The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

Brochette hesitated for a long moment before responding. “Then maybe it’s time they did.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for the consequences?”

  Brochette responded without hesitation. “I told you, I’ll do anything I have to do to protect him.”

  “You could be risking your nomination for nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Disclosing your relationship may not be enough to get David out of jail. Biology doesn’t make you a legal parent, and even if you are willing to assume custody, there’s no guarantee the judge will go along with it.”

  “I understand,” Brochette said. He had been involved in enough hearings in which he opposed bail to know what the state’s attorney was likely to argue.

  “And accepting custody makes you involved.”

  Brochette understood White’s concern but said nothing.

  White abruptly changed the subject. “Why would David refuse to even consider making a deal?”

  When Brochette didn’t respond immediately, White prodded, “Graham?”

  “He… I… I do not know.”

  But you know something you aren’t telling me.

  “We have to get him out.” There was an urgency in Brochette’s voice that captured White’s attention. If it means I become involved…” Brochette’s voice trailed off into his private thoughts. “Do what you can. Whether he knows it or not, my son needs me.”

  “You may wish it was otherwise.” White thought but didn’t say.

  10.

  Paul Parker was already seated at the prosecutor’s table when White entered the courtroom.

  Graham Brochette followed White and took a seat in the last row. White moved down the center aisle of the courtroom and uttered what passed for a ‘good morning’ to Parker before laying his briefcase on the defense table. “Why is Parker handling a routine bail hearing?”

  Parker nodded to White, but his eyes never left Brochette.

  Brochette looked straight ahead without giving any indication that he knew who Parker was.

  White finally approached Parker, pulled him aside and asked, “What’s your position on bail, Paul?”

  “Same as at his arraignment.”

  “At his arraignment, David was represented by a public defender,” White said with a good-natured smile, a not so subtle reminder that he practiced law at a different level than the overworked public defenders. In the courtroom, White and Parker played their assigned roles as bitter enemies, but outside the courtroom, they were friends. They frequently fished together, and Parker was a regular in White’s monthly high stakes poker game. Their politics couldn’t have been more different, but Parker always knew where to find snook, and he gambled away sizeable sums with sufficient regularity that his political views could be overlooked.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’m thinking about a release on his own recognizance.”

  Parker rolled his eyes and chuckled. “You never give up do you, Lucius?”

  David Shepard, still wearing the orange jumpsuit worn by all prisoners in the county jail, was ushered in by a bailiff and thrust roughly into a chair at the defense table. Shepard was pale and tense as he grabbed White’s sleeve. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “That’s what we’re here for.”

  “You don’t understand. You’ve got to get me out of here. If you don’t, they’ll kill me.”

  Before White could respond, the door to the judge’s chambers opened. The bailiff sprang to his feet and intoned the time-honored call to order: “All rise. The Court for the Twentieth Circuit of the State of Florida is now in session. The honorable Judge Stanley Mitchell presiding.” The bailiff had only uttered a few words when the judge said, “Be seated,” waved everyone to their seats and nodded to the court reporter, indicating that he was ready to go ‘on the record.’

  “Let’s make this quick, gentlemen. Appearances, please?”

  White and Parker rose and stated their names and the names of the party they represented.

  “Okay. This is a bail hearing for David Shepard, arrested on the charges of possession of a controlled substance, to wit, cocaine, and possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance, to wit, cocaine.

  “What’s your position on bail, Mr. Parker?”

  “Your Honor, this is a very serious crime. Drugs are permeating every segment of our society and…”

  “Cut the crap, Mr. Parker,” Judge Mitchell said. “I’ve already heard my sermon for the week, and there’s no one here for you to impress with the righteous indignation speech. Besides, you’ve used that spiel so many times that I have it memorized. Now. What’s your position on bail?”

  “Your Honor, the State requests bail in the amount of two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars.”

  White was immediately on his feet. “Your Honor. The State’s bail request is unjustified. My client has no felony record. His father, United States Attorney Graham Brochette, is prepared to take custody of his son.”

  At the mention of Brochette’s name, Shepard spun around in his chair and stared at his father. Brochette met the stare and held Shepard’s eyes as he responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

  Paul Parker could not have been prepared for the surprise announcement that Brochette was Shepard’s father. For a moment, he stared at Brochette, then shifted his attention to White.

  White smiled back at him. Gotcha.

  The judge slid his glasses down his nose and stared over the edge of the frame, first at White and then at Brochette. As his gaze shifted to Brochette, his jaw tightened. He returned his attention to White and gave him a look that indicated he wasn’t happy about the unexpected involvement of a United States Attorney.

  “In this case, I request that the court release my client on his own recognizance.”

