The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  As the deputy droned her Miranda warning, Darla sobbed and said urgently, “Sharon…” Her expression of fear was heartbreaking. On Sharon’s right, Preston Trigg looked from Sharon to Darla and back again.

  Sharon stood. She waited for the deputy to finish, then said, “They’re arresting you, babe. For now there’s nothing we can do until we try to arrange bail.” She looked at the deputy. “Private cell, right?” The deputy nodded. Sharon said “Darla, they’ll keep you separate from the other prisoners, so you won’t have to worry about anyone bothering you. Not much consolation, but some.” She said to Breyer, “Arraignment and extradition hearing tomorrow, Milt?” She tried to keep the contempt out of her tone, but failed miserably.

  Breyer gave a hands-up shrug. “Why wait? We’ve arranged for a judge right now. I assume your client’s got the good sense to waive extradition, so why not get her back to Texas tonight?”

  Sharon fiddled, pretending to read over the arrest warrant while giving herself time to think. Breyer was as transparent as cellophane; he didn’t know his butt from either end about California statutes, so wanted to whisk Darla back to Texas, where he could depend on Kathleen Fratenio to hit the books in his behalf. But allowing her client the fastest possible route to Dallas might be to Sharon’s advantage as well; bail for a murder suspect was no cinch even in Texas, but would be totally out of the question here in L.A. during extradition proceedings. Finally Sharon said, “We may not have a problem with that.”

  “Good.” Breyer extended a hand toward the exit.

  “Shall we?”

  Cuellar opened the door and ushered Breyer and Stan Green out into the corridor. The deputies grasped Darla’s upper arms and led her away. Preston Trigg remained in his seat, looking helplessly around. Our California hired gun, Sharon thought. God, the guy was completely lost. Sharon poked her L.A. co­counsel on the shoulder. “Come on, Pres. Your public awaits you.” She followed after the deputies, reaching out impulsively to give Darla a pat on the arm.

  Sharon had traveled less than ten steps down the corridor before her blood was boiling. Reporters and cameramen lined the entire length of the hallway. A freaking setup—as the deputies had taken Darla into custody, Cuellar had sent his female assistant out to alert the media. Flashes flashed, and newshounds fired questions from every angle. Darla allowed the deputies to lead her along, keeping her head down and her eyes tightly shut.

  The situation inside the courtroom fueled Sharon’s anger even more. As she followed Darla and her captors through the rear entry, she sidestepped two reporters armed with pens and notepads. There wasn’t a single empty seat, men and women jammed together on the pews like the faithful at a Billy Graham revival.

  Sharon briefly scanned the audience, recognizing three network media stars—a guy who’d been on three or four different news mags (and who’d obviously had a face-lift or two) along with two women from competing networks who specialized in up-close-and-personal interviews. Sharon glared daggers at Milton Breyer, who avoided making eye contact as he talked in whispers to Harold Cuellar. The presence of all these celebrities could only mean that the word had gotten around. Sharon hadn’t seen a news report since early morning, but wouldn’t be surprised if Darla’s arrest had been public knowledge even as Sharon, Darla, and Preston Trigg had entered the criminal courts through the jail. Sharon looked at the jury box. Her jaws clenched.

  A television camera was set up above the staggered rows of seats. A red light glowed near the camera’s front, and the operator had swiveled the lens to point in Darla’s direction. The pasteboard sign attached to the camera read, Court TV. As Sharon watched, the cameraman thumbed the zoom switch. The deputies had paused just inside the courtroom as if choreographed to do so, and the viewing audience had a close-up shot of Darla Cowan, head down, her hands cuffed behind her. Sharon’s looked at the bench.

  The judge was a handsome black man around forty, with a thick head of hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard. He was halfway out of his seat, bending over to shake hands with another woman whom Sharon recognized. This jazzed-up black female was a regular on 20/20, and sometimes spelled the anchor on the weekend evening news.

  Preston Trigg gently bumped Sharon from behind. He mumbled, “Excuse me.” She turned to him and said, “What’s the rundown on this guy?” She jerked her head in the direction of the judge.

