The Wrong Man (4 page)

It’s a bit difficult to claim you didn’t know you’d done something wrong when you immediately apologized to the victim after you shot her.

We reached the room. The guard unlocked the door and reminded us that we’d be monitored at all times with video but not audio.

The room was partitioned with thick glass. On our side, besides a dingy floor and peeling paint, there were two chairs and a shelf that ran along the partition. The smell of bleach hung in the air.

We sat in the chairs and waited for the arrival of Bryan’s client.

“There’s a wrinkle,” he said, his voice lowered.

I looked at him. “What’s the wrinkle?”

And then the door on the other side opened, and in walked Thomas Stoller.

Tom Stoller was led in by an unarmed guard. He moved awkwardly, as if the guard were helping him put one foot in front of the other.

“Hey, Tom,” said Bryan.

Stoller was wearing a gray pullover, blue jeans, and slippers on his feet. He had hair to his shoulders, an unshaven and scarred face. His eyes were unfocused and his expression was, well, void of expression.

“How’s it going, Tom?”

Stoller rolled his head back and forth. He licked his lips incessantly, his tongue playing peekaboo.

“They had eggs this morning,” he said.

“Yeah? That’s good. You look like you could use a good meal.”

He nodded at Bryan’s comment and looked off in the distance.

“Tom, this is Jason Kolarich. Remember we talked about this lawyer I wanted you to meet?”

Stoller was on the young side, probably not even thirty, and the bright redness of his lips from his persistent licking made him look even younger. He was gaunt, but he had wide shoulders and looked like it wasn’t so long ago that he was in pretty good fighting shape. If he was an Army Ranger, he must have been.

“Tom, you remember I told you that I was leaving the public defender’s office? That I’d need someone to take the lead on your trial?”

Stoller’s eyes dropped for a moment, like he was concentrating. After a time, he said, “You told me you weren’t gonna be my lawyer anymore.”

“That’s right. But I wouldn’t turn over the case unless I found a really good replace—”

“You were… wearing that tie with stripes. Red.”

Bryan paused for a moment. He seemed to be accustomed to disorganized conversations with his client.

“Was I? I don’t—”

“’Cause I said I liked it. And you said your mom bought it for you.” Stoller scratched his jaw.

Chilly sighed and put his hands on the table. “Okay, Tom—”

“You think it’s okay if I wear a tie at my trial?”

“Yes, Tom, but listen to me, okay? Can we talk about the case for a minute?”

The client’s eyes wandered again. He didn’t answer.

“I wanted you to meet Jason. He’s a lawyer like me.”

Stoller was in full motion now, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. This guy was suffering from more than post-traumatic stress disorder.

“It’s hot in here,” he said. “I take off my clothes at night to sleep, but they don’t like it when I do that. I’m hot all the time.”

“Lieutenant Stoller,” I said with some force. I can make my voice count when necessary.

His eyes popped up to meet mine. He stopped fidgeting.

“I’ll be your lawyer if you want. Is that okay with you? It’s your choice, Lieutenant.”

He broke eye contact after a moment; it was too much for him. He went back to his habitual comforts, his tongue stabbing out and his hands in constant motion. “I just want this to be over,” he said. “Can you make it colder in here?”

I looked over at Bryan, who nodded toward the door.

“Think about it, Lieutenant,” I said. “You don’t have to decide now.”

“I’ll come back soon, Tom,” said Chilly. He stood and motioned to the video camera in the corner of the room. A moment later the same guard came through a door to retrieve Stoller.

“I don’t care who my lawyer is,” he said, as the guard touched his arm. “I just want this over.”

We watched him walk out through his door. Then we left through ours.

“A
wrinkle
,” I said to Chilly out in the hallway. “What’s the diagnosis?”

“Schizophrenia. Disorganized schizophrenia. They think it was triggered by the PTSD.”

“Disorganized is right.”

“Aunt Deidre didn’t mention any of this?”

“No,” I said. “She said he was sick. She wanted me to see for myself, I think.”

Chilly put his hand on my shoulder. “You surprised me in there, Counsel. I thought this was just a feel-out session. I didn’t expect you to offer your services.”

