by Randy Singer
For the arraignment, he’d donned an ill-fitting suit and arrived at court early. He took a seat in the middle of the first wooden bench and watched as the spectator section began to fill.
Jamie Brock showed up at five to nine, looking like she had just arrived from a Hollywood casting call. She had the strong facial features of a big-screen prosecutor—prominent cheekbones, dark-brown eyes, straight white teeth, and a determined jaw. She kept her chin up and her back straight as she walked briskly to the front of the courtroom and greeted the judge’s clerks. Because this was a murder charge, it was only bondable here in Superior Court. And Mace had the bad luck to draw a judge who had worked in the Milton County prosecutor’s office ten years ago. There was no question that this was Jamie’s home turf.
Mace James squeezed out of his row and met me at the front of the courtroom. We shook hands; his seemed to swallow mine whole.
“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.
“Somehow I doubt that,” I replied.
His expression darkened. “I guess you know I’m representing Caleb Tate.”
“You manage to get all the good ones.”
“Good luck to you, too.”
Mace James returned to his seat, clearly offended. I might have made a mistake by picking the first fight, but I didn’t like lawyers who would battle me in court and then try to buy me a drink afterward. Defense lawyers liked to claim they were just doing their job. I didn’t buy it. Nobody was holding a gun to their heads. It might just be a job, but it was a job they had chosen. There were plenty of other ways a lawyer could make money.
There were five arraignments ahead of Tate’s case, and all went according to script. When the clerk called Caleb Tate’s name, everyone in the courtroom seemed to sit up a little straighter. Mace James took his place at the defense counsel table. A pair of sheriff’s deputies led Tate into the courtroom, his wrists and ankles shackled as if he might make a run for it at any moment. He was wearing a suit but had a butterfly bandage over his left eyebrow. He smiled at Mace, and the two shook hands, causing the handcuffs to jangle. Tate never glanced in my direction.
After Tate took his seat, Judge Logan read the charges, and Mace pleaded “absolutely not guilty” for his client. He had also requested a bond hearing, and Logan said she would hear from the state first.
I rose and began describing in detail the crime Caleb Tate had been accused of committing. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He sat pompously at the defense table, studying me as if I were some kind of lab specimen, never taking a note.
“Poisoning is a crime of planning and preparation,” I emphasized. “And this is a defendant with means to flee the state and the country. He has a valid passport, and he once owned property in the British Virgin Islands. His law firm generated almost six million dollars in revenues last year, and his house is appraised at three million. Oh . . . I almost forgot to mention he once leased part of a private jet and probably knows pilots who can fly him anywhere in the world.
“We think the horrendous nature of this crime and the fact that the defendant could lose everything makes Mr. Tate a substantial flight risk. The last thing the state wants is for him to take his resources and flee to another country, where he could live the rest of his life fighting extradition. Accordingly, we are requesting bond of no less than five million dollars.”
I sat down, and the judge nodded to Professor James. “Your response, Mr.—” she looked down and checked the paper in front of her—“Mr. James. And please keep it short; don’t try to argue the merits of the case.”
“My client is a flight risk,” Mace repeated sarcastically as he rose. “Let’s see—he volunteers to take a polygraph, he volunteers to come to the police station whenever they want to question him, he makes it clear that he will turn himself in if they want to arrest him, and he has substantial ties in the community. Not only is he the managing partner of a prestigious law firm, but he’s also invested heavily in this community. He’s given twenty thousand dollars to the children’s hospital, he contributes ten thousand dollars a year to United Way, he is on the board of patrons for the aquarium—”
“I don’t need a list of his charitable activities,” Judge Logan said. “I know we’ve got lots of reporters in the courtroom today, but this is not the place to grandstand. I’m setting bond at three million and requiring that Mr. Tate surrender his passport and not leave the state of Georgia without prior court permission. Are those conditions clear?”
“They’re clear,” Mace said, looking stunned. “But I wouldn’t call them fair. Caleb Tate is more anxious to get this case to trial than anyone. He’s not going anywhere. In fact, he’s ready to grab the first trial date—”
Logan banged her gavel and gave Mace a look of fire. “That’s enough,” she said. “I’ve ruled. Ms. Brock is absolutely right about the nature of this crime. If he did it—and I’m not saying that he did—but if he did, it means he’s been planning this crime for at least six months. A man like that, who could kill his own wife in cold blood, wouldn’t hesitate to take off for another country. So, Mr. James, you’re lucky your client’s getting bonded out at all.”
From the look on Mace James’s face, he wasn’t feeling lucky. And neither was Caleb Tate.
35
Mace James spent the next three days fielding collect calls from his new client. Milton County gave prisoners liberal phone privileges, and Caleb Tate took advantage of the freedom.
Mace’s cell phone would ring, showing the jail’s number. He would answer to an automated operator that explained this was a collect call, what the rate would be, and that the call might be recorded. Mace would accept the call and inform anyone who was listening that this was an attorney-client conversation and that all monitoring devices must be turned off immediately.
