A Case of Redemption (10 page)

“Please, have a seat,” Marcus Jackson said.

He got up from behind an enormous desk and made his way over to the seating area. He was a mountain of a man, carrying what must have been close to three hundred pounds on his six-and-a-half-foot frame.

I introduced Nina, and Jackson pointed to the woman on the sofa and, in a deep voice, said, “This is my associate, Samantha Kingsley.” As she extended her hand to shake mine, Jackson added, “Sam, these are the good people who mercifully replaced us as counsel for our favorite client, Mr. Nelson Patterson.”

This bit of rhetoric was more for our benefit than for Ms. Kingsley's, something that Jackson didn't make much effort to camouflage by the way he glared at me as he said it. “Now, this fella here was getting ready to tattle on me to Judge Pielmeier,” he continued, while pointing at me as if she had no idea to whom Jackson was referring. “But, Dan, as God is my witness, I will cooperate with you as much as possible.”

I tried not to laugh. If one thing was certain, it was that Marcus Jackson was not cooperating with me as much as possible. But rule number one for a lawyer is to not piss off anyone from whom you want something, at least not until after you've gotten it. That's true whether you're talking to your client, a witness on the stand, or, as in
this case, preceding counsel. If I started off too aggressively, Jackson would just shut down, and then I'd get nothing.

So I sucked it up.

“We certainly appreciate your cooperation,” I said. “I apologize if I was too insistent, but we're before Judge Pielmeier tomorrow. As I'm sure you know, she's got a reputation for ripping the heads off lawyers who show up unprepared.”

“I've been there,” Jackson said, “so you have my unqualified sympathy.” He looked at his watch. “And you've also got my undivided attention for the next few minutes. Unfortunately, I've got a client I have to meet out of the office at six.”

That gave us, at most, ten minutes. Better get to it.

“I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Jackson said, extending his arms out to suggest he was willing to reveal all.

“Did you and the ADA have any discussions? Either about the evidence or the possibility of a plea?”

“Ah, the lovely Ms. Kaplan,” Jackson said as if he were recalling a college girlfriend. “The one and only time I spoke with her was after the arraignment. She didn't say anything beyond the usual DA blather—there wasn't much room to negotiate because her evidence was rock solid, and given the high-profile nature of the case, the DA would rather lose on a murder charge than be seen as soft on celebrities. I told her that L.D. wasn't much of a celebrity, given that the most celebrated thing the guy had done was to get himself charged with murder, but I took her point. And that was the sum total of my contact with her.”

“Did you talk to L.D. about his past at all?” Nina asked.

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Just background stuff. How he got his name. Where he's from. That kind of thing.”

Jackson looked over to his associate. My guess was that he left the gathering of background information to her, which meant that he'd
blame her if they'd missed something. She offered an almost imperceptible nod, suggesting she'd covered all the essentials.

“Sure we did,” Jackson said, as if he knew firsthand. “What of it?”

That answered that question. L.D. apparently hadn't told Jackson the truth, either.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just trying to make sure we're on the same page, that's all. L.D. also told us that you were pressuring him to take a plea.”

I thought I'd said this nonchalantly, but it was clear that Jackson didn't take it that way. He leaned closer to me, challenge in his eyes.

“How many murder cases have you tried?” he said.

“Not as many as you, I must admit.”

“What I hear is you haven't done as many as anyone who's ever done one, my friend. Now me, I've done thirty. All over this country. And I've got a pretty good winning percentage. So I don't appreciate being told by some guy who was formerly at the law firm of White Shoe and Tight Ass how to handle a murder case. And yeah, I know what you did for Darrius Macy. But rape ain't murder, and one case ain't a career. So if you really want to know why I wanted L.D. to plead, I'd appreciate it if you'd just ask me, you know, like a man would, rather than hiding behind what L.D. told you.”

He stopped, as if this were a question that required an answer.

