Rogue Lawyer (14 page)

Looks like we've just begun to fight.

The Sunday papers rage against cage fighting, with knee-jerk condemnations coming from all directions. The Internet burns with the story. A YouTube video of the attack on the referee has four million hits before noon, and Tadeo has instantly become the most famous cage fighter in the world, though he will never fight again. Slowly, the wounded are released from hospitals, and, fortunately, there were no serious injuries to the fans. Just a bunch of drunks throwing punches and launching chairs. Sean King remains in a coma, in serious condition. Crush is resting comfortably with a badly fractured jaw and a concussion.

Late in the afternoon, I am allowed to visit my client in one of the jail's attorney rooms. He's sitting on the other side of a thick metal screen when I walk in and take a seat. His face is cut and badly swollen from the fight, but that's the least of his problems. He is so subdued I wonder if he's been drugged. We chat for a moment.

“When can I get outta here?” he asks.

You'd better get used to it, I want to say. “Your first appearance is in the morning, in court. I'll be there. Nothing much will happen. They'll wait to see what happens with the referee. If he dies, then you're really up shit creek. If he recovers, they'll charge you with a bunch of stuff but it won't be murder. Maybe in a week or so we'll go back to court and request a reasonable bond. I can't guess what the judge will do. So, to answer your question, there's a chance you might bond out in a few days. There's an even better chance you'll stay in jail until a trial.”

“How long will that take?”

“A trial?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to say. Six months at the earliest; probably more like a year. The trial itself won't last very long because there won't be many witnesses. They'll just roll the video.”

He looks down, as if he wants to cry. I love this kid but there's not much I can do for him, now or in six months. “Do you remember it?” I ask.

Slowly, he begins to nod. He says, “I just snapped. They cheated me out of a clear win. The ref made me fight his way, not mine. The ref kept getting in the way, you know, man, I just couldn't fight my fight. I mean, I didn't want to hurt the ref, but I just snapped. I was so angry, so destroyed when he raised that guy's hand. I kicked his ass, didn't I?”

“Crush or the referee?”

“Come on, man. Crush. I kicked his ass, right?”

“No, you did not. But you won the fight.” I saw every second of the fight and I never felt as though the ref was in the way. As far as legal defenses go, I don't think much of this one: The ref held me back, cost me the match, so I caved in his face. It was justified.

“They took it away from me,” he says.

“The referee is not a judge, Tadeo. The three judges did the scoring. You went after the wrong guy.”

He picks at the stitches in his forehead and says, “I know, I know. I did wrong, Sebastian, but you gotta do something, okay?”

“You know I'll do everything possible.”

“Will I serve some time?”

You're serving it now; get used to it. I've already played with the numbers. If Sean King dies, I'm thinking twenty years for second-degree murder, maybe fifteen for manslaughter. If he lives, three to five for aggravated assault. Since I'm not ready to share these thoughts, I punt by saying, “Let's worry about that later.”

“Probably so, right?”

“Probably so.”

There is a gap in the conversation as we hear doors clanging in the background. A jailer yells an obscenity. A tear emerges through Tadeo's swollen left eye and runs down his bruised cheek. “I can't believe it, man. I just can't believe it.” His voice is soft and pained.

If you can't believe it, think about that poor ref and his family. “I need to run, Tadeo. I'll see you in the morning, in court.”

“I gotta wear this in court?” he asks, tugging at his orange jumpsuit.

“Afraid so. It's just a first appearance.”

At 9:00 on Monday morning, I'm in a busy courtroom with a bunch of other defense lawyers and prosecutors. In one corner there is a collection of shady-looking men in orange jumpsuits, all handcuffed together and watched by armed bailiffs. These are the new arrestees, and this is their second stop on the judicial assembly line. The first stop being the jail. One by one their names are called, and after being uncuffed they saunter over to a spot in front of the bench, upon which sits a judge, one of twenty in our system who handles the preliminary matters. The judge asks them some questions, the most important being “Do you have a lawyer?” Very few of them do, and the judge then assigns them to the public defender's office. A rookie will pop up, stand beside his new client, and tell him not to say anything else. Dates will be set for return visits.

Tadeo Zapate, though, has a lawyer. They call his name and we meet in front of the bench. His face looks even worse. Most of the hushed conversations stop when the crowd realizes this is the guy everyone is talking about, the promising mixed martial arts fighter who is now the YouTube star.

“Are you Tadeo Zapate?” the judge asks with interest, the first time this morning he's seemed engaged.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I assume Mr. Sebastian Rudd is your lawyer.”

