by Grace Mead
“Well, Rand and Harlan are obviously potentially biased witnesses. Why don’t you tell us what really happened?” Farrar pushed the legal pad away and set down his Montblanc fountain pen.
Matt regained some sense of calm and recounted the events in the alley in as close to an even voice as he could manage. Before Farrar launched into his questions, Matt had one of his own, “Did you search for the knife?”
“Yes,” Farrar said. “I had a private investigator who’s a former police officer search the alley. He didn’t find anything, but several hours had passed since your arrest. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The DA’s office turned over copies of the police report this morning. They want to move very, very fast on this one. What did you say to the police Friday night?”
“I just told them I wanted to invoke my rights to remain silent and to an attorney.”
“Nothing else?”
Matt shook his head. “Nothing else.”
“Did you know Buckner had cocaine on him?”
“No,” Matt said with an edge of concern. If Farrar didn’t believe him, who would? “I told you. I only met him that night. He can testify to that, and the bartender may have overheard something, but the club was pretty loud.”
“You had almost $800 in cash on you. Why?”
“I was going to a gay club and wanted to be discreet. I didn’t want the bar’s name showing up on my credit card bill.”
“Even though you’d been there before with a girlfriend?”
“I was being paranoid,” Matt said. “I certainly wasn’t there with a girlfriend on Friday night.”
“You said you’d been drinking. Did the police do a breathalyzer test?”
“Yeah, when they booked me. I’d guess about an hour and a half after being arrested. They didn’t tell me the results.”
“We’ll have to get a copy of those results.” Farrar jotted a note.
Matt saw where Farrar was going and didn’t like it. “I hope you’re not thinking about arguing that I was drunk and had a lower level of intent to set up a plea for a lesser murder charge. I was defending myself and Joey. There were three of those guys and the one who hit Joey was enormous.”
“Of course, we’ll almost certainly argue self-defense and defense of another. But we need to look at this from every angle and consider every potential argument. You know we do that in every case.”
Matt forced himself to breathe.
“What do you think of the fact that Buckner didn’t testify in front of the grand jury?” Farrar asked. “Do you think he’ll corroborate your version of what happened? You saved him from a pretty severe beating.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Joey gave a statement that contradicted the other two guys’ in the alley and that’s why the prosecution didn’t present it. Maybe he’s flipped, but the DA’s office figured they didn’t need his testimony and wanted to avoid showing their hand so far before trial. The guy apparently had four grams of coke on him, so I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“I have to ask,” said Farrar, “especially given your generation’s attitude toward drugs. Did you do any cocaine last night?” Farrar locked eyes with Matt.
“No. Thomas, you know me.”
“I certainly thought I did, but you’ve given me some new information to digest. At the very least, you made some serious errors in judgment, if only by drinking too much and urinating in that back alley. I need to consider whether we can continue to represent you beyond tomorrow’s bail hearing. We have obligations to other clients and a murder trial will require enormous resources, for which you can’t pay.”
“I know,” Matt said. He pressed his lips together and felt the blood drain from them. “I didn’t assume you’d defend me. I just didn’t know who else to call. If you could recommend a good criminal defense attorney, I’d appreciate it.”
“What about your parents?” Farrar asked. “Could they help financially?”
“You know my Mom’s a nurse, and Dad passed away years ago.”
“I know. I just wanted to make certain. Let’s talk about the arraignment tomorrow. Given your background, I’ll ask the judge to recommend you receive bail despite the first-degree murder charge. The prosecutor will probably concede that to appear reasonable and then press for an unreasonable trial date. He’ll have to assume we’ll be representing you and he won’t want to give us any additional time to prepare.”
“What kind of trial date do you think he’ll be able to get?”
“Hard to tell. You know the criminal docket’s been a mess in the last couple of years since Katrina.” He tapped his pen against the legal pad once, then suspended it in the air above it. “I’m guessing he’ll try to leverage his concession on bail to convince the judge to set trial for as soon as a month from now. If we represent you, the judge is not going to be as likely to give our office the extension he would give the overburdened public defenders’ office. We’ll continue to represent you through the arraignment,” Farrar said. “I think anything less would be unethical. Lisa will contact your mother. Bail will probably be set at around a million dollars. We can recommend a bail bondsman so your mother can line up the necessary financing. I’m going to consult with my partners about whether we can continue to represent you. Any questions?”
“What do you think about my chances?” Matt asked, fearing the answer.
“I don’t know. I don’t like that explaining the facts underlying any self-defense claim requires going into the details about your visit to a gay bar. Not sure what a Louisiana jury is going to make of that, but I don’t think it’s going to help. I also don’t like the fact that you already have two witnesses lined up against you. But we just don’t know enough yet.”
“That’s what I thought. Thank you for considering taking the case.”
Lisa reached her hand across the table and placed it on Matt’s.
“I’m just so sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No. I’ll be fine until tomorrow. Thanks for the offer.”
