Corrupt Practices (3 page)

As soon as I enter the courtroom, my heart skitters. I find a back corner seat, close to the exit. I recite a silent mantra—
no reason for stage fright because I’m not on stage
. My heart just beats faster. I touch my fingers to my carotid artery so I can measure my pulse, but lower my hand when I see the judge’s clerk looking at me.

Manny is at the podium, asking the judge to dissolve an injunction against members of the Etiwanda Lazers street gang. The Lazers control the illicit drug trade in the north San Fernando Valley. Although Manny could use his considerable height to his advantage—courtroom presence is as much physical as intellectual—he hunches over, as if trying to hide his six-foot-four-inch frame behind the small lectern. He speaks in a scholarly monotone, his argument fraught with legalisms.
Void for vagueness
.
Arbitrary deprivation of liberty interests.
No
mens rea
requirement
. He should be trying to humanize his dangerous clients, but he can’t muster any passion. After speaking for another five minutes, he raises an index finger, leafs through his notes, and sits down. So much for ending on a high note.

“The case is submitted,” the judge says. “Until I rule, the temporary restraining order will remain in effect.”

As soon as she leaves the bench, my adrenaline levels off. I approach Manny.

“I’m glad that’s over,” he says. “At least I’ve survived another day before this judge lowers the boom.”

“From what I saw, Harmon should have assigned you to the trial department.” We both know it’s a lie.

He raises his hands in mock horror. “I’m a business lawyer and a teacher. These pro bono matters are just my way of giving back to the community. And, of course, the constitutional issues are fascinating. But I’m not a litigator. I’ll tell you what. If one of my cases ever gets to the Supreme Court, you can argue it.”

“Right now, I couldn’t argue a fender bender in small claims court.”

“That will pass.”

“Sure it will.” There’s an uncomfortable silence. “Come on,” he says. “Let me introduce you to my client.” He gestures toward the back of the room.

I thought the courtroom was empty. I didn’t notice the man still sitting in the back row, on the opposite side of the room from where I’d been sitting. He appears to be in his mid- to late-twenties, wearing a conservative gray suit and white shirt without a tie—a well-dressed spectator. Only when he stands and swaggers toward us does he resemble a gang member. Though he’s no more than five foot nine, he must weigh 190 pounds, all weight-trained muscle. He has a buzz cut, a dark brown moustache, and a soul patch. Up close, I can see the tattoos on his knuckles.

“Parker, I want you to meet Victor Galdamez. Victor, this is Parker Stern. He was my law partner. And one of the best trial lawyers in the city. Starting today, he’s teaching a class at the law school.”

We shake hands. Though his grip is weak, it’s typical of powerful men who don’t want to hurt anyone. He smiles warmly. “Dean Mason did a great job, today, huh?” I expected to hear at least a hint of the barrio in his speech, but there isn’t any.

“I was just telling him that,” I say.

“Not many people are brave enough to take our side, even when we’re right. We don’t have the money to pay lawyers, and Dean Mason has been very generous with his time.”

We chat for a while about constitutional law and the merits of the Lazers’ legal position—fortunately, Manny doesn’t hold out false hope—and then Galdamez excuses himself.

“He doesn’t sound like your typical gang member,” I say when we’re alone.

“What’s typical?”

“Look, I wasn’t saying—”

He waves his hand dismissively. “That’s the problem. Even someone like you makes assumptions. Victor’s a junior at Whittier Poly. Prelaw. We hope to have him with us at St. Thomas More in a couple of years. He’s a former member who got out and wants to better himself and his community. He serves as a liaison. He’s the perfect client representative.” He checks his watch. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria and talk. I have an administrators’ meeting over at UCLA in an hour.”

The courthouse cafeteria hasn’t been renovated since just after World War II ended. I suspect the food is of the same vintage. I buy a granola bar; at least it’s wrapped. Manny orders two hot dogs, the casings of which have a greenish tinge. When I point that out, he says it’s just the lighting. We find a table in the corner and he gives a minilecture about how to teach a law school course—assume the students know nothing, but don’t talk down to them; teach only what you’re interested in; don’t let them walk all over you, but don’t be a tyrant. Platitudes.

“We’ve gone over all of this before,” I say. “What’s the real reason you made me come down here?”

He takes a drink of Coke. “You’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few hours. I just want to make sure that—”

“It’s a classroom, not a courtroom. It only happens in courtrooms.”

“Still.”

“How many students are enrolled?”

“I haven’t checked lately. Usually there are twelve, fifteen people in these practice courses. You’ll get the enrollment sheet from the registrar’s office.”

“I can handle a dozen law students.”

He raises his arm and gives me a desultory fist bump. “I know you can.”

“There’s something I want to talk to
you
about. Rich Baxter’s in jail.”

“For what?”

“A federal rap. They say he embezzled money from the Assembly.”

He shakes his head slowly and scratches his scalp with a bony index finger. “I’m shocked, but not surprised.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“I know it’s an odd thing to say. But you know how he struggles with the technical aspects of the law.”

“He got by at the firm.”

“At the firm, he had help. As a solo practitioner he’s been left to his own devices. And the problems that arise in representing the Church of the Sanctified Assembly are labyrinthine. I’m one of the legal ethics teachers at the law school. Studying that area from an academic standpoint has been very illuminating. Didn’t Harmon used to say that incompetence breeds wrongdoing? He was right. Most attorney defalcations start with malpractice, and I fear that for our friend Rich, the malpractice part was only a matter of time.”

“You actually think he could’ve ripped off his own church and only client? We’re talking about Rich.”

“I don’t know anything, of course. It’s just that I’ve worried about him since the firm split up, feared he was adrift.”

“Rich wants me to represent him. I just met with him at the federal detention center.”

