Rogue Lawyer (6 page)

Thank you, Judge. That would be the great question.

As her story goes, she came home from the fights late on Friday. When she finally woke up on Saturday, she called her mother, who immediately called Mr. Dan Huver, who knew exactly what to do. They met in his office on Sunday afternoon, worked out the language for the affidavit, and, presto! Huver was in business.

I call Huver as a witness. He objects. We argue, but Kaufman has no choice. I question Huver for an hour, and two bobcats trapped in the same burlap sack would be much more civilized. One of his assistants wrote every word of the affidavit. One of his secretaries typed it. Another secretary notarized it.

He then questions me and the squabbling continues. Throughout this tedious ordeal, the jurors wait in the deliberation room, no doubt briefed by Glynna Roston and no doubt blaming me for another frustrating delay in the trial. As if I care. I keep reminding Kaufman and Huver that they are playing with a cobra here. If Glynna Roston stays on the jury, I'm guaranteed a reversal. I'm not sure of this—on appeal nothing is guaranteed—but I gradually see them wither under the strain and doubt their own judgment. I repeatedly move for a mistrial. The motions are repeatedly denied. I don't care. It's in the record. Late in the afternoon, Kaufman decides to excuse Mrs. Roston and replace her with Ms. Mazy, one of our blue-ribbon alternates.

Ms. Mazy is no replacement to get excited about; in fact, she's no better than the last old gal who occupied her chair. No one in Milo would be better. You could select twelve from a pool of a thousand and every jury would look and vote the same. So why did I burn so much clock today? To hold them accountable. To scare the hell out of them with the scenario that they—prosecutor and judge, duly elected by the locals—could screw up the most sensational case this backwater hick town has ever seen. To collect ammunition for the appeal. And, to make them respect me.

I demand that Marlo Wilfang be prosecuted for perjury, but the prosecutor is tired. I demand she be held in contempt. Instead, Judge Kaufman reminds me that I'm in contempt. He sends for a bailiff, one with handcuffs.

I say, “I'm sorry, Judge, but I've forgotten why you found me in contempt. It was so long ago.”

“Because you refused to continue the trial this morning, and because we've wasted an entire day back here fighting over a juror. Plus, you insulted me.”

There are so many ways to respond to this nonsense, but I decide to let it pass. Tossing me in jail over a contempt charge will only complicate matters for them, for the authorities, and it will give me even more ammo for Gardy's appeal. A large deputy comes in and Kaufman says, “Take him to jail.”

Huver is at the window, his back to it all.

I don't want to go to jail, but I can't wait to get out of this room. It's beginning to reek of stale body odor. The handcuffs are locked around my wrists, hands in front, not back, and as I'm led away I look at Kaufman and say, “I'm assuming I will be allowed to continue as lead counsel in the morning.”

“You will.”

To frighten them even more, I add, “The last time I was tossed in jail in the middle of a trial the conviction was reversed by the state supreme court. Nine to zero. You clowns should read your cases.”

Another large deputy joins our little parade. They take me through the back doors and down the rear hallway I use every day. For some reason we pause on a landing as the deputies mumble into their radios. When we finally step outside, I get the impression that word was leaked. A cheer goes up by my haters when they see me frog-marched out, handcuffed. For no apparent reason, the cops stall as they try to decide which patrol car to use. I stand by one, exposed, smiling at my little mob. I see Partner and yell that I'll call him later. He is stunned and confused. For sport, they shove me into the same backseat with Gardy; lawyer and client, off to jail. As we pull away, with lights and sirens fully engaged to give this miserable town as much drama as possible, Gardy looks at me and says, “Where you been all day?”

I'm not about to try. I lift my bound hands and say, “Fighting with the judge. Guess who won?”

“How can they throw a lawyer in jail?”

“The judge can do whatever he wants.”

“You getting the death penalty too?”

I chuckle for the first time in many hours. “No, not yet anyway.”

Gardy is amused by this unexpected change in routine. He says, “You're gonna love the food there.”

“I'll bet.” The two deputies in the front seat are listening so hard they're barely breathing.

“You ever been in jail before?” my client asks.

“Oh yes, several times. I have a knack for pissing off judges.”