The three rose and Thomas Farrar knocked on the plexiglass window, summoning the guard. Matt thought perhaps Farrar’s willingness to consider taking the case for free signaled that others—even straight white men—could find his actions justified, but then he flashed back to the image and feel of the blood the officers hadn’t permitted him to wipe off. The guard opened the door and—after Thomas and Lisa exited—he led Matt outside and down the corridor in the opposite direction, toward the depths of the prison.
Chapter 3
At the arraignment, as Farrar had predicted, the presiding judge allowed the prosecution to fast-track the case—the trial would begin in six weeks.
The news numbed Matt. Six weeks was fast. As the accused, he didn’t know how he would bear the next minute, hour or day under the pall of his remorse and a potential punishment that threatened to reduce the rest of his life to shame and self-loathing.
The judge ordered Matt to post a million-dollar bond to stay out of jail until the trial and, despite his limited resources, Farrar advised paying a bail bondsman. Matt’s life could depend on appearing confident and resolute in front of a jury and short stints in prison had broken other men. Around four o’clock the afternoon before, his mother, Mary, had convinced her long-time bank in Lafayette to mortgage her house to pay the nonrefundable fee of $100,000. And then she’d made the three-hour drive to New Orleans so she wouldn’t miss a moment of the hearing. Farrar and Mary had at least bought Matt provisional freedom.
*
Matt and Mary exited the courthouse and hurried to her Toyota Corolla. As soon as they were inside, she turned to him. Her swollen eyes—spiderwebbed with red veins—filled with fresh tears.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Mary said. “I know you weren’t buying drugs and you certainly wouldn’t ever hurt another person unless you absolutely had to.” She trembled and reached to pull him into a hug. “Your entire life until now has shown that what that prosecutor said in court today
was a lie,” Mary said. “After the jury finds you’re innocent, can you sue him? They shouldn’t be able to do this to people.” She patted Matt on the shoulder.
“Mom, for now, let’s just try to make sure I’m not convicted. The judicial system’s not perfect. We both know there’s a real chance I could be convicted.”
“Mr Farrar wants us to meet him at the office. We’ll get started making sure the system works this time.”
Mary put the car in gear and they crawled south into the French Quarter at the speed limit. Windows cracked open to assist air-conditioning well past its prime let in the smell of the streets—vomit hastily dispatched with garden hoses. At first glance, the Quarter appeared largely restored from Hurricane Katrina; storefronts gleamed with fresh paint. But, looking upward, Matt could see that most of the apartments above the first story were deserted and lifeless.
They arrived at the brick office and walked into the lobby. A pearl marble floor, with undertones of gray, spanned the foyer. From their left, behind a high mahogany desk, the receptionist, Donna, said, “Matt, I’m so sorry. This whole thing is just ridiculous.”
“Thank you, Donna,” Matt responded and meant it. She’d used generic words to console, just as many had after his father’s death, but her consistent humor and kindness over the past two years gave them meaning.
“Thomas wants to meet you in the conference room,” Donna said.
Matt and Mary entered the ornate conference room, where the marble floor gave way to an Oriental rug dominated by diamond patterns of indigo, rust and gold. Atop the rug sat a French-style mahogany conference table with carved pedestal legs, reeded edges and a surface polished to a high sheen. A cream ceiling supported a crystal chandelier with a solid gold canopy, a gold rod running through the tube and cylindrical shades softening the light.
Matt was surprised to see Farrar, usually the last to arrive at any meeting, waiting. Before Matt and Mary were fully seated, Farrar looked up and began speaking.
“Largely as a result of our review of the police report, the firm has decided to take your case pro bono. We’re placing you on administrative leave until the trial is over.”
“Thank you,” Matt and Mary said in unison. Matt felt relief for the first time since those three thugs had confronted him in the alley.
“Let’s talk about the police report,” Farrar said. “The biggest problem is that, as you noted when I spoke to you in jail, Detective Jones interviewed Rand and Harlan together on Friday night.”
Matt’s reflexes kicked in and he picked up a pen and legal pad to take notes. Farrar’s eyebrows shot up; Matt put the pen and paper down and Farrar continued. “They had an opportunity to listen to each other’s stories,” he said. “Detective Jones also really screwed up by asking Rand at the beginning whether they’d seen Buckner attempting to sell you cocaine. Apparently, Jones walked in assuming this was a drug deal gone bad. After he asked that question, Rand took off with his story that they saw you buying drugs and went in to break it up. Harlan heard Rand’s version firsthand. And the Times-Picayune had an article in the Sunday paper based on a leaked copy of the police report. It summarized Rand’s story yet again. The two then had all weekend to get their stories straight.
“Most of the initial work will be done by the private investigator,” Farrar said. “We need to start by finding out everything possible about Rand and Harlan. We can only hope they’ve been in trouble before.” Farrar looked steadily at Matt.
“What about Buckner?” Matt asked, jumping straight to the only witness that hadn’t threated him physically.
“Buckner’s been indicted for possession with intent to distribute. The bad news is he has a prior for possession, so that would put him in prison for at least four or five years. The public defender’s office represents him, but the assistant PD told me he’d only had a chance to interview him about facts relevant to bail before his release.” Farrar glanced at his notes to double-check. “Buckner’s been through the system before. He has to know if his story matches theirs, his lawyer’s going to have something to take to the DA’s office. We need to plan for trial assuming he’ll flip.”