  Trigg gaped at the jury box camera and acted as if he hadn’t heard.

  Sharon sighed in exasperation. She yanked Trigg’s sleeve so hard that she jerked him off balance. “The judge, Pres. Who is he?”

  Trigg came out of his trance. “Uh, Drake Rudin.” He resumed his ogling of the jury box and spectator section.

  “Okay,” Sharon said, “that’s his name. He for us or against us?”

  Trigg seemed puzzled.

  Sharon said, “Is he prosecution- or defense-oriented? Seems it would be helpful knowledge to someone practicing criminal law around here.”

  “Yeah, sure. He’s on TV a lot.”

  “Obviously. He’s got his own camera crew. Look, Pres, do you know this guy, or don’t you?”

  Trigg seemed downtrodden. “He presides over some big cases.”

  Sharon felt resigned. “So you don’t know him.” “Talked to him a couple of times. He … doesn’t handle many plea bargains. Mainly he’s a trial judge.” Trigg brightened. “His daughter’s an actress. Been in a couple of soaps.”

  “Great, if we wanted an audition.” Sharon chewed her lower lip. Judge Drake Rudin gushed over the newswoman like a starstruck fan. Sharon halfway expected him to ask for her autograph. She said thoughtfully, “Likes the limelight, does he?”

  Cuellar and Breyer had passed through the gate into the bullpen area and joined the session at the bench. Stan Green slouched into a seat at the prosecution table. The deputies ushered Darla to the defense side and held a chair for her, unlocked her cuffs, and then took seats directly behind her against the rail. Darla moved as if in a trance. Sharon dreaded visiting the actress in jail. Breyer turned around, located Sharon, and beckoned.

  Sharon said, “Come on, Pres. We’re up.” Trigg looked at her. He swallowed.

  Sharon grasped the lawyer’s arm. “Come on, Pres. And don’t worry. If you faint, I’ll catch you.”

  S.O.P. would have been for Preston Trigg to introduce his out-of-state co-counsel to the judge, but Trigg seemed so choked up that Sharon doubted if he’d remember her name. She approached the bench with Trigg bringing up the rear. The judge, Milt Breyer, and Harold Cuellar all turned to her, as did the zippy 20/20 reporter. Sharon wondered if Judge Drake Rudin was going to let the newswoman attend his bench conference. This sure ain’t Kansas, Toto, Sharon thought.

  Rudin didn’t wait for the formalities. He bent forward and extended his hand. “Miss Hays. Glad to meet you in person. We share a common bond.”

  Sharon pictured the news reports with her and Darla splashed all over the nation’s TV screens. She firmly gripped the judge’s hand and said demurely, “Glad to know you, Your Honor. And this is—” She touched Preston Trigg’s elbow. Introducing a California lawyer to a judge in an L.A. courtroom seemed awkward as hell.

  Rudin ignored Trigg. He said to Sharon, “My daughter. She’s an actress.”

  Sharon didn’t know what to say. She tried, “She’s chosen a tough way to make a living. And this is—”

  “Miss Hays.” The lovely black woman interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing Sharon’s hand. “Karen Warren, Miss Hays. 20/20. Wondering if after this hearing you might have a few moments for us to do an interview.”

  Christ, Sharon thought, right here in the courtroom. Where she came from, they made the media hawks wait outside in the corridor. She said, “Glad to know you, Karen. Afraid I can’t answer that question until we’re finished here. Depends on whether my client needs me.” She turned her back on the 20/20 reporter and faced the bench
. She was going to introduce Preston Trigg come hell or high water. She said, “Your Honor, this is—”

  “She’s had a million auditions,” Judge Rudin said. “Snagged a couple of bit parts. Tough going at first.” Sharon stammered as she looked up at the bench. “My daughter,” Rudin said.

  “Oh. She’s doing well if she’s snagged any parts at all. I auditioned a hundred times before got my first role. A courier. My one line was, ‘Package for Mr. Dunston.’ Your Honor, this is Preston Trigg, my co­counsel in L.A.”

