Contempt: A Legal Thriller

by Michael Cordell

  “Oh, you don’t want me to try. You’re lying. Which makes sense, since you’re a lawyer.” Yoder turned and started back down the hall.

  “And you’re a nothing but a thug.”

  Yoder froze, then finally turned and glared at Thane, who showed no inclination in backing down. The guard escorting Thane quickly turned him back toward their destination and nudged him forward.

  Thane continued toward the visitation room. He entered an area no larger than a one-car garage: four card tables were spaced evenly against each wall of the room, and the air was stale and smelled of sweat, even though the temperature was cool. He walked over to the one open table and sat down on a plastic chair, the sort of patio furniture sold for five bucks at a hardware store, but it was light and couldn’t do much damage, an important consideration when furnishing such a room.

  Across the room, an inmate with satanic tattoos up and down both arms sobbed as he held his baby’s hand between two of his fingers and looked into her eyes. On death row, Thane hadn’t even been allowed that degree of intimacy. A couple of tables away, an inmate in his late forties whispered to a giggling young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. Whether she was the man’s daughter or girlfriend, Thane couldn’t tell. She could have been a pen pal: one of an endless stream of luckless women convinced of ‘their man’s’ innocence—even if they’d never met outside of Forsman. Women who probably lived lives as solitary as their men.

  Then he spotted Scotty “Skunk” Burns, a fifty-year-old African American man being led from a holding cell, arms and legs shackled. Even if the chains had been removed and he’d been given a baseball bat, Skunk probably could have been taken down by a teenage boy. At five-foot-six and 130 pounds, Skunk’s posture was that of a kicked dog. He always said he was a lover, not a fighter, but it was doubtful he was either. His hair was dark, but with a single stripe of pale gray splashed along one side of his head—the origin of his strange nickname.

  Skunk limped toward Thane’s table, his gait the result of jumping from the roof of a three-story home during a thwarted break-in fifteen years ago. His treatment came at the hands of a prison doctor, the limp a memento of the man’s inexperience and shaky hands. Putting shackles around Skunk’s ankles was almost redundant.

  Skunk tried a smile when he saw Thane, but the expression never looked quite natural on his face, even when it was genuine. Thane knew him during his time at Forsman, speaking with him every now and then in the prison library. It was more than a year before Thane realized the man was illiterate, having noticed one day that he wasn’t turning the pages of his book. Apparently, Skunk just liked to sit with a thick book in front of him. Maybe he liked the way it made him look.

  Skunk sat on the edge of his chair across the table from Thane, fidgeting as his eyes darted around like a pinball. “You a life-saver, Banning,” he chittered. “You shoulda known you’d be my go-to guy, but I wasn’t sure you’d take this.”

  “I still haven’t said I would. Skunk, a murder charge is serious stuff. You need a lawyer with experience.”

  Skunk glanced behind him, then leaned forward. “What P.D. would believe me? But you—you know I couldn’t kill nobody. I’m a thief, not a criminal. I need a lawyer who’s gonna fight because he believes me, not just cause he’s paid a couple bucks from the state to take me on.”

  “I don’t think I’d be doing you any favors. I do real estate law, Skunk. You understand what that means?”

  “You got yourself sprung, didn’t you?” Skunk said. He looked broken, leaning back in his chair, dropping his head and staring at the chains clamped around his ankles. “I know I ain’t nothing special. I know that. Hell, even whatever family I got don’t want to admit I’m kin. But damn, Banning, that don’t mean they can juice me for something I didn’t do. I didn’t kill that cop. I swear to God. Don’t let them kill me, man.”

  “I don’t doubt you’re innocent, Skunk, but you’re not listening to me: you need a criminal lawyer.”

  Skunk looked back up at Banning, the rims of his eyes turning red like he was burning up on the inside. “Then give me the name of a lawyer who knows better than you what it’s like to get busted on a bum murder rap. You give me the name of a lawyer who’ll give two shits about what happens to me.”

  He paused a moment as his eyes watered over. “I know I belong in Forsman. I know that, okay? But not on death row. Come on, Banning. You’d fight like a dog for me, man. I know it. Like a fucking angry dog.”

  Thane sat back and looked at Skunk for a long moment. Finally, he heaved a deep sigh and folded his hands on the table.

  “How about you start by telling me what happened.”

  Things were finally turning Bradford Stone’s way. The DA’s office had been crucified on L.A. talk radio following Banning’s release. It helped that most of the know-nothing media blowhards set their sights primarily on Judge Williams, but there was enough vitriol to go around. With city elections eight months away, the body blow Stone had taken over Banning’s release hurt worse than he’d expected.

  But, as usual, eventually public indignation shifted elsewhere: now the hot talk on the street was the murder of a former police detective, a murder that was going to put Stone back on offense. He even nodded and said good morning to the office receptionist when he arrived, an unusually upbeat act for him. An arrest had been made—a two-bit burglar named Scotty Burns—and Stone had already announced he was overseeing the prosecution. This would show the media he still knew how to get a killer off the streets.

  He strode into his office where his top two Assistant DAs were waiting for him. Wallace Winston’s significant girth rippled with laughter as his colleague Simon Keaton did a less-than-flattering impersonation of a local news anchor who had been giving the DA’s office a hard time.