  “Your Honor,” Parker jumped in, still shaken by Brochette’s unexpected appearance as a participant in the proceedings. “The fact that the defendant’s father is a respected member of the legal community is irrelevant. The defendant was in possession of two kilograms of cocaine when he was arrested.”

  “Actually,” White interrupted, “the substance that was seized” — he made a point of not admitting it was cocaine — “was in the possession of one of my client’s roommates. It was in a bedroom my client didn’t share and over which he had no control.”

  Parker was about to say something more when the judge raised his hand and addressed Graham Brochette. “Where do you live, Mr. Brochette?”

  Brochette stood and said, “My home is in Tampa.”

  “That’s outside the jurisdiction of this court.”

  “I understand the Court’s concern.”.

  “I don’t normally release a defendant to a location outside the jurisdiction,” Judge Mitchell continued as if he had not heard Brochette.

  Brochette remained standing without saying anything.

  Judge Mitchell removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “However, in as much as you’re an officer of the court, I believe I can rely on you to properly supervise the defendant.” The judge’s reference to Shepard as the defendant rather than as Brochette’s son, an indication that he wanted the record to show his decision wasn’t based on Shepard’s relationship to a U.S. Attorney, wasn’t lost on the parties.

  Parker slumped into his chair.

  “Accordingly, I’m going to order bail in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars, cash or bond, and release the defendant to the custody of his father.”

  White smiled. David Shepard sighed. Graham Brochette gave no reaction.

  Judge Mitchell continued. “I am, however, going to place the defendant under house arrest and order that he wear an ankle monitor.”

  Parker stood, slowly but with some semblance of authority. He seemed to have grown despondent over his loss but now had one last card to play. “Your Honor. An ankle monitor won’t do any good. The range of our monitors if only twenty miles. And they use a d
ifferent radio frequency in Tampa, so they can’t monitor him.”

  Judge Mitchell pondered this new dilemma for a moment before speaking. “Instead of an ankle monitor, I order that the defendant call the probation office once every six hours from a telephone number that can be verified by the probation officer.”

  White made a note on his legal pad.

  “Anything else?”

  White stood. “Yes, your honor. My client requests an immediate probable cause hearing.”

  Parker jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, we’re already preparing to submit this case to a grand jury for a formal indictment.”

  “What do you say, Mr. White.”

  “You know what they say, Your Honor. ‘A prosecutor can indict a ham sandwich.’ We contend that the arrest was improper as a matter of law. That’s a question that has to be addressed by Your Honor.”

  “He’s got you there, Mr. Parker.”

  Parker quickly consulted his files before returning his attention to the judge. “Your Honor, you’re already granted Mr. White’s bail request. His client will be free until there is a trial. There is no need to burden the court with another unnecessary hearing.”

  Judge Mitchel slid his glasses down his nose and looked at Parker over the rim. “Is that the best you can do, Mr. Parker.”

  Parker opened his mouth and started to speak.

  “Save it, Mr. Parker.” The judge consulted his calendar. “You’re in luck, gentlemen. I have a cancellation on my calendar. Probable cause hearing is set for tomorrow — two o’clock. Anything else?

  “Yes, Your Honor,” White said. “Given the short time before the probable cause hearing, there may be some problem in locating the necessary witnesses… particularly the police officers who obtained the search warrant and the officers who searched my client’s home and made the arrest. We ask that the State’s Attorney be ordered to produce all of these officers at the hearing.”

  “Any problem with that, Mr. Parker?” Judge Mitchell said in a voice that made it clear he wasn’t asking a question.

  “No problem, Your Honor.”

  “So ordered. Anything else?”

  “No, Your Honor,” White and Parker said in unison.

  “Then we’re adjourned.”

  #

  As they left the courtroom, Parker signaled White to the side.

  “You do like coming up with your little surprises, don’t you Lucius?”

  “You mean Graham?”

  “Of course I mean Graham!”

  “I didn’t know you’d be handling the hearing. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to give you a heads-up.”

  “That would have been nice.”

  “Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

  “Yeah. As a matter of fact, there was. The attorney for your client’s accomplice called me the morning he was bailed out.”

  “About what?”

  “Bail. What else?”

  “I hear you only asked for fifty-thousand for him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why fifty for him and two-fifty for Shepard.”

  “Shepard didn’t offer an incentive for reduced bail?”

  “And Jackson did?”

  Parker shrugged. “He mentioned some things that were interesting.”

  “What was he offering?

  “I’ll let you know when we have a deal.”

  “Who’s his attorney?”

  “Diane Lindsey.”

  White raised an eyebrow.

  “You know her?”

  “Yeah. She’s good.”

  “None better for drug cases. You might even learn a thing or two from her.”

  “It’s possible. How did he get Diane to represent him?”

  Parker shrugged. “Same as anyone else, I suppose. He paid her.”

  “But how would he even know who Diane is?”

