Justice Redeemed

by Scott Pratt

  “So you can’t pay a retainer? Nothing on the front end?”

  “I’m sure my mom would help me out, but she doesn’t have a lot and I hate to ask her. I’ll pay you in installments for the rest of my life if I have to, Richie.”

  “If you don’t wind up getting a life sentence.”

  “I’m innocent. I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Even if you don’t get convicted, you’re going to be sitting in here for a year before they try you.”

  “You don’t think I’ll make bond?” I knew the answer to the question before I asked it, but I was desperate, hoping against hope that Richie would offer some encouragement, some reason to be optimistic.

  “It’s a first-degree murder case, Darren. Think about it. You’re going to walk into the arraignment Monday morning and Clancy is going to tell the judge you’re a danger to the community. The judge will look at you and say, ‘You’re charged with first-degree murder. He’s right.’ You might as well accept the fact that everything has changed. You’re not getting out of here for a long time. If they convict you, you’re going into the federal penitentiary system and you might never get out. Even if they don’t, you’re going to be suspended by the Board of Professional Responsibility and your reputation is going to be ruined. You can hope for the best, but you better start planning for the worst.”

  I sat there for a moment, stunned by the sudden realization that what he was saying was true. Prior to that day, I’d always taken my clients’ situations for granted. If they were in jail, they were in jail. No big deal to me. I was always able to walk out the door. But no more. I realized that I was in a fight for my life. If I went down on this charge, I would rot in prison. I thought about Sean and tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t speak for a couple of minutes.

  “Help me, Richie,” I finally said. “Please? Help me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and I could see he was beginning the lawyer’s process of emotionally shutting down. There would be no more empathy from Richie Fels. I felt myself beginning to grow angry. I thought Richie was my friend. We’d chased windmills together, ate and drank together, swapped war stories. We were supposed to be colleagues, but he had obviously changed. Maybe it was the years of alcohol abuse. Maybe the stress of practicing criminal defense for decades was taking a toll on him. He’d become impressed, almost enamored, with himself and his press clippings. Friendship apparently meant nothing to him because now, when I needed him more than I ever needed a friend, he was going to abandon me because I couldn’t come up with an astronomical fee.

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re not sorry.”

  “I just can’t do it if you can’t pay, Darren,” he said. “It’ll take so much time, it just wouldn’t be fair to the other people in my firm and to my other clients. Besides, you practically made me a witness when you came into the office last week. You told me you were thinking about killing the guy.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” I said, horrified that he would say something like that out loud in a jail interview room. I’d always conducted my interviews in jails under the assumption that the rooms were wired. “And I didn’t kill him.”

  “The federal defenders are good lawyers,” he said. “You’ll get a good defense.”

  “They work for the government. The United States of America signs their checks. I don’t care what you say, it’s an inherent conflict of interest.”

  “Maybe you can get one of the other lawyers in town to take it,” Richie said. “I’m sure it’ll be a highly publicized case. Somebody will want the recognition.”

  “I need a lawyer, not a glory hound.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Richie laid his hands flat on the table in front of him and pushed himself up. “This is getting more awkward by the moment. I feel badly, Darren. I really do, but I just can’t make such a huge commitment without adequate compensation.”

  “Money talks,” I said. “Right?”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  “And bullshit walks. So take your bullshit and walk. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Back in the cell, I lay on the upper bunk in the semidarkness. I could hear the constant shouting from the cellblock, and the smell of the man lying in the bunk beneath me was almost overwhelming. The guard had called him “Hillbilly,” and I could hear him breathing steadily. He hadn’t moved when I climbed into the bunk.

  Earlier, I spread the foam roll, wrapped the sheet around it, and covered it with the blanket. It offered little comfort; I could feel the cold steel of the bed frame coming through the foam. When I laid my head back on the pillow, it was the thickness of a towel.

  There was a dull ache in my stomach, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since noon, which was roughly eleven hours earlier. Had I been at home, I would have simply wandered into the kitchen, opened a cupboard or the refrigerator, and picked out something to eat. But there was no kitchen here, no refrigerators. There was only a stainless steel toilet and a sink. I had no desire to use the bathroom, but the thought of the sink made me thirsty. I sat up for a few seconds, then climbed over the side of the bunk to the floor. I bent over the sink and let the tepid water pour into my mouth. I swallowed a bit, realized it tasted metallic, and spit the rest out. I turned back to the bed and noticed that Hillbilly was standing next to the bunk. He was staring at me silently, like a predator in the night. I stared back at him, unsure of what I should do.

  “You don’t drink unless I say you can drink,” he growled in a thick, southern drawl. “You don’t shit, you don’t piss, you don’t eat, you don’t do a damned thing unless I say it’s okay.”

  I tried to maintain my stare and an air of toughness while I sized him up. He was an inch, maybe two, taller than me, but I probably outweighed him by five or ten pounds. I looked at his hands and didn’t see a weapon. I’d always heard that prisoners challenge each other on a regular basis in order to establish a hierarchy, something very similar to wild dogs in a pack, but this was a surprise. I’d been in the cell for only a couple of hours. Hillbilly and I hadn’t said a word to each other.

