The Client (42 page)

The courtroom deputy stopped in front of the bench and yelled instructions for all to sit. Court was now in session, the Honorable James Lamond presiding. Lamond appeared from a side door, and was escorted to the bench by an assistant carrying a stack of heavy files. In his early fifties, Lamond was a baby among federal judges. One of countless Reagan appointees, he was typical—all business, no smiles, cut the crap, and let’s get on with it. He had been the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana immediately prior to Roy Foltrigg, and he hated his successor as much as anyone. Six months after taking the job, Foltrigg had embarked upon a speaking tour of the district in which he presented charts and graphs to Rotarians and Civitans and declared with statistical evidence that his office was now much more efficient than it had been in prior years. Indictments were up. Dope dealers were behind bars. Public officials were running scared. Crime was in trouble, and the public’s interest was now being fiercely protected because he, Roy Foltrigg,
was now the chief federal prosecutor in the district.

It was a stupid thing to do because it insulted Lamond and angered the other judges. They had little use for the reverend.

Lamond gazed at the crowded courtroom. Everyone was seated. “My goodness,” he started. “I’m delighted at the interest shown here today, but honestly, it’s just a hearing on a simple motion.” He glared at Foltrigg, who sat in the middle of six assistants. Upchurch had a local lawyer on each side, and two paralegals sitting behind him.

“The court is ready to proceed upon the motion of the defendant, Barry Muldanno, for a continuance. The court notes that this matter is set for trial three weeks from next Monday. Mr. Upchurch, you filed the motion, so you may proceed. Please be brief.”

To the surprise of everyone, Upchurch was indeed brief. He simply stated what was common knowledge about the late Jerome Clifford, and explained to the court that he had a trial in federal court in St. Louis beginning three weeks from Monday. He was glib, relaxed, and completely at home in this strange courtroom. A continuance was necessary, he explained, with remarkable efficiency, because he needed time to prepare a defense for what would undoubtedly be a long trial. He finished in ten minutes.

“How much time do you need?” Lamond asked.

“Your Honor, I have a busy trial calendar, and I’ll be happy to show it to you. In all fairness, six months would be a reasonable delay.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“No sir. Thank you, Your Honor.” Upchurch took his seat as Foltrigg was leaving his and heading for
the podium directly in front of the bench. He glanced at his notes and was about to speak, when Lamond beat him to it.

“Mr. Foltrigg, surely you don’t deny that the defense is entitled to more time, in light of the circumstances?”

“No, Your Honor, I don’t deny this. But I think six months is entirely too much time.”

“So how much would you suggest?”

“A month or two. You see, Your Honor, I—”

“I’m not going to sit up here and listen to a haggle over two months or six or three or four, Mr. Foltrigg. If you concede the defendant is entitled to a delay, then I’ll take this matter under advisement and set this case for trial whenever my calendar will allow.”

Lamond knew Foltrigg needed a delay worse than Muldanno. He just couldn’t ask for it. Justice must always be on the attack. Prosecutors are incapable of asking for more time.

“Well, yes, Your Honor,” Foltrigg said loudly. “But it’s our position that needless delays should be avoided. This matter has dragged on long enough.”

“Are you suggesting this court is dragging its feet, Mr. Foltrigg?”

“No, Your Honor, but the defendant is. He’s filed every frivolous motion known to American jurisprudence to stall this prosecution. He’s tried every tactic, every—”

“Mr. Foltrigg. Mr. Clifford is dead. He can’t file any more motions. And now the defendant has a new lawyer, who, as I see it, has filed only one motion.”

Foltrigg looked at his notes and started a slow burn. He had not expected to prevail in this little matter,
but he certainly hadn’t expected to get kicked in the teeth.

“Do you have anything relevant to say?” his honor asked as if Foltrigg had yet to say anything of substance.

He grabbed his legal pad and stormed back to his seat. A rather pitiful performance. He should’ve sent an underling.

“Anything else, Mr. Upchurch?” Lamond asked.

“No sir.”

“Very well. Thanks to all of you for your interest in this matter. Sorry it has been so brief. Maybe we’ll do more next time. An order for a new trial setting will be forthcoming.”

