by Randy Singer
And then, just four short years ago, Charles’s radical conversion to Christianity changed everything. Charles came kicking and screaming to Christ, but when he came, he did so with every fiber of his being. He began preaching on the streets almost immediately. He pushed the gospel with equal fervor on his coworkers and his wife. He reminded Denita often that his faith was the faith embraced by Martin Luther King Jr. And he drove her further away.
She filed for divorce not long afterward. Charles needed to get out of town.
His chance came when Regent Law School, in an effort to further diversify its faculty, promised Charles a fresh start in Virginia Beach and the chance to become one of the youngest constitutional law professors in the country. He took a huge cut in pay to make it happen. But he still regarded it as one of the smartest moves he ever made. He loved the students, the academic challenge, and the fact that he had never even seen a time sheet, much less filled one out, since the day he left his firm.
But he still thought about Denita almost every day. And she would die if she knew her ex-husband, the African American legal scholar, the man who had clerked for the vaunted Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals, was now slumming in Virginia Beach General District Court, preparing to argue his own case for violation of a noise ordinance.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
He had dressed the part of a big-time lawyer and turned heads as he walked to the front of the courtroom. Buster would have been proud—Johnnie Cochran had nothing on Charles today. The man who taught law in jeans and a T-shirt was now sporting a dark gray custom suit with a suit coat that hung long on his body like a gunslinger’s, a monogrammed shirt, and Gucci loafers that practically glowed.
He had a soft leather Tumi briefcase stuffed full of potential cases on the constitutionality of noise ordinances and the procedural rules for General District Court. He was ready for just about anything.
He strode confidently past the wooden railing that separated the lawyers and police officers from the litigants. There was a lot of chattering and bantering going on among the fraternity of regular General District Court lawyers, mostly older men with sport coats and cloth ties or younger women in pantsuits. There was not another African American lawyer among them. And they all ignored Charles.
“What’s the drill here?” Charles asked a couple of seasoned-looking lawyers who were each holding dozens of manila folders.
“You a lawyer?” one asked, eying Charles suspiciously.
The man was round and had a meaty face. His white shirt didn’t quite button at the neck, and his sport coat seemed two sizes too short in the sleeves. Then there was the guy’s hair! Why couldn’t these white guys just admit when they were going bald? He parted his hair just above the left ear, and with a liberal application of gel managed to paste a few long strands up over the top. He had plenty of hair on the nape of his neck and the inside of his ears, more fertile ground apparently, but to call the stuff on top “thin” would be stretching it.
“Yeah,” Charles responded, “but this is my first time in General District Court.”
“Sure,” the man said, sounding disinterested. “Well, find out what line number your case is on’” he motioned to several pages of docket sheets sitting on the counsel table—“then wait for your case to be called.”
“Hope you brought something to read,” another veteran said.
“Plenty,” Charles said. “What’re the cameras here for?”
“Not sure,” the greasy-haired lawyer said, as if television cameras and news reporters showed up in General District Court every day. “Must be an arraignment or bond hearing on some criminal case that will eventually be transferred to circuit court.”
“Mind if I sit down?” Charles asked. He pointed to an empty seat next to the guy, the only empty seat in front of the bar on the lawyer’s side of the courtroom.
“Actually, I was saving that for someone.” The greasy-haired dude put a pained expression on his face. “She’s a special advocate for the kids in one of my cases, and I’ve really got to talk to her before court starts.”
“No problem,” Charles responded. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the seat. Prejudice wore many faces.
He turned and walked to the other side of the courtroom where the police officers were sitting and chatting. He sat in one of the empty chairs without asking and pretended not to notice the stares. He began reading some cases that he had stuffed in his briefcase.
He had the look of bravado, but he felt very much alone.
Twenty minutes later the judge was still nowhere to be found, and Charles had given up pretending to read. He started watching people and had the good fortune to be glancing at the back door when she burst through.
It was clear she had been running, but she broke stride and changed to a strut when she saw the judge was not yet on the bench. She carried a stack of files but didn’t look much like a lawyer. She was all legs and accentuated them with three-inch platform heels and a short black miniskirt. She wore a sleeveless white blouse and rounded out her immodest outfit with large gold jewelry dangling from her neck and both wrists. If she had been a student and dressed that way for moot court, Charles would have flunked her.
She had a dangerous allure—the exotic looks of a Latin American woman, complete with tanned olive skin, long jet-black hair, and haunting brown eyes. She wore too much makeup for Charles’s taste, and he immediately began disliking her, put off more by her arrogance than anything else.
He watched as the young woman became the center of gravity in the courtroom and greeted both police officers and lawyers with mutual warmth and a dazzling smile.
“Hey, Nikki, when are you gonna dump that bum Carson and come work for a real lawyer?” An older man flung the comment across the courtroom as Nikki talked to one of the cops.
“You couldn’t handle me, Jack,” she shot back over her shoulder.
The other lawyers moaned and guffawed.
