“How can you tell?”
“Because you sound hopeful. After you’ve done this for a while, you’ll see that it’s almost impossible to win on a mental health defense. Even if the defendant has a major psychiatric disorder at the time.”
Brigham rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d had a headache since the previous night that the ibuprofen wasn’t touching.
“I’ll send you a subpoena for the day of trial. The county’ll cut you a check after you testify.”
She nodded and left his office.
Brigham leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The headache grew in intensity until he could feel the throbbing, as though someone was tapping his head every half a second. He heard something that he thought was part of the headache, but was too loud. It was coming from outside.
He looked out the window to see a car screeching to a halt. Tommy was thrown out, bloody and bruised. He turned around, swearing in Russian, and managed to deck the guy sitting in the backseat who’d thrown him.
Tommy faced the men in the car as they stared back at him for a moment before driving away. Brigham ran out of the office just as Tommy was sitting down in front and wiping the blood from his lips.
“You okay? What the hell happened?”
“It was nothin’,” Tommy said, out of breath. “Just a little . . . disagreement was all.”
“Who were those guys?”
He took a moment to breathe and then shook his head. “Nothin’ you need to worry yourself about. Me and those gentlemen go way back. To the old country.” He looked up at him, one of his eyes swelling shut. “How’s the murder case going?”
Brigham stared at him. “Tommy, you need a hospital.”
He waved him off and rose. “For a few bumps? I’m fine. So how’s it going?”
“We have an expert. I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be for trial.”
He nodded. “Good. Good. I’ll be there with you sometimes and I told Molly to go, too. You’ll do fine.” He put his hand on Brigham’s shoulder. “You’ll do fine.”
Tommy limped away into the office, leaving Brigham staring at his back. Through the window, he saw Scotty watching everything through his thick glasses. Scotty began to twitch again and then turned away from the window.
Twenty-two
Brigham eventually settled his DUI case with one court appearance. The prosecutor was a slim man with red hair who was playing Angry Birds on his phone while they negotiated. The prosecutor agreed to let them plead to a reduced impaired driving charge instead of a misdemeanor DUI, with just a fine and alcohol treatment and counseling.
But when Brigham walked out of the courtroom to inform his client he’d worked out a deal, he could smell the alcohol on her from across the courthouse. She was attractive and middle-aged, wearing a skintight red dress. Even as she stood there, her body swayed in a circle.
“Tanya, are you drunk?” he whispered.
“No . . . no. Are you?”
“You are, aren’t you? I can’t believe you did that.”
“I had a little with breakfast. No big deal.”
Brigham glanced back at the courtroom to make sure no one could hear. “The judge will take you into custody if she thinks you’re drunk. Look, just stay here. Lemme see if I can get it continued. You can’t take a deal if you’re impaired.”
He casually strolled back into the courtroom like nothing was wrong and bent down near where the prosecutor was sitting. “You mind if we continue this?”
“Why?”
“Just want some more time.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care. Just clear it with the judge.”
Brigham stood and buttoned the top button on his suit coat. He went out and took Tanya’s arm, and let her lean against him as he sauntered back inside. He waited with her in the back of the courtroom while the other attorneys called their cases. When they were finishing up, he slowly helped her to the podium.
“Morning, Your Honor.”
The judge, an overweight woman with rosy cheeks, eyed him. Tanya’s arm was wrapped around his waist.
“The matter of Tanya Dreschel, Your Honor.”
She paused and then pulled out the file. “What are we doing today, Counsel?”
“Just a continuance, Your Honor. Two weeks should be plenty of time.”
“Does the City stipulate?”
“Sure,” the prosecutor said.
Tanya nearly toppled over and Brigham had to pull her body against his. He put his arm around her shoulders and the judge stared at him, then shook her head. “Fine, two weeks.”
He turned around and put his arm under hers as he led her out of the courtroom. When they were outside of the building, he took out his phone and called a cab.
“I can drive,” she said, her speech slurred.
“You’re not driving anywhere. I’ll stay with you until the cab gets here. Gimme your keys.”
The cab was there in less than five minutes. As they waited, Tanya spoke of her ex-husband and her new boyfriend, who she’d met on a dating website. Brigham helped her into the cab and gave the cabbie her address. He would call her tomorrow to arrange picking up her car. The key was for a BMW.
The car was black with silver rims. Brigham couldn’t just drive it straight to the office. He had to go up to the law school and do a few laps before coming back down into the city.
When he got to the office, Scotty came scuffling out, adjusting his glasses.
“Don’t tell me you bought that.”
“No, it’s one of our clients’. She showed up drunk to court.”
“Oh,” he said, turning around and heading back in. “That happens.”
In a three-day period, Brigham read two books on cross-examination and trial preparation for felonies. With his DUI continued, he didn’t have much else to do anyway.