“We need to be ready to shred Buckner’s credibility,” Matt said. He hoped it didn’t come to that.
“Right, but investigating Buckner will be the last step. He still might be a friendly witness. So I’ll have the investigator start by trying to find anything we can on Rand and Harlan. Of course, we also need to work to uncover corroborating evidence. The knife is the key missing piece, but we need to think more broadly than the knife or even that night in the alley. My tentative view is Matt should testify and we should offer character evidence on his behalf. We need to show he’s far more respectable and likable than those thugs.” Farrar regarded Matt, then Mary.
“Mr Farrar, I just want to thank you again, but I have a couple of questions,” Mary said.
“Go ahead. That’s what I’m here for.” Farrar turned in his seat to face her.
“The detective interviewing these two guys together and then giving them all weekend to get their stories straight just doesn’t sound fair.” Despite her red eyes, she faced him with squared shoulders and an upturned face that elongated her neck and strengthened her chin. “Isn’t there some legal argument you could make to get the whole case thrown out?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Farrar said, shaking his head. “The police have pretty broad discretion in interviewing witnesses.” He looked her in the eye. “But we can and will argue to the jury that the detective’s interview technique gave them an opportunity to fabricate their story.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “Well, what do you think our chances are like in front of a jury?” She studied the table, but Farrar didn’t look away.
“I wish I knew, but it’s too early to say. We just need to do the best we can to build a solid case.”
Farrar stood to leave, but before he stepped away from the table, Mary asked, still looking at the table and in a barely audible voice, “Could Matt get the death penalty?”
Farrar paused, until Mary looked up and made eye contact with him “It’s certainly possible, but I’ll do everything in my power to keep that from happening. If the jury does find Matt guilty—and I’m not saying they will—that same jury will decide whether he should receive the death penalty. So every piece of evidence and every argument we make in the phase to determine whether he’s guilty will also be geared toward showing there’s no way he deserves the death penalty.”
Farrar placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just try to hold yourselves together. The judicial system works most of the time, and I certainly know how to give it a shove in the right direction.”
Mary’s face was ashen. Matt’s dread heightened and the room threatened to spin around him. He concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly, trying to tamp down on his emotions and regain his usual steadiness. He imagined stepping out of his body, pretended the client was a stranger, and heard himself reassuring Mary that Farrar was the “best damned lawyer in town.”
After they’d collected themselves, both clutched at the opportunity to engage in routine activities. Mary volunteered to go to the grocery store and Matt decided to go to the gym.
He entered Tommy’s un-air-conditioned gym, which stewed under the afternoon heat of early September in New Orleans. He forced himself to keep his eyes forward as—even in this usually comfortable space—he felt the real and imagined stares of other people working out raise the fine hairs on his arms and neck. But he seldom worked out in the middle of the day, he didn’t recognize anyone, and the gym’s swelter enveloped him, giving the small assurance that he’d be less likely to strain or tear a muscle.
Matt worked through his normal fourteen rounds. He then took off his gloves, unwrapped his hands and put the gloves in the gym bag. He kept his head down as he trod the familiar path toward the stairs. On his way out, he passed the office Tommy had carved out of the space with plywood wall dividers.
“Hey kid,�
�� Tommy interrupted, startling Matt. “Come here for a minute.” Matt entered the office and pulled the flimsy door shut behind him. “I just wanna say you did the right thing,” Tommy said.
“What?”
“I’m bettin’ nobody’s told you that you did the right thing. You did. I read in the paper about the size of one of those guys and you didn’t have a choice. You had to hurt one of ’em real bad or they would’ve put you in the hospital. Maybe even killed you.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “You’re right. You are the first to tell me that.”
“What do you think about your chances in court?” Tommy asked. He pulled a cigar from a desk drawer and waved it in Matt’s direction. Matt shook his head.
“My lawyer would kill me for discussing it outside of his office, but those guys are lying,” Matt said. “We just have to hope the jury sees that.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, just say so.”
“You know, actually, when I was in jail I started to worry about going to prison.” Matt felt blood rush to his face. “You must have read that I was, uh, well, outside a gay bar when the attack happened.”
“None of my business,” Tommy said.
“Maybe not. But if I go to prison, I don’t think the other inmates are going to be as understanding. Prisons have gotten better over the last couple of decades, but I’m really worried about being attacked. Anything you can teach me to help keep that from happening?”
“Well, not exactly my specialty. I always worked straight up boxing. You know Dave Anderson?”
“Yeah, the short black guy,” Matt said.
“That’s him.” Tommy lit the cigar and took a deep pull. “He used to be a Navy SEAL. That’s what you need to learn. He comes in to work on his Muay Thai kickboxing. I don’t think fancy kicks are what you’re looking for, but they use elbows and knees too. You need to learn to fight dirty. And that’s what the military teaches.”