by Mark Gimenez
By the same author
The Colour of Law
The Abduction
The Perk
The Common Lawyer
Accused
The Governor’s Wife
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-74811-729-1
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Mark Gimenez 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
To Laurence J. (“Larry”) Rice Jr. (1954–2009), devoted husband, father, son, brother, friend, and lawyer.
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks and appreciation to David Shelley, Jade Chandler, Iain Hunt, and everyone else at Sphere/Little, Brown Book Group in London; Professor Emeritus of Law Charles E. Rice at the Notre Dame Law School, a scholar and a gentleman, for teaching me constitutional law (again); Barbara Hautanen for the Spanish translations; Joel Tarver at T Squared Design in Houston for my website and email blasts to my readers; and all of you who have emailed me. I hope to hear from you again.
The layman’s constitutional view is that what he likes is constitutional and that which he doesn’t like is unconstitutional.
—Supreme Court Justice Hugo L. Black, 1971
Contents
By the Same Author
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One Month Later
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
One Month Later
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
‘Professor—he’s got a gun!’
‘Get down, Renée.’
His young intern ducked down behind Book.
‘Goddamn outsider,’ the man holding the gun said, ‘coming to our town and stirring up trouble.’
The three young men reeked of beer and sweat and testosterone. They sat on the tailgate of an old pickup truck; crushed beer cans littered the bed behind them. The gunman sat in the middle; he was unshaven and wore a cap on backwards and overalls over a bare chest that revealed a KKK tattoo on his right biceps. He held the gun with his right hand; that would be his strong side. The second man held a three-foot length of pipe with his left hand, slapping it into his right palm like a principal about to render corporal punishment to the class bully; he was a southpaw. He sat to the gunman’s right and wore a camo cap and a wife-beater muscle shirt. The third man was empty-handed; he sat to the gunman’s left. He wore a straw cowboy hat and a Don’t Mess with Texas T-shirt. He shuffled his boots in the dirt of the parking lot.
Book took a small step to his left.
He and Renée had just eaten lunch with Ronald and his sister at a café situated hard against the railroad tracks on the black side of town. It was all laughs and good times as they walked out back to say their goodbyes and to ride home on the Harley. But they found these three hillbillies waiting for them; their truck blocked access to the motorcycle. A Confederate flag adorned the back window. Some folks simply refused to evolve. The Klan lived on in East Texas; these young men were the progeny of the three Klansmen who had made East Texas infamous by dragging a black man to his death behind their pickup in 1998. Book could imagine the same fate for Ronald. The man waved the gun at Book.
‘You and your gal there, get on that motorbike and get the hell out of our town. Me and the boys, we’re gonna take Ronnie for a ride out to the piney woods, remind him about the facts of life: black boys don’t mess with white women.’
‘I take it you boys aren’t NBA fans.’
‘You a funny goddamned Injun, ain’t you?’
Book’s coloring and coarse black hair often made people think he was at least part Native American; perhaps he was. As a boy, he would paint his face and pretend to be a great Comanche war chief. The moment did have a cowboys-and-Indians feel to it. But Book did not wear war paint that day; he did wear his hair too long for someone in his profession, jeans, boots, and a black Tommy Bahama T-shirt. These boys’ fuses were already lit and fueled by alcohol and inbred racism, but he still tried to defuse the situation.
‘Well, it’s possible I have some Comanche blood in me, but—’
‘You fixin’ to have blood on you, you don’t get on that bike, you goddamned skinny-ass Injun.’
Book stood six-one but weighed only one-seventy-five, so he was a bit on the lean side, especially compared to these three sides of beef. They were big and muscular twenty-somethings, and they had too much alcohol on board to succumb to reason or mild physical persuasion. He was thirty-five and skinny. But he did have skills.
‘Ronald,’ Book said without breaking eye contact with the gunman, ‘you and Darlene take off.’
Ronald stepped in front of his sister.
‘No way, Professor.’
‘You just got out of prison. You don’t need this.’
‘I survived seventeen years in that prison. I know how to fight. You’re a law professor.’
Ronald Westbrook had been incarcerated for the last seventeen years for a crime he did not commit: aggravated rape. Of a white woman. In East Texas. No DNA or other physical evidence of any kind had been collected or introduced at trial. But he was convicted nonetheless, guilty only of being a black man in his late twenties with tattoos covering his upper body, the same as the perpetrator. In his youth, Ronald had been a high school football star whose dream of a pro career ended with a knee injury; he had always lived on the right side of the law, but the law said he would live the rest of his life as an inmate in the state penitentiary.
He was not alone.
