The Arraignment (17 page)

Harry sends copies of the police report down next so that Conover and his lawyer are still reading the first page of our legal points and authorities when the investigation report comes sliding in on top of it like a runner safe at home plate.

Now the lawyers are all flipping pages. Glendenin and Tolt are sitting back amused, as if they have no dog in this fight, while Conover looks at his lawyer, waiting for Melcher to pull a rabbit out of the fly to his pants.

“This is nothing. This means nothing,” says Melcher. He hasn’t had time to read past the first page but feels compelled by his boss’s presence to get his sword out of its sheath. “Your man was standing next to his client. Sure he was shot.”

“And your argument is?” I ask.

“His client was the intended victim. Says so right here.”

“I agree. That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

“No. No. No. No.” Melcher says it as if each time it adds to the weight of his argument. “You don’t understand,” he says. “The fact that your client was standing next to the
intended victim doesn’t mean he was shot accidentally. I mean, he was representing the man. He was his lawyer.”

“What’s that mean?” says Harry. “Are you saying he assumed the risk?”

“Not exactly. Well, in a way,” says Melcher. “I mean this man. And no offense, ladies,” he looks at Dana, then shoots a quick glance down the table toward Margaret. “No offense, but Mr. Rush represented some questionable clients.”

“You’re telling me?” says Margaret.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

“You figure it out.” Melcher is starting to lose his cool. “You got a dirtbag drug lawyer hanging out with his client in front of a federal courthouse when the two of them get shot. Now if you want sympathy, I’ll give it to you by the truckload,” he says. “But not this. What do you think a jury is going to say when they find out your man’s representing some drug dealer when he gets shot?” He looks at me arching his eyebrows as if he’s just dropped a bomb on our case. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’ll tell you what they’re gonna say. They’re gonna say he got what he had coming. Especially when your claim is . . . is . . . is . . .” his anger takes hold and he starts sputtering. “Is this,” he flips the papers in front of him. “That it’s an accidental death?”

“First of all, that information is never going to get before a jury,” I tell him.

“What?” he says.

“In fact, I can almost guarantee you that a trial judge isn’t even going to allow you to inform the jury that Mr. Rush was a lawyer, much less that he was in any way associated with Mr. Metz. It’s irrelevant, and I would argue it’s highly prejudicial.”

Harry pipes in. “Read the points and authorities,” he says. “Very illuminating.”

“The only real issue here,” I say. Melcher is looking back at me, knowing he is getting double-teamed. “The only issue is whether Mr. Rush was the intended victim of this act or whether he was killed by accident. Let me ask you a question.”

Conover is looking down, holding his head in hands, elbows propped on the table as if he doesn’t need any more questions.

“Assuming Mr. Rush was standing out in front of that courthouse alone, without Mr. Metz, would this shooting have even occurred?”

Melcher looks at me, down at the police report in front of him, back to the points and authorities. He’d rather not answer. He knows it’s a question I can ultimately raise before a jury. The ultimate and unavoidable issue, but for Mr. Metz . . .

“It’s a simple question. Based on the evidence in front of you, do you think the shooting would have occurred?”

“We don’t know.” Conover demonstrates why he is Melcher’s superior. His head comes up, and he cuts off his lawyer before the man can answer.

“We don’t know. We haven’t had time to read through all of this.” Better that than an open admission in front of witnesses, even if these are arguably settlement negotiations. Conover’s had enough surprises for one day.

“If our clients have to get you in court, I suppose you can argue with the cops,” I tell them.

“What cops?” Melcher can’t resist.

“The ones who will testify as to the intended victim and the accidental nature of Mr. Rush’s death.”

These are witnesses to die for in a civil case, and both of them know it: cops testifying that a defense lawyer was shot by accident. What possible reason could they have to lie? And how can they change their testimony given the contents of the police report?

“Now I’m sure you’ll be able to get them to tell the jury all about Mr. Metz and whatever sordid dealings he was involved in.”

“And if we don’t, you will,” says Melcher.