So Tom Stoller suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and disorganized schizophrenia. He admitted to apologizing to the victim after he shot her, so an insanity defense was an uphill climb. Self-defense was a sure loser; it would be hard to believe that a young woman would appear to be a threat to a homeless man.

This case was a d-o-g.

“He said he’s hot in his room,” I told the guard at the front desk.

“This ain’t the Four Seasons,” the male guard said, reading some document.

I stared at the guard, but he wasn’t looking at me. Staring at someone doesn’t impress your point if they don’t know you’re staring at them. I wanted him to know. So I slapped my hand down on the table in front of him. Now he knew. He looked up at me, momentarily startled and then offended. He was the guy with the gun, after all.

I said, “This isn’t one of your behavioral cases. This is a guy who’s mentally ill. This is a guy who served two tours in Iraq and came back broken. He put his ass on the line for his country and paid a pretty steep price. Now whaddaya say we check on that temperature?”

“We’ll check on it,” said the woman. “Dial it down a notch or we’ll put you in cuffs.”

We got into the elevator.

“So?” Chilly asked me as we rode down. “Why’d you take the case?”

I shrugged. “Aunt Deidre got to me.”

“Yeah, but you wanted this case, didn’t you?” He wagged a finger at me. “And I’ll bet everything you learned up there made you want it even more. I mean, it looks like a dog, no?”

I shrugged. “You said yourself. With you leaving, there’s nobody available on your staff who could do it without wanting another continuance. And I’m not that busy.”

We reached the ground floor and the doors parted. “Okay, well, this is great, Jason. Thanks. Tom’s a good guy and he deserves the best.”

He’d have to settle for me. I had fifty days to be all that I could be for First Lieutenant Thomas David Stoller.

Judge Bertrand Nash is one of these larger-than-life legal figures in this city who seems like he’s been on the bench since the dawn of mankind. Word is that he once served as the county attorney—the top local prosecutor—but I’m not sure anybody is alive today to actually attest to that fact. If you looked up the definition of “judge” in the dictionary, you’d expect to see his picture: the broad, weathered face; the thick mane of silver hair; he even has a baritone voice belying his age.

He is imperialistic and stubborn and gregarious. He spares absolutely no one his wrath, which may come in the form of a stinging rebuke or withering sarcasm, always to the acclaim of the spectators in the courtroom, most of them lawyers well trained in the art of laughing uproariously at every tidbit of humor offered by the man in the robe.

He treats his courtroom like a treasured jewel. He tolerates no informality, no breach of etiquette circa 1890 or whenever he cut his teeth as a practitioner in the courts. You don’t approach the witness without permission. You don’t dare utter a sound after an objection is made until he’s addressed it. You don’t address the court unless you’re on your feet, and only then if he invites you. You don’t ask for an extension of time on a response to a motion unless your reason for doing so involves death or serious bodily harm. And you are never, ever late to court.

Cancer took a bite out of him two years back, but he’s slowly rebounding, growing that wide face back into the loose-fitting skin around his
eyes and jowls. The guy is probably going to live to a hundred, if he isn’t already there.

This morning, Judge Nash looked over his glasses and down at me. “You’re a bit late to the game, Mr. Kolarich,” he said.

“Yes, Your Honor. As Mr. Childress indicated—”

“I can read, Mr. Kolarich. Mr. Childress is moving on to greener pastures, I see?”

“I’ll be joining Gerry Salters’s firm, yes, Judge,” said Bryan, standing next to me.

“Mr. Salters is a fine attorney. A lousy golfer, but a fine attorney.”

Like a laugh track in an old sitcom, the courtroom burst out in amusement.

Judge Nash looked over at the prosecution team, led by a woman named Wendy Kotowski. “Do the People have any objection?” he asked.

I moved to the side so that Wendy could approach the microphone. Judge Nash handled his courtroom more like the federal courts, where the lawyers spoke from a lectern into a microphone.

Wendy said, “We would only object to a continuance at this stage, Your Honor.”

The judge looked alternatingly at me and Childress, then back to Wendy.

“I didn’t ask you if you objected to a continuance, Ms. Kotowksi. I asked you if you objected to substitution of counsel.”

Wendy should have known better. This wasn’t her first time in front of this guy.

“We do not object, provided that it will not delay this proceeding,” she clarified.