Lamond stood just minutes after he’d sat, and was gone. The reporters filed out, and of course were followed by Foltrigg and Upchurch, who walked to opposite ends of the hallway and held impromptu press conferences.

     29     

THOUGH SLICK MOELLER HAD REPORTED JAILHOUSE RIOTS, rapes, and beatings, and though he’d stood on the safe side of the doors and bars, he’d never actually, physically, been inside a jail cell. And though this thought was heavy on his mind, he kept his cool and projected the aura of the surefooted reporter and confident believer in the First Amendment. He had a lawyer on each side, high-paid studs from a hundred-man firm that had represented the
Memphis Press
for decades, and they had assured him a dozen times in the past two hours that the Constitution of the United States of America was his friend and on this day would be his shield. Slick wore jeans, a safari jacket, and hiking boots, very much the weather-beaten reporter.

Harry was not impressed with the aura being projected by this weasel. Nor was he impressed with the silk-stocking, blue-blooded Republican mouthpieces who’d never before darkened the doors to his courtroom. Harry was upset. He sat on his bench and read for the tenth time Slick’s morning story. He also reviewed applicable First Amendment cases dealing with
reporters and their confidential sources. And he took his time so Slick would sweat.

The doors were locked. The bailiff, Slick’s friend Grinder, stood quite nervously by the bench. Following the judge’s order, two uniformed deputies sat directly behind Slick and his lawyers, and seemed poised and ready for action. This bothered Slick and his lawyers, but they tried not to show it.

The same court reporter with an even shorter skirt filed her nails and waited for the words to start flowing. The same grouchy old woman sat at her table and flipped through the
National Enquirer.
They waited and waited. It was almost twelve-thirty. As usual, the docket was packed and things were behind schedule. Marcia had a club sandwich waiting for Harry between hearings. The Sway hearing was next.

He leaned forward on his elbows and glared down at Slick, who at a hundred and thirty pounds weighed probably a third of what Harry did. “On the record,” he barked at the stenographer, and she started pecking away.

Cool as he was, Slick jerked with these first words and sat upright.

“Mr. Moeller, I’ve brought you here under summons because you’ve violated a section of the Tennessee Code regarding the confidentiality of my proceedings. This is a very grave matter because we’re dealing with the safety and well-being of a small child. Unfortunately, the law does not provide criminal penalties, only contempt.”

He removed his reading glasses and began rubbing them with a handkerchief. “Now, Mr. Moeller,” he said like a frustrated grandfather, “as upset as I am with you and your story, I am much more troubled by the
fact that someone leaked this information to you. Someone who was in this courtroom during the hearing yesterday. Your source troubles me greatly.”

Grinder leaned against the wall and pressed his calves against it to keep his knees from shaking. He would not look at Slick. His first heart attack had been only six years earlier, and if he didn’t control himself, this might be the big one.

“Please sit in the witness chair, Mr. Moeller,” Harry instructed with a sweep of the hand. “Be my guest.”

Slick was sworn by the old grouch. He placed one hiking boot on one knee, and looked at his attorneys for reassurance. They were not looking at him. Grinder studied the ceiling tiles.

“You are under oath, Mr. Moeller,” Harry reminded him just seconds after he’d been sworn.

“Yes sir,” he uttered, and feebly attempted to smile at this huge man who was sitting high above him and peering down over the railing of the bench.

“Did you in fact write the story in today’s paper with your name on it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you write it by yourself, or did someone assist you?”

“Well, Your Honor, I wrote every word, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. Now, in the fourth paragraph of this story, you write, and I quote, ‘Mark Sway refused to answer questions about Barry Muldanno or Boyd Boyette.’ End quote. Did you write that, Mr. Moeller?”

“Yes sir.”

“And were you present during the hearing yesterday when the child testified?”

“No sir.”

“Were you in this building?”

“Uh, yes sir, I was. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Be quiet, Mr. Moeller. I’ll ask the questions, and you answer them. Do you understand the relationship here?”

“Yes sir.” Slick pleaded with his eyes to his lawyers, but both were deep into reading at this moment. He felt alone.

“So you weren’t present. Now, Mr. Moeller, how did you learn that the child refused to answer my questions about Barry Muldanno or Boyd Boyette?”

“I had a source.”

