A Gambler's Jury

by Victor Methos

  What an odd thing for a judge to say. I looked at Double D, who couldn’t even meet my eyes. I turned back to the judge. “I’m good. And your mother was a woman. Maybe a little respect is in order. Assuming you have a mother.”

  He shook his head and folded his hands in front of him. “You are a stubborn one, aren’t you?”

  “I once played Halo for ten hours just to find this little bastard who hit me with a grenade. I sniped him while he wasn’t paying attention. One of the finest moments of my life.”

  He leaned back in the chair. “I’m releasing you to complete the trial. The issue of your custody will be addressed after the trial is completed.”

  The handcuffs were taken off. I looked at Double D, who kept his eyes on the floor, before I left. Outside the door, the bailiff I had hit sat with an ice pack pressed firmly against his swollen jaw.

  “Hey, sorry, man,” I said. “No hard feelings?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Alrighty then. Take care.”

  I got out into the parking lot and couldn’t get into my car. Every muscle ached and the thought of driving back to Salt Lake right now sounded awful. I put my arms on the hood and my face between them.

  “Danielle?”

  I turned and saw Double D approaching. He stood a few feet away and licked his upper lip while he thought. I could almost see the words forming in his head, and I knew he felt bad for what had happened. The judge hadn’t been moved by taking Teddy into custody, but someone had.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Good luck in the trial.”

  “What they’re doing is wrong, Jasper. I know you didn’t become a prosecutor to do shit like this.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes it’s just not in our control.”

  “You could stop this if you wanted to.”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t.” He hesitated a second longer. “Take care of yourself.”

  After he left, I looked at the courthouse: an ominous building that was like some tyrannical weapon of war. Eight men and women on a jury would be deciding how this was going to turn out, and I had no idea what I was going to say when I stood in front of them. A diminished-capacity defense would be my normal course, but it was unlikely Roscombe would allow me to enter existing doctors’ reports or IQ results. Teddy would have to be evaluated by new experts, mine and the prosecution’s, and we’d have motions and hearings on it. Meanwhile, Teddy would be sitting in jail, his life at risk. Do I leave him there in the hopes of putting together a stronger defense that might not win at trial anyway, or go ahead with the trial and hope for the outcome I wanted?

  I sighed and got into my Jeep.

  41

  At home I lay on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my hand. I wished I had some painkillers. I had just decided to take a nap when my doorbell rang.

  “It’s not locked.”

  Will walked in and shut the door behind him. He stood in front of me and said, “What the hell happened? Kelly said you got into a fight.”

  “I got tased by this big bastard in Richardson.”

  “You’re kidding. Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The trial’s the day after tomorrow. Tell me you have something.”

  He sat down at my feet and looked me in the eyes. “I have something. So get this. Sandy Tiles is married to Richard Tiles, who is the brother of Randy Tiles.”

  “Lovely. What’s this got to do with my case?”

  “Randy Tiles, as in the state legislator Randy Tiles. And get this, lady—I checked out his voting record and the bills he’s proposed. Just a gut feeling, right? Two years ago, guess what bill he submitted? HB 1105. Wanna take a guess as to what the bill contained?”

  “Will, normally I love guessing games, but my hand feels like it’s been raped by Thor’s hammer. Can we just get to it?”

  “HB 1105 tried to abolish the Serious Youth Offender Act and give prosecutors the discretion to charge any juvenile as an adult for any crime.”

  “Whoa.”

  “That’s not even the best part. Guess who . . . oh, sorry. One of the supporters who testified at the capital on the bill’s behalf was someone you are somewhat acquainted with: Patrick Howell. As in chief justice of the Utah Supreme Court Patrick Howell.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not.” He squeezed my thigh. “You wanted to know how far the rabbit hole went; now you know. This was in the works for a long time, my friend. Your poor client just couldn’t have picked a worse time to get busted for something like this.”

  I put my arm across my face and groaned.

  “I’m, ah, leaving in four days. You need anything before then?”

  “You’re leaving now? I need you, Will.”

  “Hey, man, the place is rented. I got a condo waiting for me in Fiji. There’s nothing I can do. I mean, unless you really want me to stay.”

  He gave me a look that told me he wanted me to convince him to not go. But I didn’t have the strength to think about it right now. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about what a life with him would be like—a life with a man who would treat me like a queen. Right now, though, the only thing I could think about was the hot, piercing pain in my shoulder and hand.

  “I think I’m done with law, Will. After this, I’m done.”

  “Really?”

  “The fix is in, brother. I won’t keep bashing my head against a wall. Eventually these tyrannical shits will get what they want, neighbors spying on neighbors and secret police.”

  “Well, maybe that’s why you gotta stay in it? Someone has to fight them.”

  “It ain’t me.”

  He folded his hands and stared at me. “I know a lot of attorneys, Dani. A lot. I turn most of them down, and they could pay five times the hourly rate you pay me. You know why I keep you around?”

  “Because of my ocean-like eyes?”