“Why did you want L.D. to plead?” I finally said in as strong a voice as I could muster.

“Because he told me that he killed her, and I thought a plea was the only way he'd ever see the sun again.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

“What?”

“You heard me right. Mr. Nelson Patterson told me that he beat Roxanne to death with a baseball bat.”

“He confessed to you?” Nina asked, sounding like she was in shock.

“That's what I just said, isn't it? He sat right where Mr. Sorensen
is sitting now and he told me that when Roxanne went down to see her family for Thanksgiving, she told him that he wasn't welcome. ‘Disrespected' him, was the way he phrased it. That's a big thing with L.D.—not being
disrespected.
Anyway, when she came back, he said he went to her place, they got into a fight, and he just lost it. He claimed that it was only after the press made the connection that he even thought about the ‘A-Rod' song.” Jackson let out a hearty bellow of a laugh. “So I guess that was one thing he was telling the truth about. He didn't mean the song to be about Roxanne.”

I'm experienced enough to know that clients lie to their lawyers all the time, but even though I'd been told a day earlier how L.D. lied to us about his name, the fact that he'd confessed to Jackson and then lied to Nina and me took me completely aback. Most clients maintain the charade of innocence until the facts leave little other conclusion, and some hold on to it even after that.

Jackson kept talking. “I told L.D. that we had a triable case still, but it would be tougher to win now because putting him on the stand was no longer an option. I don't think he'd realized that confessing to me meant that he could no longer testify, at least about being innocent, because he kept telling me that celebrities don't go to jail if they claim they're innocent. But like I told Ms. Kaplan, L.D. really wasn't much of a celebrity, and that was now beside the point because there was no way I was letting him take the stand and commit perjury. He wouldn't budge. So I told him to find someone else. And I guess that's you. And here we are.”

“You fired him?” I asked, sounding incredulous.

He smiled at me, a condescending gesture if ever there was one. “Maybe it's something in your law firm's water. You seem as hard of hearing as your partner over there.”

Nina came to my defense. “L.D. told us that he was the one who wanted to make the switch.”

“Oh,
L.D. said
,” Jackson said with a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, no
reason for you guys not to believe the word of an accused murderer over me, a guy who's been practicing law in this town for more than thirty years.”

Jackson laughed again, but I found nothing humorous about the sudden turn of events. In fact, I was pretty sick to my stomach right now.

He shook his head, more in sadness than in anger, it seemed. “Look, I'm only telling you two because the privilege remains when it's shared between lawyers for the same client. You don't have to believe me, of course, and so if L.D. continues to claim he's innocent, by all means, put him on the stand. I'm never going to divulge his communications with me, and even if he were to waive the privilege, you could always say that you didn't believe me. So you're good to put on whatever defense you want. But you asked why I advised L.D. to take a plea, and that's why.”

Jackson checked his watch, although I was relatively certain it was more for show than to find out if he was late for his off-site meeting. If he even had an off-site meeting, that is. He'd said his piece, and now there was no reason for him to spend another second with us.

“I'm sorry to have to cut this short, but I've got another appointment,” he said, standing up. Ms. Kingsley rose with him, and so Nina and I had little choice but to follow suit. This meeting was over.

It was just as well. There wasn't much more for us to talk about now. I'd shown up at Jackson's office with one set of facts in my mind and was leaving with a completely different set.

Jackson walked us to the door of his office. “I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, Dan. You know, so many of the decisions you make as a criminal defense lawyer are based on facts that no one knows about and you can never reveal. So sometimes you look like you haven't done your job when you let your client take a plea where he gets twenty-five to life, but that's only because no one knows that the only reason you're letting him do it is because he's already admitted to you about six other killings, and so you've
spared him the needle. Like I always tell people, being a criminal defense lawyer is the only job there is where you can't brag about your greatest successes.”

He extended his hand to me with an expression that said bygones should be bygones. After a slight hesitation, I took it.

