Without a Hitch (21 page)
Corbin stood in
the lobby of the old Tribune Building. It had seen better days. The marble
floor was cracked, the wallpaper dingy, and the brass fixtures lost their
luster years ago. Few tenants remained. Beckett had arranged to borrow an office
on the seventh floor while they worked on Beaumont’s case. The elevator ride to
the seventh floor took a long two minutes. As Corbin stepped off the elevator,
he found himself face to face with Beckett, who was pulling on his jacket and
straightening his frayed tie.
“Hey, Alex,”
Beckett greeted Corbin as if nothing unpleasant had ever passed between them.
“The court just called. They moved up the hearing. I’m going there now.”
“Let me set my
bag down, and I’ll join you,” Corbin replied as nonchalantly as he could manage;
his rage remained, but he suppressed it. “Nice building by the way, was the
morgue booked?”
“You try finding
an office free of charge in downtown Philly.”
“Free of
charge? How did you swing that?”
“I called in an
old favor.”
“Must’ve been a
small favor.”
“Beggars can’t
be choosers. Also, the office itself isn’t so bad, it’s been renovated.” Beckett
showed Corbin to the conference room, which would be Corbin’s temporary office.
Then they set off on foot to the courthouse.
The Alfred E.
Hackman Courthouse, located a long four-block walk from the Tribune Building,
was old and gray, like much of the area. At one time, the courthouse had been
a magnificent structure, a testament to noble dreams, but neglect and
indifference robbed it of its glory. To divert attention from the encroaching
decay, someone years ago, erected a modern sculpture of the scales of justice
outside the courthouse. This sculpture consisted of a large steel spike and
three misshapen scales. The highest scale contained an elongated globe of the Earth.
The next contained a Botero-like sculpture of a dove. The third scale rested
at ground level to allow passersby to stand within it. The sculpture lacked
subtlety and grace.
Beyond the
sculpture, an oversized concrete stairway led to the courthouse entrance, which
stood six feet above sidewalk level. A row of second floor windows surrounded
the building just above the entrance and three more rows of windows stood above
those. Just inside the entrance, two deputies ran a metal detector. Beckett
identified himself and Corbin and gave the reason for their visit. He placed
his bag on the X-ray machine and walked through the detector. Corbin followed.
Corbin and
Beckett made their way to the second floor main courtroom, where Judge Judith
D’Amato held court today. The main courtroom was large, with an extremely high
ceiling. Everything was ornately decorated in cherry wood. Portraits of
retired judges hung around the room. Judge D’Amato, a smallish woman with a
large voice, marked up a file as she listened to the colorful testimony of a
police informant. A disheveled attorney in a cheap suit stood at the podium before
Judge D’Amato. His feeble efforts to poke holes in the informant’s testimony
kept falling flat. The disheveled attorney’s client, sitting at the defense
table in an orange jumpsuit, with his wrists and ankles shackled, seemed
resigned to his fate. Standing at the prosecution table, ready to pounce, was
Hillary Morales, a stern-looking young Hispanic woman in a navy pantsuit. The
jury box, to the right of the defense table, sat empty.
Corbin and
Beckett slipped into the courtroom and sat on the wooden benches at the back.
Several other attorneys sat nearby, waiting to be heard.
“I’m sorry. . .
I don’t understand. What. . . what did he say?” the disheveled defense
attorney asked the informant. He was struggling.
“He said, ‘he
jacked his shit,’ counselor,” the judge interceded without any trace of humor.
“Move on.”
“Yes, Your Honor,”
the attorney replied. “But he didn’t say he actually saw my client steal
anything?” the attorney asked the informant.
“I said ‘move on,’
counselor,” Judge D’Amato warned. “We covered this already.”
The attorney slumped
his shoulders and looked at his client. “Nothing further.”
Almost before
the attorney left the podium, Morales took his place. If he hadn’t ducked at
the last second, Morales would have elbowed him.
