Her Kind of Case: A Lee Isaacs, Esq. Novel

by Jeanne Winer

  “And so, for all of the above reasons, I find that the defendant’s statements were voluntary and that the DA may use those statements to impeach the defendant if, and only if, he chooses to take the stand. Thank you everyone. This court now stands in recess.” Without looking at either party, the judge gathered his notes and left. A few seconds later, the lights in the room were dimmed.

  Lee sat very still, her face impassive.

  “So we lost, right?” Jeremy asked her.

  “Well, they can’t bring up your statements in their case-in-chief, which is helpful, but they can bring them up if you take the stand.”

  “Do I have to take the stand?” But he already knew the answer.

  “If you want to win,” she confirmed.

  “So the jury will hear what I told the detective?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “And my-my brothers are going to say I’m guilty?”

  “It’s what coyotes do.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Phil muttered. “It’ll be a great appellate issue if we lose.”

  “We won’t,” Carla said behind them. “We’ve pulled out cases worse than this. What do we do now, boss?”

  Good old Carla, Lee thought, finally managing to smile.

  “Well, first of all, we find a witness who saw Jeremy and Sam together, then we make sure that Jeremy’s mother will testify, and then we prepare for trial. With a little luck and a huge amount of work, we’ll win.” Because there was no Plan B.

  Or was there? Out of the corner of her eye, Lee saw Dan approaching. She told everyone to be quiet and waited until he was a few feet away from them.

  “Hi, Dan. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Listen, at the risk of sounding like I never mean anything I say, I’m hereby re-offering your client thirty years. You have twenty-four hours to accept. After that, I’m done.”

  “Except Judge Samuels doesn’t take deals after motions have been litigated.”

  “That’s generally true,” Dan said. “But he’ll make an exception for your client. I just asked him.”

  “Okay, then we’ll think about it.” They wouldn’t take it, of course, but it never hurt to keep the prosecutor guessing.

  Tomorrow, she had back-to-back hearings from eight till noon. Tonight, she was supposed to teach an advanced weapons class at the dojo. Maybe she could get Michael to stand in for her while she spent the evening deconstructing the hearing with her client.

  “Um, I’ll take it,” Jeremy said, scraping his chair back from the table. “I’ll take the thirty years.”

  Everyone stared at him, including Dan.

  Mr. Clean, who was standing a couple of feet away, walked up to Jeremy and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, why not discuss it with your lawyer first?”

  “It won’t help. I’m-I’m just not strong enough. So I’d better take the deal.”

  “Which would be totally fine,” Lee assured him. “If you decide to plead, everyone including me will respect that. But let’s at least talk for a moment. I want to understand your reasoning, that’s all. I’m sure the DA can wait a few more minutes, right?” She glanced at Dan, who reluctantly nodded. “Okay, so let’s just sit here and go over it. Can everyone give us some space?”

  Carla, Phil, and Mr. Clean immediately jumped up and hurried toward the judge’s dais while Dan headed in the opposite direction. Once they were alone, Lee moved her chair closer. Ideally, she would have a conversation as important as this one in an intimate setting with no time constraints. But when her clients couldn’t make bail, her options were limited to strange, impersonal, and always depressing places. A shadowy courtroom at the end of the day was better than most of them.

  “So, first of all,” she whispered, “it’s perfectly okay if you’re scared. Anyone in your place would be. It’s only natural.”

  “You wouldn’t be.” He was gazing down at his ink stained fingers.

  “Jeremy, look at me. Of course I would.” When he looked up, she smiled reassuringly, but he was shaking his head.

  “No, you’re just saying that to try and make me feel better. But I’m not like you. I’m a ninety-eight pound weakling, just like you said. I won’t hold up when Mr. Andrews starts questioning me. So I’d better take the deal.”

  “And if that’s your ultimate decision, I’ll honor it. But to be clear, you’re not a ninety-eight pound weakling. I only said that to get you to start eating. I think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever represented.”

