Twisted Justice

by Diane Capri

  There were two messages from the CJ. I gleefully put them at the bottom of the pile, and I began to handle the others. As usual, caught up in my work, I became unaware of the passing time.

  Margaret buzzed me on the intercom. “Judge? It’s getting late,” she said.

  The courtroom was full when I went in again, twenty minutes late. I vowed to work on this problem. I hated judges to be late when I practiced law. I’d been convinced it was a personal snub, that they just couldn’t be bothered to be on time for the litigants who were, after all, their reason for being. Or that they thought their precious time was more important than ours.

  Life was just one long, educational experience, wasn’t it?

  When the trial began again, I nodded to Nelson Newton who rose to his full five-feet-four, smoothed down his stained red tie, and sucked his protruding gut in enough to button the rumpled blue suit jacket, as he prepared to make his entrance.

  I’ve seen Nelson at social functions and at George’s restaurant. I know for a fact that he owns more than one suit and all fit him perfectly. He wore this outfit because he wanted to appear poor and needy, to make the jury feel sorry for him, particularly in comparison to Tremain’s expensive tailoring. For the same reason he sat at counsel table alone and used the bare minimum of documents.

  Continuing his personal mime game of ‘me David, they Goliath,’” Nelson picked up his one manila file folder and pulled out three wrinkled sheets of five-by-seven note paper that probably came from the same car rental desk as his pen. He looked the sheets over, front and back, returned them to the folder, and stepped up to the podium.

  Of course, he knew very well he couldn’t see over the podium, but he wanted the jury to know. He turned and asked permission not to use it. I granted the request. He knew I would. He asks every trial, even though I don’t require lawyers to use the podium and no permission is necessary. More elaborate play-acting. But Tremain hadn’t seen it coming.

  Before he ever said a word in his opening, Newton had the jury on his side. His disadvantages, albeit carefully orchestrated, were designed to make the jury think he was the underdog. Americans always root for the underdog. It may be genetic. Christians one, lions nothing.

  I felt my mood lighten and hid my smile behind my hand as I pretended to cough. Once again, work engaged me, and I was able to forget about George and Andy and my collapsing marriage and murder for a while.

  Nelson began without further preamble. “All of us were told growin’ up that sticks ‘n stones would break our bones, but names would never hurt us. Our mamas didn’t want us fightin’ in the school yard, so they told us to just ignore kids who called us names.” He had the jury nodding in agreement.

  “But we knew then, just as we know now, that names do hurt us, don’t they? Calling someone names can not only hurt their feelings, but hurt their business and their relationships with their family and friends.”

  The jury looked like parishioners in a tent revival, they were so attuned to Nelson by now.

  “That’s what this case is about. The Whitman Esquire Review, a newspaper printed out in San Francisco, called me a name.” He emphasized San Francisco as if it was the very essence of hell, instead of a marvelous, cosmopolitan city.

  “They don’t know me and they don’t know our town. But they called me a name anyway, and they printed it in the paper, and it’s hurt me.” He stopped here and looked hurt. The posture was so affected that it was hard not to laugh at him. Although the jurors weren’t laughing. Some of them actually frowned toward Tremain and his client.

  “They shouldn’t have done that. I know you won’t let ’em get away with it. I don’t know about San Francisco,” he stressed the word again, “but here in Tampa, we’re decent folks and we’ve got standards. It’s up to you all to let The Whitman Esquire Review know that. Thank ye.”

  Newton actually ducked his head when he finished and sat back down at his table.

  The jury looked over at Tremain with interest. How could he hope to compete with Mom? They were still interested in the answer at this point, but it was a critical juncture for Tremain. For my part, I wondered whether that $850 an hour The Review was paying him would turn out to be worth it.

  Tremain had a large, black three-ring binder in front of him on the table containing his trial notebook. It was filled to three-quarters’ capacity, tabbed and organized with white, pink, blue and yellow paper in the different sections. It definitely conveyed the impression of preparedness. And maybe more than a little overkill.

  He closed the binder and rose to give his opening without it. No crutches. Except for his slow, deliberate clothes-adjusting routine, which he performed only when the jury was in the room. What was the subliminal message? I found the habit annoying because it took him so long before he ever got started on anything.

  Tremain had no trouble standing behind the podium; He towered above it. He gripped the sides with both hands, the better to give the jury a look at his plain gold wedding band, a piece of jewelry his opponent did not possess.

  Tremain leaned into the podium, toward the jurors, but leaving both the podium and the rail between them so as not to invade their space. I wondered again which of the high-priced trial advocacy programs he’d graduated from. Many of his techniques bordered on textbook.

  “First, I want to thank you for your service as jurors in this case. I know you are not the country bumpkins Mr. Newton makes you out to be, just as he isn’t the bumpkin he pretends to be.” He stopped here for effect, pretending to need a sip of water.

  “I know you have busy lives and taking time out to help us is a hardship for you. I want you to know that we appreciate it.” He nodded toward his client and his entourage at the defense table.

  “But more than that, aside from going to the polls to cast your vote, serving as a juror is the most patriotic thing many of you will ever do. This is your chance to uphold the laws of the United States.” He let his voice ring out like a presidential candidate accepting his party’s nomination.