Nikki finished her chat with the police officer and walked over to entertain the lawyers. The boys gathered around and yukked it up with Nikki, though the few female lawyers seemed unimpressed.
“All rise,” announced the court clerk, who did not bother to rise herself. “General District Court for the City of Virginia Beach is now in session, the Honorable Franklin Silverman Jr. presiding.”
Judge Silverman walked briskly to his spot on the bench and peered out through thick glasses. He looked older than Charles expected, a short and spindly man with a gaunt face. He had white hair, but bushy black eyebrows stuck out from his forehead and overhung his eyes. He placed both palms down on the bench in front of him and forced a thin smile.
“Be seated,” he said softly.
Charles noticed that Nikki sat in the reserved seat next to the lawyer with the bad hair. She crossed her legs, slouched in the chair, and immediately began whispering to the lawyers on each side of her. She ignored Judge Silverman as he called the court to order, and she also ignored the bailiff who stared at her with a stern look, apparently trying to get her attention so he could tell her to quiet down.
Charles found himself staring across the courtroom at the tattoo partially visible on Nikki’s shoulder, and he was embarrassed when she noticed his gaze, looked straight at him, and flashed a brilliant white smile. He refocused his attention on Judge Silverman, who was preparing to hear the dozens of procrastinators who had just jumped in line to request a continuance.
He pretended that he had not noticed when Nikki winked.
11
NINETY MINUTES later Nikki Moreno was still trying to catch his eye. I’ve got to get a name and phone number.
“Call the next case, please.” Silverman had already been at it for an hour and a half, and the courtroom was thinning out. He had granted dozens of continuances and rejected dozens more. He had made sure that all indigent defendants filled out the proper forms to determine whether they qualified for court-appointed lawyers. And he had burned through more than fif
teen traffic cases and three custody matters. Nikki’s services as a special advocate had already been called on twice.
“Commonwealth versus Thomas and Theresa Hammond,” the clerk said. “Case number 04-1489.”
The sleepy courtroom came to life. Cameras started rolling. Nikki’s head jerked up, and she nudged the grizzled old defense lawyer sitting next to her.
“This is your fifteen minutes of fame, Harry,” she whispered to the lawyer with the stringy hair. “Don’t screw it up.”
“Watch and learn,” Harry mumbled as he took his place at the defense table, joining Thomas and Theresa Hammond. Nikki would watch all right, with the same kind of morbid curiosity that compelled you to watch Fear Factor. It would not be pretty.
Deputy Commonwealth’s Attorney Rebecca Crawford took her place at the counsel table in front of the police officers and arranged her file. She had a no-nonsense look on her face, pretending not to notice the television cameras. But Nikki’s critical eye saw Crawford sneak a quick glance at the camera and then adjust her chair just right, so the camera angle would be straight on as opposed to a profile.
I guess she thinks that helps, Nikki mused, not convinced that any angle could do the trick for Crawford.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hammond, you are charged with involuntary man slaughter and criminally negligent homicide in the death of Joshua Caleb Hammond. How plead you?”
Harry Pursifull rose to his feet and majestically buttoned his suit coat. The button strained but held.
“The defendants plead not guilty, Your Honor,” he announced.
Crawford quickly rose to her feet. “The commonwealth requests bail in the amount of two hundred thousand for Mr. Hammond and fifty thousand for Mrs. Hammond,” she said sternly, staring at the defendants. “This is the tragic death of a very young child who could have been saved if defendants had simply sought appropriate medical care—”
“Spare me your speeches,” the judge said. “We’ll try the case later. Are defendants a flight risk?”
“No, Your Honor,” Harry responded. “On the contrary, they have lived in the community their whole lives. Mr. Hammond runs a lawn care business—”
“Whether he mows lawns or not is immaterial,” Crawford snapped. “What is material is the fact that last night Mr. Hammond threatened the deputies who served him with the arrest warrant and told those same deputies that nobody was going to take his kids away. The commonwealth believes he is a substantial flight risk, Your Honor.”
“What about Mrs. Hammond?” the judge asked, his hands tented in front of him as he eyed the defendants. “Does the commonwealth believe she poses a flight risk?”
“Not necessarily, Judge. That’s why we’ve requested a lower bond for her. But we strongly urge that it be conditioned on foster care for the children pending trial. We can’t run the risk that she’ll neglect another child with similar consequences.”
Nikki watched the Hammond woman tug on the suit coat of Harry and whisper in his ear. Nikki could see the urgency on her face but couldn’t make out what she said.
“For these defendants,” Harry said, “fifty thousand bucks is like a million. This case calls for a PR bond, Judge. And Mrs. Hammond is not willing to give up the children under any circumstances.”
Crawford started to respond—she was always ready to respond—but Judge Silverman held up his hand and silenced both lawyers. He thought in silence, staring at the back wall for an interminable length of time, and then finally looked down at the deputy commonwealth’s attorney.
“Is there any evidence of child abuse?” he asked.
“You mean besides the child neglect that caused the death of Joshua?” Crawford asked snidely.