  “Aside from that. You care. Most attorneys wouldn’t cross the street to spit on their clients if they were on fire. As much as you put on this front that you’re some sort of rogue hellion, you care about these people.”

  I sighed and looked at him. “And what’s it gotten me, Will? I’m lonely all the time; I spend my days getting yelled at by judges and condescended to by prosecutors; I’ll get cases dismissed and my ungrateful clients will be mad that I didn’t do it fast enough; the public thinks I’m a scumbag for defending criminals . . . What’s it gotten me?”

  “Your soul, young lady. You get to keep your soul when a lotta people lose theirs.” He slapped my leg. “Cheer up, pal. Tomorrow’s a better day. It always is.”

  I tried to nap, but thoughts kept rushing through my head about the trial. I kept seeing Teddy’s face as the jury read the verdict of guilty. He wouldn’t understand what it meant. He wouldn’t know why he was behind bars, potentially for life.

  My phone rang. The ID said Salt Lake Tribune. I answered.

  “This is Danielle.”

  “Ms. Rollins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Clay with the Trib. How are you?”

  “Actually, not too hot, Clay. Mind if I call you later?”

  “Just wanted to talk to you about this whole Teddy Thorne case.”

  “Thorne? Since when do you care about cases in Richardson?”

  “I’m expanding my horizons. I was looking at some of the notes in the docket, and it just doesn’t make sense to me. Is it true it’s a juvenile case they didn’t even get certified?”

  “It is. They’re using this case to cut the balls off the SYOA. And there is some shit going on, Clay.”

  “Like what?”

  “This was fixed from a long time ago. The judge is in on it, a justice on the supreme court, the cops . . . everyone was lined up to find a case just like this.”

  “Hm. Well I’d love an interview after the trial.”

  “The trial starts the day after tomorrow,” I said. “Why don’t you be there?”

  “Yeah, I was planning on it
. Interview right after?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right, take care.”

  I hung up. Crime-beat reporters were a dying breed. Everything was blogs now. An actual, paid, crime reporter going out and looking for interesting stories almost didn’t exist, except in the largest cities for the largest papers. They were invaluable in defending the rights of the average citizen, since the one thing the corrupt didn’t want was exposure. With their extinction, the justice system would look a lot different.

  I had planned to go to the media at some point, but it was smarter to wait until after the trial. Roscombe might back down if I went public, but he might go even harder—he might reschedule the trial two months out, hoping the attention would die down, and keep Teddy in custody the whole time.

  But having Clay at the trial wouldn’t be a bad thing. If he could draw enough attention to the case, maybe the higher courts wouldn’t uphold it on appeal for fear of public outrage.

  I got up and hobbled around the house until I found half a bottle of Jack. Then I drank, listened to Depeche Mode, and fell asleep on the couch.

  42

  The next day, I prepped the best I could. I read the reports several times and then made an outline of the topics I wanted to hit. What a witness would say at trial was always unpredictable anyway, so the dominant trait of every good trial attorney was an ability to improvise. Intelligence, experience, book smarts, law school grades, knowledge of the case . . . none of that mattered. Only the ability to improvise, and whether or not the attorney cared about their client. I don’t know how juries did it, but they could always smell when a lawyer didn’t care.

  The one issue in this case that hurt us more than anything was that we didn’t have a single witness in our favor, not even the defendant. He still hadn’t told me what he remembered from that night, and I had no idea what he might say. The only witness that might help was Freddy, but the video of the interview, which I had watched last night at two in the morning, was ambiguous. The police certainly didn’t follow correct interview procedure with a minor, but they did it in such a subtle way that a jury probably wouldn’t be able to tell. And if Will was right and Freddy was going to renege and say the police didn’t lead him, then we didn’t have anyone to get up there and contradict what the government was saying.

  I prepped for a few hours and then made the drive down to the Hoover County Jail to visit Teddy.

  A few dark clouds drifted across the sun as I drove, giving me a disorienting feeling, as if I were watching some sped-up film of alternating day and night. The guards at the jail were extra rough and groping while searching me—a little payback for hitting one of their own. As long as I didn’t get tased or shot, I considered it a win.

  I sat in the attorney’s visiting room and waited for them to bring Teddy in. When they finally did, I wanted to turn away. His black-and-white striped jumpsuit didn’t fit him well and the cuffs around his wrists rattled as the guard sat him down. The guard glanced to me before leaving.

  “Are you okay?” I said softly.

  “I don’t like it here, Danielle. But I’m doing what you said. I’m not talking to anybody.”

  “Good, buddy. You keep that up, and I’ll get you out of here, okay?”

  He nodded. “Okay. Where’s Will? I like Will. He’s funny.”

  “He didn’t come with me. Maybe he’ll be there tomorrow.” I paused and looked over at the door. The guard was staring through the glass window. “Teddy, it is very important that you tell me what happened that night. The night you rode in the police car. Where did you get that bag, and how do you know Salvador Zamora?”

  He shrugged.

  “Teddy, look at me . . . If we lose this trial tomorrow, you will be in a place like this for years and years. A long time. You have to tell me where you got that bag.”