In the last decade, fifty innocent black men had been released from prison in Texas after being exonerated by DNA evidence. Ronald was not one of them. DNA testing was not standard police procedure seventeen years before in that small East Texas county. Ronald was convicted solely on the victim’s testimony; she pointed him out in the courtroom before the jury, as certain as a witness could be. Studies have shown that eyewitness testimony is almost always unreliable; a terrified person with a gun stuck in her face remembers almost nothing with evidentiary clarity. Fear blinds a human being. But the local district attorney sent another black man to prison and earned another term in office. Ronald Westbrook resigned himself to dying in prison.
Until his sister wrote a letter to Professor John Boo
kman.
Book and Renée rode the Harley to East Texas. They discovered that Ronald had in fact had sex with a white woman that night, but not with the victim; at the time of the alleged rape, he was in bed with Louise Parker, a respected widow in town who had met Ronald at the church where she worked. She was lonely; he was the janitor. They shared a love of the Bible and each other. But Louise could not face the social stigma she would have to endure in her small hometown if she testified to having sex with a black man. So she watched in silence as Ronald was convicted and sentenced to life.
Now it was her life that was ending.
She had terminal breast cancer. For seventeen years, she had kept her secret; and Ronald had never betrayed her. ‘Professor, I grew up in this town. I know how it is. I would’ve been sentencing her to a place worse than prison,’ he said when Book had asked, ‘Why?’ His sister knew there had been a woman, but not her color or her name; so Book and Renée played detective. They tracked Ronald’s life from the football field to the church; they learned of Louise. They went to her home, but her son, now a respected lawyer in town, refused to talk to them or allow them to talk to his mother.
They found her in the hospital.
She too refused to talk. The nurse called her son, and he called the sheriff. Book’s mind raced, trying to think of something that would get Louise to tell the truth. But the sheriff arrived and handcuffed them. Just as he pulled them to the door, Renée broke into tears and cried out to Louise.
‘My mother died without saying she was sorry!’
Louise turned her eyes to Renée and held up a weak hand to the sheriff.
‘What did she do?’
‘She cheated on my father! She cheated on us!’
Tears came to Louise. She gestured the sheriff away and Renée close.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘For what I did to Ronald.’
Louise Parker made amends before meeting her Maker. She revealed her secret on videotape. Two weeks later, Ronald Westbrook came home. His hair had turned gray, and his body had aged, but his handshake remained firm. He thanked Book, payment in full. His sister hugged Book and cried until his shirt was wet. Ronald forgave Louise before she died. They were the only witnesses to her burial; her son did not attend. There was no celebration in town upon Ronald’s return. Book had learned that most people, even good people and especially people in small towns, preferred that their past acts of injustice remain in the past. And others were just one generation removed from white hoods. Like these three men. Book addressed the gunman.
‘Ronald and Darlene are going home now.’
The gunman spat tobacco juice then stood; he was at least six-four.
‘The hell you say. See, I don’t figure you making any decisions, Injun. I believe this three-fifty-seven Magnum’s making the decisions today.’
A .357 Magnum is one of the most powerful handguns manufactured in America, which is to say, in the world. One possible future played out in Book’s mind: the gunman firing point-blank into Book’s chest, the massive piece of lead piercing his sternum, exploding through his heart, blowing a fist-sized hole in his back, then striking and killing Renée; the man then turning the gun on Ronald and Darlene ducked behind her brother. Two shots and the four of them would be dead. One shot from a .357 Magnum twenty-one years before, and Book’s father was dead.
‘Ronnie, he’s coming with us,’ the gunman said. ‘We got some unfinished business with him. And his pretty little sister.’
Darlene emerged from behind Ronald and gazed up at the gunman with a look of recognition.
‘Wait. I know you. You’re Dewey Randle. We went to school together. You were always looking at me. You didn’t do that Klan stuff back then.’
Dewey glared down at her.
‘Nig—’
He dropped his eyes. His expression softened slightly, almost as if embarrassed. His voice came out soft.
‘Black man rapes your mama, you change.’
‘It was your mama who pointed Ronald out in court, said he raped her.’
Dewey’s face and voice turned hard again. His anger spilled out.
‘It was my mama he raped. Now folks are sayin’ she’s a liar. I figure Ronnie and that dead woman, they’re the liars. Maybe we take Ronnie out to the woods, he’ll confess—or he’ll watch us do to you what he did to my mama.’
Ronald took a step toward Dewey, but Book blocked him with an outstretched arm. He locked eyes with Dewey Randle, and in his eyes Book saw the same emptiness he had seen only once before, in the eyes of a convicted killer about to be executed.
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘I got nothin’ to lose, Injun. I’m ready to die. Are you?’
‘I am.’
Dewey gave Book a bemused look. ‘You ain’t afraid of dying?’
‘I’m afraid of not living.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Not living is worse than dying.’
‘Good. ’Cause you fixin’ to die, Crazy Horse.’
‘Son … you don’t know crazy.’