The theories and techniques nearly contradicted each other. He went online and discovered that there were as many theories on how to successfully conduct a cross-examination as there were lawyers. The one thing they agreed on, though, was that he should never ask a question he didn’t know the answer to.
At midnight, two days before the trial, Brigham sat alone in Molly’s living room. She was asleep in the bedroom and the television was on, turned low. Brigham stared out the windows at the city. A light rain soaked the asphalt below. There were a few homeless men on the corner, splitting a bottle of beer and laughing. They were getting wet, but didn’t appear to care.
“You okay?”
Brigham didn’t turn around to look at Molly. “Fine.”
“Come to bed.”
“I will.”
She appeared next to him and put her hands on his shoulders as the two of them took in the city. It had grown, even in just the short time Brigham had been there. It would become like every other major city soon enough: faceless. A place where people got lost and never found themselves again.
“I miss the country sometimes,” he said. “Life’s a lot simpler in a town of nine hundred.”
“Everywhere has its pros and cons.”
He turned and looked at her. “I’m going to visit her tomorrow again. What am I going to say, Molly?”
“Tell her the truth. That you don’t know how this will play out. You should probably see Vince again, too.”
“Why?”
“Prosecutors sometimes change their offers on major felonies right before trial. It’s not a fun experience for them, either.”
She kissed his cheek and went back into the bedroom. Brigham watched her. Then he turned back around, fixing his eyes on the street corner below. The homeless men were gone.
Twenty-three
The jail floors had been freshly mopped and Brigham nearly slipped in the corridor. He was wearing a different suit, a secondhand one he’d bought specifically for
the trial, and had splurged on some wingtips while at the store.
Amanda’s bandages had been removed. She had a scar on her neck. Brigham tried not to look as he sat down across from her.
They caught each other’s eyes. Brigham couldn’t help but give her a melancholy smile to let her know that he felt the pain she was feeling. She smiled back, an identical smile, and neither of them spoke for a long time.
“How are you holding up?” he said.
“I’ll be okay.”
“I’m going to have you testify. I don’t want to run through your testimony or prepare you. I want everything you say to come from the heart. Juries can see through preparation.”
“I understand.”
He looked at her hair. It had lost some of its color and appeared greasy. The roots were now a dark black. “Do you need anything?”
She swallowed. “Thank you for helping me. Even if we lose . . . I don’t know. I can just tell you care and it helps me.”
He nodded. “I bought a dress for you. Well, a woman at our office bought a dress for you, so you look good in front of the jury. We’ll have that and some makeup at court tomorrow.”
She licked her lips, which were dry and cracking. “Can I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course.”
“They cleaned out my apartment. They put everything in a storage shed. Can you get something for me from there?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“A photo. It’s of my daughter on her first day of school. She has a . . . a backpack and is smiling. Can you bring that to court for me tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “I will.”
She nodded slightly and rose. The guard slid the steel door open and she disappeared through it. Brigham stood up and waited until the door slid closed again before turning around and leaving.
The district attorney’s office was far from the jail—not even in the same city. Brigham wondered if prosecutors found it uncomfortable to actually see where they were sending people. It reminded him of something he’d read once about the Vietnam War. The ratio of rounds fired to enemy kills was the lowest of any war in American history. The soldiers knew the Vietcong were their enemy, but didn’t want to see what killing their enemy looked like. Deep down, even though reason told them what they had to do, it didn’t sit well with them.
Brigham went up to the sixth floor and waited to see Vince Dale. Fifteen minutes turned into half an hour, which turned into an hour. The secretary would apologize and tell him Vince would be right out, that he was in a meeting, or a phone consult with a detective, or screening a case that “just couldn’t wait.” It was a good hour and a half before Vince beeped his secretary and said he was ready. Just long enough to aggravate Brigham, but not long enough that he would leave. Brigham got the impression that Vince Dale knew what he was doing.
Vince’s office was as clean as Brigham remembered. Another man sat next to Vince with his legs crossed. He had a legal pad on his lap and a pen in his hand that he tapped lightly against his shoe.
“Mr. Theodore,” Vince said. “So glad you called. Please, have a seat.”
Brigham sat. “I want you to offer manslaughter, Mr. Dale. Not because I don’t want to do the trial or because I’m lazy, but because it’s the just thing to do.”
Vince smiled widely. “You sound an awful lot like a law school ethics instructor. You know why lawyers become professors, Mr. Theodore? It’s because they can’t hack it in the law. They can’t handle everything being gray and subjective. There are no right answers out in the real world and yet we have to choose an answer anyway. Some people can’t handle that. Sounds like you’re headed down that path.”
“When did it happen?”
Vince glanced to the man next to him with a grin. “When did what happen?”
“When did you lose your soul?”
The comment shouldn’t have bothered Vince Dale. But Brigham saw the flush in his cheeks and the moment—just a moment—when he fidgeted and didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Don’t get sassy with me, you little prick. I’ll bury you.”
