Corrupt Practices (35 page)

I breathe deeply, waiting for Frantz to start. Throughout his opening, I’ll have to seem unfazed by any attack that he mounts against Rich Baxter. I’ll make sure not to clasp my hands too tightly, or fiddle with the cap of my pen, or stretch my neck, or do anything that might show anxiety. I’ll allow myself one nervous outlet—pressing my left big toe into the sole of my shoe. The jury can’t see inside my shoe.

Frantz rises to full height, leaving his coat unbuttoned to keep that disheveled look he so enjoys cultivating. His brow is knit, his eyes solemn. Like the legendary trial lawyers, he doesn’t use notes. Although I’m sure he knows his opening by memory, he sounds as if he’s having a casual conversation with the jury. He’s a storyteller, and now he recounts the story of how a greedy Richard Baxter, the Assembly’s trusted counselor and supposed devotee, betrayed client and church by stealing millions of dollars, all to pay for prostitutes and crystal meth and a lavish secret life. Through a flashy PowerPoint presentation, he describes in meticulous detail the illegal bank transfers that supposedly all lead back to Rich. Somehow, he makes these opaque transactions seem both straightforward and undeniably illicit by first grossly oversimplifying them, and then using his misleadingly simplistic conclusions to prove that only Rich could have set this Byzantine scheme in motion. Next, he hammers away at the phony passport and the cash and the drugs found in the Silver Lake apartment.

Opening statements, they say, must only recount facts, not make argument. But all experienced trial lawyers know that this legalistic ideal is a fantasy. Every great lawyer strives to make his opening statement a riveting drama that will draw in even those jurors with the shortest attention spans. So far, Frantz has constructed a perfect narrative, and he’s delivered it masterfully. What makes him brilliant is that he sounds like he believes every word he says.

He concludes, “Like most common thieves, Richard Baxter got caught. Instead of facing justice, what did he do? He took the coward’s way out and hanged himself. He killed himself on the day of his arraignment, the very day he was going to answer for his crimes. Ladies and gentlemen, Richard Baxter’s suicide is the single most important piece of evidence in this case. Innocent men don’t kill themselves. Please remember that when you listen to the evidence, and later at the end of trial when I ask you to deliver a plaintiff’s verdict in the sum of seventeen million dollars.” He half bows and sits down.

I fight the urge to smile. Frantz has unwittingly made Rich’s death the centerpiece of his case. I’ll destroy his theory when I prove that the presence of a fractured hyoid bone means that Rich was murdered.

“Counsel for defendants will now give his opening statement,” Judge Schadlow says.

I stand, ready to present the opening that I’ve worked on for weeks, the one that promises to tell the jury how Rich was framed. But I can’t speak. As if my body is mocking me, my mouth and throat are parched, while the rest of me is drenched in flop sweat.

“Are you all right, Mr. Stern?” the judge asks.

“Your Honor, I . . .” The words come out as an adolescent crackle. There are titters in the courtroom. I’m sure everyone knows about my problem by now. I take two deep breaths and say, “Pursuant to section 607 of the Code of Civil Procedure, the defense will defer opening statement until after the plaintiff has produced its evidence.”

Schadlow’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Pardon me, counsel?”

“We’ll defer opening.”

She starts to say something else, but thinks better of it. At the plaintiff’s table, Nick Weir snickers.

Lovely and Raymond both visibly stiffen. There’s a shuffling behind me, and I turn to see a concerned Deanna making her way up the aisle. I hold up a trembling hand. She hesitates, half-shrugs, and goes back to her seat.

According to the Code of Civil Procedure, the defense can either give its opening statement immediately after the plaintiff does, or defer until after the plaintiff puts on its witnesses. In actual fact, though, no good defense lawyer ever defers, especially in a civil case, where the plaintiff’s burden of proof is so low. The statistical surveys say that most cases are won or lost by the time opening statements are over, and that’s when they occur back-to-back. By letting Frantz pile on the evidence before I utter a word in my clients’ defense, I’m almost guaranteeing a loss—if you believe the statistical surveys. Harmon Cherry didn’t. Anyway, I couldn’t get through an opening no matter how hard I tried.