  “You don’t know me then. I’m the opposite of brave, and I would just end up disappointing you.”

  “That’s impossible. As long as you did your best, I’d be completely satisfied. Everyone gets scared. It doesn’t mean you should necessarily take the deal.”

  “Okay, so like what are you scared of?”

  “What difference would that make? Besides, this isn’t about other people. It’s about you and whether you want to fight the case or take a deal for thirty years. The decision is yours, but it’s a life-changing one that shouldn’t be made without lots of discussion. Why don’t we postpone this until tomorrow? We can spend tonight going over all the pros and cons.”

  “No.” He rubbed his eyes, smearing more ink on his face. “It won’t help. I don’t have what it takes to fight. I-I barely have what it takes to live. Inside my head, I just keep thinking about Sam and how I’ll never be happy again.”

  “You’re grieving, but those feelings won’t last forever. Trust me.”

  “I-I want to, Ms. Isaacs, but I just don’t feel like I can. I’m not even sure I know how.” He was looking right at her now. “So I think I’ll take the deal.” Whatever uncertainty he might have felt earlier was gone.

  “I see. Well, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind. Are you sure?”

  “I think so. Yeah.”

  “Then I’ll tell Mr. Andrews.” She glanced around the courtroom. Dan was sitting in the back row, reading the newspaper. “Dan,” she called. “My client will take the deal. When can we set it?”

  “Next Monday at four. That’s when the judge has time.” He stood up and made his way to the aisle. “I’ll go tell him now. I didn’t expect him to take it on the spot.”

  Carla and Phil looked shocked but of course didn’t comment.

  After the case was set for a change of plea, everyone left except Carla, who for once seemed at a loss for words. She kept straightening her skirt and brushing invisible lint off her sweater.

  “So that’s it?” she finally asked Lee.

  “That’s it.”

  “Well, maybe it’s for the best.” She was trying to look hopeful.

  “Right. I’ll see you next Monday.”

  After her investigator left, Lee packed up her rolling briefcase, looked around the empty courtroom, then sat down to think. Her client had decided to plead. Although she’d promised to respect his decision, should she try one more time to dissuade him?

  Like all baby lawyers, Lee had memorized the most important sections of the American Bar Association’s Standards for Criminal Justice and could recite them almost verbatim. According to one of the standards, certain decisions relating to the conduct of the case were ultimately for the accused, and others were ultimately for the defense counsel.

  After consulting with his lawyer, an accused had the right to decide what pleas to enter, whether to accept a plea agreement, whether to waive a jury trial, whether to testify in his own behalf, and whether to appeal. Counsel was free, of course, to engage in fair persuasion and to urge the client to follow her advice. Ultimately, however, because of the fundamental nature of these decisions, the accused had to make the determination himself.

  Jeremy was no longer suicidal. He was immature, but he wasn’t incompetent. His confession had just been ruled admissible. Objectively, the evidence against him was more than sufficient to convict him. To chip away at what little confidence he had in the rightness of his decision would be selfish, inappropriate, and
possibly unethical. She would not do it.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dinner on Saturday night was superb. Her friends made roast chicken, steamed artichokes, and salad followed by a platter of cheeses that looked moldy but were of course delicious.

  Lee hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she started eating. As she dug in, she thought of Jeremy wolfing down sandwiches at the police station and then asking if there were any more. Since the motions hearing three days ago, he’d been almost constantly on her mind: the way he shrugged, the way he giggled, the way his knees bounced when he was nervous, the gentle but unmistakable way he’d said good-bye to Ethan and their shared childhood. How he’d metamorphosed into what her father would term a mensch, a decent, upright, honorable person. No longer a kid, but not quite yet an adult. Kid interruptus.