Dewey raised the gun to Book’s head, all the opening he needed. His mind had already played out the three moves he would execute to disable Dewey; it all happened in less than two seconds, but the world seemed to move in slow motion as he swung his open right hand up and against Dewey’s wrist, moving the gun away from his face … the gun discharged … Renée screamed … Book swung his left arm up from the inside and grasped Dewey’s wrist … the tenets of martial arts dictated that Book’s next move would be to pull the gun hand down to the outside of his left hip, bringing Dewey’s head down and close enough to strike, but that move would also bring the gun closer to Renée … so instead, Book jerked the gun hand hard and up past his own head … which brought Dewey’s head close enough for a temple strike … Book tucked his right fist and launched himself into the taller man, slamming his right elbow into Dewey’s left temple, knocking him unconscious. The gun fell to the ground, followed by Dewey Randle. Book kicked the gun away then spun to a knife-hand-guard position to face the man with the pipe; but he addressed his intern behind him.
‘You okay, Renée?’
A timid voice from below: ‘Unh-huh.’
‘Ronald? Darlene?’
‘We’re good, Professor. But how did you …?’
The other two men’s faces told him that either the alcohol or their egos would not allow a retreat. Book blamed it on the Alamo. No self-respecting Texan—or should he say, no self-respecting drunk Texan—would surrender without a fight. The wife-beater came at Book with the length of pipe; he stepped forward with his left foot and swung as if trying to hit a home run off a high fastball … Book ducked under the pipe swinging past his head and executed a spinning sweep, whipping his left leg against the back of the man’s leg and knocking his feet out from under him, then a ridge hand strike to the bridge of his nose as the man fell over backwards. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain and cupping his broken nose as blood gushed forth. Book spun to face the third man. ‘Don’t Mess with Texas’ stood frozen over his buddies. He considered his options.
‘Don’t,’ Book said.
He didn’t.
The gunfire had brought a crowd out of the café and the sound of a distant siren. Ronald and Darlene would be safe, for now. Book turned to his intern; she was crouched on the ground as if saying a final prayer. He bent down and took her shoulders and lifted her up. She seemed to be in a state of shock.
‘Renée, it’s okay. You’re safe now. I told you I would always protect you.’
He helped her onto the back seat of the big Harley. He swung a leg over and stood the bike upright. Renée leaned into him from behind and wrapped her arms tightly around his torso; he felt her body trembling.
‘Thought you’re a law professor?’ Ronald said.
‘I am.’
‘Never seen no professor fight like that.’
‘It’s the Comanche blood.’
Boo
k shook hands with Ronald then fired up the engine, shifted into gear, and gunned the motorcycle west on the highway to Austin. He let out a war cry that would have made Crazy Horse proud.
ONE MONTH LATER
Chapter 1
‘Professor Bookman—’
‘Answer the question.’
‘But, Professor—’
‘Ms. Edwards, do you or do you not have a constitutional right to take the pill?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You don’t care if you have a right to use contraceptives?’
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a lesbian.’
Book sighed. His mind offered up a list of biting retorts—not to her lesbianism, but to her lack of interest—but he decided against uttering a word. Even a tenured law professor had to be careful with class lectures these days, when every cell phone and laptop doubled as a video camera; this morning’s lecture might be that night’s viral YouTube video. So he turned from Ms. Edwards and searched the sea of faces for another female student who might care or at least be willing to answer his question in front of the other hundred students. Most had their heads ducked behind their laptops, assured that Professor Bookman would not use his classroom authority to humiliate them in front of their peers. The days of law professors wearing bowties and suits—Book wore boots, jeans, and another Tommy Bahama T-shirt (Nothing but Net stenciled under a hammock strung between two palm trees)—and employing the Socratic method to browbeat their students were over. Students paying $30,000 a year (twice that at private schools) demanded a kinder, gentler law school experience. Consequently, Book prodded them to participate in the class debates, but he did not force it upon them. Although it seemed counter-intuitive for prospective lawyers, he knew it was not everyone’s nature to seek attention.
It was, however, Ms. Garza’s nature.
She sought attention. She demanded attention. She sat directly in front of Book on the front row to ensure his attention. She stuck her hand in the air and puffed her chest out proudly, not to show off her feminine attributes to her handsome professor but to display the message-of-the-day printed in big black letters on her white T-shirt: IF I WANTED THE GOVERNMENT IN MY WOMB, I’D FUCK A SENATOR. No doubt she had chosen her attire in honor of that day’s constitutional law topic as stated on the class syllabus: ‘The Right of Privacy and Women’s Reproductive Rights.’ Book admired Ms. Garza’s commitment to social justice, but after facing her (and her T-shirts) on the front row for fifty minutes four mornings each week for eight months, her hand always waving frantically, desperate for another opportunity to espouse her political views to the class, the new had worn off. But she remained his go-to student to ignite a class debate.