  I felt impressed. The man had talent. And it was not a bad contrast, actually. Mom versus Patriotism. The sides were chosen and the battle joined.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tampa, Florida

  Tuesday 1:30 p.m.

  January 25, 2000

  TREMAIN WENT ON ABOUT the constitutionality of free speech, the right to print what’s true, newsworthiness and the legitimate concerns of the public, for about thirty minutes. By the time he finished, the jury would have had a hard time remembering anything Newton said. They were all puffed up with the importance of their job to the continued viability of the nation.

  This trial promised to be more than a fair contest. A little hard to tell the Christians from the lions at this point, but I was still on Newton’s side. I knew firsthand what it was like to have your life be the subject of everyone’s morning coffee conversation and I didn’t like it, either.

  Newton’s first witness was Mr. Tampa, herself. She was a youngish woman, about twenty-five, with purple-black hair and a small diamond in her pierced nose. She was dressed like a member of the cast of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or a trashy lingerie catalogue model.

  Mr. Tampa took the stand, raised her hand and swore to tell the truth, “Of course.”

  “Are you a man or a woman?” was Newton’s first question.

  “A woman.”

  “Were you born that way?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then calling yourself Mr. Tampa is misleading to the public, isn’t it?”

  The jury snickered.

  The questioning went on in this vein for a while, Newton trying to show that Mr. Tampa was a fraud and her column full of lies. We took a break after the direct, but Tremain would have some rehabilitating to do when we reconvened.

  By the time we got to the lunch hour, I’d had as much grandstanding by both of these lawyers as I was willing to put up with. I told the jurors they could go home for the day and I told t
he lawyers that I would hear argument on their various evidentiary motions at two o’clock, before Newton put on his next witness tomorrow. Then I left the bench, seeking sanctuary, and maybe a nap, in my office.

  When I got to my desk, Margaret had ordered my standard tuna sandwich for lunch and set it on my conference table with spring water and flatware. She’d put out my messages from the morning and a list of matters I should have handled that afternoon.

  Right on top, she’d written a note that George had called three times this morning and said it was urgent. She’d underlined urgent three times, too. The little flutter in my stomach was hunger, I hoped. And I tried to dredge up a little anger, too, for protection.

  For weeks George had acted like I didn’t exist; last night he told me a terrible secret and then left the house; and now he wanted to talk, so it’s urgent. My spine stiffened. I was busy. I had a full afternoon ahead and more calls to return than I could possibly finish before two o’clock. Calls I’d been ignoring while I worried about him. He could wait. I wasn’t really ready for any more revelations just yet. Whatever he had to say would certainly keep until I got home.

  Still in the mood for a good fight, I picked up the phone and dialed the CJ’s extension. On the fourth ring, he picked up. “Chief Judge Richardson,” he answered.

  Normally, getting through to him was like trying to call directly to the President. CJ thought one of his privileges was to have his calls screened, even on his private line.

  “CJ, it’s Willa Carson returning your call.” I refused to play the power game with him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m reassigning you to preside over the asbestos cases,” he told me without preamble. “You’ll have three hundred new files on your docket next week.”

  “What?” I asked him, my voice loud enough to reach all the way over to that fancy new courthouse where he was hiding as he gave me this news. “I don’t have time for that nonsense.”

  The asbestos cases were once again clogging the court dockets across the country. At one time, there were hundreds of thousands of them. After twenty years, we’d gotten them down to numbers in the mid-six-figure range. Still, they were an administrative nightmare and made trying to handle a court docket a little like trying to wade through unprocessed sewage.

  “Sorry, Willa. It’s your turn. Everyone else has taken a year or two of this and now, you’re in the box.”

  I slammed down the phone, which I was sure simply made him happy to know that he’d gotten my attention one more time. Then, after promising myself not to speak to the CJ again until hell froze over, I trudged back to the bench, moving slowly under the heavier load.

  Just to prove that things can always get worse, at three o’clock, in the middle of Newton’s argument that Tremain should not be able to put on witnesses who’d allegedly had homosexual affairs with Newton in the late seventies because such affairs were irrelevant to the truth of the assertion that Newton is gay, Margaret came out with a note and handed it up to me on the bench.

  I flipped the note open and read it quickly. Then, I closed it again, rubbing my fingers along the crease. I told the lawyers I’d hear the remainder of the argument tomorrow, adjourned and slowly left the bench.

  If I hadn’t been so emotionally wired, if I hadn’t stayed up all night, if CJ wasn’t trying to bury me alive with work, I could have handled it. I know I could have.

  As it was, I didn’t start to shake uncontrollably until I was safely locked in my office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tampa, Florida

  Tuesday 3:15 p.m.

  January 25, 2000

  A COUPLE OF QUICK telephone calls to Tampa Chief of Police Ben Hathaway’s office revealed what I needed to know.

  “George was arrested for the murder of General Andrews and arraigned this morning, Willa,” Hathaway said.

  My heart skipped a couple of beats. “Do you know where he is now?” I couldn’t bring myself to ask if George was at the Orient Road jail. That was one of the many places I’d never expected to find my husband.

