“It doesn’t matter who covers it. Clarence Darrow would be at a loss in Judge Winston’s courtroom. He’s an old-line puss, and death on defendants.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Go down with dignity. What are you doing in the criminal courts anyway? I thought you went to Legal Aid after graduation.”
“I did—landlord-tenant, welfare, child custody cases—but eventually I found something a little more suited to my personality.”
“A big firm?”
“Not that big. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but right now I have this thing I don’t want to do.” She started looking up and down the hallway as if she were Diogenes with his lantern. “Do you happen to know someone with a clue about criminal matters who might be able to cover this for me?”
“Without preparation?”
“It won’t take much. We’d be willing to pay.”
“P-pay?” I said, trying to slow the stutter of desperation that had slipped onto my tongue. I made a show of checking my Timex. “You know, Melanie, if I push some things around, I could maybe squeeze an appearance before Judge Winston into my schedule.”
“Really, Victor? You would do that for me?”
I tried to hide the wolf in my smile. “Old friends.”
“That is so decent of you.”
“That’s me, decent to the core.”
“Now tell me, how much do you charge?”
I cocked an eye, made a quick calculation of the level of my bank account, divided by my greed, multiplied by the square root of my desperation. “What about seventy-five an hour?”
“Victor,” she said sternly, like I had been caught at something.
“Is that too much?”
“We’re professionals, we deserve to get paid commensurate with our training and experience. I won’t allow you to take a penny less than two-fifty an hour for this.”
I looked at her for a moment, wondering what had happened to Melanie Brooks, but I didn’t look too long. Gift horses are rare enough in this world as it is; I don’t give a crap about the condition of their teeth. “If you insist.”
“Oh, I do. Let me talk it over with Colin first to make sure it’s okay with him, and then we’ll brief you on the case.”
CHAPTER 6
SELMA
It was with a sense of vindication that I found myself back in Judge Winston’s courtroom with an actual honest-to-God paying client.
Commonwealth v. Frost—as common a case as ever there was. Colin Frost had been driving recklessly, weaving across the road with a busted taillight, when State Trooper Trumbull pulled his vehicle to the side. Out of the car, my client, his eyelids so heavy they were bricks, nodded off during questioning. Trumbull subsequently found drug paraphernalia in the front seat and enough scag in Colin Frost’s pocket to charge him with possession with intent to distribute. At issue today was a motion to suppress the evidence by claiming the stop-and-search was unreasonable and illegal under the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution.
I didn’t yet know how Melanie ended up with a dog case like Colin Frost’s defense, or why she was so eager to palm it off on me, but truthfully, I didn’t much care. All I really cared about was the two-fifty per I had been promised. If I had my druthers, it would be a long hearing, but that was unlikely. Judge Winston was a former prosecutor who thought the Fourth Amendment was tacked on to the Constitution by some bleeding-heart liberal do-gooder out to destroy the moral framework of the country. The case was doomed to a quick death, I figured, even with the strange piece of magic Melanie had slipped into my pocket outside the courtroom. But even so, I could feel the tingle of the magic’s power in my bones.
Before any hearing, I always like to get a sense of my audience; a trial is nothing if not theater. Melanie was sitting in the back, by the door, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, which was hard with that body and all that red. Along with Melanie, scattered about, were the usual assortment of courtroom characters, old guys passing their retirements, lawyers killing time before their next appearances, clots of folk who looked like they were lost.
There was one woman I couldn’t help but notice, even as I tried not to stare. Pale and quiet, with copper hair and green eyes heavily mascaraed and set wide apart, she was unaccountably lovely, without any of Melanie’s newfound real-estate-agent hardness. There was a moment when Colin Frost turned and nodded at her and I saw the connection and felt a stab of disappointment. Lucky bastard, although something was driving him to the needle and, with those wide green eyes, she seemed a likely possibility.
And then I saw a sight that gave me pause.
He was sitting toward the front of the peanut gallery, his thinning hair awry, the knot of his tie thick, his jacket ragged, with a bulge at the inside pocket. He leaned back with his arms over both sides of the bench, nodded at the prosecutor, scrunched his face, sniffed in a way that caused his whole body to heave, sucked his teeth.
Reading over what I have just written, I realize I’ve made him sound like a two-bit thug. He might have been two-bit, but he was not a thug. A thug I could handle—I had been threatened over the years by the lunkiest thugs in the city—but the sniffer was something far more dangerous. I had seen his ugly mug on the television, talking inside baseball about this election or that vote, spilling the dish on the city’s most prominent politicians. Harvey Sloane was the political reporter for the Philadelphia Daily News, filling the tabloid with all the city’s dirty little secrets. I looked at Sloane, looked at Melanie, looked back at Sloane.
“I’ve been advised by a reliable source,” Melanie had said to me privately before we entered the courtroom, speaking in a voice as confidential as a kiss, “that if the judge starts giving us any trouble, any trouble at all, we’re supposed to just mention Selma.”