  As she sipped some of Bobby’s excellent Merlot, she realized she felt proud of her client—he’d had to make a tough decision—as well as terribly sad. But that was the price of caring. In time, she’d get over it; she always did. The tough cases broke her heart and, what? Made her stronger? More compassionate? So far, yes, but they also took a toll that Lee had always gladly, carelessly accepted. Was there a limit? Possibly, but she hadn’t reached it yet. Or had she?

  “Lee?” Bobby asked.

  He was holding the bottle of Merlot and pointing at her glass, which was almost empty. He was wearing one of his lovely cashmere sweaters and a pair of pleated khaki pants, which fit him perfectly. Mark, as usual, wore loose jeans and a faded denim shirt. Both men were still what Paul called lookers.

  “I’d better not,” she answered. She’d already had two glasses and felt moderately buzzed.

  “You could spend the night here,” Bobby said.

  “Thanks. Hey, have I told you both lately how much I appreciate your friendship?”

  “Uh-oh,” Mark said. “It’s worse than we thought. She really is in the dumps.”

  “That’s not why I said it,” she replied, draining the last of her wine. “Look, I’m sad and disappointed but I’ll be fine. I’m thinking about taking a sabbatical.”

  “Really?” Bobby asked.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I haven’t taken any real time off in years. I’m thinking about heading east, visiting my father, and then traveling around New England. I haven’t been to Maine since I was twenty.” She set her glass on the table. “Who knows? Maybe after that, I’ll join your next trek in the Himalayas. If you’ll have me.”

  “Sounds like you’re thinking about retiring,” Mark said.

  Was she? The idea of never being responsible for another person’s fate sounded superficially pleasant, but then her mind went blank. Who would she be if she weren’t a lawyer?

  “I can’t think that far,” she admitted.

  “You don’t have to,” Bobby said, standing up. “Come on. There’s brandy in the living room.”

  After they’d settled into their respective places—Mark in his rocking chair, Lee on the couch with Bobby sitting too close to her—Mark poured some caramel-colored liquor into three identical snifters and passed them around.

  Lifting her glass, Lee said, “Here’s to the end of something and the beginning of something else.” Hell, in less than two months, she’d be sixty. According to the prevailing culture, she was a crone now, in the final chapters of her life. Time to make a few changes.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Bobby asked her.

  “Absolutely.”

  Both men looked skeptical.

  Outside the picture window, she could see the dark outlines of Spruce trees surrounding the house. Up here, at seven thousand feet, it still felt like winter, but down in Boulder, which was seventeen hundred feet lower, everything was beginning to bloom. In another week, the lilacs in front of her house would be out and then, after that, it would be summer. Jeremy would have already gone to prison and the people who’d cared for him, including his lawyer, would still be grieving but becoming more and more resigned to his absence. The big Oh Well.

  She sighed, then stood up and walked toward the kitchen, her gait a little unsteady from too much alcohol.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Bobby asked. “It’s only eight-thirty.”

  “Just getting a drink of water.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Lee rolled her eyes. His concern was beginning to chafe. When she reached the kitchen sink, she poured herself a large glass of water and drank it in one gulp. A few seconds later, she drank another. Better. In a couple of hours, she’d be able to drive home safely without worrying about being stopped. Cops just loved arresting lawyers.

  She ran her hand along the black granite counters, admiring their cool sophistication, and then glanced around the room. Everything, from the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator to the automatic espresso maker, matched perfectly. A bit too sterile for her taste, but it was beautiful. Hey, if she stopped lawyering and got tired of traveling, she could always remodel her kitchen: the time-honored middle class response to existential angst. For a nanosecond, she actually considered it.

  “Do you want to watch a movie?” Bobby called.

  “Sure.”

  “Happy or sad?”

  Whatever she said would be telling. She walked back into the living room. Both men were standing in front of a black metal cabinet, scanning through a large collection of DVDs.

  “Sad,” she said decisively.

  “Good,” Mark replied.

  “Why is that good?” Bobby asked.

  “She needs to wallow.”

  “I’m standing right here,” Lee told them. “I can hear you.” But she couldn’t help smiling.