“Yes, sir.”

An assistant prosecutor eases behind him.

The judge continues, “You are charged, at this point, with aggravated assault. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Rudd, have you explained to your client that the charges might change to something more serious?”

“Yes, sir, he understands.”

“By the way, what is the latest on the referee?” he asks the assistant prosecutor, as if the guy were the treating physician.

“Last I heard, Mr. King's condition is still critical.”

“Very well,” His Honor says. “Let's meet back here in a week and see where things stand. Until then, Mr. Rudd, we won't discuss the matter of bail.”

“Sure, Judge,” I say.

We are dismissed. As Tadeo walks away, I whisper, “I'll see you at the jail tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he says, then looks at the spectators and nods at his mother, who's sitting with an entire pack of crying relatives. She emigrated from El Salvador twenty-five years ago, has her green card, works a late shift in a cafeteria, and is raising a flock of children, grandchildren, and other assorted relatives. Tadeo and his cage skills were her ticket to a better life. Miguel holds her hand and whispers in Spanish. He's been chewed up by our judicial system a few times and knows the score.

I speak to them briefly, assure them I'm doing whatever can be done, then walk with them out of the courtroom and into a hallway where some reporters are waiting, two with cameras. This is what I live for.

Quite the busy morning. While I'm in court with Tadeo, Judith does exactly as she promised and files a nasty motion to terminate all of my visitation rights, even the three hours I get on Christmas Eve and the two hours on my son's birthday. She claims I'm an unfit parent, a danger to his physical safety, and a “horrible influence” on the child's life. She demands an expedited hearing. Such theatrics. As if the kid were in danger.

Harry & Harry prepare a vicious response, and I file it Monday afternoon. Once again, we square off in her ongoing crusade to teach me valuable lessons. No judge will grant her demands, and she knows it. But she's doing it because she's angry and she thinks that if she drags me through the meat grinder once more I'll finally surrender and get out of their lives. I'm almost looking forward to the hearing.

First, though, we have another problem. On Wednesday, she calls my cell around noon and announces rudely, “We have a meeting at school this afternoon.”

Oh really? This is maybe the second time I've been asked to show up at the school and act like a parent. Until now, Judith has done a fine job of keeping me out of our son's business.

I ask, “Okay, what's up?”

“Starcher is in trouble. He got in a fight at school, punched another kid.”

I am overwhelmed with fatherly pride and I almost laugh. But I bite my tongue and say, “Oh, gosh, what happened?” I want to add questions such as “Did he win?” “How many times did he punch him?” and “Was the other kid a third grader?” But I manage to control my excitement.

“That's what the meeting is all about. I'll see you in the principal's office at four.”

“Four, today?”

“Yes,” she says, bitchy and firm.

“Okay.” I'll have to move a court appearance but it's no problem. I wouldn't miss this meeting for the world. My kid—a soft little boy who's never had a chance to be tough—punched somebody!

I smile all the way to the school. The principal has a big office with several chairs around a coffee table. We meet there, very casual. Her name is Doris—a frazzled veteran of at least forty years in public education. But she has an easy smile and a comforting voice. Who knows how many meetings like this she's suffered through. Judith and Ava are already there when I arrive. I nod at them without speaking. Judith is wearing a designer dress and is stunning. Ava, the former lingerie model, is wearing supertight leather pants and a tight blouse. She may have the brains of a gerbil but she still has a body that belongs on magazine covers. Both women look fabulous, and it's obvious, at least to me, that they spent some time dressing up for this occasion. But why?

Then Ms. Tarrant arrives, and things become clearer. She's Starcher's teacher, a thirty-three-year-old knockout who got a divorce recently and, according to a source, is already back in the game. She has short blond hair, cut smartly, and large brown eyes that force everyone she meets to do at least one double take. Judith and Ava are no longer the hottest babes in the room. In fact, they're getting smoked. I stand and make a fuss over Ms. Tarrant, who enjoys the attention. Judith immediately goes into total-bitch mode—she's halfway there by nature—but Ava's eyes sort of linger when she looks at the teacher. Mine are lingering like crazy.

Doris gives us the basics: During recess yesterday afternoon, some second-grade boys were playing kickball on the playground. There were words, then a scuffle, then a boy named Brad pushed Starcher, who then smacked Brad on the mouth. It caused a slight cut, thus blood, thus it's a major incident. Not surprisingly, the boys clammed up when the teachers arrived and haven't said much.

I blurt out, “Sounds pretty harmless. Just boys being boys.”