“Your Honor, the
people renew their motion.—”
Judge D’Amato
held up her hand to stop the young woman. “I’m inclined to agree, the case
will stay docketed. But, I will allow bail. I’m setting bail at $15,000. Anything
else?”
“No, Your Honor,”
said both Morales and the disheveled attorney in unison.
“Very well, next
case: People v. Beaumont.”
As Judge D’Amato
rearranged her files, two deputies came to the defense table and took the
orange-jumpsuited defendant back to a hidden room behind the witness box. They
immediately returned with a bald, muscular black man, also wearing an orange
jumpsuit and shackles on his wrists and ankles. The deputies brought the
shackled man over to the defense table, where Corbin and Beckett waited for the
disheveled attorney to clear out.
“Good to see you
again, Beaumont,” Beckett said to the black man.
“Who’s this,”
Beaumont demanded, trying to point at Corbin, though the shackles kept him from
raising his hands above his waist.
“This is the guy
I told you about. He’s going to help. Alex, let me introduce Washington
Beaumont. Beaumont, Alex Corbin.”
Corbin nodded,
but Beaumont eyed him suspiciously. By the time Beckett first read about
Beaumont’s case, Beaumont was already assigned a public defender. To convince
Beaumont to drop the public defender and let Beckett represent him instead –
and to explain why he wouldn’t charge Beaumont – Beckett told Beaumont that he
works for a foundation which represents people who are unfairly targeted by the
police. Beaumont accepted the explanation, primarily because his long
association with the criminal justice system taught to distrust public
defenders, but he remained suspicious, as he’d never heard of the foundation.
He was particularly suspicious of Corbin, who dressed much more sharply than
Beckett or the other people who normally worked for public interest
organizations. Indeed, Corbin’s well-tailored, single-breasted, black suit,
with his starched, French-blue, pure-cotton dress shirt, his dark-red designer
tie, and his perfectly shined shoes, stood in stark contrast to Beckett’s dated
and ill-fitting gray suit, his frayed, white, polyester shirt and paisley tie,
and his un-shined shoes, which were breaking along the creases which appeared
after years of hard use. Compared to Corbin, who looked like a professional,
Beckett came across like a struggling solo-practitioner, who may or may not be
living in his car.
Before Beaumont
could quiz Corbin, Morales tossed a file onto the defense table. She didn’t
say a word. Beckett picked up the file and flipped through it.
“Mr. Beaumont,
welcome back,” Judge D’Amato called from the bench.
“Thanks Judge,
can’t say I want to be here.”
“I can
understand that, Mr. Beaumont, I can understand that,” the judge replied
absently, as she flipped though the file. “Mr. Beckett, are you ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor,
though I’ve only just received the prosecution’s file, so I really don’t know
yet what my client has been charged with or why.” Beckett held up the thick
file to emphasize his point.
“Are you ready
to enter a plea?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Beckett motioned Beaumont to stand up.
“How do you plead
to the charges made against you,” the judge asked, without looking up from her
file.
“Not fucking
guilty.”
“‘Not guilty’ is
enough, Mr. Beaumont. Let the record reflect the defendant entered a plea of
not guilty. I’m going to hold the defendant over for trial. Do I hear any
motions regarding bail?”
Morales marched up
to the podium. “The people ask that bail be denied as Mr. Beaumont is a flight
risk. Additionally, given the number of people hurt, the prospects of
continued future harm if he’s released, and his prior history—”
“Your Honor, I
object!” Beckett exclaimed, shooting out of his chair. “Mr. Beaumont has no
prior convictions.
Innocent until proven guilty
, Your Honor.”
“You are correct,
Mr. Beckett, and you may appeal my ruling if you wish,” the judge said in the
same measured tone she used from the moment Corbin and Beckett arrived. “I’m
going to deny bail. Get out your calendars, counselors. This case will be
heard by Judge Sutherlin. Trial will be February 1. Pre-Trial is set for January
30. Expert disclosures no later than thirty days prior. Judge Sutherlin will
send out an order identifying all other dates. Any questions?”
“Your Honor,
there is another matter,” Beckett replied, signaling Corbin to rise.
