The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Well, fuck a duck, Sharon thought. Everyone had already been introduced to each other, in the pre­hearing bull session in front of the bench. Sharon stared dully at the TV camera; this baloney was posturing for the benefit of the viewing audience, pure and simple. Can’t tell the players without a program, folks, and since you’re to spend the next few months arguing this case over the breakfast table and around the office water cooler, we’ll now give you a quick rundown of who’s who. Sharon wondered whether the Court TV producer would give a signal, and the judge would make like an NFL referee and call for a commercial break. She gave Darla a reassuring pat on the arm and turned her head to the rear. The gallery spectators sat mesmerized, arms folded. Sharon noted that Karen Warren, the 20/20 reporter, had taken a seat in the front row, but wouldn’t be surprised if the beautiful newswoman should suddenly grab a mike, stroll into the bullpen, and begin a play-by-play.

  His intro finished, Cuellar marched back to the defense table, sat, and cut his eyes in the direction of the jury box. The judge acknowledged the contingent from Texas. “Greetings, Mr. Breyer. I’m Judge Drake Rudin.” Rudin turned his face partway to the camera and enunciated his name slowly and clearly.

  In the real world, Breyer should now exchange hellos with the judge and sit down. Instead, his hair a shiny blue-black in color, Grecian Formula working overtime, yellow suit and all, Breyer sauntered around behind the prosecution table, moved up, and stood behind the podium. He smiled. “We don’t often come to this gorgeous country, Your Honor. Quite a treat for us.”

  What a jackass, Sharon thought.

  “You’ve picked a lovely time of year, Counsel,” the judge said.

  “That we have, Your Honor. That we have.”

  And the rain in Spain falls mainly on the bullshit,

  Sharon thought.

  Judge Rudin leaned forward. “Are defense counsel present as well?” He looked at the defense table like a director in a Law & Order episode. In the jury box, the Court TV guy swiveled his camera around.

  Sharon didn’t know what to do. Preston Trigg took his cue and popped up. “Preston Trigg, Judge, representing Darla Cowan’s interests.” Trigg was getting with the program in a hurry.

  Rudin continued to nod. “Mr. Trigg. And this is…?” He stared at Sharon.

  If there had been a way out, Sharon would have jumped at the chance. She was as embarrassed as she’d ever been in her life. Not even last night at the restaurant, when Rob had turned her into a public spectacle, had she felt so freaking stupid. Her knees like jelly, a flush rising into her cheeks, Sharon rose. She said timidly, “Sharon Hays, Your Honor.”

  Behind her in the gallery, a woman said in a stage whisper, “As if we didn’t know.”

  Sharon wanted to crawl under the table. She was acutely conscious of Darla on her left as the actress tilted her chin upward to watch her. Sharon sat down quickly. The TV camera swiveled toward the bench. It’s almost over, Sharon thought. The public had gotten an eyeful. Now all that was left was for Darla to waive a formal hearing for the television people to fold their tents, and for the entire group to be on their way back to Texas, where the real fight would begin. “And if the court please,” Milton Breyer said, “in laying a foundation for this matter, we have a witness to present.”

  A witness? Sharon thought. A freaking witness? We’re waiving extradition; what on earth would they need a witness for? She sat back, curious to see just how far this nonsense would continue.

  “Very well, Mr. Breyer,” Rudin said. “Call your witness.”

  Sharon didn’t even know what kind of objection she could raise. She sat helplessly in place while Milton Breyer, showboating like mad, turned his profile to the television camera. “Call Detective Stan Green,” Breyer said grandly.

  Oh, goody, Sharon thought, another character introduced to the public at large. A big, dumb bozo who will now make as big an ass of himself as Milton Breyer. An idea fought its way through her anger and confusion and lodged firmly in her mind. The judge, the L.A. prosecutor, Milton Breyer, and now Stan Green, all were using this inane format for the maximum in media exposure. Wonder if there’s a way to turn these shenanigans around to Darla’s advantage, Sharon thought. There had to be. She suspected that if Fratemo was watching this horror show back in Dallas, she was on the verge of apoplexy. As Stan Green rose and approached the witness box in a hired gunslinger’s crouch, Sharon pulled a legal pad from her briefcase and began to take notes.