“Selma?”
“That’s right.”
“And that should take care of everything? Like some sort of magic spell?”
“Exactly.”
“And what is your reliable source?”
“Victor, I’m surprised at you. Some sources are a matter of privilege. But the authority, I can tell you, is impeccable.”
“Selma.”
“Trust me here, Victor.”
“What kind of shady business have you fallen into, Melanie?”
She only smiled in response, a dark, clever smile that never would have flitted across her lips in her sincere youth. What had happened to Melanie Brooks?
“So it’s Selma,” I said.
“Yes, it is.”
“Are we talking the city or a woman’s name?”
“Does it matter?”
And now I was thinking about Selma as I saw Sloane sitting there. What could be about to happen in the courtroom that would tickle the fancy of a hack political reporter? And was whatever prompted his presence the same thing that had prompted Melanie Brooks to dump this case on the nearest dupe? I wondered at it all for a bit, but not too long a bit. If I am destined in this life to be a dupe, and I have learned over the years that I am, at least this time I’d be a well-paid one.
“Oyez, oyez,” called out the clerk. I turned around just as Judge Winston clambered into the courtroom and up to the bench, like a grumpy old man heedlessly wading through a sea of pigeons.
When he lifted his head and noticed me standing at the defense table, an unpleasant shock washed across his face. “Mr. Carl, what in the blazes are you doing back in my courtroom?”
“I’m here to represent Mr. Frost.”
The judge looked at Assistant District Attorney Fedders, the very ADA who had snickered at me in that same courtroom just a few minutes before. Fedders shrugged back at him.
“I thought Mr. Frost was represented by a”—the judge looked at the file—“a Ms. Brooks, from the firm of Ronin and McCall.”
“Ms. Brooks asked
me to handle the case,” I said, “based on my long experience in criminal matters. I have filed my notice of appearance with the clerk.”
The clerk stood and handed the judge my notice. He looked it over, still puzzled. “Is it acceptable to you, Mr. Frost,” he said, “to drop down and have Mr. Carl as your counsel?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” said Frost.
“I don’t know how you pulled this off, Mr. Carl,” said the judge, “and I’m not happy about it. You better not pull off anything else in my courtroom.”
“My shirt is well tucked, sir.”
“Now as I understand it, we have a frivolous motion to exclude the drugs and drug paraphernalia that are the basis of this case, is that right?”
“I object, Your Honor, I believe our case is—”
“Spare me your outrage, Mr. Carl. Are you handling this on an hourly basis?”
“My fee arrangement is—”
“That means yes. All right, Mr. Fedders,” the judge said to the prosecutor. “I’m sure Mr. Carl has more important places to be than my courtroom—they’re giving out free cheese this afternoon by the homeless shelter. Let’s get him on his way. Call your witness.”
CHAPTER 7
TROOPERGATE
Now Trooper Trumbull,” I said in my cross-examination of the arresting officer, “you testified today that the car you stopped with Mr. Frost driving was swerving wildly across the road. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Back and forth and back again?”
“That’s what swerving means.”
“And the pronounced swerving, which you described on the stand just now, was reason enough all by itself to stop the car, isn’t that right?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“But according to your testimony, that wasn’t the only reason you stopped the defendant’s car.”
“No,” he said with a smile. “There was more.”
Trooper Trumbull was in full uniform, his shoes polished, the brass on his uniform shined ready for a parade. There is the sloppy cop, the disinterested cop, the overweight cop, the corrupt cop, the earnest cop, the creepy what-the-hell-is-she-doing-with-a-gun cop, but the polished cop is a species all his own. Every answer is as perfect as the shine on his shoes, and that’s his flaw; there is nothing so brittle as someone else’s perfection.
“You also stated that the car’s rear taillight was out, isn’t that correct?”
“That is what I wrote in the report.”
“And that’s what you testified to here, in this citadel of justice. And, of course, you also believe that an unlit taillight would have been reason enough all by its lonesome to stop the car, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you put them both in the report just to be sure that no one could object to the legality of the stop. One after the other. First the light and then the swerving, like a dollop of insurance. Are you wearing a belt on that shiny uniform of yours, Trooper Trumbull?”
The prosecutor stood to object, but before he could get out a word, the judge said, “Sustained.”
“You’re not even going to wait to hear what objection Mr. Fedders had to my question?” I said.
“I didn’t need to wait,” said the judge. “I know a bum question when I hear one. Whether or not State Trooper Trumbull is wearing a belt has no bearing on this case.”
“I was just curious if in addition to his belt he’s also wearing a pair of suspenders, just to be sure his pants don’t fall down.”
“Are we done here yet, Mr. Carl?” said the judge over the gratifying laughter from the spectators.
“Just a few things more, Your Honor,” I said. “Let’s talk about this taillight, Trooper Trumbull. You say you noticed it was out as you followed Mr. Frost’s swerving car?”
“That’s right,” said Trumbull.
“And that was the reason you stopped Mr. Frost’s car.”