  “And what if I tell you to go straight to hell?” I said in a voice that wasn’t nearly as confident as I’d hoped it would be.

  He turned sideways slightly, a fighter’s angle.

  “I’m gonna give you one chance to get on your knees and ask for my forgiveness,” Hillbilly said.

  “I’m not hitting my knees for anybody.”

  He was on me in a split second. He apparently favored boxing, because he stayed on his feet and caught me with a left hook that landed close to my chin and nearly knocked me out. I stumbled back against the door and pulled my arms in for cover while he punched me in the face and the ribs. I felt my lower lip split against my teeth and one of the blows to my ribs sent such a sharp pain through me that I believed for a second I’d been stabbed.

  As I stood there with my back against the cell door, the thought of this animal beating me unconscious—and the fear of what he might do after I was unconscious—sent a surge of adrenaline rushing through me. My head cleared and I managed to get my forehead into his chest and bull rushed him back across the cell. He groaned as his lower back smashed into the steel sink and I took the opportunity to bash him in the face with my right elbow. His left hand came up and grabbed my cheek, and I could feel his thumb trying to gouge my left eye. I started trying to knee him in the groin, but the angle wasn’t right. By that time he’d slid off the sink and we were in the far corner of the cell away from the door. I managed to slip behind him and get my arms around his waist. I lifted his feet off the floor and took him down between the bed and the sink. He didn’t seem to have much experience with grappling, so I was able to control his legs and upper body while I wormed my way toward getting him into a choke hold. I got my right forearm beneath his chin, wrapped my legs around his waist, grabbed my right wrist with my left h
and, and clamped down on him like a boa constrictor. Within ten seconds, he was out. I rolled off him and stood. I noticed movement and looked at the door. Two guards were standing outside the cell. They’d apparently been watching the fight.

  “Good God awmighty, boy,” one of them said. “You done whipped Hillbilly.”

  “That’s a first,” his buddy said. “Hillbilly’s been whippin’ people on this block for years.”

  “Let me out of here,” I yelled as I beat my fist against the Plexiglas window. “Open the door. I need medical attention.”

  “You look all right to me,” one of them said.

  Just then, I felt a hand touch my shoulder and spin me around. I saw a bright flash, and everything went dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The guards left us in the cell together. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but I awakened with my head in the corner of the cell and my body twisted at an odd angle. Hillbilly was sitting on his bunk staring at me. I pushed myself up into the corner, slowly stood, and waited for him to come, but he didn’t move.

  “Show’s over,” he yelled at the guards, and they finally moved away from the cell door and went back down the stairs.

  “You ain’t bad,” Hillbilly said after they were gone. He was rubbing his chin where I’d cracked him with my elbow.

  My jaw felt like it was locked tight, I could feel both of my eyes swelling, and my rib hurt like hell.

  “I’m not asking you for permission for anything,” I said. “You’re not going to bully me.”

  He chuckled, and I could tell it hurt. He was as sore as I.

  “What?” I said. “What’s funny?”

  “You talk like a city boy. You educated?”

  “I went to college.”

  “They teach you how to survive in jail?”

  “Nah, that particular subject wasn’t in the curriculum.”

  “You did okay on your first test.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Rule Number One is don’t be anybody’s bitch. You let them, people in here will eat you alive. They’ll take your money, your commissary, your cigarettes, your stamps, anything they can get from you. You have to stand up for yourself. If you have to fight, you fight. If you don’t, you’re gonna get robbed every time you turn around.”

  “What else?” I said. Richie had been right earlier. I was stuck for at least six months, maybe a year before I even went to trial. I had no control. I knew my trial date would depend on the judge’s calendar, the US attorney’s schedule and my lawyer’s schedule. Even if I asserted my rights under the Sixth Amendment and demanded a speedy trial, courts had held that sixteen months was a reasonable delay on a murder case. I needed to learn as much as I could about how to deal with my present situation.

  “Don’t show weakness. Don’t ever show weakness. Don’t trust anybody. That means other inmates, your cellmate, and especially the guards. Don’t ask dudes why they’re in prison unless you get to know them real good. Don’t show emotion. Don’t ever stare at anybody. Don’t talk bad about another inmate because it’s going to get back to him. You can be friendly with other races, but not too friendly. Be loyal to your own race. Don’t join a gang. Stay away from drugs and booze. Don’t call anybody punk or bitch unless you’re ready to fight to the death. And if you’re in a shower with a bunch of dudes, wear boxers.”

  I felt like I should be taking notes.

  “You gay?” he said.

  “No.”

  “That’s good. If you’re lying, keep it that way. That shit you hear about people being raped in prison all the time ain’t true. Inmates will stab you, but they won’t rape you. The gays get segregated in most places, but you need to stay away from them. They ain’t nothing but drama queens, big trouble. Did you bring money for a commissary account?”

  “They picked me up at a restaurant in Knoxville. It was a surprise, out of the blue. I have maybe thirty bucks in my wallet and a credit card.”