“Call your first witness, Mr. Frantz,” Schadlow says.

Frantz stands and mugs for the jury. “Your Honor, we, as I think you did, anticipated that Mr. Stern would give his opening today and that we’d start with the witnesses tomorrow. We’re not ready to proceed with testimony. I’d suggest a recess until tomorrow.”

I’m sure he’s lying. Pretrial, Schadlow ordered both parties to have their witnesses ready so there would be no lost trial time. But Frantz doesn’t want to call a witness. He wants a recess so the jurors will go home with his powerful opening resounding in their memories, with his accusations against Rich Baxter standing unrebutted. I should object, should insist that he call a witness, but I can’t.

“You should’ve been ready, counsel,” Schadlow says impatiently. “It’s only three thirty. But hearing no objection from Mr. Stern, we’ll recess until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

We all rise and remain standing until the judge and jurors exit the courtroom. Frantz and his entourage quickly pack up and leave, followed by a crowd of reporters anxious to speak with the legendary trial lawyer. After Lovely and I arrange to meet at my condo at five thirty to work on tomorrow’s cross-examination, she joins Kathleen and Jonathan, who are packing up our documents.

Moments later, Andrew Macklin, followed by Deanna and Manny, approach me and usher me to a corner of the courtroom out of Raymond’s hearing.

“Deanna and Manny told me what’s going on with you,” Macklin says.

When I look at them, they both avert their eyes. I feel my cheeks burn.

“Just listen to Andrew,” Deanna says.

“You can’t wait on the opening statement,” Macklin says. “It’ll destroy your case. You might as well default and get it over with.”

“Manny and I have been talking,” Deanna says. “Let me do the opening tomorrow morning. We’ll work through the night and I’ll get up to speed. Andrew’s volunteered to help. You can ask to see the judge tomorrow and tell her about the phobia. I had a case against her about five years ago. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but she’s reasonable, a decent person. She’ll understand.”

“I’d lose all credibility with the jury if you did the argument,” I say. “You’d be lead counsel, not me. Besides, there’s no way you can learn the facts in one night.”

“Deanna and I will split the argument up if we have to,” Manny says. “She can cover the basic facts and the medical issues and I’ll handle the financial evidence. Under the circumstances, I’m sure the judge will let us split up the opening.”

“Thank you all for your concern, but no. This is my case to try.”

“Parker, please be reasonable,” Macklin says. “You’ve got a client to protect. Do the prudent thing. The honorable thing.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to play a paternal role, something he was never good at.

I remove his hand from my shoulder. “The only way Raymond Baxter wins this case is if I try it. All of it. That’s the honorable thing.”

Macklin takes a step back. “You’re still the same ungrateful, arrogant son of a bitch you always were. Except now, you can’t back it up.” He turns on his heels and walks out. Manny and Deanna look at each other and shake their heads.

“He was only trying to help,” Manny says.

“I don’t want his help. I’ll get through this.”

“I’ll be at the shop if you change your mind,” Deanna says.

“And I’ll be at school or at home,” Manny says. “I’ll leave my cell phone on. Don’t hesitate to call me no matter how late.”

When Raymond and I are alone, I start to talk to him about the day’s events, but he holds up his hand and leans in very close. His breathing is labored; his breath smells like sour coffee. “Rest assured, Stern, that if you botch this case, I will sue you for malpractice. I’ve talked to plenty of lawyers who’ll take
that
case.” Before I can reply, he turns and shuffles out of the courtroom.

When I arrive home from court, there’s a package on my doorstep. It has a neatly printed mailing label and a plain brown wrapper. I can’t imagine how it got here—all deliveries are supposed to be left with the security guard.

