Rogue Lawyer (30 page)

After court, Partner drives me to the warehouse where Harry & Harry conduct their operations. I meet with Harry Gross and we review Judith's latest petition. He'll prepare a response, one similar to the other three already on file, and I'll sign and file it tomorrow.

Partner and I go to the basement, where Cliff and his team are already at work. From the first four rows of the pool, numbers one through forty, nine people were quizzed privately during the afternoon session. I expect all nine to be excused for cause, or for good reason. Each side has four challenges, four automatic hooks that can be used for no reason whatsoever. That's a total of eight. There is no limit on the number who can be excused for cause. The trick, the skill, the art, is reading the jurors and trying to determine which to challenge. I get only four strikes, same as the prosecution, and one mistake can be fatal. Not only do I decide whom to keep and whom to strike, but I also play chess with Mancini. Whom will he get rid of? Certainly the Hispanics.

I do not expect an acquittal, so I'm angling for a hung jury. I have to find the one or two jurors who might show some sympathy.

For hours, over bad carryout sushi and bottles of green tea, we dissect each potential juror.

There are no phone calls in the middle of the night; nothing from Arch Swanger, nor Nate Spurio. Not a word from Moss Korgan. Evidently, my brilliant offer of a deal didn't get very far. As the sun rises, I'm at my computer responding to e-mails. I decide to send one to Judith. It reads, “Why can't you stop the war? You've lost so many battles and you'll lose this one. The only thing you'll prove is how ridiculously stubborn you are. Think about Starcher, not yourself.” The response will be predictably harsh and well crafted.

Partner drops me off in a strip mall out in the suburbs. The only store open is a bagel shop where smoking is illegally permitted. The owner is an old Greek who's dying of lung cancer. His nephew has rank at City Hall and health inspectors don't bother the place. It features strong coffee, real yogurt, decent bagels, and a layer of rich, blue cigarette smoke that's a throwback to the days not long ago when it was common to eat in a restaurant while inhaling the fumes and vapors of those close by. Nowadays, it's still hard to believe we tolerated that. Nate Spurio goes through two packs a day and loves this place. I take a deep breath out front, fill my lungs with clear air, walk inside, and see Nate at a table, coffee and newspaper in front of him, a fresh Salem screwed into the corner of his mouth. He waves at a chair and puts the paper away. “You want coffee?” he asks.

“No thanks. I've had enough.”

“How are things going?”

“You mean life in general or the Zapate trial?”

He grunts, tries to smile. “Since when do we talk about life in general?”

“Good point. Nothing from Mancini. If he's in on the deal, he damned sure doesn't act like it. Still offering fifteen years.”

“They're working on him, but, as you know, he's a prick who's going places. Right now he's onstage and that means a lot to him.”

“So Roy Kemp is hammering away?”

“You could say that. He's tightening every screw he can find. He's desperate—can't say I blame him. And he hates you because he thinks you're withholding information.”

“Gee, I'm sorry. Tell him I hate him too because he kidnapped my kid, but nothing personal. If he'll get to the mayor, who can then get to Mancini, we might have us a deal.”

“It's in the works, okay. Things are moving.”

“Well, things need to move faster. We're picking a jury and based on what I've seen and heard so far my guy is in deep trouble.”

“That's what I hear.”

“Thanks. We'll probably start calling witnesses tomorrow and there aren't many of them. This could be over by Friday. We need to cut the deal quickly. Five years, county penal farm, early parole. Got it, Nate? Does everybody up the food chain understand the terms of the deal?”

“Plain as day. It's not that complicated.”

“Then tell them to make it happen. My guy is about to get slammed by this jury.”

He pulls on the cigarette, fills his lungs, asks, “Are you around tonight?”

“You think I'm leaving town?”

“We should probably talk.”

“Sure, but now I gotta run. I have this trial today and we're out here beating the bushes looking for some jurors to bribe.”

“I didn't hear a word, and I'm certainly not surprised.”

“See you, Nate.”

“A real pleasure.”

“And you really should stop smoking.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay. You got your own problems.”

Go Slow is late for court, which, on the one hand, is not that unusual because she is a judge and the party doesn't start until she arrives. On the other hand, though, this is a high-water mark for her career and you'd think she would arrive early and savor the moment. But I learned a long time ago not to waste time analyzing why judges do the things they do.

Everyone has been waiting for at least an hour, with no word on what's causing the delay, when her courtroom deputy snaps to attention and calls us to order. Her Honor sweeps onto the bench as if she's already terribly burdened and tells everybody to sit down. No apology, no explanation. She launches into some introductory remarks, not a single word of which is even remotely original, and when she runs out of gas she says, “Mr. Mancini, you may examine the panel for the State.”