  “You’re gonna need basic things like soap and a toothbrush and underwear and socks. You have to buy all that from the commissary, and believe me, it ain’t cheap. The food in this place is shit, so if you want anything extra to eat, you have to buy snacks from the commissary. You can put up to five hundred dollars in your account, but don’t ever tell anybody how much you have.”

  “How often do we get out of this cell?” I asked.

  “The block is maximum security, which means you must have done something pretty damned bad to get yourself put in here. We get out of the cell once a day for one hour. That’s the only time you can use the phone. The only way to call out is collect, and it’s expensive. Nobody can call in, and they won’t bring you a message. The guards are punks. Most of them are cruel; they love to pound on dudes. Don’t ask them for anything and don’t trust them.”

  I shook my head and let out a deep sigh. Twenty-three hours a day locked up in this cage with Hillbilly? My legs suddenly felt weak.

  “I’m going to get back on the bunk now,” I said. “Am I going to have to fight you again?”

  “I don’t reckon.”

  I walked over, climbed stiffly onto the steel platform, and rolled onto my back.

  “They charged me with first-degree murder,” I said after a few minutes. “But I didn’t do it.”

  There was no answer. After a couple more minutes, I said, “Why are you in here?”

  “You don’t know me that good,” Hillbilly said. “Now shut up and let me go to sleep.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’d been inside the United States District Courthouse in downtown Knoxville plenty of times, but I’d always walked freely through the front door. On this day, I was cuffed and shackled as I was hustled through a sally port and down a hallway to a holding cell.

  I’d never cared much for representing criminal defendants in federal court. The judges were all bluebloods who had far too much regard for their own intellects, and their holier-than-thou attitudes seemed to permeate the atmosphere and infect the other people who worked in the building. The United States attorney, the assistant US attorneys, the agents of the FBI and DEA, the US Marshals, even the judges’ clerks seemed to think they were a cut above everyone who didn’t spend their days serving Uncle Sam.

  When I walked through the door into the courtroom, I almost gasped. The place was packed. I’d been isolated all weekend, and other than a couple of wiseass comments from a guard on our block about me being “some hotshot lawyer,” I hadn’t given much thought to the journalistic possibilities of my situation. But as I looked around, it began to dawn on me. I was a young, white criminal defense lawyer, a local boy with a clean record, a family man. I was accused of first-degree murder. The reporters reminded me of jackals scrounging for carrion.

  The worst of it, though, was my mother. She was wearing a navy-blue business suit, her head held high, standing right behind the defense table. I mouthed, “I love you,” to her as I walked across the courtroom.

  I hadn’t heard a word from Katie, which didn’t really surprise me. The only way for me to contact her was by phone during my one hour out of the cell each day, which was usually closer to thirty minutes. I would have to call collect, and she would have to accept the charges. I was sure she wouldn’t, so I didn’t even try. To her way of thinking, what had happened to me would be nothing but an advantage for her since she knew I’d discovered her affair. She wouldn’t give a damn about what Sean thought or heard or saw on television; as a matter of fact, I felt fairly certain she had probably gleefully informed him that I’d killed someone and would most likely never return.

  But the thing that was weighing on my mind most heavily was who would wind up representing me. I’d thought about different lawyers in town, but nobody really stood out besides Richie, and he was obviously no longer an option. I couldn’t afford a heavy hitter from Nashville or Memphis, and paying a lo
w fee and hiring a bad lawyer was probably worse than having no lawyer at all. Mom didn’t have the money to hire an expensive lawyer, and even if she did, I wouldn’t have wanted her to spend it on me. I’d pretty much decided at that point that I could handle the case myself as long as they appointed me a decent mouthpiece. And Richie had been right about one thing. The federal defenders were generally excellent lawyers. The positions were highly competitive because they paid far better than state public defenders. Most of the federal defenders I’d known had been law geeks, the type who edited their law review in law school and who graduated at the top of the class and went on to clerk for federal judges.

  A marshal led me to the defense table. I looked at Ben Clancy, pink-cheeked and puffy, who was sitting at the prosecution table like a toad on a rock, acting as though he wasn’t aware I was in the room. He was wearing a shiny gray suit with a red kerchief. The kerchief had the same paisley design as the red bandana I’d used to help defeat him. The judge was already sitting on the bench. I looked up at him and felt an even deeper wave of anxiety pass over me. His name was Donnie Geer, a tall, lean, sixty-year-old egomaniac who wore wire-framed glasses and still dyed his hair red. I’d done battle with Geer several times, and in his courtroom, I’d always lost. One does not beat a federal judge on his own turf. I’d managed to get him reversed twice in the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals, however, both times on Fourth Amendment issues. He should have respected me, but instead, he loathed me.

  Geer looked down at me from his perch on high and said, “Mr. Street, it genuinely disturbs me to see you standing there.”

  “I’m not real happy about it, either, Judge,” I said.

  “You’re charged with first-degree murder,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “What have you done about retaining counsel?”

  “I spoke to an attorney, but I’m embarrassed to say I’m not going to be able to afford anyone. It’s a first-degree murder case, I’m not guilty, and we’re going to end up going to trial. The attorney I spoke to asked for a figure I couldn’t begin to pay, and given the circumstances, that price seems to be the bottom line for a competent criminal defense lawyer.”