I go inside and open the package. There’s a DVD inside with the title
Raunchy Co-ed Orgies, Vol. 3
. The picture on the cover is an overhead shot of what at first looks like a serpentine cord of bare flesh, a kind of Photoshopped expressionism that doesn’t have a recognizable shape or substance. Then I realize that the photo depicts a dozen or more people engaging in group sex on mats spread out on the floor of a warehouse. One of the performers has been circled with a blue marking pen. She’s thrown her head back in ecstasy, which has caused her to look directly into the camera lens. She has her hand wrapped around an erect penis, while another penetrates her from behind.

Lovely Diamond. Much younger, but unmistakable.

I feel as if my brain’s neurons have been riffled like a deck of cards. I flip the DVD over to the back cover, not to see more pictures, but to check the copyright date, as if that matters. And yet at the moment, it seems vitally important. I have to squint to make out the fine print. I pore through the legalese that in our world accompanies even prefab sexual fantasy—
FBI warning: unauthorized reproduction is prohibited.
And another legal disclosure—
All models are over eighteen.
Is that what she was—a model? In what sense? As some standard to be imitated? Hardly. As someone who poses for an artist? There’s no art here. As a representative of something? Maybe so. The video was shot in 2001, when she was eighteen or nineteen. So this was her job in the entertainment industry before she entered college.

I take the DVD out of its package, load it into the player, and hit the play button. I don’t take my eyes off the screen for the next hour and twenty-seven minutes, during which Lovely has sex with multiple partners, both male and female. At one point, she simultaneously engages in oral, vaginal, and anal sex with three men. At another, she and seven other women connect to form a writhing circle, each receiving oral sex from one person and performing it on another. Near the end of the video, several men in succession ejaculate into her mouth, after which she swallows their collected semen and smiles for the camera.

The dehumanization is calculated. Factory porn, with the performers merely robotic workers on an assembly line. Even the setting, a shabby warehouse with unpainted drywall and no furnishings except gray floor mats, is barren.

I sit on the edge of the sofa and stare at the wall. Lovely defiled herself, enjoyed defiling herself. She’s slept with many men after that, and probably women, too. We’ve had unprotected sex since the first time. And I recognize in the video some of the same techniques that she uses when she and I are making love. I’ve mistaken prepackaged erotic choreography for love and passion.

I pick up the DVD box and walk out onto the balcony, hoping the air will be purer outside. A fulvous layer of smog hangs over the ocean, locked in place by a lid of hot, stagnant air. I stand at the ledge and stare out at the horizon.

Because Lovely’s been spending a lot of time at my condo, I gave her a key. Around five thirty, I hear her putting it in the lock. I don’t turn around when she comes inside. It takes only a moment for her to see me standing on the balcony. She comes out and joins me.

“Hey, you,” she says. “I know today was tough, but—”

I turn around and hand her the DVD cover.

Her eyes narrow slightly when she recognizes it, but otherwise she doesn’t react.

“I found this on the doorstep when I came home.”

She opens the box and sees that it’s empty. “You watched it?”

I nod.

She sets her jaw with an icy certitude. “I’m not sorry for any of it. I’m not embarrassed. I was an adult, and adults have the right to express themselves sexually with anyone they want and however they want, as long as no one gets hurt. And I never hurt anyone, including myself.”

“This hurts
me
. It destroys us.” I struggle for a breath. “Did that son of a bitch you have for a father—?”

“God, no!” she says in horror. “My father would never . . . I was
not
abused. He hated it. He didn’t speak to me for two years.” She shakes her head as if trying to banish the idea from her mind. “Don’t you dare think that about him.”

I believe her. At that Friday night dinner at Ed’s house, he implied that there was a time when he and Lovely were estranged. The video is a perverse repudiation of him, the ultimate
fuck you
to a man who spent his career directing beautifully filmed movies that for all their explicitness depicted sex in a tender way.