  “Maybe you should ask Diane.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  White started to leave when he paused and turned. “Do you have a record of the calls Jackson made from jail?”

  The question seemed to confuse Parker.

  “If he got Diane to represent him, he has to have called someone. Who did he call?”

  Parker reopened his briefcase and removed a file. “The jail logs don’t show any calls.”

  “Then how did anyone know he was in jail?”

  11.

  None of them — White, Brochette, and Shepard — spoke during the short walk from the courthouse to White’s office. Before White would be able to represent David Shephard effectively, Shepard and Brochette would have to come to terms with their renewed relationship. As long as Shepard was ambivalent about that he could not participate effectively in his own defense. Accommodation of Brochette’s different roles, both as his father and as a U.S. Attorney, was essential, but it was something that couldn’t be forced. White just had to wait, but he couldn’t wait too long. He needed information, and he needed it quickly.

  David Shepard kept his head bowed as he seemed to make a conscious effort to avoid looking at Brochette or White. Brochette occasionally glanced at his son, apparently trying to find something to say. White observed the exchange — looking for clues to the renewed relationship between father and son. He would know soon enough where David stood.

  When they arrived at his office, White left Shepard in the War Room and escorted Brochette into his office. Grace Matthews entered, placed two cups of coffee on the table between Brochette and White and left, closing the door behind her.

  “So where are we?” Brochette asked — his first words since leaving the courtroom.

  White again summarized what Horse and Harris had learned and his conversation with David at the jail.

  “It doesn’t sound like you have much to go on.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you intend to do now?”

  “Turn over some more rocks.”

  “Starting with…?

  “Starting with your son.”

  “I thought you already talked to him.”

  “He wasn’t much help the first time. Being in jail does that.”

  “Mind if I sit in?”

  White shook his head. “Not a good idea. You two still have some personal problems to work out. I don’t think he’ll tell me everything I need to know with you in the room. Besides, you aren’t his attorney. If you’re there, our conversation won’t be protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

  “Of course. But it’s going to be difficult to stay out of your way.”

  “You don’t have any choice. Not if you want me to represent David.”

  “And we have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Just be sure you don’t talk about his case… or anything that might even be remotely connected to it.

  #

  “We’ve just been going over the police reports,” Horse said when White joined him, Harris and Shepard in the War Room.

  “Where’s my… father?” David Shepard said.

  “He’s waiting in my office. He can’t be here while we talk.”

  “Why not?” Shepard demanded.

  “Because he’s not my client, and his presence during our discussion would mean our conversation wouldn’t be protected by the attorney-client privilege. He could be called as a witness against you if you said anything that would help the prosecution.”

  Shepard started to say something but changed his mind.

  White remained standing beside the conference table opposite Shepard. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at David. Shepard avoided looking at White and stared at the open can of orange soda on the table in front of him. White had interviewed enough criminal clients over the years to be familiar with the pattern that characterized their interaction with their attorneys. Invariably it followed the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For some it took longer than others, but White had to lead David through the process as quickly a
s possible. Until he accepted the reality of his situation he would not, or could not, provide dependable information on which White could act.

  “All right, David,” White’s voice interrupted the silence like the command of a drill sergeant. “It’s time you told us the truth.” It was the challenge that would set the stage for the conduct of the rest of the interview. Would David respond like a lion, with a defiant roar, or like a mouse, with timid avoidance?

  Shepard stiffened but continued to stare at his can of soda. “I’ve told you the truth,” the mouse said so softly as to barely be heard.

  “But you haven’t told me everything there is to tell.”

  Shepard shifted his attention to White. “Like what?” His eyes seemed to convey a challenge, but his voice was only mildly defiant. White did not say anything for a minute as he tried to decide how to approach his interview with Shepard. He knew what he needed to learn about the facts of Shepard’s case. But he also knew that there was more to Shepard’s case that a simple case of possession of cocaine. There was something more, something in Shepard’s demeanor, that left little doubt that he had a secret to be protected. What was not clear was whether he was hiding a secret that was vital to his defense or merely some unrelated secret from his past that he wanted, or needed, to protect.

  “At the jail, you said you were afraid of being killed if you didn’t get out on bail. Why did you think that?”

  Shepard’s hand tightened around the can of soda. “I think someone wants to kill me.”

  “You think…?”

  “Jackson, the guy I was arrested with… He said we weren’t safe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when I met you at the jail?”

  “I…”

  “You thought I was sent by your boss — the person you and Jackson worked for when you were in Matlacha.”

  “That’s not….” Shepard’s eyes darted around the room avoiding any contact with the other men. White knew he was trying to make a decision, but he could only guess what Shepard was thinking. Finally, Shepard spoke. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “All right. Let’s go over this again.”

  David squirmed but still did not look at White. “What do you want to know?”