A Gambler's Jury

by Victor Methos

  6

  Whenever I accepted a new case, the first thing I did was bring the client in for a full vetting. I’d have them run through their version of events two or three times, sometimes more if I felt they were bullshitting me. It served several purposes, the two most important being that I could get a sense of how a jury would see them—once I’d spent time with a client my view of them would be tainted, so the beginning of the case was the best time to stand in the shoes of the jury—and that they could begin to see the holes in their nonsensical stories. The stories, through each iteration, would usually change.

  I wouldn’t do that with Teddy. I had a feeling I’d gotten what I could from him. So I just called his mother and told her I would accept the case.

  “How much will you charge, Ms. Rollins?” she said.

  “Normally I’d ask for a ten-thousand flat fee.”

  “I don’t have that much. We have six thousand two hundred in our savings. You can have it all if you’ll do it.”

  I sighed. On the one hand, it was never good to let a client determine the price of a case. They got a sense of entitlement, and there’d be things down the road that they would feel like they had a say in that they didn’t or shouldn’t. They had to know I was in charge, and the easiest way to show that was to not budge on price. Still, it’d been fairly slow the past month and this was only a juvenile case. I guessed that I would put in about twenty hours’ work for that six grand.

  “Okay, six it is. I’ll start today. My secretary will email you a representation agreement. I’d like both you and your husband to sign it.”

  “Okay. Thank you so much for this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I hung up and flipped on my computer. I checked my spreadsheet with all my open cases. I currently had seventy-one, sixty-five of which would be settled. Another five were still under investigation but settlement offers were in the works. One had just signed up and hadn’t had a court date yet. That meant I could spend some hours on Teddy’s case in the next couple of days.

  I had Kelly draft an appearance as counsel of record, letting the court know I was Teddy’s attorney, and send it to the prosecutor’s office. Though the case hadn’t been filed yet, they would send me the discovery—the evidence—as soon as it was ready. Then I called my investigator and told him I had something new for him. It sounded like he was busy, but he still said he would drop everything and come by.

  Within twenty minutes, Will Dylan stood at my door. He was lean with slicked-back brunette hair and always reminded me of a good-looking Wall Street banker who actually had a sense of humor but without the drug addiction.

  “What’ve you got for me, my pasty-white friend?” he said.

  “That shit’s racist right there, Will.”

  “Hey, I’m a quarter Irish American. I know what it’s like to be oppressed, so I can say things like that.”

  “The only time you’ve ever been oppressed is when they asked your mom to leave a buffet because she ate all the pie.”

  “That was unjust treatment. It said ‘all you can eat.’ And I’m still hurt you wouldn’t sue them.” He sat across from me. “What do you got?”

  “Drug distribution by a juvenile. Here’s the kicker: the client is mentally challenged. I think his neighbor used him to try to get this drug deal done and things went bad.”

  “He’s retarded and they’re still going forward?”

  “Seems so. Not sure ‘retarded’ is PC anymore, by the way.”

  He shrugged and picked up the case file on my desk and tossed it back when he saw it held no reports. “I’ll interview the codefendants. That’s probably a good place to start. Send me the police reports as soon as you got ’em.”

  “I will. Also, check out the criminal histories of all the codefendants.”

  “What is this, amateur hour? I’ve done a few of these, you know.”

  “I know. Sorry. I just want this case over and done with as quickly as possible.”

  “Why? Is the client an asshole?”

  “No, not at all. Just don’t want to spend too much time.”

  He exhaled. “I’ll get it done quick. I’m still moving to Fiji.”

  “That’s become a real thing, huh?”

  “That’s right, baby. I’m leaving the rat race, opening a little bar like my dad owned in Iowa, and spending my days on white sand.” He rose. “Well, I’ll get to it. So you’re still not wanting to move to Fiji with me, huh?”

  “Afraid not. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Well, the offer’s always open. I could use a best friend over there. I gotta run. Catch ya later.”