  “Hey,” Mark said, picking out one of the DVDs, “how about Philadelphia? We haven’t seen Tom Hanks die of AIDS in a while.”

  “Sounds good,” Lee said, dropping onto the couch. A moment later, Bobby sat down next to her. After the movie started, Mark squeezed in on the other side of her.

  “I can’t breathe,” she complained, but as usual they ignored her.

  At a quarter to eleven, both men walked her to the door. As she headed out, she promised to call them Monday night after Jeremy’s plea hearing. On the drive home, she thought about the movie, which had been one of the first mainstream Hollywood films to acknowledge the AIDS crisis and homophobia. It had come out in 1993, the year before Jeremy was born. He would never see the film, never hear the haunting aria sung by Maria Callas that so famously comforted the main character. The list of all he’d miss was staggering. The best-case scenario: He’d survive the way he had in Denver. Find someone not too awful to protect him and eventually learn to fit in. She turned onto Broadway, passed a barefoot man wearing a blanket, and stopped to give him some money.

  On Monday, her client would be sentenced to thirty years and that would be that, a small-time miscarriage of justice in a system that worked moderately well but wasn’t perfect. On Tuesday, she had a preliminary hearing on a kidnapping case, a probation revocation hearing, and two run-of-the-mill sentencings. No haunting arias, just business as usual.

  “The Court calls People v. Matthews, 11CR1059.”

  Lee walked to the podium and waited for Jeremy to join her.

  “Good afternoon, Judge. For the record, Lee Isaacs appearing on behalf of Jeremy Matthews, who is present and standing next to me at the podium.”

  Dan, smiling broadly, stood up and said, “Your Honor, Dan Andrews for the prosecution. As the Court knows from last week, we’ve reached an agreement in the case. In exchange for a dismissal of count one, the defendant will be entering a guilty plea to an added count two, second-degree murder.”

  “Is that your understanding, Ms. Isaacs?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. In addition, both parties will be stipulating to a sentence of thirty years in the Department of Corrections.”

  “Very well.”

  Jeremy was bouncing from foot to foot. Lee put a hand on his shoulder to se
ttle him.

  “Everything’s all right,” she whispered. Hardly, but it seemed to calm him down. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a white button-down shirt Mr. Clean had bought him. He’d combed his thick brown hair with water and smelled like Listerine, a boy on his first (and last) date.

  Judge Samuels flipped through a sheaf of stapled papers. When he was finished, he selected a single grape from a bowl in front of him, rolled it between his fingers, and finally ate it.

  “Mr. Matthews, do you understand the terms of your plea bargain?”

  “Yes sir,” Jeremy mumbled.

  “You need to speak loud enough so that the court reporter can hear your answers and record them.”

  “Yes,” Jeremy said, louder.

  “Good.” The judge smiled and then slipped on a pair of glasses. “So, first, we’ll go over all your rights to make sure you understand them. These are the rights you’ll be giving up by pleading guilty. Then, we’ll go over the elements of second-degree murder. You need to understand everything I tell you. If you have any questions, ask your lawyer.”

  “Okay,” Jeremy said and then glanced at Lee. He looked scared but determined.

  Ten minutes later, the colloquy was almost finished. The advisement had been careful and thorough, what everyone in the biz would call bombproof. If her client changed his mind later, any post-conviction motion to withdraw his plea would fail.

  “So,” the judge said, “any questions before I take your plea?”

  Jeremy shook his head.

  “Again, you have to say yes or no, so the court reporter can record your answer.”

  “Sorry, no,” Jeremy said, sounding a little out of breath.

  Lee stood quietly next to her client. Soon it would be over. Mr. Clean, with his kind face and huge arms, would escort Jeremy back to his cell. Later, tonight or tomorrow, he’d be taken to the Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center for processing before being placed at one of the permanent facilities in the system. He would be terrified. Lee moved closer to her client, willing him to breathe.