Brigham didn’t respond. Instead, he looked over to the other man, whose eyes were darting between the two of them. “If I beat you in this trial, the news will interview me. I’ll make sure everyone knows it’s my first case as a lawyer. Rookie takes down the great Vince Dale, the next DA. Isn’t that election coming up, Vinnie?”
Vince’s countenance changed like a shadow had come over him. His cheek muscles tensed. “Get the hell outta my office.”
Brigham rose and began walking out.
“And Mr. Theodore. I’ll be there when they stick that needle in her arm. Just so you know.”
“You do what you want. It’s not my place to judge you. God will judge you, Mr. Dale.”
Brigham left the DA’s office. On the elevator, he took off his suit coat, revealing the wet sweat marks that were expanding across his chest. He mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. As he stepped off the elevators, he saw two detectives heading up. He recognized one of them as the lead detective in Amanda’s case. Brigham nodded to him, but the detective averted his eyes and got into the elevator.
As the elevator doors closed, the detective said, “I’m sorry about your client.”
Brigham stood there a moment. “Me too,” he whispered.
Twenty-four
The night of the trial, Brigham wanted to be alone, so he slept in his apartment. The couple next door fought the entire night. Something about spending money on an item for the house that shouldn’t have been spent. Plates were broken, a hole was punched in the wall, and more than once both of them threatened to kill themselves.
By six in the morning, Brigham figured he had been woken at least a dozen times. Groggy, he got up and showered. There was no food in his apartment, so he went out to an Einstein Bagels, got an orange juice and a bagel with cream cheese, and ate alone.
When he arrived at the courthouse, reporters were lined up outside. He’d seen a few of them there for the preliminary hearing, but none of them wanted to talk to him. As Brigham made his way up the courthouse steps, he could see the reporters were huddled around Vince Dale and two other assistants or attorneys. Vince was telling them about the roles of justice and the wave of crime sweeping through the county. He was painting a picture of a massive problem, and of course he was the solution.
Brigham got to the top step before a man stopped him. He was dressed in a blue jacket and wore glasses that were tilted to the side.
“You’re the attorney for Ms. Pierce, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m with KSL. I wanted to see if you’d answer some questions.”
“Sure.”
The man hit a button on a digital recorder. “How did you have a capital case fall into your lap as your first case?”
“How’d you know this was my first case?”
“You passed the Utah Bar exam just recently.”
“Oh,” he said, glancing back to Vince, who had apparently just said something funny, “that’s right. Public information. Yes, it is the first felony I’m trying by myself. I’ve discussed that with Ms. Pierce and she understands that.”
“Don’t you think it’d be wiser to step aside and let an attorney with more experience handle the case?”
“No, no I don’t. Look, I better get inside.”
“One more question. How do you intend to defend a case where five people saw your client commit the crime?”
“Magic. Excuse me.”
As he got to the metal detectors, he immediately felt foolish. That had been handled poorly, but the tone the reporter had taken was obviously critical. It didn’t sound like that was the tone being taken with Vince.
The bailiff asked him to step out of line and scanned him with the wand. Brigham
did his spin and then headed to the elevator.
Judge Ganche wasn’t out yet, and the clerks and bailiffs in the courtroom were speaking in hushed tones. They quieted down when Brigham walked in. He took his seat at the defendant’s table and the door to the holding cells opened. Amanda came out in an orange jumpsuit.
“Where’s her dress?”
“What dress?” the bailiff said.
“The dress I left here two days ago for her.”
“Hold on, I’ll check.”
The bailiff went in back. He came out five minutes later and said, “Sorry, nothin’ back there.”
“Damn it,” Brigham mumbled. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Molly.
“Hey, I’m almost there,” she answered.
“I need you to bring one of your dresses down here for Amanda.”
“What happened to the one I bought her?”
“They lost it.”
“All right. Be right there.”
Brigham sat down next to Amanda and whispered, “Don’t worry. She’s bringing a new one.”
“It’s fine, I can just wear this.”
“The jury will have already convicted you in their minds. It separates you from them. They’ll see you as an outsider. It’s important that you look like they do.”
Vince Dale finally made his way into the courtroom. A few reporters took spots in the back as he took a tissue and cleaned some dust off the prosecution table. His two assistants set up two laptops and stacks of files. They pulled out obscure legal treatises and stacked them on the table: props for the benefit of the jury.
As they waited for the judge to come out, Brigham thought of the conversation he had had with Tommy last night. With his alligator-skin cowboy boots up on his desk, Tommy took drags from a cigar and said, “Remember that words are just words. Images are what move a jury. And the most powerful are the ones they think up themselves.”
Brigham had turned that over and over in his mind all night as he listened to the couple scream at each other next door.
The judge came out just as Molly ran into the courtroom with a black dress. The bailiff took Amanda back to change as the judge turned on his computer and flipped through a few documents.
The Neon Lawyer Page 10