  He owned a security firm with thirty employees and, as far as I could tell, was a millionaire, and it still baffled me that he was running down criminal histories and interviewing drug dealers as part of his day. The move to Fiji would be a good one for him.

  I leaned back in my chair. The entire exchange could’ve been handled through email, but Will was old-school. When I had a case, he liked to come into my office and sit down and go over it. I didn’t begrudge him that. Besides, on some days Will was the only noncriminal I dealt with. I needed that link to the outside world. Dealing only with drug dealers and rapists could mess with my mind.

  I decided to ignore a motion I had to write and take a nap. I lay down on my couch and instantly wished I’d sprung for something more expensive than IKEA.

  When I woke up, a couple of hours had gone by. I stretched and looked out my windows onto Main Street. A new sandwich place had opened down by a bank, and I headed out to try it. I lit a cigarette at the intersection and smoked while I walked. The air was gray and hazy today, and it was colder than it should’ve been. Two young men smiled at me, and one of them said something that made the other laugh. I turned around and walked backward as I winked at them and, as usual, they didn’t know how to react. Men liked the fantasy of strong women, but when faced with a strong woman, they turned into children.

  The sandwich shop was crowded and I had to wait in line nearly twenty minutes to place my order, but they made it for me right then. I took the sandwich and sat down at a corner table. I had a good view of the street and could see people walking past: people in business suits ignoring people in jeans, who ignored people in tattered clothes begging for food.

  I took one bite of my sandwich and it was terrible. I tossed it and went next door to a pizza place and got two slices. I took them outside to a homeless guy sitting against a tree. Behind him, parked at the curb, was a Maserati, and the contrast of those two things made me uncomfortable.

  “Mind if I sit?” I asked.

  “Free country. You can park your ass wherever you want.”

  I sat down next to him and placed the plate with the pizza in his lap and took one slice for myself. We began to eat and we watched people stride by, ignoring both of us now, as though I had stepped inside an invisibility chamber.

  “You stay at the Road Home?” I said.

  He shook his head. “They only got ninety beds, and there’s a lotta families here. I don’t wanna take some kid’s bed. I just sleep at the park. It’s warm enough. Just passing through, anyway.”

  “Where you headed?”

  He shrugged. “California, I guess. I been back and forth between the coasts three times. California’s my favorite.”

  “Mine, too. I lived in LA before moving here.”

  “What made you come out here?”

  “I thought in Mormon country I could have as many husbands as I wanted. Turns out that shit’s been illegal for a century.”

  He chuckled, and bits of food fell from his mouth. “Shit, I had a wife once. Don’t think I can handle more than one spouse at a time.”

  “Amen to that, brother.”

  I finished my pizza in a few bites and then rose and said, “Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too.”

  When I walked into the office, Kelly was watching something on her computer and eating a chicken sandwich from a
fast-food joint. Without looking at me, she handed me a stack of papers: the discovery for Theodore Thorne. They had officially filed charges in the Hoover County Juvenile Court, charging him with a first-degree felony for distribution of a controlled substance.

  “Kinda thick for a drug case,” I said.

  “Lotta witness statements. There’s some recordings, too. I’ll get them in the next week.”

  I sat down at my desk and began to read.

  7

  The police reports were detailed, but like all police reports, they were filled with so many grammatical and spelling mistakes and confusing descriptions that it made you want to tear your hair out. I wondered if it’d be that hard to set up an English class at the POST academy to train officers on the difference between “meat” and “meet”—unless two suspects actually did “meat” at a house on State Street and “meat” was some new sexual act that I hadn’t learned about yet.

  The reports started with the official charging document. I read the probable-cause statement.