  So out of line was the procedure that the court reporter was fooled. The Hispanic lady wasn’t prepared to give the oath. She dug frantically around for a Bible, had Green place his hand on the book and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Green sauntered into the witness chair, faced the camera, and grinned.

  Breyer leaned his elbow on the podium and rested his chin on his lightly clenched fist. “State your name, please.”

  “Stanley Fred Green.” Green uttered the words like a player in a B movie.

  “Mmm-hmm. And what is your occupation, sir?” Breyer deepened his voice in an F. Lee Bailey impersonation. And a lousy one at that, Sharon thought.

  “I’m a homicide detective.”

  “In Dallas, Texas?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in connection with your employment, Detective Green, have you had occasion to investigate the death of one David Spencer?”

  “I’m the lead detective on the case.”

  “Meaning that you supervise the collection of evidence—”

  “Yes.”

  “—the examination of the crime scene, the interviewing of possible witnesses—”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “—the removal of the body to the medical examiner’s office—”

  “Your Honor.” Sharon was on her feet, unable to stand this joke of a proceeding any longer. “Your Honor, if it will save time, we will stipulate that Detective Green is in charge of the investigation. We’d ask, however, that Mr. Breyer make it clear just where this is going. I’d remind the court that we’re not at trial here.”

  Judge Rudin glared at her, all friendliness gone from his posture. “I believe I’m aware of what’s going on in my court, miss.”

  So am I, Sharon thought. You’re turning your courtroom into a movie set, trying to sear your own image into the public conscience, you silly…She forced herself to calm down. Rudin was, after all, in charge, and showing him up on national TV wasn’t to her best interest—or to Darla’s, whose interest this was all supposed to be about. Sharon continued in a more subdued voice, “I apologize for any incorrect inference, Your Honor. I would point out, however, that we’ve already agreed to waive a hearing on extradition. Miss Cowan is perfectly willing to—”

  “You are out of order, Miss Hays. Sit down.” Rudin flicked his fingers over the sleeve of his robe.

  Sharon’s teeth clicked in astonishment. She took her seat in a huff. She’d done her best to move the hearing along, and Rudin had treated her like some bit player who’d forgotten her lines. Which in the judge’s eyes, she was. Shut up, dearie, we’re shooting a scene here.

  Breyer regarded Sharon with an obvious smirk, then said to Green, “During your investigation, Detective, did you run across any information, evidence, whatever, which caused you to suspect someone of this hideous crime?”

  The word “hideous” was entirely out of line, and Sharon nearly objected on general principles. She opened, then closed her mouth.

  “I did,” Green said.

  “And is that person here in the courtroom?”

  “She is.”

  “And could you point this person out to the court?”

  Sharon nearly objected again. Stan Green wasn’t personally acquainted with Darla and therefore wasn’t qualified to make a positive 10, but what was the use in objecting? Rudin might even sustain, but so what? Anyone in the countr
y who didn’t know the accused in this case had been under a rock for the past week or so. As Sharon sighed softly, Preston Trigg leaped to his feet. “Objection,” he said loudly.

  Sharon laid down her pen and drummed her fingers. “Grounds?” Rudin asked. He sat forward, taking center stage. If Trigg keeps objecting so that the judge can garner plenty of screen time, Sharon thought, then old Pres might receive a couple of bucks under the table as a reward.

  “I’ll voir dire the witness, Your Honor,” Trigg said forcefully. He turned a hostile glare on the witness box. “Detective Green, have you ever met Darla Cowan, the defendant in this case?” He expansively held out a hand in Darla’s direction.

  Great, Sharon thought, now the defense lawyer has saved the prosecution the trouble of identifying the suspect. Jesus Christ, Preston Trigg was every bit as caught up in the glamour of being on TV as were Milton Breyer and the rest of the gang. She would have grabbed Trigg’s coat sleeve and yanked him down, but that would have been more playacting for the viewing audience.

