The Bomb Maker's Son (7 page)

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper to Holzner. “Other than sabotaging your standing with the judge and the public?”

“I’m honoring my son Dylan’s memory,” he says. “I’m a political prisoner who’s exposing a country that would send him to his death for the oil companies and financial conglomerates.” He raises his arms and gently touches my shoulder with his bound hands. “And know this, Parker. It’s just the beginning.”

CHAPTER NINE

There was a time when I delighted in the clerk’s solemn announcement that court was in session, in the metallic click of the lock on the chambers door, in the judge’s ascent to the bench. Ever since the glossophobia struck, the intercom buzz makes my muscles tense; the door’s opening is sniper fire aimed directly at the center of my chest; the judge’s entrance transforms me into a callow law student first-chairing the trial of the century. I never know whether to feel cowardly for experiencing the stage fright or brave for fighting it.

When the clerk calls, “All rise,” everyone in the courtroom stands—everyone but Ian Holzner, who remains seated at the table with his head down. It’s the ultimate act of disrespect, but it also distracts me from the fear.

In federal court, a magistrate judge usually conducts routine bail hearings. But our case has been assigned to District Judge Carlton F. Gibson, and he’s made the exceedingly rare decision to conduct the bail hearing himself. Ever since he was appointed to the bench over forty years ago, he’s relished handling high-profile cases. The walls of his chamber are covered with photographs of him and celebrities who’ve appeared in his courtroom—actors, singers, reality-TV stars, a software magnate, and a couple of crooked politicians.

He was an all-conference lineman at a small college in El Paso, Texas, just across the border from Juarez, and he often talks about his stellar football career while court is in session. He fancies himself bilingual in Spanish and English. Once, when he got tired of an attorney raising repeated hearsay objections, he left the bench, got down in a three-point stance, and challenged the attorney (a former college-football player himself) to block him. The poor lawyer refused, of course, and ended up losing the case. His client appealed the ruling, arguing that Gibson’s antics showed judicial bias. The appellate court held that the actions might have been peculiar but didn’t indicate bias. Judges give their brethren a lot of leeway.

“United States versus Holzner,” the judge says, reading from notes and blinking his puffy eyes on every other word. He rubs the top of his head, which is bald except for a ring of feathery white hair. “Counsel, have you ever appeared in this courtroom before?”

“I have, Your Honor,” Reddick says.

“Of course you have, Marilee. You’re the US Attorney. I know that. I was speaking to defense counsel, Mr. Parker.”

“Parker Stern for the defense,” I say, making it sound like I’m announcing my appearance rather than correcting him. “It’s been a while, Your Honor, but when I was with Macklin & Cherry, I appeared before you on a case for Lake Knolls.” Knolls is a former actor who was elected to Congress and then got into some trouble a few years ago because of his secret relationship with the Sanctified Assembly. There’s a photograph of him and Gibson hanging in the judge’s chambers.

Judge Gibson scrutinizes me as if I’ve said something offensive, half stands, and peers down at me. His bulbous nose twitches scavengerlike, and for a moment I think he’s going to climb over the bench and challenge
me
to a tackling drill, and while I’m decades younger, I don’t know that I’d come out on top. But then he sits back down, nods, and smiles knowingly.

“I know you, Parker Stern. You were that kid actor who went underground.”

I’m not sure whether his reference to going underground is inadvertent or a dig at Ian Holzner.

“Let’s proceed,” he says. “This is a bail hearing. Let’s hear from the government.
Pronto
, Ms. Reddick.”

Reddick goes to the lectern, juts out her chin, forcefully pulls down the hem of her black jacket, and puffs out her chest, a series of maneuvers that makes her resemble a gender-confused bantam rooster. “The government opposes bail, Your Honor.” Her alto voice is so smooth and deferent that it seems impossible that only minutes ago she was hurling invectives at me. “Holzner’s been a fugitive from justice for decades, so he’s clearly a flight risk. He’s a master of flight. His crimes are some of the most heinous in American history. He slaughtered innocent people believing he could ignite a revolution to overthrow the United States government. He’s not entitled to bail.” Her lips curl in a slight victory smirk, an expression she used in law school when she’d put something over on someone.