  “Look, I hate to impose on you,” Rudin said, “but if you know an agent who could help her…”

  Sharon couldn’t believe it. Right in the middle of a bench conference preceding an extradition hearing, the judge was asking for a talent agent. She watched Milt Breyer from the corner of her eye. Breyer cut his gaze toward the jury box and its television camera. Sharon sensed Darla Cowan behind her, trembling at the defense table. Whatever the result, the best thing Sharon could do for her client was get this looney tunes of a hearing over with.

  She drew a shallow breath and plunged ahead. “It’s been years since I’ve had any contacts in the entertainment business or needed an agent, Your Honor. If you’d like, I can ask Miss Cowan.” She was trying the gentlest route possible to changing the subject to Darla’s extradition, but if she thought that mentioning the defendant would put an end to the nonsense, she was mistaken. Rudin turned a hopeful look on the defense table. God, Sharon thought, this absolutely tears it. She took a step sideways, interjecting herself between the judge and Darla. Sharon said, “Mr. Trigg and I have conferred, Your Honor. We don’t think this hearing will take up much of the court’s time.”

  “Meaning you’re going to waive extradition?” Milton Breyer said. He looked disappointed.

  Sharon grabbed Preston Trigg’s coat sleeve and hauled him up beside her. “Ultimately the decision is our client’s,” Sharon said. “But it’s Mr. Trigg’s feeling we should waive. Isn’t that what you said, Mr. Trigg?” Preston Trigg opened, then closed his mouth, like a rookie actor with a severe case of stage fright. Finally he choked out, “Yeah, right.”

  The judge didn’t seem to hear. He continued to look wishfully toward Darla. He said, “This agent my daughter’s got now doesn’t—”

  “With that said,” Sharon interrupted, “with the court’s permission, we’ll now confer with our client. Two minutes, Your Honor, then we’re ready to proceed.” The court reporter’s station was in front of and to the right of the bench. Sharon noted that the round Hispanic woman sat with her hands in her lap, and as yet hadn’t recorded a word of what was going on. Sharon said, “We are on the record here, aren’t we?” The court reporter came out of her trance and poised her fingers over her keyboard.

  The judge snapped to as well; placing matters on the record was the best way to get the court’s attention in any state. Rudin said sternly, “Two minutes, counsel,” as the shorthand machine began its muted clatter. Sharon nodded, then led Preston Trigg back over to the defense table. Halfway there she chanced a look over her shoulder at the bench. Milton Breyer, pale yellow suit and all, continued to pose for Court TV. Judge Drake Rudin had assumed a more judicial posture, but still glanced occasionally toward the jury box camera. As if he’s freaking preening, Sharon thought. She returned her attention to her client. Darla’s lips were quivering and she was on the verge of tears.

  The first matter at hand was to keep Darla from breaking down completely. Once she was in her cell for the night she could cry to her heart’s content, but for Darla to lose it in public would be a disaster. Sharon sat down beside the actress, withdrew a legal pad and ballpoint from her briefcase, and slapped the pad down on the table with a solid thunk. Darla stiffened, but her terrified expression evaporated. Preston Trigg jumped as if touched by live electric wires.

  Sharon leaned close to Darla. “Right here, kid. Right now, the ordeal begins. Let’s show ‘em the stuff we’re made of.” She thought she sounded corny, but Darla Cowan was the one person in the world on whom corniness might have a positive effect. Sharon drew a shallow breath and held it.

  Darla set her lips and firmed her jaw, in full performer’s mode. Whatever the situation, she hadn’t missed the TV camera, and now turned her full gaze on the glowing red light in the jury box. “They set it up, didn’t they?” she said.

  “Right. And what we’re trying to do is make their strategy backfire. Don’t panic. You’re wrongfully accused. You’re not afraid. You’re not indignant. You have faith in the system. Got it?”

  Darla nodded firmly. “I’ll do my best. I hope I don’t scream.”