  During a surveillance operation on a known drug house at 1435 N. 100 E. in Richardson, Utah, an individual by the name of Theodore Montgomery Thorne contacted our confidential informant and asked if he was in the market for a large shipment of cocaine. Arrested Person Thorne did this of his own accord with no initiation from our CI. AP Thorne set the time of 7:00 p.m. on April 2 to bring the narcotics. AP Thorne showed up at the CI’s residence here in Richardson, Utah, at approximately 7:20 p.m. with three other individuals later identified as Kevin William Simmons, Fredrick Taylor Willmore, and Clint Russel Andrews.

  The APs came to the residence’s porch with what appeared to be a large package in a gym bag. Through audio and video surveillance, we recorded the AP Kevin Simmons and Theodore Thorne speaking with the CI. AP Thorne stated that they had the drugs and wanted the money. He then proceeded to hand the package to the CI. At this point, we felt we had enough to initiate an arrest and proceeded to take the APs into custody. AP Kevin Simmons resisted arrest and attempted to flee on foot. He was gently guided to the ground by Detective Gonzalez and placed in handcuffs. I arrested AP Thorne and double locked and checked the handcuffs. I asked AP Thorne what he was doing at the house and he stated, “Giving him the bag.” Based on where he was looking, I deduced AP Thorne was speaking about the CI.

  Subsequent to arrest, a search of the gym bag in AP Thorne and Simmons’s possession revealed eight kilograms of a white, powdery substance that later field-tested positive as cocaine.

  We proceeded to the Hoover County Sheriff’s Office, where AP Thorne again admitted to selling cocaine. AP Simmons, AP Andrews, and AP Willmore all admitted that the drugs belonged to AP Thorne and that he had initiated the contact with the CI and that they were there simply driving him at his request, as AP Thorne had stated he was too frightened to go himself. All three stated independently that they did not realize they were there to sell narcotics.

  Shit. Really boys?

  I wondered how long they had been planning to bring Teddy with them to take the fall in case the cops got involved. Since all three had the same story, they had to have discussed it beforehand. These boys sat down and methodically came up with a plan to hose a boy who didn’t have any friends and who believed they were being nice to him.

  I read the witness statements twice. Simmons, Andrews, and Willmore all had nearly identical statements: Teddy needed a ride to drop off some drugs and was scared to go by himself. I read the confidential informant’s statement, hoping he would say he didn’t remember Teddy ever speaking with him, but he didn’t remember much of anything. He just said someone called him and told him they would be dropping off a package—a convenient case of sudden amnesia.

  No rational human being would believe that Teddy masterminded this whole thing. But cops weren’t rational; they wrote reports and dropped a big pile of witness statements, recordings, and narratives onto a prosecutor’s desk and let them decide who to bring charges against. The real question was: Why was Hoover County bothering with Teddy?

  Didn’t matter. I would work out a great deal on this case and that would be the end of the story.

  I checked my email and saw that Riley had called and paid the six grand. Today was turning out to be a good day.

  I had a consultation with a current client in the afternoon. He had burgled a cell phone store, and they’d caught him on camera shoving over a hundred phones into his backpack. I’d gotten a deal for probation and restitution for him, but he was unhappy. He kept saying that some friend of his who had done the same thing last year had gotten his case dismissed.

  “Maybe I should hire his lawyer,” he said.

  “Maybe you should.”

  I had little patience right now and didn’t feel like coddling him. Besides, I’d earned the three grand he’d paid me four times over and would not be issuing any refunds.

  He huffed and puffed a little more and then left the office. Again, for what seemed like the millionth time, I sat in my office and wondered what the hell had inspired me to become a lawyer. I decided I needed a break.

  The Lizard was just gearing up for the night, and I figured Michelle would be there. I pounded on the side door as I smoked, and she opened it up. She punched me in the gut harder than I would’ve liked. “Come in, want you to try something.”

  Ever since I’d known her, she either punched, pushed, shoved, or kicked people she really cared about. In fact, we’d met in high school detention after she hit a boy she liked so hard that he fractured a rib.

  I sat at the bar as she mixed and whirled and blended. In less than a minute, some glowing green concoction sat in front of me on the bar.