The judge squints one eye as if he’s looking down a gun sight. “Do you find something funny about this, counsel?”

Smirks and sneers are implements in an attorney’s courtroom tool chest. So Reddick didn’t do anything differently from what most lawyers do every day. Judge Gibson doesn’t like her. Or maybe they’re friends and he wants to prove he’s not biased. The reason doesn’t matter. A legal proceeding is just a set of probabilities sometimes thwarted by the whims of gods you say you don’t believe in but really do. So I’m hopeful that the judge’s reaction to Reddick is a small indication I can defy the odds and win bail for Ian Holzner. I don’t necessarily believe Holzner should be free, but it’s my job to free him. Besides, I like to win.

Reddick tugs at the hem of her jacket again, gives a slight shake of the head, and lowers her jaw almost imperceptibly. It’s a small sign of submission. But she’s facile, able to regroup so quickly that I’m probably the only one in the courtroom who noticed the glitch in her presentation—other than Judge Gibson, I hope.

“I completely agree that there isn’t anything humorous about this case,” she says. “Ian Holzner is a retrovirus. His crime was an early symptom of a disease that’s infected this country, namely terrorism. He was a coward, targeting not the military or the police, but civilians working in clerical jobs at a facility intended to assist military veterans and their families. He launched the attack in the city where he grew up, a small town having nothing to do with the government or the Vietnam War effort. He’s cheated justice far too long. The government seeks detention without bond under sections 3142(e) and 3142(f)(1) of the Criminal Code because the defendant is both a danger to the community and a flight risk.” She shakes her head slowly, well-timed courtroom theatrics. “No, Your Honor, this is no joke. A virus like Ian Holzner is no joke.”

“
Muy bien
, Ms. Reddick,” the judge says. “Let’s hear from the defense.”

I stand and will my legs not to buckle. When I get to the lectern, I interlace my fingers and squeeze tightly so that if I have hand tremors, people are less likely to notice. “Your Honor, the United States Attorney said nothing about the defendant as a human being, and the beauty of our criminal-justice system is that the Constitution orders us to treat all people accused of a crime as human beings. By calling him a virus, she denied his humanity. So let’s talk about who Martin Lansing, the human being, really is. Mr. Lansing is a hardworking man who—”

Reddick hops out of her chair. “Your Honor, I object to Mr. Stern’s use of that name. The real Martin Lansing was a baby who died in infancy. It’s offensive for Ian Holzner to continue to use that innocent child’s name, and I’m not going to sit idly by and let counsel use the name to try to deflect attention away from his client’s crimes.”

“The defendant has been known as Martin Lansing for forty years,” I say. “So by using that name I’m only—”

“I’m Ian Holzner, not Martin Lansing,” Holzner shouts. When I turn and look at him, he’s standing up.

“Mr. Holzner,” the judge says. “I instruct you not to speak again unless you’re given permission to do so. You’re represented by counsel, and you will speak through them. Do you understand that?”

Holzner doesn’t respond, just stands there with his head bowed.

“My client does understand that, and certainly won’t interrupt again,” I say.

The judge looks at me with justified skepticism but nods for me to continue. I wait a moment, and from the clanking of chains realize that Holzner has sat back down.

“As the Court well knows, in this day and age, bail is the rule rather than the exception,” I say. “And yes, Mr. Holzner was a fugitive, but he’s lived in the same location for over twenty-five years, raised a family, held a stable job as a mechanic, and has been a productive member of the community. The crimes alleged in this case occurred forty years ago, and in those four decades, he hasn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket. Mr. Holzner’s son gave his life in the service of his country. There’s no merit to the government’s argument that a sixty-five-year-old man who’s lived an exemplary life and who’s raised a son to be a Marine officer is a threat to the community. I say that fully cognizant of his behavior today, which is a result of grief over his son Dylan’s death and nothing else. The alleged crime, certainly, is serious, but the evidence is weak, the product of illegal activities by a clandestine organ of the FBI. And he’s got a teenage daughter whom he loves and takes care of. He’s her only surviving parent.”