  “If you do, reserve your hysterics for in private.”

  Sharon pushed the notepad forward and handed Darla the pen. “Take notes,” Sharon said. “You’re going to be in custody at least overnight. This is an extradition proceeding, to return you to Texas to face charges. When the judge asks you, tell him you’re waiving a hearing. That way Dallas County will put you on a plane tonight, and tomorrow we can go before a Texas judge and request bail.”

  Darla looked down; then back up. “Request?”

  Sharon wanted to lie but refused to. “It’s all we can do, request. As a murder defendant, you’re not really entitled. As a public figure, I think I might get a judge to grant you bond. The bail will be high, a million or more, if we get it at all. Going to Texas tonight is your only chance.”

  Darla met Sharon’s gaze. “What are my odds?” Sharon tugged on her earlobe. “I’d say, at best, fifty­fifty. For now you’ve got to resign yourself to some time in jail. Take this pad and make a list. I don’t have to tell you the gun’s a real problem for us, Darla. I want the names of everyone besides you who has access to that beach house. Someone put the pistol in the kitchen, okay?” She squeezed Darla’s forearm. “You ready?”

  Darla looked down and said softly, “As much as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good.” Sharon stood and said to Preston Trigg, “Announce ready, Pres. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Trigg wet his lips and gaped in the direction of the bench. The judge folded his hands and regarded the defense table with a curious expression. Sharon jabbed Preston Trigg with her elbow. “Announce ready, Pres.”

  Trigg continued to stare.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Sharon thought. She raised her voice. “I think Mr. Trigg is ready now, Your Honor.” The judge waited. A pin dropped on the carpet would have sounded like an avalanche. Judge Rudin said, “Is that true, Mr. Trigg?”

  Trigg gulped as if he’d swallowed a grapefruit. He tried to speak, but only a croak came out of his mouth. Finally he drew in an enormous breath. “Yeah, right,” he finally said.

  Habit formed from nine years of practicing law gave Sharon a preconception of what was about to occur in the courtroom. An extradition waiver required only a brief appearance before the bench, a ten-yard march for Sharon and Preston Trigg with their client in tow. During the proceedings there would be very little for the lawyers to do. Mostly they’d stand mute, nodding occasionally to Darla as the judge read her rights, told her she was entitled to a hearing, and then asked if she was voluntarily waiving extradition and surrendering to Dallas County for the cross-country trek to Texas. Darla would then look Sharon a question, and Sharon would nod. Darla would waive formal hearing, the judge would commit her to the custody of Dallas County, and that would be that. Five minutes at the outside, no more.

  So ingrained was the procedure in Sharon’s psyche that when Judge Drake Rudin said, “The court calls State of Texas v. Darla Elizabeth Cowan, a hearing on the matter of extradition,” Sharon nudged Darla, tensed her knees, and had risen halfway to her feet when Rudin continued, “Does the state of California have a statement to make?” Deputy L.A. District Attorney Harold Cuellar moved front and center. Sharon relaxed and sat down, puzzled beyond words.

  Cuellar stood behind a podium, his features rela
xed in a mild expression. “Assistant District Attorney Harold Cuellar for the people of California, Your Honor.” Rudin nodded and folded his hands. “Proceed, Mr. Cuellar.”

  Sharon blinked in disbelief. As if these two hadn’t known each other for a century or so. Sharon wondered if the judge had made a mistake. This was supposed to be a waiver of hearing, a brief chitchat before the bench. No one should be making any open-court statements here, no way. Even Preston Trigg was stunned. He made as if to rise and object. Sharon reached around Darla to place a hand on Trigg’s arm. She whispered, “Let’s see what this is all about.” Trigg leaned back in his chair.

  “Actually,” Cuellar said, “we have no position in this other than to offer space to our esteemed colleague from Texas. As always, the people of California give the utmost cooperation in these matters, and I’ll now yield to Mr. Milton Breyer.” He extended a hand toward Breyer, who rose and gave a nod to the bench that was practically a bow.