Grinder had never thought of himself as a source. He was just a low-paid courtroom bailiff with a uniform and a gun, and bills to pay. He was about to be sued by Sears for his wife’s credit card. He wanted to wipe the sweat from his forehead but was afraid to move.

“A source,” Harry repeated, mocking Slick. “Of course you had a source, Mr. Moeller. I assumed this. You weren’t here. Someone told you. This means you had a source. Now, who was your source?”

The lawyer with the grayest hair quickly stood to speak. He was dressed in standard big-firm attire—charcoal suit, white button-down, red tie but with a daring yellow stripe on it, and black shoes. His name was Alliphant. He was a partner who normally avoided courtrooms. “Your Honor, if I may.”

Harry grimaced, and he slowly turned from the witness. His mouth was open as if he were shocked at
this daring interruption. He scowled at Alliphant, who repeated himself. “If I may, Your Honor.”

Harry let him hang there for an eternity, then said, “You haven’t been in my courtroom before, have you, Mr. Alliphant?”

“No sir,” he answered, still standing.

“I didn’t think so. Not one of your usual hangouts. How many lawyers are in your firm, Mr. Alliphant?”

“A hundred and seven, at last count.”

Harry whistled and shook his head. “That’s a buncha lawyers. Do any of them practice in Juvenile Court?”

“Well, I’m sure some do, Your Honor.”

“Which ones?”

Alliphant stuck one hand in one pocket while running a loose finger along the edge of his legal pad. He did not belong here. His legal world was one of boardrooms and thick documents, of fat retainers and fancy lunches. He was rich because he billed three hundred dollars an hour and had thirty partners doing the same. His firm prospered because it paid seventy associates fifty thousand a year and expected them to bill five times that. He was here ostensibly because he was chief counsel for the paper, but actually because no one in the firm’s litigation section could make the hearing on two hours’ notice.

Harry despised him, his firm, and their ilk. He did not trust the corporate types who came down from the tall buildings to mingle with the lower class only when necessary. They were arrogant and afraid to get their hands dirty.

“Sit down, Mr. Alliphant,” he said, pointing. “You do not stand in my courtroom. Sit.”

Alliphant awkwardly backed into his chair.

“Now what are you trying to say, Mr. Alliphant?”

“Well, Your Honor, we object to these questions, and we object to the court’s interrogation of Mr. Moeller on the grounds that his story is protected free speech under the First Amendment of the Constitution. Now—”

“Mr. Alliphant, have you read the applicable code section dealing with closed hearings in juvenile matters? Surely you have.”

“Yes sir, I have. And, frankly, Your Honor, I have some real problems with this section.”

“Oh you do? Go on.”

“Yes sir. It’s my opinion that this code section is unconstitutional as written. I have some cases here from other—”

“Unconstitutional?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes sir,” Alliphant answered firmly.

“Do you know who wrote the code section, Mr. Alliphant?”

Alliphant turned to his associate as if he knew everything. But he shook his head.

“I wrote it, Mr. Alliphant,” Harry said loudly. “Me.
Moi.
Yours truly. And if you knew anything about juvenile law in this state, you would know that I am the expert because I wrote the law. Now, what can you say about that?”

Slick slid down in his chair. He’d covered a thousand trials. He’d seen lawyers hammered by angry judges, and he knew their clients usually suffered.

“I contend it’s unconstitutional, Your Honor,” Alliphant said gallantly.

“And the last thing I intend to do, Mr. Alliphant,
is to get into a long, hot-air debate with you about the First Amendment. If you don’t like the law, then take it up on appeal and get it changed. I honestly don’t care. But right now, while I’m missing lunch, I want your client to answer the question.” He turned back to Slick, who was waiting in terror. “Now, Mr. Moeller, who was your source?”

Grinder was about to vomit. He stuck his thumbs under his belt and pressed against his stomach. By reputation, Slick was a man of his word. He always protected his sources.

“I cannot reveal my source,” Slick said in an effort at great drama, the martyr willing to face death. Grinder took a deep breath. Such sweet words.

Harry immediately motioned for the two deputies. “I find you in contempt, Mr. Moeller, and order you to jail.” The deputies stood beside Slick, who looked around wildly for help.