I concede the point with a smile. “The only thing they’re not going to be able to talk about is the fact that Mr. Metz was Mr. Rush’s client or that Mr. Rush was a lawyer.”

“Any whiff of that,” says Harry, tapping the points and authorities, “and you’ll have a mistrial.”

“So what you have here,” I tell them, “is a man walking down the street, minding his own business, who happens to be caught up in a drive-by aimed at somebody else.”

There is a moment of reckoning as the reality of the argument settles in. This lasts for several seconds, until the silence is broken by Adam Tolt leaning back in his chair, its springs squeaking. He’s trying to maintain a sober expression, but it’s a losing battle. He finally breaks out in a full-bodied laugh.

“Come on, Luther, you have to admit I never put you in a pickle like this before.” Still laughing, he says: “I have to say, it sounds like an accident to me.”

“You’re not exactly an objective audience, Adam.” Conover’s humor is being stretched to the limit.

“Come on,” says Tolt. “You can take me to Temecula and get it back in the sand traps.” Tolt can’t help himself laughing, trying not to ridicule his friend Luther. “Listen, I’ll put in a word. They’ll understand.” He’s talking about the home office.

“It’s still an open investigation,” says Melcher. “Who knows what the cops will come up with?”

“If you think you can get them to change direction once they’ve got their noses to the ground, you’re a better man than I,” I say.

“We’ve tried,” says Harry. “We know. Of course in the past they were usually after our client.” Harry can’t help but smile a little at this. The irony is lost on Conover and Melcher. They are starting to see a four followed by a lot of zeros on a company check.

There are reasons why the cops would not want to open too many lines of inquiry going in multiple directions, at least on paper. They would have to disclose each of these to defense attorneys once they settled on a suspect and made an arrest. Every lead pointing in another direction carves a notch of reasonable doubt into the legs of their case. If they withhold this information from defense attorneys, it is
grounds on appeal to reverse a conviction. Cops are not likely to point like weather vanes with each changing current of information. At least not as long as the courts continue to tell them that a straight line is the shortest distance to a conviction.

“Of course you’re free to pee on a few bushes if you think you can get them to chase some other scent,” says Harry. “In the meantime, we’ll expect you to tender the full amount of the policy. Not two million,” he says, “but four, under the double-indemnity clause. And so that we don’t forget . . .” Harry hands out the last document from his folder, a formal letter of demand to the carrier. Conover knows the significance of this as soon as he sees it.

Though he didn’t want to come, Harry is enjoying the moment. Seldom do you get an insurance company in this position: bent over, holding its ankles.

“Since you’ve already acknowledged that you have an obligation to pay,” says Harry, “if you fail to meet the demand . . .”

“You’ll claim bad faith.” Conover comes to the point quickly. He has seen the form letter Harry has just handed him before. It is the boilerplate setup for bad faith.

In this case the upper limit of any judgment could take a healthy slice out of the national debt. We would be able to examine their books to determine what amount is necessary to adequately punish the company for withholding prompt payment from two women, one of whom is bereft having her husband murdered and the other left adrift by an ugly divorce. These are not happy circumstances for an insurance company to circle its wagons and start shooting Indians.

Conover looks at Margaret, whose expression is leaden, even now on the verge of victory.

Still holding Harry’s letter, he studies Dana, who offers nothing but a wan smile. If he glanced a little farther to his left, he would see Susan hiding behind his own lawyer. She is gazing down at the table like the mouse who just got the last crumb. It was Glendenin who managed to get Vesuvius to the meeting and keep her from erupting, so that we can
now discuss in private a division of spoils between the two Mrs. Rushes.

Conover lifts his eyes toward me. From the look, it is clear. He is trying to figure how he will pull the split rail from this particular fence out of his ass before he has to call the home office and explain what has happened. I doubt if he’ll be asking me to play golf anytime soon.

M
iguelito Espinoza, father of an infant and husband of the child-woman, is thirty-five, hard as a diamond, a tattoo chain of black ink around his neck, and on both arms Spanish gang graffiti in blazoned letters.