“Ah yes, your
pro
hac vice
motion. Granted. Is there anything else?”
“No, Your Honor,”
both Beckett and Morales said.
“Next case:
People v. Sterling.” The entire proceeding took less than a minute.
As Corbin and
Beckett gathered the file from the table, the two deputies replaced Beaumont
with another orange-jumpsuited suspect and a new defense attorney appeared
behind Corbin and Beckett, ready to take over the table. Before Beaumont left,
Beckett promised to visit him that day or the next.
Neither Corbin
nor Beckett spoke until they were a little over a block from the courthouse,
too far to be heard through any open windows.
“
February
?”
Corbin blurted out. “Whatever happened to speedy trials?”
“Beaumont waived
his right to a speedy trial at the arraignment.”
“I thought that
was the arraignment?”
“He was
officially arraigned twelve hours after his arrest, he just didn’t enter a plea
at that time. That’s why we had to go back today.” Beckett pulled the file
from his briefcase. “Can you work your magic on this?” He handed the file to
Corbin.
“Yes, but you
and I need an understanding.” They stopped walking. “I need your assurance
you won’t do
anything
without telling me first.”
Beckett looked
at Corbin strangely, as if he didn’t quite grasp Corbin’s meaning.
“I’m serious,
Evan. I need to know that I can trust you.”
“What are you
getting at?” Beckett sounded confused, hurt and somewhat offended.
“What do you
think I’m getting at? You call me from out of the blue to tell me about this,”
Corbin said testily, waving the file in Beckett’s face, “and that you signed up
to represent this guy without ever consulting me? Then you tell me you’re
planning to turn yourself in?!”
“I won’t turn
you in,” Beckett interrupted. “You have my word. If I have to turn myself in,
I’ll go down alone.”
“I don’t think
that’s possible, Evan. If you turn yourself in, you’ll implicate me as well.”
“I won’t.”
“I want to be
told before you do anything.”
“Of course, I’ll
tell you,” Beckett said sincerely.
“
Anything
,”
Corbin stressed.
Beckett nodded
his head. “I will, I swear.”
Corbin stared
into Beckett’s eyes, trying to assess his veracity. Beckett shrugged, as if to
say he had nothing else to offer, and he awaited Corbin’s response.
“All right,”
Corbin finally replied. “But I want to see the wallet. I want to make sure it
doesn’t have anything that can lead back to me.”
“What wallet?”
“
The
wallet, the one you took.”
Beckett shrugged
his shoulders and wrinkled his brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking
about? I never
took
a wallet.”
“You’re telling
me you didn’t keep one of
the
wallets?”
Suddenly,
Beckett’s jaw dropped and his eyes became huge. “From Philly?” he gasped. “
Those
wallets? I didn’t keep anything, I swear.”
“Then where did
it go?!”
“I don’t know, I
honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have any wallet. I
never kept anything.”
“So if you turn
yourself in, you’re just going to confess? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“Yes. What did
you think I was going to do?”
“You’re not
holding any evidence you plan to offer to back up your story?”
“I don’t have
any evidence,” Beckett replied. His eyes looked at the ground. “I don’t even
have the money anymore.”
Corbin recoiled.
“What happened to the money?!” he all but screamed.
“I gave it
away.”
“To who?!”
“It doesn’t really
matter. It’s gone.”
Corbin ground
his teeth and his eyes burned a hole into Beckett’s skull.
“I couldn’t keep
it,” Beckett admitted. “It was tearing me apart. It was. . . it was wrong.”
“Is there
anything else I need to know?!” Corbin asked through gritted teeth. His fists clenched.
“I’ve told you
everything.”
“Fuck, you
better have! This money isn’t going to show up at trial, is it?”
“I don’t see
how.”
“What about the
wallet?”
“I don’t know
anything about a wallet!” Beckett insisted. Beckett looked around and noticed
for the first time that people were walking past them. “You know, maybe we
shouldn’t be arguing about this here, on the street.”
They returned in
bitter silence to the Tribune Building.