“How'd you piss off Judge Kaufman?”

“It's a long story.”

“Well, we got all night, don't we?”

I suppose we do, though I doubt they'll throw me in the same cell with my dear client. Minutes later we stop in front of a 1950s-style flat-roofed building with several additions stuck to its sides like malignant tumors. I've been here a few times to meet with Gardy and it's a miserable place. We park; they yank us out of the car and jostle us inside a cramped open room where some cops lounge around pushing paper and acting like badasses. Gardy disappears into the rear, and when an unseen door opens I can hear prisoners yelling in the background.

“Judge Kaufman said I can make two phone calls,” I snap at the jailer as he moves toward me. He stops, uncertain as to what exactly a jailer is supposed to do when confronting an angry lawyer sent over for contempt. He backs away.

I call Judith, and after barking at her receptionist, then her secretary, then her paralegal, I get her on the phone, explain I'm in jail again and need help. She curses, reminds me of how busy she is, then says all right. I call Partner and give him the update.

They hand me an orange jumpsuit with “Milo City Jail” stenciled across the back. I change in a filthy bathroom, carefully arranging my shirt, tie, and suit on one hanger. I hand it to the jailer and say, “Please don't wrinkle this. I have to wear it tomorrow.”

“You want it pressed?” he says, then roars with laughter. The others break down too at this real knee-slapper, and I smile like a good sport. When the laughing is over I say, “So what's for dinner?”

The jailer says, “It's Monday, Spam day. Always Spam on Monday.”

“Can't wait.” My cell is a ten-by-ten concrete bunker that reeks of stale urine and body odor. On the bunk beds are two young black men, one reading, the other napping. There is no third bed, so I'll sleep in a plastic chair stained with dark brown splotches. My two new cellies do not appear the least bit friendly. I don't want to fight, but getting beat up in jail, in the middle of a capital murder defense, would cause an automatic mistrial. I'll ponder it.

Because she's done this before, Judith knows exactly what to do. At 5:00 p.m., she files a petition for habeas corpus in federal court in the City, with an urgent demand for an immediate hearing. I love federal court, most of the time.

She also sends a copy of her petition to my favorite reporter at the newspaper. I'll make as much noise as possible. Kaufman and Huver have blundered badly, and they'll pay for it. The reader on the bottom bunk decides he wants to talk, so I explain why I'm here. He thinks it's funny, a lawyer in jail for pissing off the judge. The napper on the top bunk rolls over and joins the fun. Before long, I'm giving legal advice, and these guys need as much as I can dish out.

An hour later, a jailer fetches me with the news that I have a visitor. I follow him through a maze of narrow hallways and find myself in a cramped room with a Breathalyzer. This is where they bring the drunk drivers. The Bishop stands and we shake hands. We've spoken on the phone but never met. I thank him for coming but caution him about doing so. He says screw it—he's not afraid of the locals. Plus, he knows how to lie low and stay under the radar. He also knows the police chief, the cops, the judge—the usual small-town crap. He says he's tried to call Huver and Kaufman to tell them they've made a big mistake, but he can't get through. He's leaning on the police chief to put me in a better cell. The more we talk, the more I like the guy. He's a street fighter, a worn-out, frazzled old goat who's been knocking heads with the cops for decades. He hasn't made a dime and doesn't care. I wonder if I'll be him in twenty years.

“How about the DNA tests?” he asks.

“The lab will get the samples tomorrow and they've promised a quick turnaround.”

“And if it's Peeley?”

“All hell breaks loose.” This guy is on my side, but I don't know him. We chat for ten minutes and he says good-bye.

When I return to my cell, my two new friends have spread the word that there's a criminal lawyer in here with them. Before long, I'm yelling advice up and down the block.

Common sense is not always my strong suit, but I decide not to start a fight with Fonzo and Frog, my two new partners in crime. Instead I sit in my chair all night and try to nap. It doesn't work. I said no to the Spam for dinner and no to the putrid eggs and cold toast for breakfast. Thankfully, no one mentions a shower. They bring me my suit, shirt, tie, shoes, and socks, and I dress quickly. I say good-bye to my cellies, both of whom will be behind bars for several years, regardless of the brilliant advice I dispensed for hours.

