Corrupt Practices (17 page)

Jonathan projects the photograph of the Sorority Chick on the large monitor at the front of the classroom. Just as Dale Garner said, she gives off a college girl vibe—satiny blue dress, bare shoulders, small waist, slender legs, looking as if she’s about to go clubbing on Sunset Boulevard. Although Dmitri has enhanced the photograph, I see only disconnected pixels, taunting electronic speckles that suggest a face but aren’t a face.

“Let’s see the next one,” I say.

It’s a picture of the woman we call the Streetwalker. She’s wearing a skimpy form-fitting dress—Lovely calls it a bandage dress—but to me it looks like she used a spray gun to cover her naked body and ran out of paint before she could finish. She’s the shapeliest of the three women, her breasts round and pushed up so that her cleavage is visible. But no face.

“Next.”

The Goth Girl. A calculated S&M look—hair styled in a Cleopatra cut and dyed black; a tight leather blouse that leaves her midriff bare; a leather miniskirt. But again, her face is unrecognizable.

“Sorry I wasted your evening,” I say.

“Wait!” Lovely says. She stands, smoothes her dress with her palms, and goes to the computer screen. She points to a small blotch on the woman’s left ankle. It wasn’t visible on the photos we enhanced ourselves.

“Is that what I think it is?” she says.

Kathleen gets up from her chair and walks toward the screen. “What do you think it is?”

“Jonathan, can you zoom in?” I say.

He zooms in on the blotch. The woman has a tattoo on her ankle. Although the image is mildly pixilated, the resolution is good enough for me to recognize a picture of a woman who resembles a Greek or Roman goddess petting a lion. The figure has a kind of halo over her head that looks like a horizontal figure eight—the infinity sign.

“Does anyone know what that’s a picture of?” I ask.

Lovely shrugs, but Kathleen says in a half-whisper, “It’s . . . it’s a tarot symbol. Strength. It symbolizes discipline. Inner strength.”

I smile at her with approval, and she smiles back, grateful for the smallest bit of affirmation.

“I don’t get it,” Kathleen asks. “Why is her ankle visible but her face still blurry?”

“Because that perv Garner wasn’t aiming at her face,” Lovely says. “He was aiming at her legs and ass. In fact . . . oh my God, could we see those other women again? The same kind of close-up?”

Jonathan clicks the mouse, and the sorority girl pops up on the screen.

“Right there,” Lovely says, pointing.

This woman also has a tattoo on her ankle, in the identical spot. The image isn’t as clear as the one on Goth Girl, but it’s the same tattoo, the strength tarot. Jonathan quickly brings the photo of the third woman up on the screen. She, too, has the tattoo.

“So there aren’t three women,” Lovely says. “There’s only one.”

“It looks that way,” I say. “But, there’s one thing I . . . the blonde and Goth Girl have pretty much the same build, but the Streetwalker has a different body. Shapelier.”

Lovely and Kathleen both laugh. Lovely says, “There are bras out there that will push up anything, Professor. Or nothing. That’s the same body. The same person.”

I study the photos for a while longer. “You’re right. This is the same person.”

“So, is this some kind of dress-up game?” Jonathan asks. “A weird sexual fantasy?”

I shake my head. “This woman isn’t a prostitute. She’s the person Monica Baxter was talking about. The one she calls the outsider.”

Judge Harvey won’t let female lawyers wear pants in his courtroom. Lovely took my advice and dressed in a dark suit jacket and skirt and a plain white cotton blouse, but I worry that the skirt is a bit too short, falling an inch above the knee. We have bigger problems than Lovely’s skirt length, however. Once Judge Harvey reads Tyler Daniels’s stories, he’ll loathe our client.

During the drive to the courthouse, I try to visualize my best moments in court—a closing argument in a copyright case in which I mocked the plaintiff’s legal position so effectively that the jurors laughed out loud; my appearance before the California Supreme Court on behalf of prisoners who were denied access to a computer; my cross-examination of a racketeer who sued my magazine client for libel. I conceive of these triumphs as indestructible threads that I can weave together into a protective cloak that will ward off the terror.