  Keaton, who had won a national debate championship while in college, was one of Stone’s best promotions, vaulting up the ranks at age thirty-six, leapfrogging prosecutors with twice his seniority. He’d been in the DA’s office for six years, but hadn’t advanced too far until Stone took over the department. There were rumors that Keaton and Lauren McCoy had been a bit of an item, but Stone hadn’t given a damn about office romances: the young man worked insane hours and was a bulldog in court, two qualities Stone prized in an Assistant DA. And the fact that he was African American to boot was just good optics. Whereas Winston was a plodder who wanted to retire in four years, Keaton would likely, and rightfully, be offended not to be in charge of a division within that same time frame.

  Even Stone’s face gave up the hint of a smile when he saw the two men laughing. Ever since Banning’s release, the office had felt too much like a cancer ward for Stone’s liking—in some ways, literally. Winston’s wife had recently been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. With proper medical treatment, there was a good chance of survival, but the whole ordeal had clearly thrown Wallace off his game—so it was good to hear his coworkers laughing, especially at an anchor’s expense.

  “Time for you two schoolgirls to stop giggling. We’ve got work to do.” Stone slid into his desk chair like a fighter pilot ready for battle.

  “And yet, not a lot of work,” Keaton said, as Winston chuckled in agreement. “There’s no way we won’t win this one.”

  Stone leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m not looking for a ‘win’. ‘Wins’ are for off-election years. I want to annihilate this son of a bitch.”

  “We figured you’d want the death penalty,” Winston said.

  “Not enough.”

  Winston and Keaton glanced at each other.

  “After they charbroil his ass,” Stone said, “I want to string him up by a rope and hang him by his balls in the city square. I want to kill him twice. And if there’s a way to get a temporary reprieve of the amendment against cruel and unusual punishment, then I’ll torture his ass as well.” Stone brought his fist down upon his
desk. “Law and order is the phrase that pays this election year, gentlemen, and this scumbag is going to be our poster boy.”

  “Say amen, someone,” Keaton said with a grin. “I have a sense you’ll be able to get anything you want during this trial.”

  Stone looked at his assistants and their broad smiles. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you drones know that the king bee doesn’t?”

  Keaton smiled, looked over at Winston, then lowered his voice slightly, more for effect than any need for secrecy. “I got a call from a buddy of mine over at Forsman prison. He doesn’t know the name of the guy, but the grapevine has it that the guy representing Burns doesn’t even have any training in criminal law. From what I was told, he’s never argued in front of a jury before.”

  Stone smiled. “I’m looking forward to meeting this new best friend of mine.”

  “No wonder convicts always end back in jail,” Winston said. “His lawyer’s got to be doing this just for the publicity.”

  “No, no, it gets better,” Keaton said. “This isn’t some ambulance chaser looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. It’s someone the asshole knew in prison. An ex-con, for God’s sake.” Keaton burst out laughing, no longer able to contain himself.

  Stone’s smile disappeared like an eclipse. Winston noticed the grim reaction and stopped laughing.

  “We’ll be able to finish the trial the first day and still catch an early dinner,” Keaton crowed. He smiled broadly and looked at his boss, but his smile froze on his face when he saw his boss’s blooming frown.

  Stone held out one moment, then two, then finally erupted. “Son of a bitch!” He sat motionless for a moment, trying to compose himself.

  “What’s wrong, Brad?” Winston asked. “The guy sounds like a joke.”

  Stone placed his hands on top of his desk and leaned forward like he did when cross-examining a hostile witness. “Burns was paroled from Forsman five weeks ago. Who do you think any convict from that hellhole is going to call, especially on a murder charge?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Winston muttered, his face turning pale.

  “Once again the only thing the press is going to talk about is Banning’s release—and how we screwed it up. Not to mention the fact that when we win, they’ll say any fool could have won it.”

  Stone swept a pile of documents off his desk with the back of his hand, the pages shooting out across the room like a covey of quail. He then dropped back into his chair. This couldn’t be happening, he thought. Not now. Not to him.

  There was silence until Keaton finally spoke. “I know you want to make this go away,” he said, “but if we can’t, then it’s one way to beat Banning again.” He paused until Stone looked at him, waiting for more. “The press is going to crucify Banning so bad it will look like he was retried and convicted. We just need to make sure reporters understand the real story: that Banning is putting a man’s life at risk just to take a shot at you. Worse yet, if I remember correctly, Banning will be trying to free the man who killed the cop who arrested him for killing Lauren. While this won’t put him back in jail, it will be your chance to crush him in court. Your chance to finish off the cocksucker.”

  Stone thought about this. He wanted nothing more than to have Banning out of his life forever, but if they were destined to cross paths again, he would make damn sure it was for the last time. “I just want him to go away,” Stone said, almost quietly. He reached for the phone. “But if he wants to join this dance, then I’ll show him how rough the big boys play.”

  He called his secretary over the intercom. “Joanne, get me Jag Colter at KXLA TV right now. Tell him it’s important.” He hung up before she could respond and turned back to his colleagues.