Max is quickly on his feet, strutting along the mahogany railing that separates us from the spectators. With ninety-two jurors on one side, and at least that many reporters and spectators on the other, the courtroom is again packed. They're even leaning against the rear wall. Max rarely has such an audience. He begins with a dreadful, sappy monologue about how honored he feels to just be in the courtroom representing the good people of our city. He feels a burden. He feels an honor. He feels an obligation. He feels a lot of things, and within a few minutes I notice some of the jurors start to frown and look at him as if to say, “Is this guy serious?”

After he's talked about himself for too long, I slowly stand, look at Her Honor, and say, “Judge, can we please get on with this?”

She says, “Mr. Mancini, do you have some questions for the pool?”

He replies, “Of course, Your Honor. I didn't realize we were in such a hurry.”

“Oh, there's no hurry, but I really don't want to waste time.” This, from a judge who was an hour late.

Max begins with textbook questions about prior jury service, and experiences with the criminal justice system, and prejudices against the police and law enforcement. By and large, it's a waste of time because people rarely reveal their true feelings in such a setting. It does, however, give us plenty of time to study the jurors. Tadeo is taking pages of notes, at my direction. I'm scribbling too, but I'm primarily watching body language. Cliff and his associate are on the pews across the aisle, watching everything. By now, I feel as though I've known these people, especially the first forty, for years.

Max wants to know if any of them have ever been sued. A standard question but not a great one. This is, after all, a criminal matter, not a civil one. Out of the ninety-two, about fifteen admit to being sued at some point in their past. I'll bet there are at least another fifteen who are not admitting it. This is, after all, America. What honest citizen has never been sued? Max seems thrilled with this response, as if he's really found fertile dirt to dig in. He asks if their experiences within the court system would in any way affect their ability to deliberate in this case.

Naw, Max. Everybody loves to get sued. And we do so without the slightest resentment toward the system. But he flails away with follow-up questions that go nowhere.

For nothing but spite, I stand and say, “Your Honor, could you remind Mr. Mancini that this is a criminal case, not a civil one?”

“I know that!” Max growls at me and we exchange nasty looks. “I know what I'm doing.”

“Move along, Mr. Mancini,” Her Honor says. “And please keep your seat, Mr. Rudd.”

Max fights his anger and lets it pass. Changing gears, he wades into a sensitive matter. Has anyone in your immediate family ever been convicted of a violent crime? He apologizes for intruding into such a private matter, but he has no choice. Please forgive him. From the rear, juror number eighty-one slowly raises a hand.

Mrs. Emma Huffinghouse. White, age fifty-six, a freight company dispatcher. Her twenty-seven-year-old son is serving twelve years for a drug-fueled home invasion. As soon as Max sees her hand he throws up his and pleads, “I don't want the details, please. I know this is a very private matter and very hurtful, I'm sure. My question is this: Was your experience with the criminal justice system satisfactory or unsatisfactory?”

Seriously, Max? We're not filling out a survey for consumer satisfaction.

Mrs. Huffinghouse stands slowly and says, “I think my son was treated fairly by the system.”

Max almost leaps over the bar to run hug her. Bless you, dear, bless you. What an endorsement for the forces of good! Too bad, Max, she's useless. We won't get close to number eighty-one.

Juror number forty-seven raises his hand, stands, says his brother spent time in jail for aggravated assault, and, unlike Mrs. Huffinghouse, he, Mark Wattburg, was not favorably impressed with the criminal process.

But Max thanks him profusely anyway. Anybody else? No more hands. There are three others, and I suppose I know it but Max doesn't. This confirms that my research is better than his. It also alerts me to the fact that these three are not altogether forthcoming.

Max moves on as the morning drags. He steps into another delicate minefield, that of victimhood. Have any of you been the victim of a violent crime? You, your family members, close friends? Several hands go up and Max does a nice job of eliciting information that's useful, for a change.

At noon, Her Honor, no doubt exhausted by two hours on the bench and probably craving apple slices, announces a ninety-minute break. Tadeo wants to stay in the courtroom for lunch. I make a pleasant request to his handler, who agrees, to our surprise. Partner hustles down the street to a deli and returns with sandwiches and chips.

As we eat, we talk softly, keeping our voices low so the deputies and bailiffs cannot hear us. There is no one else in the courtroom. The gravity of the setting and surroundings has settled in and Tadeo has lost some of his cockiness. He's absorbed the unforgiving stares from those who might be called upon to judge him. He no longer believes that they are his peers. Softly, he says, “I get the feeling they don't like me.”

Such a perceptive young man.

Max finishes up around three and hands off to me. By now, I know more than enough about these people and I'm ready for the selection. However, this is my first chance to speak directly to the pool, and it's an opportunity to lay the groundwork for what every lawyer hopes will become some level of trust. I watched their faces and I know many of them found Max to be obsequious, even a bit goofy. I have an abundance of flaws and bad habits, but fawning is not part of my act. I don't thank them for being there—they were summoned, they have no choice. I don't pretend that we're doing something great and they're a part of it. I don't brag on our judicial system.