  “Never in person,” Green said. “Seen her movies.”

  “Never in person.” Trigg threw a look at the bench, his expression as if he’d struck gold. “Our objection stands, Your Honor.”

  Rudin assumed a thoughtful look, withdrew an old­ timey pocket watch from his robe and wound the stem. Oh, Jesus, Sharon thought, I’ve seen this one, and so has everyone else. Anatomy of a Murder, where the judge allows Jimmy Stewart to get into the issue of Mrs. Manion’s panties. The guy playing the role was a real-life judge, Sharon recalled, and the click­click-click of the winding pocket watch was amplified for dramatic effect. She suspected that Rudin had a tape of the old sixties flick, and had watched it last night in preparation for his own appearance on the network. Finally Rudin said, “Sustained,” and dropped the watch into his pocket. In the jury box, the camera clicked and whirred. Trigg sat down with a satisfied look and glanced at Sharon for approval. Sharon ignored the California lawyer and picked up her pen. She wondered if the people out in viewerland were sufficiently on the edge of their seat as yet for this joke of a performance to draw to a close.

  Apparently not. Breyer made a big to-do of rummaging through a pile of notes, as if Trigg’s objection had upset his train of thought. He looked up at the witness. “But, without identifying this person, Detective Green, do you have a suspect?”

  Green turned partway to the camera. “Yes.”

  “And who is this person?”

  “Darla Cowan.”

  Big surprise, Sharon thought. She wondered if the television image included some heavy background music.

  Breyer now came up with a typewritten sheet of paper. Two or three copies, in fact, one of which he dropped on the defense table and another of which he carried up to set before the judge. Sharon picked up the copy and read. God, the arrest warrant, which Breyer had already served just prior to the deputies taking Darla into custody. Putting the out-of-state warrant into evidence was necessary in an extradition hearing, but the defense had already announced that it was waiving the freaking hearing. She was seething, and suspected that the expression on her face said as much.

  Judge Rudin read over the warrant and looked up at the defense side. “Any objection?”

  Sharon contemptuously allowed her copy to flutter to the table, and didn’t say anything. Preston Trigg moved as if to rise. Sharon reached around Darla and poked the California attorney with a stiffened fore-finger. Trigg sagged in his chair.

  Rudin said in a monotone, “No objection. Admitted, then.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Breyer said grandly, then flopped his final copy of the warrant down in front of the witness box. “Detective Green,” Breyer said, “I ask if you will please look over this piece of evidence and tell the court if you can identify it.”

  Now it was Green’s turn to make a major production of the simple act of picking up and reading the warrant. He did so with a studied frown. Finally he said, “It’s the probable-cause warrant for Darla Cowan’s arrest.”

  “From a Texas court?”

  “Yes.”

  Breyer strolled halfway to the podium as if deep in thought. “Meaning, Detective, that a judge back in the Lone Star state has gone over your affidavit, and has agreed that there is probable cause to arrest the defendant?”

  “That’s right,” Green said.

  “And with this warrant, could you arrest the suspect if she was in Texas?”

  “I could.”

  “Since the suspect is in California, has this warrant gone through the proper channels to have the suspect arrested in this state?”

  Green examined the warrant again. “It would appear so.”

  Which answer was subject to objection, Sharon knew, because Green couldn’t possibly know California procedure for serving the warrant, but which objection would be as pointless as all the other freaking objections which came to mind. Sharon stayed mute, and prepared to grab Preston Trigg’s collar if he made a move to get up. Trigg remained in his chair. Sharon returned her attention to the front.

  Breyer went back to the podium and rustled through his notes, which Sharon would bet her bottom dollar consisted of doodlings and hen scratchings.

  Without Kathleen Fraterno to back him up, Breyer was helpless. Finally he smiled at the bench. “That’s all, Your Honor,” he said, and retreated to his seat at the prosecution table. Harold Cuellar whispered something in Breyer’s ear. Both prosecutors grinned.

  Rudin addressed the defense side. “Cross?”

  Before Sharon could speak, Trigg leaped to his feet. “Waive cross, Your Honor.” Sharon breathed a sigh of relief that her co-counsel hadn’t launched into oratory.