  “Since the press is going to eat this up,” he said, “I’m sure as hell going to be the one setting the table.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Thane walked into his office after returning from the prison; within a minute, Joseph appeared at his door. He had obviously asked to be notified when Thane returned. “Sorry to have to be the one to tell you, buddy,” Joseph said, “but Brad Stone is here. He wants to speak with you.”

  Thane suppressed a groan. He knew he’d have to deal with Stone eventually, but that didn’t stop his stomach from clenching when he heard his name.

  “He’s in my office,” Joseph said. “I told him it was up to you if you wanted to talk to him, but that as long as you worked for me, I was sitting in.”

  “You shouldn’t butt heads with the DA on my behalf. That’s not good politics.”

  “And that’s why I’ll never run for office,” Joseph said with a smile.

  “I’m fine seeing him,” Thane lied. “It was going to happen sooner or later.”

  Joseph called his secretary from Thane’s phone, telling her to send the DA on down the hall. Thane smiled inwardly: not escorting Stone there personally was a deliberate slight on Joseph’s part.

  Stone entered the office as if it were just another business meeting. Thane hadn’t expected any display of contrition, but he was nevertheless irritated by the phony ‘let-bygones-be-bygones’ air Stone seemed to be trying to sell. The man who had sent him to prison walked over and started extending his hand, but Thane moved back a step.

  “What do you want?” Thane said.

  Stone lowered his hand, looking glad to be able to shove protocol aside. “Word on the street is Scotty Burns asked you to represent him. I want you to know I’ve decided to try this case myself.”

  “A high-profile murder of a cop, eight months before elections?” Thane said. “And you’re prosecuting the case yourself? Knock me over.”

  Joseph stepped away and leaned against the wall, positioning himself on the far side of the room to watch the fireworks.

  “I’m going to win this case,” Stone said. “God Almighty Himself could call and offer to testify for me and I’d tell Him ‘no thanks, I don’t need you.’ I have so much evidence, anything less than a plea bargain would be malpractice on the part of Mr. Burns’s lawyer.”

  “If you’re so confident, why do you care who represents him?” Thane asked.

  “You’re a real estate lawyer—and from what I understand, a damn good one.”

  “The best,” Joseph said from the side of the room.

  “But you’re not a criminal lawyer, despite what you might think you’ve learned these past few years. I’m concerned taking this case for the wrong reason could cause irreparable harm to your career.”

  The caustic laugh that bolted from Thane’s mouth surprised even him. “So you’re concerned about me. And my career. I appreciate that. I really do. But you know what really had an impact on my career? Being sent to Forsman for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  Thane stepped forward, in that instant wanting only to lean across the desk and grab Stone by the throat. “Yeah, all things considered, I’d have to say that’s what had an impact on my career.”

  Stone kept his voice steady. “I can’t change what happened in the past. I can only try to help you see that what you’re doing now isn’t a good decision for anyone. Not for you, not your client. And not this firm.”

  “You may not be able to change the past, but you can admit your complicity in it.”

  Stone shook his head. “You’re a real estate lawyer. You’re thinking of representing a man accused of murder, and you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. That’s the only thing I’m talking about today.”

  “I know the man you charged with murder and there’s no way he did it, but I also know you don’t give a damn about his guilt or his innocence. You just care about how it plays out in the press because you’ve got an election coming up. I’ll pit my intentions against yours any day of the week.”

  Stone’s chest puffed up, but before he could say anything else, Joseph advanced from his place on the sidelines and walked over to Stone, puttin
g his hand on his shoulder and directing him toward the door. “You’ve said what you wanted to say. Thane and I will talk about this and get back to you by the end of the day. Forgive me for not seeing you out.”

  Stone looked at Joseph for a moment, then glanced back over at Thane. He shook his head and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

  Joseph turned back toward Thane. “I know you could take on anything you set your mind to.”

  “But?”

  “But our law firm can’t take on this case. We do real estate law. We help developers build office complexes. High-rises. Shopping malls. We don’t defend cop killers.”

  “Maybe he—”

  “You’re right, you’re right. Alleged cop killer,” Joseph said. “But it’s not a matter of publicity, it’s a question of liability. Stone is right: you’re not a criminal lawyer, which opens us up to all sorts of issues of legal malpractice. You would be putting the firm at financial risk here.”

  “That’s fair,” Thane said.

  Joseph fixed him with a hard look. “Thane, you know I don’t give a frog’s fuck what our esteemed District Attorney wants. Far as I’m concerned, I’m offended that he even thought of stepping foot in your office. I also hope you know I’d do anything to help you. You’re not just a good lawyer, you’re a great friend, but think about what you’re doing—for the firm’s sake.”

  “I’ll be honest, I never even considered that,” Thane said slowly. “But you’re right: I would be putting the firm at risk. I was so caught up in my own idea of what was right, I didn’t think about you or anybody else here.”

  Thane thought for a moment as he slowly surveyed the accoutrements of his office, taking in all of the symbols of his reentry into his old world. He finally looked over at Joseph.

  “You’ve been a wonderful friend to me, giving me this job and this office. Probably nobody in their right mind would have given me the chance.”