  Hathaway’s tone expressed mild alarm to my practiced listening ear. “He was released after he made his own bail about an hour ago.”

  I breathed a little easier. Homicide suspects aren’t usually allowed bail in Florida and George’s release in a matter of hours was unusual as well as quick. I gathered some small comfort from that, although I had no idea why his release had been allowed.

  My silence lasted a couple of beats too long. Hathaway’s alarm notched up. “We told him not to leave the jurisdiction. Don’t you know where he is?”

  No, I wanted to scream. I don’t know where he is and I don’t know what he’s been doing and I’m not even sure who he is anymore.

  “Willa?” Hathaway said, a little more tension in his tone, “Do you know where George is or not? I convinced Drake to release him because I believed he wouldn’t leave town. Were we wrong?” I switched the receiver to my other hand before it slipped out of my sweaty palm. “No, of course not, Ben. I’ve been in trial. I just heard about all of this. I called you first. I’m sure he’s at home.”

  Ben humphed, a sound that sort of escaped his lips too close to the phone, as if he’d been hit in his ample stomach. He spoke more quietly, but with more urgency, too. “If you find out he’s gone, Willa, you’d better call me right away. We’ve known each other a long time. I’ll be the only friend you’ve got if George makes Drake look like a fool for doing you a favor.”

  His words had the opposite effect from what I’m sure he intended. They calmed me immediately. I blew out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  State Attorney Michael Drake wouldn’t have done me a favor on a bet. George either, for that matter. Drake hated us both.

  If he’d agreed to release George, let him make bail, it was only for one reason: Drake didn’t have enough evidence to indict.

  At least, not yet.

  The realization provided a thin flicker of light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. But I could travel toward it. I could see a little bit, and maybe, just maybe, figure this thing out.

  I put as much reassurance and calm in my voice as I could muster. “Of course, Ben. I’ll call you right away if I don’t find George at home. But I’m sure he’s there. Don’t worry.”

  I picked up my miniscule purse and my electronic car key and slipped quickly out the back exit of my office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tampa, Florida

  Tuesday 3:45 p.m.

  January 25, 2000

  FOR THE SECOND TIME today, a media hive swarmed, blocking my path, ready to sting. I managed to get through the blockade of reporters and television vans posted on the Bayshore near the entrance to Plant Key Bridge, but they filmed my progress.

  Knowing they probably had long lens cameras focused on Minaret’s front door, I had to sneak around to the back entrance of my own house.

  The second I walked in the door, I heard the television playing in the den. George was home. A wave of hope flooded my body and I sat down heavily on a chair in relief.

  George was watching the story of his arrest played out on national television. My gaze, too, was drawn to the pictures of a plain clothes detective I didn’t know escorting George out of an unmarked car and into the Orient Road jail. At least, they hadn’t put handcuffs on him.

  Still, Drake must have tipped off the media that the arrest was coming. Drake never missed a media opportunity. Arresting George, a prominent businessman in the community and the husband of a U.S. District Court Judge would certainly qualify. Drake attempting to profit from our misery ratcheted up my anger a couple of notches.

  “Are you so pleased with your celebrity that it wasn’t enough for you to live it, you have to watch it all over again?” I sniped at George. He was here; Drake wasn’t.

  He patted the place on the sofa next to him and I vacillated between sitting down to watch and continuing with my outrage. I sat.

 
George put his arm around me and hugged me closer to him. He’s always been able to see through me and he had to know I was scared. “I want to know how they justified arresting me. The police won’t tell me anything, so I have to get my information the way the rest of America does. Watch with me and we’ll talk when it’s over.”

  Again today, Frank Bennett had the local report and it had been picked up by the networks. I resented that someone I had counted among my friends would capitalize on the complete disruption of my life. When we’re down, I thought sourly, we learn exactly who are friends are, don’t we.

  Outside the Orient Road jail, Frank read his story well, looking straight into the camera. “George Carson, local restaurateur, surrendered himself to authorities today at his home on Plant Key in South Tampa.”

  I smiled at that. Our island is private property. At least the television cameras couldn’t camp out here.

  “Mr. Carson was charged with the murder of General A. Randall Andrews who died early Saturday morning from a gunshot wound to the head. Although initially reported as a suicide, the police quickly discovered that General Andrews was murdered. In the face of increasing pressure on the State Attorney Michael Drake from outraged citizens and prominent politicians, Mr. Carson was charged with first degree murder.”

  My lip curled. Prominent politicians. Now we know who that is, don’t we, I thought.

  “Police ballistics reports confirm that the murder weapon, a .38 caliber hand gun, used to kill General Andrews was registered to Mr. Carson. We have very little additional information about Mr. Carson’s arrest, except that Police Chief Ben Hathaway told us Mr. Carson had means, motive and opportunity. In an unusual development for Florida courts, George Carson is now free on bond.”

  What followed were the inevitable interviews with Andy’s family, his friends and anyone who would talk about George to the press. I was dismayed at the number of people who didn’t really know us, but were willing to talk about us just for their fifteen minutes of fame. I made a mental note to cross every one of them off our Christmas Card list.