Even with those precautions, Caleb seemed reluctant to share much information. The attorneys at his firm were pulling together the collateral to secure the three-million-dollar bond, Caleb said. He spent much of his time complaining about banks who had been all too eager to take his money when times were good but were not willing to lend money now. There was no equity in Caleb’s mansion. His firm’s equity lines were all tapped out. Some of his friends were putting together a “Caleb Tate Defense Fund.” Mace started wondering whether his ten-thousand-dollar retainer had been way too low.
“I may be in here through the weekend before we can get together the bond money,” Tate said. “And I’m going nuts.”
On Saturday, four days after Tate’s incarceration, Mace went to visit his client.
The jail was a large brick building located on the outskirts of Alpharetta, a few blocks from the courthouse. It had a small concrete yard in the back, surrounded by shiny barbed wire. The place was always overcrowded. The inmates stayed together in pods based loosely on the types of crimes they had been charged with and their perceived level of danger to the guards and each other.
The facility, completed in 2002, was state-of-the-art. The guards sat behind bulletproof glass in a control room of sorts overlooking the pods. The inmates’ cells opened into a small common area with bolted-down tables and televisions mounted high on the walls. Each pod was separated from the others by thick steel doors. In the event of a riot, individual pods could be isolated and the fights easily contained. The guards could activate tear gas or sprinklers in the pods by remote control.
The inmates spent an hour together during an afternoon recess, which was when gang alliances were cemented and new fish and outcasts were bloodied up. Mace had never served time in Milton County, but he knew the typical jailhouse routine and had the scars to prove it. Even in an environment like Milton County, which was a far cry from the state pen where hard-core felons served real time, a white-collar guy like Caleb Tate could be easy prey for other prisoners.
But Caleb Tate had a secret weapon every inmate desired—the know-how to exploit loopholes in the legal system.
Any worries about whether Tate
would survive his time without being victimized were alleviated when Mace met with him in the private attorney conference room on Saturday morning.
“There are basically three gangs running this place,” Tate explained. He looked pale and haggard, his body swallowed by the orange jumpsuit. “My firm is now representing two of the gang leaders. I’ve promised to personally handle their cases when I get out. I talked one of my buddies at another firm into representing the third one.”
“How’s your roommate?” Mace asked.
Caleb made a face. “Burned out. Brains fried on meth. Snores like a freight train.”
The two men discussed what Caleb had learned about the evidence presented to the grand jury. Mace didn’t yet have a transcript, but Caleb had his sources.
“It all comes down to Rafael Rivera,” Tate explained. Mace could read the hatred in Caleb’s eyes. “Former client. Told the prosecutors that he provided me with drugs.”
“Is he serving time here?”
Caleb lowered his voice though it was just the two of them in the conference room. “Nope. They transferred him to Gwinnett County—at his request. With good reason. The boys here don’t like snitches.”
Mace wasn’t too worried about Rivera’s testimony. A three-time felon—how much credibility could he possibly have?
“When do you think you’ll get the bond money together?” Mace asked.
Caleb waved the question off with a flick of his wrist. “Early next week. I’ve settled down, and I’m making good use of my time.” He placed his forearms on the table and hunched forward, closer to Mace. “You ever hear of the prisoner’s dilemma? You ever teach that in law school?”
“The prisoner’s dilemma?”
“Yeah. It’s what greases the system. The idea is that you take two co-conspirators, and the police interrogate them in separate rooms. The cops tell each suspect that if he confesses and testifies against the other, they’ll cut him a deal. One year in prison. But if he doesn’t deal quickly and the other suspect beats him to the punch, the other guy gets the one-year deal. The noncooperating suspect could be looking at trial and ten years if convicted.
“Now, both suspects know that if neither one of them squeals, neither one of them goes to jail. But if you don’t squeal and the other guy does, you’re looking at ten long years. What do you think happens?”
“They both try to cut the deal. There’s no honor among thieves.”
“Exactly. And that’s how most of the crimes in our country get solved. You know what percentage of cases plead out in Milton County?”
Mace hadn’t given the idea a moment’s thought, but he knew Milton wasn’t much different from other jurisdictions. “Probably 90 percent or so.”
“Ninety-four percent.” Caleb’s voice took on a conspiratorial whisper. “What do you think would happen if the defendants all got together and decided none of them would plea-bargain anymore? What do you think that would do to the system?”
Mace didn’t like where this was headed. “It would overwhelm the system. Chaos.”
“Exactly,” Caleb said, tapping his finger on the table. “The prosecutors would be swamped. Public defenders would drown. The state’s already cut everybody’s budget. Every defendant could ask for a speedy trial and then scream on appeal because they got ineffective assistance. The system would be backlogged for years. If every single prisoner in this jail right now insisted on full trial rights, the prosecutors would have to let half of them out because they couldn’t try everyone fast enough to fulfill their constitutional right to a speedy trial. The other half would have great issues to bring up on appeal. Heck, government workers and teachers have unionized. Why not felons?”
