted of homicide, the jury would then have to decide if you should get the death penalty. It’s like another trial. But no woman has ever been executed in Utah. I think the prosecutor is bluffing.”

“But I killed him. How can we win?”

“It’s a specialized defense. We’re going to say you were so distraught that it caused a type of temporary insanity. It would negate the intent of this crime.”

She stared down at the metal counter in front of her, running her finger along the corner where it met the glass. The muscles in her jaw flexed. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

They held each other’s gaze a moment, and then she rose without a word and left him alone again, staring at his reflection in the glass.

Fifteen

Brigham stopped at the office that night but had so little energy, he couldn’t bring himself to open another book in the library. Scotty was still working and asked a quick question about criminal restitution:
whether a store could sue someone and ask for criminal restitution if the person shoplifted something. Brigham looked up the answer for him in Lexis and then left.

The night was much colder than the day had led him to expect it would be. Riding his bike, the frosty air stung his cheeks and made his nose run. He got to his apartment and noticed a familiar car parked by the curb. Molly was sitting in the driver’s seat. She stepped out with a six-pack of Heineken in her hand.

“Thought you could use some company,” she said.

“I can. My apartment isn’t much.”

“I’m fine with it, Brigham. No need to show how macho and rich you are.”

He grinned as he walked his bike inside and held the door open for her. Somebody’s front door suddenly opened. June stood there, a surprised look on her face when she saw Molly.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Brigham replied. “Molly, this is June.”

June said, “Call me later.”

She went back inside and closed the door, leaving Brigham wondering what had just happened.

Brigham took Molly down the steps to his apartment. He watched her face, but there was no reaction of disgust. In fact, she flopped on the couch and opened a beer like she had been coming there for months.

“So, not to talk about work,” she said, “but did you visit her?”

Brigham walked into the kitchen to get two glasses and some ice. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“She says she’ll do whatever I want her to do.”

“Seriously? She barely knows you. Must just have that kind of face.”

He came back and placed the glasses down on the worn coffee table he’d bought at a garage sale. The remote was still there—the burglars hadn’t taken that—and he flipped on the television, which had a crack in the center of the screen.

“What’re you going to tell her?” she asked.

He poured the beer in a glass half-filled with ice and took a sip. “I don’t know.”

“Beer with ice, huh?”

“I can’t drink warm beer,” he said. “Reminds me of this time when I was a kid and I drank my own piss on a dare.”

“Ech. Must’ve been some dare.”

“Not really. I didn’t even like the kid or care what he thought about me. I just didn’t like that he thought I couldn’t do it.”

She shook her head as she stared at the television. “Little boys are so weird.”

He leaned back on the beanbag he had in place of a chair and brought the glass to his lips. The beer was still lukewarm, and he felt like gagging. “So what should I tell her?”

“Tell her to take the deal and save her life.”

The television flipped to a game show. He and his neighbor had the same type of remote and they occasionally crossed signals.

“I don’t want to tell her that.”

“This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what’s best for your client. You always have to remember that. It’s about them. You’re not the one that has to live with the repercussions.”

He exhaled and then took another drink. “I didn’t think being a lawyer would be like this. When I was interning with the public defenders, it was all DUIs and drug charges. You’d get them a fine and some classes and move on to the next case.”

“I was a corporate lawyer at my first job. Our firm’s business was sixty percent from one client. We just had to do whatever the client wanted. No gray areas, no soul searching. I thought all law practice was like that—you’d look up a case or a statute and it’d have all the answers you were looking for. But when you deal with people instead of corporations, it’s not like that.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“The firm?” she replied.

“Yeah. You must’ve been pulling down some serious cash.”

“One eighty a year.”

He whistled. “It’d take a lot for me to leave a paycheck like that. More than getting groped by a few bosses.”

“I saw the people who had been there for ten or twenty years. On their third marriages, bogged down with fancy cars and jewelry to show each other how much money they make . . . and the worst part was that they lived there. They didn’t even have the chance to really enjoy their money. Their vacations were always filled with work, so they started going places they couldn’t be reached, like jungles and mountains. They were miserable and they couldn’t face it. I didn’t want that life.”

“So how’d you meet Tommy?”

She sipped her beer out of the bottle, foregoing the ice. “I went up against him in a divorce case. I liked him. He was gaudy; don’t get me wrong. But he was unique. We had lunch, and he told me that if I was ever sick of working for assholes I should come work with him. One day, I just took him up on it.” She paused. “What about you?”

“I needed a job.”

“You’d eventually find something if you kept trying.”

He shrugged. “I liked him, too.”

She finished her beer in a few gulps and rose. “You better get to bed. Tomorrow’s her arraignment. You know where the Matheson Courthouse is?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be late. Judge Ganche, eight thirty.”

She took another beer from the six-pack on her way out. As she was leaving, she tapped it against his glass. “To living in the gray.”

Brigham watched her go. As she turned toward her car, she glanced back at him. The television switched to an adult channel and began ordering a porno.

“Jim?” Brigham shouted.

“Yeah, man,” a voice came from next door.

“I can see your porn.”

“Cool, man. You wanna pay for half, then?”