“Alleged death,” Harry shot back from the defense table.
“No, Harry, the death is not alleged; it’s very real.” Crawford turned on him. “If you want, we can go to the cemetery and I’ll show you the body.”
“Counsel!” Silverman barked, his frustration showing. “Address your comments to the court.” He paused, changing his tone. “Is there any evidence of child abuse?”
“The commonwealth has a reasonable suspicion that such abuse has occurred. That’s why we subpoenaed the other children to court today to testify. We would request leave of court to interview those children in the presence of a court reporter, defense counsel, and a court appointed special advocate, to determine if such abuse has in fact occurred.”
“Are the children here?” The judge directed his comments toward Theresa Hammond. The woman’s eyes went wide, and Nikki immediately felt sorry for her.
Theresa stood slowly and nervously. “Yes, Your Honor,” she said, motioning to the back of the courtroom. “Right back there.”
As she pointed at the kids, all eyes turned to stare at them. The girl raised her hand in a timid little wave and smiled nervously. Her little brother slid down in his seat and stared at the floor.
“Very well, then,” Silverman said. “This case will be adjourned for half an hour while the children are interviewed. I will take the amount of bond under advisement pending the results of that interview. . . . Ms. Moreno?”
Nikki rose to her full height and stared directly into the camera.Crawford should be taking notes, she thought.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You will serve as the court’s special advocate for the children during this process.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” She sucked in her slender stomach and squared her shoulders. She would have to make it home tonight in time to watch the eleven o’clock news on the NBC affiliate. If they were smart and cared about ratings, they would use the video of her as their B roll.
She looked again at the two kids sitting all by themselves in the spectator section. The little girl was cute and prissy. She had bright eyes and curly blonde hair. She wore a tattered light blue dress and scuffed-up black dress shoes.
Her brother looked scared or ornery, Nikki could not tell. His blue pants were so short that they hiked halfway up his cowboy boots. He wore a stained white shirt and a clip-on tie. He had the biggest blue eyes Nikki had ever seen. And she thought she could detect a glint of moisture as he blinked hard to hold the tears at bay.
Those poor kids, Nikki thought. They looked so innocent and naive. And they had no clue that they were about to be manipulated by the masterful cross-examination of a lady that defense lawyers called “the Barracuda.”
Tiger felt small in the gigantic conference room with no windows and the stern-looking adults. He climbed bravely into the high-backed leather chair where he had been told to sit. His feet dangled over the front edge, not touching the floor. He tucked his hands under his legs and stared down.
He determined not to look across the table at the woman who reminded him of a mean Sunday school teacher he once had. He did sneak a glance at the pretty lady named Miss Nikki, who was sitting next to him. His mommy told him that Miss Nikki was there to help him answer a few questions.
Miss Nikki shot him a quick smile, then reached over and rubbed his head. He hated it when people rubbed his head.
“What’s your name, young man?” asked the lady sitting across the table.
I thought she already knew.
“John Paul,” he said softly, with a slight hint of an attitude, still staring down. “My friends and family call me Tiger.”
“Can I call you Tiger?” the Mean Lady asked sweetly.
Who does she think she is?
Without looking up, he shook his head no.
“Well then, John Paul, we will need to get some ground rules straight. Do you see that lady typing over there?” The Mean Lady pointed to a lady typing on a tiny little machine. Tiger snuck a quick glance. “She is writing down on paper everything you say. And it’s very important that you tell us the truth. It will be very important for me. And it will be very important for your mommy and daddy.”
The Mean Lady paused to let the weight of the responsibility settle in on him. She did not have to tell Tiger th
is was important; he could sense it. He was determined to pass this test, to get all the answers right. He knew that somehow his folks were depending on it.
“Now, do you know what it means to tell the truth?”
That’s an easy one. “Yep,” Tiger said, pleased he was off to a good start.
“Do you know what happens if you don’t tell the truth?”
“Yep.” He nodded again, clearly on a roll. “I get a spanking.”
“Who gives you a spanking, Tiger?”
The little guy was so focused on the questions that he didn’t even notice she had used his nickname. These questions were easy, and he was anxious to answer.
“My daddy.”
“Does your mommy give you spankings sometimes too?” the lady asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tiger said. “If I’m bad.”
“And does your mommy hit you with her hand, or does she use a stick like some other mommies do?”
Tiger scrunched his face. This is tricky. “Nope,” he said.
“No, she doesn’t use her hand? Or no, she doesn’t use a stick?”
He was stumped again. This time he shrugged.
“Let’s do it this way,” the sweet voice of the Mean Lady said. “What does your mommy use to spank you with?”
“A wooden spoon,” Tiger said.
“I see,” the lady said, as she made some notes on her legal pad. “And how many times does she hit you with a spoon when she spanks you?”
These questions were getting harder. Tiger didn’t know he was supposed to count.
“’Bout four or maybe six,” he said, just to be safe.
“And your dad, what does he use to spank you?”