A Criminal Defense

by William L. Myers Jr.

  “What?” Christina Wesley almost falls out of her chair.

  “Excuse me?” the judge says.

  Susan jerks her head back to where I’m sitting on the couch. Her eyes are filled with disbelief.

  “Your Honor,” Devlin begins, his voice low and calm, “in all my years as a prosecutor, I have never once knowingly sent a man to prison whom I believed was not guilty. I’ve never even brought charges against someone where I wasn’t personally convinced of their guilt.”

  “That’s not the standard for bringing a defendant to trial, Mr. Walker,” Judge Henry says. “If there’s sufficient evidence to support the charges, a prosecutor may properly bring those charges, regardless of his personal beliefs. That’s the standard.”

  Devlin lifts his head. “Respectfully, Your Honor, I hold myself to a higher standard.”

  I can’t help but smile. Devlin’s being clever. He knows this transcript will be made public, just as he knows he’s going to have to justify his heretical decision to drop the charges against David. And there is only one acceptable justification: actual innocence. Devlin has to take the position that he believes David Hanson is not the one who murdered Jennifer Yamura. He is doing so now, and is painting himself as a prosecutor who takes the moral high ground.

  “Would you like some time to talk with your boss?” the judge asks Devlin.

  “This is my call, Your Honor.”

  There’s no way Devlin is going to call the DA. The district attorney would yank Devlin from the case, appoint Christina Wesley first chair, and tell her to press vigorously for a conviction.

  “I don’t need to tell you that if you drop the charges, double jeopardy will attach, and there can be no retrial for homicide,” the judge says.

  Devlin doesn’t answer, just stares at the judge. Beside him, Christina Wesley sits frozen in her chair.

  “And what about the lesser charges?” Bill Henry asks. “Tampering with evidence, interfering with a crime scene, and so forth?”

  Devlin considers this. “The Commonwealth will drop those as well.”

  Back in the courtroom, David, Susan, and I take our seats at the defense table. After a good five minutes, Devlin and Christina enter the courtroom. They were arguing outside the judge’s chambers when we left them. The judge takes the bench, and Holleran opens the door for the jurors. They walk fast, with purpose, their heads up, eyes bright. The rest of the courtroom is electrified as well. By now everyone knows that the defense’s first witness is going to be the wife of the lead defense attorney. Sparks of one type or another are going to fly.

  Bill Henry looks out at the courtroom, scans the faces of the parties, their counsel, the reporters, the onlookers, his staff, and finally, the jury. He smiles at them, and they smile back. Then, without preamble, he says, “The charges against the defendant are dropped.”

  A collective “Huh?” reverberates in the courtroom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the judge continues, looking at the bewildered jurors, “I thank you for your service. You have been most patient and most attentive. The parties, the Commonwealth, and I personally, are grateful to you.” Then he looks to defense table and says, “Mr. Hanson, you are free to go. Court is adjourned.”

  A loud bang of the gavel, and Bill Henry is gone from the bench. And the courtroom falls into mayhem.

  I turn away from David to avoid shaking his hand. I nod to Vaughn and Alex Ginsberg, signaling for them to follow me out of the courtroom. The press is on me even before I get to the door. I swat them away. “No comment. No comment.” As I pass the rows of spectators, I cannot help but glance at Jennifer Yamura’s parents and brother. Her mother is weeping openly, her father trying in vain to console her. Brian Yamura glares at me. And one row behind them, I see John Tredesco, his face etched with rage.

  I bolt from the courtroom, the floor, and the courthouse. I sprint back to the firm. After a while, Vaughn, Susan, and Alexander Ginsberg arrive and set themselves up in the conference room. By now Susan will have told Ginsberg and Vaughn what went down in Judge Henry’s chambers. I hear them talking as I approach the conference-room door. They all quiet down when I walk into the room. Susan is the first to say what they’re all thinking: “Devlin dropping the charges? What the hell was that?”

  I shake my head, take a seat at the table. “Devlin obviously believed Piper’s testimony.”

  Vaughn opens his mouth to say something but decides better of it. Anything to be said about Piper is going to have to come from me.