The conference
room, like the rest of the Tribune Building’s seventh floor, had been
renovated. Yet, the room still smelled of cigar smoke from the days when
newspapermen occupied every inch of the building. One wall of the conference
room was lined with books. A Rockwell-like painting of a Tribune paperboy
hawking newspapers hung on another. Three windows peered down onto the grayish
streets seven floors below.
Corbin spread
Beaumont’s file out across the oak conference table. Being a fraud case, a
so-called “paper case,” the file contained significantly more evidence than the
typical criminal file. Not only were there the usual witness statements and
forensics reports, but the file also contained a vast array of bank and credit
card documents, copies of checks, and dozens of receipts, along with a raft of
evidence related to Beaumont’s prior run-ins with the law. Corbin took copious
notes. After an hour of digging through the file, Corbin emerged from the
conference room to find Beckett. Beckett’s office was small, but relatively modern.
His personal effects were scattered throughout the room.
“I know how they
caught our boy,” Corbin stated.
Beckett closed
the file he was reading.
“It looks like
Beaumont operated an identity theft ring,” Corbin continued. “He was stealing
credit cards and checkbooks from mailbox stores. Then he used the checks and
credit cards at local stores. Sadly for us, he robbed one of our boxes.”
“I thought you
cleared all those out?”
“We did
at
first
. We emptied every box completely, and I accounted for every check
and credit card we were expecting. But we never went back to collect monthly
statements. It’s possible Beaumont used those to order more checks or maybe some
bank sent free checks without telling us? I don’t know. We used the starter
checks, and we never ordered regular checks. If a whole new set of checks
showed up a few weeks later, we never would have known.”
“I guess it
doesn’t matter how he got them?”
“No, not really,”
Corbin agreed. “At this point, they’ve charged him with about a dozen bad
checks on our accounts and about two dozen bad checks on accounts that aren’t
ours. They also charged him with stealing three identities we used to open the
accounts and with a weapons charge.”
“They’re up to
something with the weapons charge,” Beckett suggested.
“Could be. It
seems out of place and there’s not much about it in the file. What’s
interesting is they could have charged him with a lot more. I’m not sure why
they didn’t. If he’s convicted on all counts, he’s only facing five years max
if they run everything consecutively, two if they run everything concurrently.
With time off for good behavior, he’ll be free in either three years or one
year. That’s not a lot of time for a guy like Beaumont. He can do that
standing on his head.”
“The prosecutor
wants him to plead to three years.”
Corbin furrowed
his brow. “That seems a little optimistic on their part. Do you think they’d
take two years?”
“It doesn’t
matter!” Beckett blurted out. “I’m not letting Beaumont plead guilty to
anything we did.”
“What if he
wants to?!” Corbin retorted.
“Forget it. I
know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Beaumont brought this on himself
and our crimes are only tangential to his. I don’t accept that.” Beckett rose
and stared out the window. “I’m not letting him go down for our crimes, even
if they’re mixed in with his own. He’s innocent, and if you’re just here to
talk me out of this, then you should leave now. I’m serious about doing the
right thing.”
“He
may
not
be guilty, but he’s hardly innocent. Have you read his file?”
Beckett shook
his head. “It doesn’t matter what he’s done in the past. I’m only concerned
with what he’s accused of now.”
“It does
matter. If you’re going to throw your life away for the guy, then you need to
understand who he is.”
“I know he’s a bad
guy, but right and wrong don’t depend on who gets hurt.”
“Sometimes they
do, Evan,” Corbin growled.
“No, Alex, they
don’t.”
Corbin flipped
through his notes. “Did you know your friend Beaumont deals crack to school
kids?”
“It doesn’t
matter.”
“Tell that to
the parents. Did you know your friend Beaumont killed two women, at the same
time?” Beckett opened his mouth to speak, but Corbin cut him off. “He raped
one before killing her. The other one, his girlfriend, he brought along to
watch the rape. Then he shot her, right after he shot the woman he raped.”
“Then they
should have charged him with murder.”