I park in a lot across from Olvera Street, the tourist area that bills itself as the birthplace of Los Angeles, though LA natives don’t go there unless they have children, and even then, usually just once. As soon as we exit the car, a stagnant heat envelops me, and I worry that it’s not the weather—it’s still January, after all—but the first signs of the stage fright. With each step toward the courthouse, the confidence that I thought I’d built up on the drive over leaks out of my pores like an inert gas. I can no longer picture my courtroom successes. Now all I can remember are the times after Harmon’s death when my knees gave out and my vocal cords seized up like rusted machinery.

Lovely’s belt buckle sets off the magnetometer. A marshal pulls her aside and sweeps her with one of those metal-detecting wands, moving the instrument close over her entire body. During the process, Lovely has to keep her hands raised in the air. As the man maneuvers around her, she keeps her eyes fixed forward with a look of detachment. The marshal is only doing his job, but I want to throttle him. By the time we clear security, she’s so wired that she races toward the escalator, although we’re early.

“Slow down,” I say. “If you walk that fast you won’t have any energy left to argue the case.”

She glances over her shoulder, but doesn’t slow down. When I began practicing law, I too had that kind of enthusiasm for the courtroom. It’s intoxicating, but like any intoxicant, destructive. She’ll have to learn to stay calm before a court appearance, or she’ll burn out within five years.

I hold open the door to the courtroom while Lovely wheels the litigation bag inside. While she exudes self-assurance, I have to psych myself up to follow her. I tell myself that this is only a pro forma arraignment hearing, that Lovely is poised for a law student, that all I’ll have to do is sit silently at counsel table and use yellow Post-its to pass notes.

“Sit in the second row,” I whisper. It’s superstition. I never sit in the front row, because I don’t want to draw the judge’s attention until I stand up to argue my case. But I want to stay close enough to the podium so that I can get there quickly if I feel the need to speak first.

We take our seats, and about a minute later Neil Latham walks in, balancing a large stack of files in his arms. He goes directly to the government’s table next to the jury box. So much for winning the race to the podium. After he gets settled in, he approaches us and extends his hand to me.

“Haven’t seen you since that unfortunate Baxter case, counselor,” he says. “The worst experience of my career.” He nods at Lovely. “And I’ll wager this is your law student.”

“This is Ms. Diamond,” I say. “Lovely, this is Neil Latham.”

She stands, and they shake hands.

“Welcome, Ms. Diamond,” he says. “Do not feel intimidated by this room or the judge or me. Especially me. We’re all sworn to do justice no matter which side we’re on.” He winks, and then goes back to his table.

“That was nice of him,” I say.

“Lou Frantz says that your enemy is never nice.”

“Harmon Cherry impressed upon us from the day we started at the law firm that most lawyers want to serve justice. Like Latham said.”

Before she can reply, the clerk announces the judge’s arrival. We stand and remain standing while Judge Harvey dodders to the bench and struggles into his chair. The clerk calls our case first. I hold the swinging gate open for Lovely, who takes a tentative step forward and looks at me questioningly.

“Take the first chair,” I whisper. “The one nearest the lectern.”

She places her files down on the table and sits in the first chair. I sit next to her. The perspiration has soaked through my shirt. I can feel the sweat on my forehead coalescing in larger droplets. I reach into my pocket, take out a wad of Kleenex, and dab at my brow and upper lip. I know I must be disgusting to anyone watching me, but it’s better than raining perspiration all over the table. I glance at Lovely, who’s so engrossed in reviewing her notes that she doesn’t seem to notice.

Judge Harvey puts on his reading glasses and squints at some papers on his desk. “Now, who’s appearing for the defendant, this Daniel Tyler?”

Lovely stands and walks to the lectern. “I am, Your Honor. Lovely Diamond. And, just for the record, Your Honor, it’s
Tyler Daniels
, not
Daniel Tyler
.”

I cringe. Although Lovely spoke with deference, you don’t correct a judge like Cyrus Harvey unless he’s about to commit an error that will send your client to prison.