  “Kevin is my friend.”

  “I know he’s your friend, but you need to tell me if Kevin gave you that bag. Did he tell you to give it to Zamora? Is that what happened?”

  He didn’t answer. I reached out and held his hand. “Teddy, do you want to live here for the rest of your life?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then you need to tell me what happened. Did Kevin give you that bag?”

  He shook his head.

  “You have to tell me, buddy.”

  He began to rock back and forth. “Kevin is my friend . . . and, and he said I could play games with them.”

  “Was the bag yours? Can you at least tell me if the bag was yours?”

  He hesitated, and then shook his head. “No.”

  “Then listen to me: Tomorrow, I’m going to put you in front of people in the courtroom. You’re going to say exactly what you just told me. I don’t want you to be scared that other people are there. They want to hear what you have to say. So just tell the truth, okay?”

  “Okay, Danielle.”

  “A woman named Sandy is going to ask you questions after I do. You just have to answer them honestly. Just be honest and say what happened. Yes or no. Easy peasy. Okay? You won’t get nervous?”

  “Okay. I won’t get nervous.”

  The truth was, I knew he wouldn’t give much on the stand. That’s not why I needed him up there. I needed the jury to see that he had a mental disability, and the only way to do that was to put him up there and show them.

  He hadn’t said anything about it, so I figured neither his mom nor dad had been to visit him.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Teddy. Don’t talk to anyone, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As I left the jail, I wondered if I should’ve spent more time prepping him, making sure he understood. On the one hand, it might take care of his jitters, but on the other, he could inadvertently tell the jury how much we prepared or that I told him to say something. That would definitely kill his credibility. Better not to risk it. I wanted the jury to see him confused, to see what his mental capacity was, exactly.

  Driving back to Salt Lake, I headed to the Lizard. It was well past lunch, but there was still a crowd there. Inside, the tables were taken up with construction workers and politicians, teamsters and police officers. I sat at the bar away from everybody, and ordered a sandwich and a beer. Michelle came out of the back room with a few people and said good-bye to them. They looked like mob types, though anyone who did anything shady liked to pretend they were Al Capone, so I could never really tell. Michelle saw me and came over. She had a despondent look and sat down with a groan.

  “Rough day at the office?” I asked.

  “Old business associates. One of them, that tall one there, he’s missing his daughter.” She shook her head. “Twenty years old. Ran away from home with a pimp she thinks she’s in love with. He was asking if I’d seen her. These pimps, Dani, they convince these girls online to come out to see them, and the girls never go home.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with any more tragedy right now, so I just stared at my drink.

  “What’s wrong, Butterfly?”

  “This case. The one I told you about. They’re making me go to trial on it tomorrow.”

  “Making you?”

  I nodded. “They took my client into custody. If I take more time, he might get hurt in there. He can’t defend himself. And I’m scared about what a jury’s going to do.”

  “You told me juries are unpredictable.”

  “They are. That’s what’s scary. They can’t be trusted to do the right thing.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder. “Hey, I’ve never known you to lose when you really wanted a win. You want it, you’ll get it. Oh, hey, I meant to tell you—remember you asked about this cat Zamora? I found something else out.”

  “What?”

  “Check this out; he’s not just a snitch, he’s a life snitch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean one of my buddies with the Salt Lake PD said this guy’s been working with them and Hoover County Narcotics for over four
years. He sets up busts. They’re called life snitches because they’ve done so much dirt they gotta snitch for life to get a pass.”

  “Four years? Why would . . .”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  I threw a twenty on the counter and ran out of there without explaining.

  43

  I raced down to Richardson. Will got me Jasper Diamond’s home address. Prosecutors, unlike judges, didn’t usually take any steps to hide their personal information. Jasper didn’t live very far from the courthouse.

  His house was far nicer than a government employee should’ve been able to afford, but I wasn’t surprised. Richardson had some of the lowest home prices in the state. A large house, it had a big front lawn and a three-car garage. I parked in the driveway and hesitated a second before going up to the door. I listened to see if I could hear anything, but I couldn’t. I rang the doorbell.

  Double D answered in a robe and smoking a pipe.

  “What are you, Hugh Hefner?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “It can wait.”

  “It can’t . . . please.”

  He sighed and opened the door wider. The house looked like a museum for cowboy memorabilia. Paintings of horses, bears, deer, and old Mexican-style towns were crammed onto the walls. A rough-hewn table in the front room was made out of some fallen tree, and the fireplace had two old rifles crossed above it.

  “Did you buy Billy the Kid’s house or something, Jasper?”

  He sat down in a worn leather chair with a bearskin over it. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “Zamora’s a life snitch for the narcotics task force. Did you know that?”

  He stared at me a second. “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  “I was instructed not to.”

  “By who—Sandy? It’s a Brady violation. I have a right to know if one of the witnesses against my client works for the damn state, Jasper. You’ve pulled some shit before, but nothing like this. How the hell did you go along with it?”