None of the four women agree, not that I expect them to. Ms. Tarrant says, “One of the boys told me that Brad was making fun of Starcher because his picture was in the newspaper.”

“Who threw the first punch?” I ask, almost rudely.

They squirm and don't like the question. “Does that really matter?” Judith shoots back.

“Damn right it does.”

Sensing trouble, Doris rushes in with “We have strict rules against fighting, Mr. Rudd, regardless of who starts the altercation. Our students are taught not to engage in this type of activity.”

“I get that, but you can't expect a kid to get bullied without standing up for himself.”

The word “bullied” is a hot one. With my kid now the victim, they're not sure how to respond. Ms. Tarrant says, “Well, I'm not sure he was being bullied.”

“Is Brad a bad apple?” I ask the teacher.

“No, he certainly is not. I have a great group of kids this year.”

“Sure you do. Including mine. These are little boys, okay? They can't hurt each other. So they push and shove on the playground. They are boys, dammit! Let them be boys. Don't punish them every time they disagree.”

“We're teaching them lessons, Mr. Rudd,” Doris says piously.

Judith snarls, “Have you talked to him about fighting?”

“Yes I have. I've told him that fighting is wrong, never start a fight, but if someone else happens to start one, then by all means protect himself. And what, exactly, is wrong with that?”

None of the four take a crack at answering this, so I shove on. “You'd better teach him now to stand up for himself, or he'll get bullied for the rest of his life. These are kids. They'll fight. They'll win some, lose some, but they'll outgrow it. Believe me, when a boy gets older and gets punched a few times, he loses his enthusiasm for fighting.”

For the second time, I catch Ava glancing at Ms. Tarrant's legs. I'm glancing too; can't help it. They deserve a lot of attention. Doris is watching these mating rituals. She's seen it all before.

She says, “Brad's parents are quite upset.”

I jump in with “Then I'll be happy to talk to them, to apologize and to have Starcher apologize too. How about that?”

“I'll handle this,” Judith barks.

“Then why did you invite me to this little party? I'll tell you why. You want to make sure all blame is properly laid at my feet. Five days ago I took the kid to the cage fights; now he's brawling on the playground. Clear proof it's all my fault. You win. You wanted some witnesses. So here we are. Do you feel better now?”

This, of course, sucks the air out of the room. Judith's eyes glaze over with hatred and I can almost see steam coming out of her ears. Doris, the pro, rushes in with “Okay, okay. I like the idea of one of you having a chat with Brad's parents.”

“One of the two of us, or one of the three of us?” I ask. What a smart-ass. “I'm sorry, but it gets kind of crowded.”

Ava shoots daggers at me. I glance at the teacher's legs. What a ridiculous meeting.

Doris shows some spine by looking at me and saying, “I think you should do it. You're right; it's a boy thing. Call Brad's parents and apologize.”

“Done.”

“What's the punishment for Starcher?” Ava asks because Judith can't speak right now.

Doris says, “What do you think, Ms. Tarrant?”

“Well, there has to be a punishment.”

I make matters worse by saying, “Don't tell me you're going to expel the kid.”

Ms. Tarrant says, “No, he and Brad are friends and I think they've already moved on. What about a week with no recess?”

“Can he still have lunch?” I ask, just trying to clog the wheels of justice. I'm a lawyer; it's instinctive.

She smiles but ignores this. We hammer out an agreement and I'm the first one to leave. As I drive away from the parking lot, I realize I'm smiling. Starcher stood his ground!

Late that night, I e-mail Ms. Tarrant—Naomi is her first name—and thank her for doing such a fine job. Ten minutes later, she e-mails me back and says thanks. I fire right back and ask her to dinner. Twenty minutes later she informs me it's not a good idea to date parents of her kids. In other words, not now, maybe in the future.

It's Wednesday and raining. We've played Dirty Golf many times in bad weather, but Alan said no tonight; no more ruts in the fairways. Old Rico is closed for the evening. I'm wide awake, bored, worried about Tadeo and Doug Renfro, and I'm also fairly revved up at the slim prospects of chasing Ms. Tarrant. Sleep eludes me, again, so I grab an umbrella and hustle down to The Rack. At midnight, I'm losing ten bucks a game in nine ball to a kid who looks no more than fifteen. I asked him if he goes to school, to which he answered, “Occasionally.”

Curly is watching us, and at one point whispers to me, “Never seen him before. Amazing.” Mercifully, Curly closes the place at 1:00 a.m. The kid has picked my pockets for $90. I'll avoid him next time. At 2:00, I manage to close my eyes and fall asleep.