Gardy and I are given separate rides back to the courthouse. A larger crowd of enemies jeer at me as I'm sort of dragged out of the car, still in handcuffs. Once I'm inside and away from any photographers, they remove the handcuffs. Partner is waiting in the hallway. I made the morning edition of the
Chronicle,
the City's daily. Metro section, third page. No big deal—Rudd is thrown in jail again.

As instructed, I follow a bailiff back into the chambers of Judge Kaufman, who's waiting with Huver. Both wear smirks and are curious to see how I survived the night. I do not mention the jail, do not acknowledge the fact that I've not slept, eaten, or showered in a long time. I'm in one piece, raring to go, and this seems to irritate them. It's all fun and games, with Gardy's life on the line.

Seconds after I step into chambers, another bailiff rushes in and says, “Sorry, Judge, but there's a U.S. marshal out here says you gotta be in federal court in the City at eleven this morning. You too, Mr. Huver.”

“What the hell?” Kaufman says.

Oh so helpfully, I explain, “It's a habeas corpus hearing, Judge. My lawyers filed it yesterday afternoon. An emergency hearing to get me out of jail. You guys started this crap, now I have to finish it.”

“Does he have a subpoena?” Huver asks. The bailiff hands over some paperwork and Huver and Kaufman scan it quickly.

“It's not a subpoena,” Kaufman says. “It's sort of a notice from Judge Samson. Thought he was dead. He has no right to notify me to be present for a hearing of any kind.”

“He's been off his rocker for twenty years,” Huver says, somewhat relieved. “I ain't going. We're in the middle of a trial here.”

He's not wrong about Judge Samson. If the lawyers could vote for the craziest federal judge in the land, Arnie Samson would win in a landslide. But he's my crazy friend, and he's freed me from jail before.

Kaufman says to the bailiff, “Tell the marshal to get lost. If he starts trouble, tell the sheriff to arrest him. That'll really piss him off, won't it? The sheriff arresting a marshal. Ha. Bet that's never happened before. Anyway, we're not leaving. We have a trial to resume here.”

“Why'd you run to federal court?” Huver asks me in all seriousness.

“Because I don't like being in jail. What kinda stupid question is that?”

The bailiff leaves and Kaufman says, “I'm vacating the contempt order, okay, Mr. Rudd? I figure one night in the slammer is enough for your behavior.”

I say, “Well, it's certainly enough for a mistrial or a reversal.”

“Let's not argue that,” Kaufman says. “Can we proceed?”

“You're the judge.”

“What about the hearing in federal court?”

“Are you asking me for legal advice?” I fire back.

“Hell no.”

“Ignore the notice at your own risk. Hell, Judge Samson might throw the both of you in jail for a night or two. Wouldn't that be funny?”

We eventually make it back to the courtroom, and it takes some time to get everyone settled. When the jury is brought in, I refuse to look at them. By now they all know I spent the night in jail, and I'm sure they're curious about how I survived. So I give them nothing.

Judge Kaufman apologizes for the delays and says it's time to get to work. He looks at Huver, who stands and says, “Your Honor, the State rests.”

This is an amateurish ploy designed to make my life even more miserable. I rise and angrily say, “Your Honor, he could've told me this yesterday or even this morning.”

“Call your first witness,” Kaufman barks.

“I'm not ready. I have some motions. On the record.”

He has no choice but to excuse the jury. We spend the next two hours haggling over whether or not the State has presented enough proof to keep going. I repeat the same arguments. Kaufman makes the same rulings. It's all for the record.

My first witness is a scraggly, troubled kid who looks remarkably similar to my client. His first name is Wilson; he's fifteen years old, a dropout, a druggie, a kid who's basically homeless, though an aunt allows him to sleep in the garage whenever he's sick. And he's our star witness!

The Fentress girls went missing around 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. They left school on their bikes but never made it home. A search began around 6:00 and intensified as the hours passed. By midnight, the entire town was in a panic and everyone was outside with a flashlight. Their bodies were found in the polluted pond around noon the following day.