“Whoa. Back up. You saw him?”

I nod.

“You’re not serious.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, as if trying to choose just the right words. “Listen to me, Parker. Given all you’ve been through this last year and a half, you’re not making sense. You said it yourself. You can’t handle a simple procedural hearing.”

“I can at least look into the charges. I owe him that after what happened between us.”

“You don’t owe him anything. And as far as your career is concerned, you’ve got to take things a step at a time. See how you do teaching this class over the next few months, and maybe after that—”

“Deanna thinks—”

“Deanna’s reckless, and she wants everyone around her to be reckless. The last thing you should do right now is to jump into a major criminal case. Especially a case where you’d be adverse to the Church of the Sanctified Assembly. Under normal circumstances, there’d be no one better, but these aren’t normal circumstances, are they, Parker?” He sounds like a parent gingerly trying to dissuade a child of limited talent from pursuing a pipe dream.

“You’re patronizing me, Manny. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m just being a caring friend.”

“You know, as
your
good friend, I could give you some helpful pointers about how to present an effective oral argument. Like telling the judge a story rather than speaking in legalese. Or having a conversation rather than reading from your notes. Or changing your facial expressions so you look like you give a shit about your case.”

He smiles thinly, but his eyes are cold and hard. “You might be suffering from stage fright, Stern, but you’re still a contentious son of a bitch. Insult me if you must. I’m not going to change my mind about your representing Rich. But the next time I have a pro bono court appearance, I’ll definitely have you tutor me.” He looks at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to head out to the Westside. But keep this in mind. If you were to take this case on, you’d be jeopardizing Rich’s freedom. That cannot happen.”

We stand and face each other, the tension still palpable. After a moment, he smiles again, this time more broadly. “Look, Parker, I know how much you love trying cases, how much you miss it. But slow down. Your time will come again. And knock ’em dead in class this afternoon.” He squeezes my shoulder with his large hand.

I force a smile. As a star trial lawyer with a growing number of accolades, I was once more important than Manny. I made more money and had more power. Our relative positions at the firm even distorted my visual perception of him. Back then I never thought of him as physically imposing, though he’s at least six inches taller than I. Now, he towers over me.

The windowless seminar room at St. Thomas More School of Law, like all the other rooms in the school, has a crucifix hanging from the wall. I’m not Catholic, but focusing on it lessens the humiliation of having only three people enrolled in my trial advocacy class, not the twelve or fifteen that Manny predicted.

The low turnout proves what I’ve long suspected—this so-called job is nothing but Manny’s act of charity. Though I’m no expert in law school administration, I do know that even small seminars are canceled if only three people sign up for them.

I wait for my trio of students to boot up their computers. The two women and one man sit at the long rectangular conference table and stare at me with bored yet insolent looks signaling that they’re not easily impressed, that no matter how good my credentials might be, my classroom performance is all that matters. When I was a law student thirteen years ago, I used to give the new professors that same look.

“My name is Parker Stern,” I say. “For twelve years, I worked at the law firm of Macklin & Cherry, where I practiced both civil and criminal law, mostly white collar. I’ve tried about thirty-five cases, ranging from personal injury to defense of a racketeering prosecution. I’ve also handled a number of
pro bono
matters, including one on behalf of a class of federal prisoners. Now, why don’t you introduce yourselves and tell me what you plan to do after law school.” I gesture toward a blonde woman. She has a model’s high cheekbones and the curvy body of a Texas homecoming queen. “You are . . . ?”

“Lovely. Lovely Diamond.”

Giving a false name to the new professor is an old law school prank. “Very funny,” I say. “But it doesn’t show much originality. When I was in law school, my classmate Dennis Beryl told our torts professor that his first name was
Trash
. Now do you mind sharing your real name?”

The man in the class snorts and covers his mouth with his hand. The other woman blushes. The blonde shakes her head. She reaches into her backpack, takes out her wallet, and retrieves something, which she slides across the table as though she’s playing arcade air hockey.

It’s her driver’s license. Her name is, indeed, Lovely Diamond. No middle name. An address on Westmoreland Avenue, a dicey area, but increasingly BoHo. Height: five feet five inches. Weight: 118 pounds. Hair: blonde. Eyes: green. The picture doesn’t do her justice. And her eyes are more gray than green. DOB: June 8, 1982, which makes her twenty-nine—older than I thought.

“My mistake, Ms. Diamond.”

“Didn’t you check out your class roster?” she says, her tone rife with censure, as if she’s the teacher.

The truth is, I didn’t bother to study the roster. When I saw that my twelve students had dwindled to three, I didn’t see the point. “Let’s move on. Tell us something about yourself.”

She sighs in exasperation. “I’m a third year. I worked in the entertainment field for a couple of years before going to college. After that, I was a paralegal for three years and then went to law school. I’m interested in constitutional law, particularly the First Amendment.”

I point to the man sitting next to her, a wiry, red-haired kid wearing a University of Arizona sweatshirt. He has fair skin and a wispy goatee, which he probably grew so he could look older, but which, when combined with his slight build, makes him look like a ninth-grader.

“I’m Jonathan Borzo. Also a 3L. I have a degree in computer sciences. I’m interested in Internet law. So, I think the studios and record companies are a threat to our individual freedom.” This kid apparently believes that the ability to watch stolen copies of
Spiderman
on the Internet is more important than global warming or ending world hunger.

“Welcome, Mr. Borzo.”

As soon as I focus on the woman sitting next to Jonathan, her neck turns splotchy. “Well, my name is Kathleen. Williams. I guess . . . I’m also a 3L.” She has limp brown hair, a round face, and a pudgy body. She’s as plain as Lovely is striking. “I went to Cal State Reseda and got a BA in English. I don’t know what kind of lawyer I want to be yet.”