“Oh, they did.
They’ve charged him with all kinds of things, but witnesses have a habit of
vanishing before they can testify against him. Take Manuel Lopez. Manuel, a
day laborer, had the misfortune of seeing Beaumont leave the scene of the aforementioned
double homicide. Two days after his name became known to Beaumont, Manuel
disappeared. Manuel reappeared in the river a week later. They’d broken most
of his bones with a lead pipe before dumping him into the river to drown.”
“I’m sorry the
system doesn’t always work, but maybe if the cops did their jobs a little
better, he would already be behind bars. Our suspicion that he’s bad doesn’t
give us the right to let him take the fall for our crimes. No matter what he
did or what we think he did, this, what’s happening now, isn’t right.”
“Wait a minute,”
Corbin protested.
“No. Allowing
him to be punished for our crimes is wrong, and we can’t hide behind his prior
actions to justify our failure to take responsibility for our own.”
Corbin took a
deep breath. “Has it dawned on you that sometimes, maybe just maybe, doing the
right thing means letting something wrong happen?”
They stared at each
other silently.
“You can’t do
good by doing evil,” Beckett finally said. “Right is right. Wrong is wrong.
Right and wrong depend on what you do, not who you do it to.”
“Sometimes it
does, Evan,” Corbin replied bitterly.
“No, Alex, it never
does. We don’t have the right to judge this man.”
“The hell we
don’t!”
Both men glared
at each other until Beckett turned away.
“Alex, I want
you to understand, this isn’t about Beaumont. This is about reconciling
ourselves to our consciences and to a higher power.”
“Fair enough,”
Corbin replied. “But I want you to understand who you’re protecting.”
“I do.” Beckett
picked up the file from his desk. “Are you ready to meet Beaumont? He should
be back at jail by now.”
“Can’t wait.” Corbin
rolled his eyes. “Before we meet him though, tell me this: what if Beaumont
pleads guilty to the other crimes and the charges related to our crimes get
dismissed. Will that satisfy you?”
Beckett put his
fingers to his lips and stared at his desk. “Yes.”
The visitation
room, like the rest of the jail, smelled like a high school locker room. The
room itself was small, six feet by six feet, with a door at the front and the
back. The walls were cinderblock, except the front wall, which was Plexiglas
to allow the guards to observe what happened in the room. Crammed into this
room was a small plastic table and three tiny plastic chairs which looked like
they belonged at a middle school.
“This is fucking
bullshit! I ain’t pleadin’ to no deal,” Beaumont said emphatically, dashing
any hope he would take a plea deal. He plopped down in the plastic chair. His
wrists and ankles were shackled.
“That’s fine,”
Beckett replied. “I had an ethical obligation to let you know they offered a
deal. They want you to serve—”
“No! Fuck no!
No deal. I said ‘no deal’,” Beaumont barked in cadence.
“All right, you
have the right to reject their deal.”
“’Course I got
the right. I know my rights.” Beaumont frowned at Corbin. “You still here?”
“Where else
would I be?” Corbin replied indifferently.
“Back at yo’
foundation.”
By this time,
Beckett had warned Corbin to expect Beaumont to question his story about
belonging to a foundation which represents people who are unfairly targeted by
the police.
“I’m here to
help you,” Corbin said without conviction.
“I ain’t never
heard of no foundation.”
“You’ve never
heard of the Magna Carta either, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. You
want us to leave?” Corbin’s tone made it clear he didn’t care whether or not they
continued to represent Beaumont.
“They’ve got a
lot of evidence against you,” Beckett interjected, trying to change the topic
before Corbin changed Beaumont’s mind about letting them represent him. He
spread the file out across the table.
“Yeah, well
that’s bullshit,” Beaumont replied with great hostility.
“Drop the act,
partner. We’re here to help you,” Corbin shot back.
“Whoa!
Everybody calm down,” Beckett commanded, placing his hand in the air between
Corbin and Beaumont. “Beaumont, we’re here to help you. Just tell us your
side.”