Caleb leaned back in his chair, pride beaming from his thin face. Mace knew jail had a way of playing with your mind. Confinement created paranoia and conspiracy buffs. But Mace couldn’t tell if this was just typical jailhouse bluster or something Caleb could actually orchestrate.
“Now, of course, this could only work if all the prisoners played along. And the prosecutors would probably start offering up some sweet deals to break the logjam. So you’d have to have all the gang leaders on the same page and ready to punish anyone who cut a deal. And that would require—hypothetically speaking, here—somebody to quarterback the whole thing. Somebody the gang leaders trusted. Of course, since these rival gang leaders hate each other so much, it could never happen. But if it did, just think how much it would help us. Because I’m taking my case to trial no matter what. And it wouldn’t hurt if the prosecutors were busier than one-armed paperhangers with all the other prisoners who suddenly decided to quit plea-bargaining.”
Caleb Tate sat there for a moment with a look on his face that really worried Mace. Either the man was losing it or the plan was already in place.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Mace said, his uneasiness about the case expanding. “Any plan like that would require some pretty serious enforcement. You don’t need to be tied in with any of that.”
“You’re right. That’s why I’m just speaking hypothetically. But it sure would be fun to watch.”
36
On Tuesday, I felt like I was reliving my first day in the DA’s office, doing something I had never done before.
I found myself in court with twelve case files, each one a guilty plea of some type or another. None of the cases were mine. But I was there because Rafael Rivera would be sentenced that day, a bargain that had been worked out by Masterson himself. I was also covering for one of my friends who had handled my cases while I was grieving for my dad.
I knew I didn’t exactly have to bring my A game to court for plea bargains. My job was to simply explain the charges to the court, inform the judge that the defendant had pleaded guilty, and recommend a sentence. Theoretically, the court could either accept or reject the sentence, but in reality, the court almost always went along with a recommendation jointly proposed by the prosecutor and the defense attorney.
Because Rafael Rivera was being held in another jurisdiction to keep him away from Milton County’s inmates, his case was up first.
I thought Masterson had been too easy on Rivera, and I assumed that was why Masterson didn’t appear in court himself—he didn’t want to get stigmatized with this deal during his campaign. Nevertheless, I was grateful that the boss had taken Rivera off my plate. Masterson had struck a deal I would never have agreed to, but at least now we could move forward with the Tate prosecution.
Judge Harold Brown was a tall, thin man who had been sitting on the Superior Court bench for as long as I could remember. He’d been a distance runner in college and still prided himself on being in shape at sixty. He was prompt and efficient except when he hauled you back into his chambers and got started with his stories. Brown was the type of judge who made the judicial system click—he didn’t favor either the prosecutors or the defendants, and he made sure every rule and procedure was followed punctiliously.
He took the bench, welcomed the public defender and me, and asked the deputies to bring in the defendant. While Rivera shuffled to his seat, shackled at his wrists and ankles, Judge Brown took off his watch and large college ring and placed them in front of him. It was one of his little idiosyncrasies that meant he was ready to get down to business.
When I explained that we were dropping the charge of possession with intent to distribute and that Rivera would plead guilty to the lesser offense of possession of cocaine, Brown raised an eyebrow. He had been around long enough to recognize a sweet deal when he saw one. I looked down and read the rest of my notes so I didn’t have to look the judge in the eye when I explained the recommended sentence. Brown, like everyone else on the Superior Court bench, knew my policy on plea bargains.
“The state recommends that Mr. Rivera be sentenced to five years in prison, with all but sixty days suspended, including time served, conditioned on Mr. Rivera’s continued cooperation in other cases where he is providing valuable information and testimony. We also recomme
nd that Mr. Rivera be placed on supervised probation for ten years.”
After I detailed the recommended terms for probation, Judge Brown had Rivera stand and took him through a litany of questions to ensure that the plea was voluntary. Rivera mumbled all of the correct answers, and Brown decided to end the festivities with a well-deserved lecture.
“You’re getting a good deal, Mr. Rivera, and you ought to consider yourself lucky. But I will tell you this, son . . .”
I couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at Rivera, who was bristling at being called “son.”
“. . . you’d better keep your nose clean and do everything the prosecutors ask you to do. Because if you come back in this courtroom having violated your probation or having failed to fully cooperate with every single thing they ask—” Brown let the words hang there for a moment, though Rivera didn’t seem cowed by the court’s threat—“I’ll give you every day of the five years that will be hanging over your head. And I won’t show you one drop of mercy on any new charges. Is that clear?”
Rivera mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
“Speak up, son,” Judge Brown said. “The court can’t hear you when you mumble.”
Rivera stared at the judge for a moment, contempt dripping from his sneer. “Yeah, Your Honor, I get it.”
“Very good. Then the court accepts the recommendation of counsel and sentences the defendant to five years with all but sixty days suspended on the conditions cited earlier by Ms. Brock. The court also sentences the defendant to ten years of supervised probation on the terms recited by Ms. Brock.”
A few minutes later, Rivera shuffled out of the courtroom. On the way, he gave me a menacing look over his shoulder. I hadn’t expected him to be grateful, but I wondered again if we were doing the right thing.