  “What fresh hell is this?” I said.

  “New drink I’m trying out. Get a lot of enviro-nazis in here and I thought I’d make ’em something special. I call it ‘Earth.’”

  “That’s it? Just Earth?”

  “Just Earth. Tell me what you think.”

  I lifted the glass and smelled the contents. I took a sip and nearly gagged. “Shit, it tastes like it has dirt in it.”

  “It does have dirt in it. What’d you think?”

  “You made this with dirt?”

  “Not any dirt. I didn’t go outside and pick it up. Bought the good stuff. Soil from a flower shop. Just a hint of dirt to give it that earthy taste. What do you think?”

  “I think it tastes like dirt, Michelle.”

  “Well, what the hell do you know? You’ve got no taste.”

  She took the witches’ brew away and set a beer down in front of me. I took a long drink and she said, “Rough day?”

  “Not really. Good day, actually. Made six grand on a case I’m not going to have to do much work on.”

  “That is a good day. So why the long face?”

  “Do I have a long face?”

  “You do.”

  I took another drink. “Just get sick of the bullshit sometimes. This wouldn’t be a bad gig if it weren’t for the clients.”

  “Hey, if you’re unhappy, you should take what money you got and invest it in a club or escort agency. Sex industry is always booming.”

  “I’ve got a son. What kind of message would that send him?”

  She shrugged. “That men are pigs.”

  “True, and a good lesson to learn, but let’s not go down the pimp road just yet.”

  “Suit yourself. But you know I’m here for you. You can always run the bar with me.”

  “I know. And I’m here for you. And as your lawyer I cannot let you serve dirt to your customers.”

  “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

  My phone buzzed. I checked the ID, and it was from my after-hours line. I rarely answered that, but I felt in a good mood, and signing up another client would be a nice cherry on this sundae.

  “This is Danielle Rollins,” I said.

  “Ms. Rollins, sorry to bother you. This is Riley Thorne.”

  “Oh, hey. What can I do for you?”

  “Ted
dy’s been arrested.”

  “What do you mean, ‘arrested’? For what?”

  “Two police officers came to our house and took him to jail. They had a warrant. It was for this case.”

  “What? They said that? Jail?”

  “Yes, they said they were taking him to the Hoover County Jail and that we could bail him out after he gets booked in.”

  “It’s gotta be some mistake. They almost never issue warrants for juveniles. And when they do, they take them to detention, not jail. Let me make a couple of calls.”

  I hung up and dialed my bail bondsman, Chip. Every time I thought of him, I pictured his parents sitting around at his birth trying to decide what dignified, appealing name to give him, and then going with “Chip.”

  “Chip,” he said.

  “Hey, man, it’s Dani.”

  “What up, yo? Haven’t heard from you in a bit. What you been up to?”

  “You know me, nothing good.”

  “I heard that,” he said.

  I watched as Michelle mixed some new monstrosity in the blender. Instead of green, this one seemed to be turning out purple.

  “Hey, can you check on a warrant for me?” I said.

  “Sure thing. For who?”

  “Theodore Thorne. He’s seventeen, and his mom just called me and said some cops picked him up and took him to jail. She says they said jail but I’m wondering if they meant detention.”

  “All right, hang on.”

  I heard him walking around and then the groan of a chair as he sat down.

  “Yeah, man, that’s weird. We got a warrant here for fifty grand.”

  “Fifty? On a drug distribution for a seventeen-year-old? You sure you got the right Theodore Thorne?”

  “Yeah, man, lists Danielle Rollins as his attorney. It’s filed in the district court, not the juvenile court.”

  I shook my head. Clerks, bless ’em, were human and made mistakes. They were overworked and dealt with a segment of the public that had to take the frustration of the process out on someone, and the clerks were usually the closest ones available. I’m sure some douchebag yelled at the poor clerk and, flustered, she accidently punched it in as an adult case. Easy fix. I could get down to the jail and fix it myself.