“Sorry I was the one who had to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, “but you honestly need to know who you're dealing with. You've heard his songs, right? Not just ‘A-Rod' but the others?” I nodded to tell him we had. “Then you have a pretty clear picture of what he's all about. Some guys know the whole gangsta thing—you know, bragging about capping folks and ranting about bitches and hos—is all a put-on, but not him. L.D.'s the kind of guy . . .” Jackson paused, as if he was trying to think of the right words, and then he said, “No way to say it except the way it is—he's the kind of guy who would beat to death the woman he claimed to love.”

I
offered to hail a cab, but despite the fact that the weather was probably below freezing, Nina said she wanted to walk. Her pained expression told me that she was taking Jackson's revelation hard.

We walked in silence for a few blocks. When we'd reached Houston Street, Nina finally spoke.

“I don't believe him,” she said flatly. “I bet you he's claiming that L.D. confessed because he's trying to save face about getting fired.”

The frigid air caused her words to leave a trail of fog. She was shivering slightly, and I felt the cold chill run through my hair.

“Maybe,” I said with skepticism. “It's an odd thing for him to say, though. I'm sure Jackson's been fired from other cases. There's no reason to drag your client through the mud on your way out.”

“This is a very high-profile case, and it's going to look like L.D. fired him because he wasn't cutting it,” Nina said. “And Jackson's a guy who clearly thinks a lot of himself. Besides, why would L.D. lie to Jackson about his backstory but confess to murder? It doesn't make any sense.”

Unfortunately, it made perfect sense to me. I was all too well versed in the ancient art of lying to yourself. The things you say to be able to go on living the way you want to live. For me, it had been that work needed me more than my family did, or that I was doing the right thing when I pressed ahead with the Darrius Macy case. For L.D., it meant telling everyone he was shot and left for dead.

No, I didn't see anything inconsistent in sticking with the persona
you've created for yourself, even as you confessed to murder. In fact, in some twisted way, L.D. might have even believed that the only way his killing Roxanne actually made sense was if Legally Dead had done it. No way Calvin from the Boston suburbs even gets close to a pop star, much less beats her to death.

Nina's shivering was becoming more pronounced, and I had the distinct impression that she wasn't going to move until I agreed with her. So I kept all this pop psychology to myself.

“Okay, I'm with you,” I said, although my tone clearly told her the opposite. “Jackson's lying to us, and L.D. never confessed to him. Can we go inside now?”

“Thanks for nothing,” she said with a grin. “Okay, let's go inside.”

When we entered my apartment, I immediately went to pour myself a drink. I'd had a very rough day, by anybody's standards.

I actually had my hand on the bottle of scotch when Nina said, “Hold off, okay? Let me make us some cocoa instead.”

I smiled. “It's not the same thing, you know?”

“I know. Cocoa is better. Especially when I make it. I don't use that powdered junk. I'm a purist. Milk and chocolate syrup, if you have it.”

“I do.”

“Excellent. And if you're lucky, I'll add a dash of cinnamon.”

It occurred to me then that it had been two days since I'd had a drink. The last time being at lunch with Nina, after we'd met with Legally Dead for the first time. In other words, I hadn't had a drink since the case had begun.

Maybe cocoa would be better, I thought.

Apparently I was lucky, because I detected the cinnamon from the first sip. Nina was holding her cup with both hands, which was the way both Sarah and Alexa drank cocoa. Without making any mention of it, I changed my own grip. The warmth, first from the cup in my palms and then from the cocoa, spread throughout my body.

“Thanks,” I said. “This is really good.”

“You're welcome. Can we talk a little more about what Jackson said?”

“Sure.”

Her brow was furrowed and her eyes narrow. For the first time since I'd agreed to take on the case, Nina seemed sincerely worried about the outcome.

I found it endearing. I'd learned the hard way that the outcomes of criminal trials don't turn on the truth. Never have, and never will.