“You’re not an attorney admitted to practice before this court, are you Miss Diamond?”

“No, Your Honor. I’m a third-year law student at St. Thomas More certified under Local Rule 83-4.2 to represent the defendant. We’ve filed the client’s written consent, and I have the required certification from my law school dean, and that’s been filed, too.”

“Where’s the defendant’s real lawyer? I want to talk to the defendant’s real lawyer.”

As soon as I stand up, a current of fear shoots through my body, so powerful that I don’t think I’ll be able to say my own name. The judge gives me a temporary reprieve.

“Good morning, Mr. Stern.”

I nod.

“This is a serious, complicated First Amendment case,” the judge says. “The defendant is charged with a felony. This isn’t a good case for a training run.”

“She’s . . . she’s one of our top students. I will supervise. She . . . she . . . she . . . Ms. Diamond, you know, has trial experience as a paralegal.” I sound as if English isn’t my first language. “The Frantz law firm. For Louis Frantz. For the man himself. Very capable.” I take a breath, but it sounds like a gasp. I fix my eyes on Judge Harvey, not daring to look at Lovely or I’ll melt down. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Latham. He’s pretending to flip through some file folders so he doesn’t have to look at me. Even he’s embarrassed by my performance.

Judge Harvey shades his eyes with his hands, as though he’s trying to pick someone out of a crowd on a bright day. He shakes his head slightly. “All right, counsel. We’ll try it, although I don’t know how long I’ll be comfortable with it. I’m not going to jeopardize the defendant’s civil and constitutional rights for a school project. You may proceed, Miss Diamond.” He pauses. “Where’s the defendant?”

Lovely straightens up and folds her hands on the lectern. “Your Honor, under Rule 10(b), the defendant has waived her right to appear at this arraignment. She was charged by an indictment, and we’ve previously filed her written waiver affirming that she received a copy of the indictment and that her plea is not guilty.”

“Mr. Latham,” the Judge says. “Does the government have any problem with the defendant’s waiver of appearance?”

Latham half-rises. “No objection, Your Honor.”

The judge thinks for a moment. “You know, a defendant’s absence at a felony arraignment is unusual, Miss Diamond. This court wants to be sure that the defendant understands her constitutional rights, and that’s why she should be here in court today.”

“She’s waived under Rule 10,” Lovely says.

“You already told me that. But if you’ve read Rule 10, you also know that I have discretion under subsection (b)(3) not to accept the waiver.”

“Yes, Your Honor, but—”

“But what, Miss Diamond?”

“Excuse me, Your Honor, I meant to say—”

“Miss Diamond, tell me why I shouldn’t reject the waiver, continue this proceeding, and order the defendant to appear in person. It’s a felony arraignment.” Such an order would be disastrous. Since our meeting in the desert, Lovely and I have tried many times to persuade Tyler to show up in court, but she refuses.

“My client suffers from social anxiety disorder,” Lovely says. “It’s difficult, if not impossible, for her to leave her home.” Outwardly, Lovely doesn’t seem flustered, but her voice is unusually soft. Like anyone making her first real court appearance, she’s petrified.

“Do you have a psychiatric report, Miss Diamond?”

She brushes a lock of hair from her forehead. “Not yet, Your Honor. We intend to get one for our client if necessary.” She should stop there, but she breaks a rule that I’ve consistently tried to drum into my students—when speaking to a judge, don’t say more than is absolutely necessary. “I should add, Your Honor, that we don’t think the defendant will ever have to appear in court, because you must dismiss this indictment under Criminal Rule 12 as unconstitutional under the First Amendment.”

The regulars in the courtroom rustle and murmur with anticipation, the way animals scurry and fret just before the first jolt of an earthquake.

“Wait just a minute, young lady,” the judge says, his lips twisted in disdain. “Did you say I
must
dismiss this case? I
must
? I don’t have to do anything, and if someone doesn’t like it, they can convene sixty-seven US Senators and impeach me. I’m a federal judge, and no lawyer—and certainly no wet-behind-the-ears law student—tells me I
must
do anything.”