He has a slicked-back do with a net over it, pulled tight around the edges covering the tops of his ears. The man is dead in the eyes, and dark in more ways than his complexion as he sits there slumped down, one leg crossed over the other, cool, his chair pushed back from the table as if he is low riding on his way to hell.

He faces multiple counts of armed robbery, the theft of federal property, as well as possession. He faces twenty-five years on each count if they can prove that he was involved in the actual visa hijacking. He faces ten years on each count of possession for the three visas found in his closet.

We are seated on opposite sides at a steel table in one of the small lawyer-client cubicles in the Metro Detention Center, the white high-rise tomb downtown. There is a guard
watching from outside the glass, his eyes constantly on the table between us so that nothing passes without his notice.

The place was a skyscraping joke when it was first put up a few years ago. The contractor stiffed the federal government on the concrete used to build it, so inmates pounding on the walls hard enough could punch holes and shimmy down their bed sheets to the ground outside. Guards were reduced to listening to the hammering from upstairs to pick up the direction in hopes that they could scurry out to the street before the tenants could rappel down their bed covers and hightail it. Since then, the government has hardened the cells, so now inmates would at least need a spoon to chisel their way out.

Espinoza is not impressed that I have come here. He is filled with questions. Streetwise, he is looking at this gift horse as if perhaps there is something in the package that may bite him.

“Why don’ you tell me who hired you, man?”

“I told you. Your wife, Robin.”

“Listen, man. Save the bullshit for your friends. Robin don’ know shit. You think I’m a fool? Robin’s a fuckin’ idiot. Where’s she gonna find a lawyer? She can’t find the fuckin’ phone book. And if she could, she couldn’t read it. Besides, she ain’t got the money to pay you. Look at your fine clothes, your little leather briefcase.” He says this in mocking tones, with the fingers of one hand idly pointed toward my case on the floor next to the table.

“Listen, man.” He sits up at the table, elbows on top, and leans close to me as if he’s about to explain the mysteries of life. “Look at me,” he says. “I ain’t talking to you ’til I know who you are. You got it?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Fine. I hope you like the accommodations.” I get up from my chair, grab my briefcase, and move toward the door.

“Hey, man. Where you goin’?”

“You said you don’t want to talk.”

He glances over his shoulder at the guard who starts to move this way to take him back to his cell.

“Sit down, man.”

“Not unless you want to talk.”

“Fine, man. Fine. We’ll talk. Relax.” He’s back, slumped in the chair, trying not to notice the guard and hoping he will go away.

“Sit down, man.” He taps the stainless steel surface of the table with two fingers, an invitation for me to join him again. Anything is better than the cell inside. “Maybe we can talk about the weather,” he says.

I take a seat, and the guard backs off and returns to his position against the wall outside, watching us.

“You gotta be cool,” he says. “Gimme a minute.” He is thinking, trying to piece together who would hire me and why. “I just wanna know who you are,” he says. “That’s all.”

“I told you.”

“You tol’ me nothin’. Who hired you?”

“What difference does it make as long as we get you out of here?”

His eyes darting around, thinking about this.

“Why would you do that?”

“Call it my civic duty,” I tell him.

His eyes read bullshit, but he’s afraid to say the word for fear I might get up and this time walk.

So instead he says: “Can you do that? Get me out?”

“I don’t know. First you’ll have to trust me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Can you get me out on bail?”

“It wouldn’t be easy.”

“Then what the fuck good are you?”

“This close to the border and you charged with taking a truckload of U.S. visas, a judge might have a problem giving you bail.”

“What the fuck, you think I’m a flight risk?” He knows more lawyer lingo than half the attorneys I know.

“It’s not what I think that counts.”

“I don’ know nothin’ about it, man. Those fuckin’ passes. I don’t know how they got there.” He is sitting up now in the
chair, dropping the detached demeanor, looking at me directly, trying to focus a shimmer of honesty in those dark, beady eyes.

“They were in your apartment. On your closet floor.”

“Only three of ’em, man. Where’s the rest?”

“Maybe they think you’re going to tell them.”