Instead, I talk in broad terms about the presumption of innocence. I urge them to ask themselves if they haven't already decided that my client is guilty of something or else he wouldn't be here. Don't raise your hand, just nod along with me if you think he's guilty. It's human nature. It's the way our society and culture work these days. There's a crime, an arrest, we see the suspect on television, and we're relieved that the police have caught their man. Presto, just like that. Crime solved. Guilty party in custody. These days we never, never stop and say, “Wait, he's presumed to be innocent and he's entitled to a fair trial.” We rush to judgment.

“Questions, Mr. Rudd?” Go Slow squawks into her microphone.

I ignore her, point to Tadeo, and ask if they can truthfully say that, at this moment, they believe he's completely innocent.

Of course, there is no response because no prospective juror will ever say she's made up her mind already.

I move on to the burden of proof and discuss it until Max has had enough. He stands, arms open wide in complete frustration, and says, “Your Honor, he's not quizzing the panel. He's giving a law school lecture.”

“Agreed. Either ask your questions or sit down, Mr. Rudd,” Go Slow says, rather rudely.

“Thank you,” I reply like the smart-ass I really am. I look at the first three rows and say, “Tadeo doesn't have to testify, doesn't have to call any witnesses. Why? Because the burden of proving him guilty lies with the prosecution. Now, let's say he doesn't take the stand. Will that matter to you? Will you tend to think he's hiding something?”

I use this all the time and rarely get a response. Today, though, juror number seventeen wants to say something. Bobby Morris, age thirty-six, white, a stonemason. He raises his hand and I nod at him. He says, “If I'm on the jury, then I think he should testify. I want to hear from the defendant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” I reply warmly. “Anybody else?” With the ice broken, several others raise their hands and I gently ask follow-up questions. As I had hoped, it becomes a discussion as more and more lose their inhibitions. I'm easy to talk to, a nice guy, a straight shooter with a sense of humor.

When I'm finished, Her Honor informs us we will pick the jury before we go home and gives us fifteen minutes to look at our notes.

The e-mail from Judith reads, “Starcher is still upset. You are such a pathetic father. See you in court.”

I'm tempted to fire something back, but why bother? Partner and I are driving away from the courthouse. It's dark, after 7:00 p.m., and it's been a hard day. We stop at a bar for a beer and a sandwich.

Nine whites, one black, one Hispanic, one Vietnamese. With their names and faces so fresh I have to talk about them. Partner, as always, listens dutifully with little comment. He has been in the courtroom for most of the past two days and he likes the jury.

I stop at two beers, though I really want several more. At nine o'clock, Partner drops me off at an Arby's, and I fiddle with a soft drink for fifteen minutes waiting on Nate. He finally arrives, orders some onion rings, apologizes for being tardy. “How's the trial going?” he asks.

“Got a jury late this afternoon. Opening statements in the morning, then Mancini starts calling witnesses. Should go pretty fast. We got a deal?”

He shovels in a large, crusty ring and chews fiercely while looking around. The place is empty. He swallows hard, says, “Yep. Woody met with Mancini two hours ago and fired him. He replaced him with a flunky who was planning to move for a mistrial first thing in the morning. Mancini backed down and agreed to play along. He wants to meet with you and the judge at 8:30 tomorrow.”

“The judge?”

“You got it. Seems Woody and Janet Fabineau have some mutual dealings, friends, whatever, and Woody insisted on putting her in the loop. She's good to go. She'll take the plea, approve the bargain, sentence your boy to five years at the penal farm, recommend early release. Just like you said, Rudd.”

“Marvelous. And Link's thugs?”

“That investigation is going nowhere. Forget about it.” He sucks on his straw and selects another onion ring. “Now, Rudd, the fun part.”

“The last time I saw Swanger, the meeting was arranged through a prepaid cell phone he left behind for me in a pharmacy. I still have the phone. It's right outside in my van. I haven't used it since, so I don't know if it'll work. But if I get Swanger on the phone I'll try to set up a meeting. I'll have to give him some cash.”

“How much?”

“Fifty grand, unmarked. He's not stupid.”

“Fifty grand?”

“That's about a third of the reward money. I'm assuming he'll grab it because he's broke. Anything less might cause problems. Last year you guys cashed in forfeited assets to the tune of four million bucks, all retained by the department, pursuant to our brilliant state law. The money's there, Nate, and Roy Kemp would spend anything for the chance to see his daughter again.”

“Okay, okay. I'll pass it along. That's all I can do.”

I leave him with his onion rings and hurry to the van. As Partner drives away, I open the cheap phone and call the number. Nothing. An hour later, I call again. And again. Nothing.