“There ain’t no
side, man! Cops set me up.”
“Give me a
break,” Corbin said, rolling his eyes.
“Give you a
break?! You ain’t the one got the man kickin’ down yo’ door, waving his
standard issue in yo’ face. Cops been on me for years.”
“Oh bull! I’ve
seen the evidence. You’re guilty as hell. The jury’s gonna beg to convict
you.”
“Calm down guys,
this isn’t helping,” Beckett said. “I believe you, Beaumont.”
“Don’t gimme
that!” Beaumont exploded again. “I ain’t no fool. You don’t believe me. You
just here to punch some ticket.”
“That’s not
true. I honestly believe you. That’s why we’re here.”
Beaumont stared
at Beckett for several seconds. Then he lowered his voice and said, “The cops
set me up. I did not do this thing.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“I didn’t do
nothin’. First I heard about this identity shit, that cop come blastin’ into
my place, jam his piece into the back of my head, and start beatin’ me while
his buddies laughed. Then they drop all this evidence and haul my ass off.”
Beckett picked
up Corbin’s notes and flipped through several pages. “Where were you on June
14?”
“Let me check my
day planner,” Beaumont replied sarcastically. “How am I supposed to know where
I was on June 14th? Do you know where you was on June 14th?”
“I do,” Corbin
said, followed by a short cynical laugh. June 14th was the day Beckett and
Alvarez opened the accounts.
Beckett shot
Corbin a nasty look before refocusing on Beaumont. “Have you ever been in Penn
Bancorp?”
“No.”
“The manager
claims you opened an account there on June 14th.”
“Never
happened. Never been in that bank,” Beaumont said rhythmically.
“How about First
Regional. The prosecutor claims you opened an account at First Regional Bank
on June 14th as well.”
“Never been
there neither.”
“They have a
teller who claims she can identify you.”
“She’s lying.”
“They have a
video from First Regional with you on it.”
“Let me see the
video and I can tell you.”
“This is a waste
of time!” Corbin declared. He rose from his seat and reached for the file,
causing Beaumont to pushed his chair away from the table.
“Everybody hold
on!” Beckett commanded. He signaled Corbin to step outside.
“This is a waste
of time,” Corbin repeated to Beckett, as Beaumont watched them through the
glass. “He may not have done this, but he’s lying to us about being in these
banks. How are we supposed to help him if he lies to us?”
“That’s what you
get in the system. Every one of these guys lies through their teeth. They
want to control the story. They come up with something they think they can
sell and they stick with it. They lie to the cops. They lie to the jury.
They lie to the judge. They even lie to their lawyers.”
“That doesn’t
make any sense. We’re his lawyers. We’re here to help him.”
Beckett shrugged
his shoulders and folded his arms. “Not in his world. I’ve met hundreds of
guys like him. Every one of them lied. Not one of them trusted me, at least
not at first. Every one of them thinks they can control what happens by
lying. They all think they’re the cleverest liar on the planet and the story
they’ve come up with is a better story than the truth.”
“Well this guy
is lying himself right into a conviction. You’ve seen the file. You know they
can put him in those two banks. If he sticks with his story that he’s never
been there, then he’s doomed.”
Beckett swayed
back and forth, something he did whenever he was deep in thought. “We need to
rattle his confidence. We need him to realize he’s out of his league this
time, that his lies won’t work. I hate doing that though, because it can ruin
the attorney-client relationship.”
“I’ll do it. I
deposed witnesses for my uncle when he was busy.” During law school, Corbin
worked for his uncle’s law practice.
Beckett nodded
his head. “Ok. Hit him with everything in the file, twist him around as much
as you can. You need to shake him. I’ll play good cop when the time is
right. Don’t worry about the rules of evidence or admissibility, he won’t know
the difference, so I’ll let you get away with more than you could at trial.”
Returning to the
visitation room, Corbin reviewed his notes as Beckett explained that Corbin would
go over the prosecution’s case with Beaumont. Beckett would observe.
“You claim
you’ve never been in First Regional Bank?” Corbin began.