“That and the swerving.”
“And all you wrote in your report was that the light was out.”
“That’s correct.”
“But when the car was taken into the impoundment garage, it was noted that the taillight wasn’t just out, but that the bulb was broken and the glass was cracked.”
“That’s the way it was when I stopped it.”
“When you stopped it? Are you sure?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Now, after Mr. Frost pulled the car over, you checked what you needed to check about his license plate on the computer, right?”
“That’s routine.”
“And you found nothing of interest, because there was nothing in your report.”
“That’s right.”
“And then you got out of your car, put on your hat, took your nightstick, and headed to Mr. Frost’s car.”
“That’s the procedure.”
“And on the way, you gave the light a tap with your nightstick just to indicate that it was out.”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Well, maybe it was more of a tap then, maybe it was good swift crack, enough to break the glass and shatter the bulb and give yourself a pretty good talking point if ever you had to defend the stop in court, just like you’re defending it now.”
“That’s not correct, sir.”
“Just in case the swerving wasn’t swervy enough to pass muster with the judge as providing reasonable suspicion to warrant a stop.”
“If you’re not going to listen to my answers, then why ask the questions?”
“Indeed,” said the judge with a nod of his head.
“Then maybe you broke the light walking back to your car,” I said. “Gave it a shot after you realized you had a live one, and you wanted to make extra sure you got the conviction, like you make extra sure to spit-polish your shoes each morning.”
“Objection,” said Fedders. “Asked and answered.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “You asked your question, the witness shot down your theory. You’re done, Mr. Carl. Sit down.”
“I’m entitled to ask further questions, Your Honor. I’m making progress here.”
“Not with me. I’m ready to rule. Sit down.”
“That’s neither right nor fair,” I said. “Selma have I had my questioning cut off in such a prejudicial manner.”
As soon as I said it, I could see the judge’s head turn swiftly toward me, as if I had yanked on a chain connected to his chin. “What did you say?”
“I said, seldom have I had my questioning cut off in such a—”
“Okay, fine. And I note your exception for the record. Now sit down, Mr. Carl, I’m ready to rule.”
“Your honor, Mr. Frost has rights in this courtroom. From Bunker Hill to Omaha Beach to that bridge in Selma, Alabama, Americans have given their bodies and their lives to protect this nation’s constitutional rights. I can’t stand idly by while you shred the rights that were won in these sacred places. The blood shed in these battles for freedom calls out to all of us. From Bunker Hill to Selma—”
“Mr. Carl, what are you—”
“Selma, Your Honor. They’re calling out from Selma. And they’re telling us that attention must be paid.”
The judge stopped trying to speak over my speechifying and stared at me instead, his eyes narrowed, his jaw loose and misaligned as if he had been punched. He stared at me like he was seeing me true for the first time and what he was seeing was green and scaly.
“Your Honor, this is ridiculous, all of this,” said ADA Fedders. “I move that this motion be denied forthwith and we begin the trial immediately.”
Judge Winston ignored the protestations of the assistant district attorney as remembrance spread across the judge’s face like a stain. It was coming back to him, all of it, whatever he had done to Sel
ma, or in Selma, some travesty of lust or greed, some transgression that he had stuffed down into a forgotten crevice of his consciousness to wilt and die. And now it was all about to be dragged into the raw light of day and slapped across his face by some third-rate lawyer in a cheap suit who had fallen so low he had no choice but to hustle for clients in the judge’s very courtroom. I almost felt sorry for him, but only almost, because, really, my emotions just then were so full I didn’t have any left to squander on old Judge Winston.
I had just exercised a dark piece of political sorcery. Melanie had whispered to me a word and I had pronounced it like a magician as he waved his wand, and the effect was shockingly apparent. I had no real idea what demon I was calling forth with the incantation; wherever it came from, and whatever its true purpose, remained opaque to me. All I knew was that after a soggy period of utter helplessness I was suddenly imbued with a true and shocking power.
And I liked it, the silvery taste and electric charge that flicked my nerve endings and sent my blood surging. I liked it too damn much.
CHAPTER 8
WINNER, WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER
Selma have I seen such a brilliant display of lawyering,” said Melanie over drinks at the dark wooden bar of McCormick & Schmick’s. “It was all I could do to keep from falling on the floor, laughing.”
“I almost felt bad for the old guy,” I said.
“Don’t. I know things about Judge Winston that would make your hair turn white, the old reprobate.”
“So who was Selma?”
“You don’t really want to know, do you?”
“Maybe not.”
“Limited information is a beautiful thing in our field. Limited information keeps us all happy and safe and smiling, serene in our ignorance. All you needed to know was how to use the word. I would have thought you’d whisper something in the judge’s ear.”
“The ADA would have wanted to be part of any conversation. And with Sloane in the courtroom, I had to figure out how to say it in open court in a way that wouldn’t get a reporter suspicious. Why was Sloane there anyway?”
Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel) Page 4