“What about that, Mr. Kolarich? Will you be seeking to move this trial date?”

“Your Honor—”

“It’s a one-word answer, Mr. Kolarich. Do you want to move this trial date? We’re scheduled for trial six weeks from now.”

“Judge, my answer depends—”

“That’s more than one word, Counsel. I said one word. And I gave you your choice of yes or no. These are basic words of the English language.”

The judge looked over our heads at the gallery. We were first up, which you never wanted to be in front of Judge Nash. He was playing to the crowd.

“Maybe,” I answered.

“Maybe?”
The judge rotated his head. The courtroom went silent, waiting for the volcano to erupt.

“Maybe,” I said.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “Well, how about this, Counsel: This case has received several continuances, and I don’t want another. Mr. Childress has undoubtedly prepared this case for trial, and the parties are prepared to try this matter on the scheduled date. If your entry into this matter requires a continuance, keeping in mind that Mr. Childress is perfectly capable of staying on as lead counsel, I will have to think very hard about your motion. Now,” he said, leaning forward, “does that change your answer?”

“No,” I said.

The judge blinked. He didn’t like my response. A defendant’s right to counsel of his choice is sacred in the law. It transcends virtually all other rights. It is not without limits, but a judge runs very close to that word he dreads the most—
reversal
, an appeals court overturning his ruling—when he tells a criminal defendant he can’t have his chosen lawyer.

The judge had been trying to box me in, and I’d called his bluff.

After a moment, a twinkle appeared in his eye and one side of his mouth moved. Judge Nash loved the artistry of the courtroom. He respected someone who was willing to play the chess game.

“I’d like to hear from the defendant,” said the judge.

Tom Stoller was seated in the holding pen to our right, staring at the corner of the courtroom, seemingly oblivious to all of us. A guard had to walk over and get him to stand up. He was wearing a canary-yellow jumpsuit befitting an inmate in solitary lockup pending trial.

“Mr. Stoller, do you understand that the purpose of the proceeding today is that Mr. Kolarich is seeking to become your lawyer instead of Mr. Childress?”

Tom wouldn’t look at the judge and kept up with the same tics, the tongue popping in and out of his mouth and the wiggly fingers, even though his hands were cuffed in front of him. “Okay,” he said.

“You understand that, sir?” The judge’s tone had softened. He liked beating up on us lawyers, but an individual defendant got kinder, gentler treatment. Plus the courts of appeals in this state were big fans of the Sixth Amendment, and no judge wanted to be viewed as denying someone the counsel of their choice.

“Yeah.”

“And this is something you agree with, Mr. Stoller? You want Mr. Kolarich to be your lawyer?”

Tom’s eyes bored into the floor. “Okay.”

“Well, I want it to be more than ‘okay,’ Mr. Stoller. This isn’t my request. This is
your
request. You want to change lawyers? Because Mr. Childress here is a fine, experienced attorney who has handled your case for some time. And the law firm that’s going to hire him can wait for him, if you’d prefer to keep him.”

“Okay,” Tom said.

The judge sat back in his chair, exasperated. “Mr. Kolarich also is an excellent attorney. He’s appeared before me many times, and I have no qualms about his abilities. But he’s coming into this trial very late. I’m not sure your case is that complicated, but he’s still late. And I want you to understand, I am going to be very reluctant to move your trial date. So before you choose, you need to understand that. Now,” he said, “do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.”

I was pretty sure Tom was having a different conversation inside his head right now.

“Who do you want as your lawyer, Mr. Stoller?”

Tom looked at both of us. Then he pointed at me. “Him,” he said.

“You are indicating Mr. Kolarich?”

“Okay.”

The judge took a deep breath. “Even though he’s only going to have about six weeks to get ready for this trial? I am very unlikely to move this trial date.”

“I don’t wanna,” Tom mumbled.

“Say that again, Mr. Stoller?”

“I don’t wanna move it. I want this over.”

The judge studied Tom for a moment, concern arching his eyebrows.

“May I be heard, Judge?” I asked.

“You may.”

“My client doesn’t want a continuance, Judge. But I very well may. My client is mentally ill, and I think he should take my advice. So far, he hasn’t. I’m not prepared to move for a continuance at this time, but I may do so.”