“Suppose that’s true, counsel,” the judge says. “Your client has been a fugitive from justice all this time. Doesn’t that automatically make him a flight risk? Why should I release him?
Por qué?
”

“The best evidence that he’s not a flight risk is that he turned himself in and so voluntarily subjected himself to the judicial process. He’d still be free if he hadn’t done that.” I glance at Holzner, and for the first time since the hearing began, he’s looking up not at the judge, but at the frieze above the bench, a painting of the Hellenic deity Themis, who symbolizes divine law. I learned long ago that what happens in a courtroom is anything but divine, that every court case arises out of a confluence of human frailties.

“What about that, Ms. Reddick?” the judge says.

“It doesn’t really matter,” she says. “The FBI already suspected that the man who pretended to be Martin Lansing was Ian Holzner. There were irregularities in connection with the military’s attempt to figure out who got Dylan Lansing’s death benefits.”

The judge taps his pen on the desk, using it as a makeshift gavel. He scans the gallery, turning his head slowly like an actor in a silent-movie melodrama. “Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot believe my ears. Did the United States Attorney for this district really just represent to this court that it doesn’t matter that the defendant turned himself in?”

“Exactly,” Reddick says.

I give her a lot of credit for not backing down.

The judge flips his pen into the air and catches it just before it hits the desk. “I was a lineman, but I had the hands of a tight end,” he announces. “Ms. Reddick, isn’t someone who turns himself in the opposite of a flight risk?”

The question makes the courtroom go from quiet to silent. I glance at Reddick. Her cheeks are ruddy. She looks as if she’s on the verge of telling the judge to go fuck himself—one of her favorite phrases in school. I can only imagine the teamster’s profanity that she’d like to unleash on me right now. She stands, tugs her coat hem, and sidles over to the podium, but I won’t give ground, so she has to stand to the side.

I glance over at Holzner, who’s still staring forward. He’s abandoned some of the
oppressed prisoner
act, because he’s sitting up straighter and his eyes are clear and engaged. While he’s willing to be shackled during a short court hearing, he desperately wants out of jail. Otherwise, the moment I got up to speak he would’ve objected to my attempt to get him released on bond.

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Reddick says, “it doesn’t make a d . . . darned bit of difference that the defendant surrendered now. He had forty years to surrender and face his accusers. Who could be a greater threat to the community than someone who killed four people in a cowardly bombing? He hasn’t changed his views—look at his disrespectful behavior. He’s already fled justice once. He’ll do it again. He’s an unreconstructed terrorist.”

Judge Gibson tosses his pen so high that he fumbles it on the way down. It rolls off his desk onto the floor. One of his law clerks, a young brunette, immediately brings him a replacement. Her efficiency makes me think that this isn’t the first time the judge has thrown his pen overboard.

“Ms. Reddick, were you using profanity in my courtroom?” the judge asks.

“I believe I used the word
darn
, Your Honor. Like what you do with your socks?”

“No, no, no, no, no, counsel. I meant
before
the hearing started. When you were talking to Mr. Parker, or Stern, or whatever he calls himself.”

Reddick reflexively spreads her arms and gives a childish
Who, me?
shrug but then realizes what the judge is referring to. Federal courtrooms are miked so the law clerks can stay in the judge’s chambers and listen to the attorneys argue the cases. Gibson obviously had the microphone on before the hearing began, so he probably overheard not only Reddick’s profanity but also our entire conversation. It’s highly inappropriate for a presiding judge to listen in on off-the-record conversations between attorneys.

“I was having a private conversation with defense counsel before the proceedings began,” she says. “And a few inappropriate words might have slipped out. As I’m sure you know, sometimes in the heat of battle, the language gets a bit salty.”

“You will not defile my courtroom with such language,
comprendes
?” the judge says.

“Very well, Your Honor,” Reddick says, using language that sounds polite but that really conveys displeasure. “But to return to the argument at hand—”

“
Un momento
, Ms. Reddick,” Judge Gibson says. He begins writing on a legal pad. After a minute—it seems much longer, because time always moves more slowly when you’re waiting for an authority figure to decide your fate—he starts speaking without looking up. For a split second I think he’s talking to himself.

“Here’s my ruling. The government hasn’t shown that the defendant is either a danger to the community or a flight risk.” Nothing bolsters a weak case better than a crazy judge who’s irrationally on your side.