I have six witnesses, Wilson and five others, who will testify that they were with Gardy on that Wednesday afternoon from around 2:00 until dark. They were at a place called the Pit, an abandoned gravel pit in the middle of some dense woods south of town. It's a secluded hideout for truants, runaways, homeless kids, druggies, petty felons, and drunks. It attracts a few older deadbeats, but for the most part it's a haven for the kids nobody wants. They sleep under lean-tos, share their stolen food, drink their stolen booze, take drugs I've never heard of, engage in random sex, and in general waste away the days while sliding closer to either death or incarceration. Gardy was there when someone else abducted and murdered the Fentress girls.

So we have an alibi—my client's whereabouts can be vouched for. Or can it?

By the time Wilson takes the stand and is sworn in, the jurors are suspicious. For the occasion he's wearing what he always wears—grimy jeans with lots of holes, battered combat boots, a green T-shirt proclaiming the greatness of some acid-rock band, and a smart purple bandanna looped around his neck. His scalp is skinned above the ears and yields to a bright orange Mohawk roaring down the center. He's displaying the obligatory collection of tattoos, earrings, and piercings. Because he's just a kid without a clue and is now being dragged into such a formal setting, he instantly retreats behind a smirk that makes you want to slap him.

“Just be normal,” I told him. Sadly, he is. I wouldn't believe a word he says, though he's telling the truth. As rehearsed, we walk through that Wednesday afternoon.

Huver annihilates him on cross-examination. You're fifteen years old, son, why were you not in school? Smoking dope, huh, along with your pal here, that's what you're telling these jurors? Drinking, and drugging, just a bunch of deadbeats, right? Wilson does a lousy job of denying this. After fifteen minutes of abuse, Wilson is disoriented, afraid he might be charged with some crime. Huver hammers away, a bully on the playground.

But because Huver is not too bright, he goes too far. He's got Wilson on the ropes and is drawing blood with each question. He's grilling him about dates—how can he be certain it was that Wednesday back in March? You kids keep a calendar out there at the Pit?

Loudly, “You have no idea what Wednesday you're talking about, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson says, politely for the first time.

“How?”

“Because the police came out there, said they were looking for two little girls. That was the day. And Gardy had been there all afternoon.” For a kid without a brain, Wilson delivers this perfectly, just like we practiced.

Evidently, when there is a crime in Milo slightly more serious than littering, the police rush out to the Pit and make accusations. Harass the usual suspects. It's about three miles from the pond where the Fentress girls were found. It's blatantly obvious none of the regulars at the Pit have any means of transportation other than their feet, yet the police routinely show up and throw around their considerable weight. Gardy says he remembers the cops asking about the missing girls. The cops, of course, do not remember seeing Gardy at the Pit.

None of this matters. This jury is not about to believe a word Wilson says.

Next, I call a witness with even less credibility. They call her Lolo, and the poor child has lived under bridges and in box culverts for as long as she can remember. The boys protect her and in return she keeps them satisfied. She's now nineteen and there's no way she will see twenty-five, not on this side of the bars. She's covered in tattoos, and by the time she's sworn in the jurors are already disgusted. She remembers that particular Wednesday, remembers the cops coming out to the Pit, remembers Gardy being there all afternoon.

On cross, Huver can't wait to bring up the fact that she's been busted twice for shoplifting. For food! What are you supposed to do when you're hungry? Huver makes this sound like she deserves the death penalty.

We plow ahead. I call my alibi witnesses, who tell the truth, and Huver makes them look like criminals. Such is the lunacy and unfairness of the system. Huver's witnesses, the ones testifying on behalf of the State, are cloaked with legitimacy, as if they've been sanctified by the authorities. Cops, experts, even snitches who've been washed and cleansed and spruced up in nice clothes, all take the stand and tell lies in a coordinated effort to have my client executed. But the witnesses who know the truth, and are telling it, are discounted immediately and made to look like fools.

Like so many, this trial is not about the truth; it's about winning. And to win, with no real evidence, Huver must fabricate and lie and attack the truth as if he hates it. I have six witnesses who swear my client was nowhere close to the scene when the crime was committed, and all six are scoffed at. Huver has produced almost two dozen witnesses, virtually all known to be liars by the cops, the prosecution, and the judge, yet the jurors lap up their lies as if they're reading Holy Scripture.