  “Very well, the witness is excused,” Rudin droned. Then, after Green had climbed down and ambled back to the prosecution table, the judge said, “Is the defense waiving formal extradition?”

  We sure are, Sharon thought, which makes the twenty-minute freak show we’ve just witnessed a waste of time. She smiled. Preston Trigg stood up and said, “That’s my understanding, Judge.”

  “Defendant will rise, then.”

  Darla looked fearfully at Sharon. Sharon nodded, grasped Darla’s elbow and helped the actress to her feet. At long last, getting it over with.

  “Miss Cowan, are you under advice of counsel?” Rudin asked.

  There was a tremor in Darla’s voice, her words barely audible. “Yes, sir.”

  Sharon looked at the TV camera, the judge, the prosecution table, and back at the camera again. All this posturing and strutting. A lightbulb flashed inside her head. Her eyes widened.

  Rudtin continued as if reading from a script. “And has counsel advised you that if you waive your right to a hearing, the state of Texas will transport you to Dallas for trial on murder charges, and that once you waive your right to this hearing, there is no avenue available for you to retract this waiver?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a tightness in Sharon’s throat. Even now, with all eyes on the judge and defendant, Breyer was watching the TV camera as if looking for a way to upstage the main performers. Stan Green appeared to be watching the judge, but his jaw was bunched more than normal as he gave the camera a steely-eyed profile shot. Sharon wondered if … God, if …

  “And given this information, Miss Cowan,” the judge said, “is it your desire to waive the hearing to which you are entitled prior to extradition?”

  Sharon made up her mind. Okay, you want a circus? We’ll give you a three-ringer with a trapeze act.

  Darla opened her mouth to answer.

  Sharon squeezed the actress’s arm. Darla paused and turned to her. Sharon leaned over and whispered,

  “Say no, Darla.”

  Darla’s lips parted in shock.

  “I’ll have to explain later,” Sharon said softly. “Repeat after me. ‘Your Honor, I do
not waive this right, and request a hearing on the matter forthwith.’” She wondered if impulse had gotten the best of her. If it had, she was about to be the biggest fool since Darden offered O.J, the bloody gloves.

  Darla sighed in frustration, in the same manner she used to inventing displeasure over last-minute script changes. She faced the bench, the thespian within her taking over, and repeated Sharon’s words clearly and forcefully. When she’d finished, she cut her gaze in Sharon’s direction. Sharon gave an encouraging nod. There was a nervous rustling in the gallery, the hub­bub of muted conversation punctuated by the whisper of nylon as women uncrossed and recrossed their legs.

  Rudin gaped in obvious surprise. “Does the court understand that you’re not waiving your right to a hearing, Miss Cowan?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.” Darla required no prompting now; her expression even showed faint pleasure, leaving ‘em with something to think about, the star of the show relishing her delivery of the spin­around line.

  Rudin looked sternly at Preston Trigg. “I thought we’d conferred, Counsel. Did I miss something?”

  Trigg threw Sharon a helpless glance. She spoke up. “It’s Miss Cowan’s decision to make. While I confess we’re a bit eleventh-hour here, I did prompt her. We’re requesting a hearing, Judge.” She ignored Milton Breyer’s murmur of surprise.

  Rudin beckoned. Milton Breyer, Harold Cuellar, and Preston Trigg rushed the bench as Sharon hung back and watched them. She was looking for a reaction, and boy, did she ever get one. Breyer was smiling openly, as were Judge Rudin and Preston Trigg, and L.A. prosecutor Cuellar seemed pleased as well. Gives you more opportunity to strut your stuff over the networks, guys, Sharon thought. She motioned for Darla to have a seat, then came around the defense table and leisurely approached the bench conference. Her thoughts were fifteen hundred miles away, and she mentally winced. She was in for a dressing-down from Russell Black that would likely turn her ears blue. You’ll just have to hear me out, old boss, she thought. There’s a method to this madness which will require some explaining. She reached the area before the judge and stood with her chin tilted up in her best posture of innocence.