  “The important thing,” I continue, “is that it’s over. The client has been completely exonerated and will get on with his life. Chalk up another win for the good guys.” I force a smile, then ask Vaughn and Susan to give me a few minutes with Alexander Ginsberg. As soon as I close the door, the legendary lawyer is on me.

  “You knew,” he says. “You knew it was going to go down just like it did.”

  “I hoped. I didn’t know.”

  Ginsberg studies me like he’s studied a thousand witnesses on the stand. “Give me the backstory,” he says. “Tell me why you wanted to make sure this case never reached a verdict. Why you hired me to sit in court every day just so I could tell your client that his defense was a sinking ship unless he came forward with the alibi.”

  I don’t answer.

  Ginsberg studies me some more, then says, “What I also don’t get is why Walker dismissed the charges once Piper claimed to be his alibi. Devlin could have crucified her on the stand. Slapped her with her obvious bias as your wife and painted the two of you as conspirators in perjury.”

  Again, I don’t answer.

  Ginsberg nods his head slowly. He reaches out and shakes my hand, pats me on the shoulder. “Tell me one thing. Was justice done here today?”

  The question evokes in my mind the Yamura family sitting, broken, in the courtroom.

  “Not even close.”

  35

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16, CONTINUED

  After Ginsberg leaves, I walk to my office and close the door. “No calls,” I tell Angie on the phone. “No visitors.” I flop into my chair, feeling physically and mentally spent. And morally bankrupt. I betrayed every professional principle I hold dear. I misled my legal team every step of the way. I helped blackmail my own client, even engineered his being tossed into prison. I perpetrated a fraud on the court. I worked the system to deal a dreadful injustice to the family of a murdered young woman. And then there’s what I did to my own family: deceiving Tommy and Piper and subjecting Piper to crushing pressure until she broke down and allowed herself to be manipulated into perjury.

  I tell myself I did it all to save my family. But there’s no nobility in my deeds. Because everything I did, I also did to save myself from the consequences of my own terrible act. An act that splits my gut every time I think about it. An act for which I will never forgive myself.

  I look at the beautifully framed admission certificate to the Pennsylvania Supreme Court hanging on the wall.

  How do I face another jury, another judge, after what I’ve done? What right do I have to fight for another man’s freedom?

  I sit numbly for a long time. My eyes closing, opening, searching for something to help me go on.

  And then I spot the envelope from the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. I lurch forward, grab the envelope, rip it open, and read. It’s the decision in the Justin Bauer case. I skip to the end, and tears begin to trickle down my face. The court is giving Justin a second chance. I take a deep breath and lift the phone.

  “Celine, it’s me. Good news. Great news.”

  36

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24; MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26

  Piper, Gabby, and I are wolfing down a big meal at Godmother’s, Gabby’s favorite restaurant in Cape May. We’ve been here a week, and I don’t think any of us have ever had a lovelier time at the shore. Piper and I took Gabby on long morning walks on the beach, which was deserted except for the three of us. We collected shells, chased the gulls, and watched the s
andpipers dart back and forth at the water’s edge. We rode bikes along the back roads, visited the pigs at Beach Plum Farm. At night—every night—once Gabby was asleep, Piper and I made love. It was tender and real. The coupling of two people who’d been swept away from each other by an angry tide, then, miraculously, washed ashore a century later on a deserted island. At least that’s how it feels to me.

  But, of course, civilization is only a headline away. The hotel carries the Jersey Shore edition of the Inquirer, so I couldn’t escape the aftermath of the Hanson case. The initial press reports damned and derided me. Half the accounts accused me of using my own wife in a scheme to dupe the judge and prosecutor. The other half painted me the fool. Depending on which reporter you followed, I was either a cuckold or the most calculating son of a bitch ever to practice law, and Piper was either an unfaithful wife or a perjurer.

  It was all too much for Thatcher Gray. The day after Piper and I left for the beach, Sir Thatcher ordered his wife, Helen, to pack their bags, and they took a late-night flight to London. Helen called to tell us that Thatcher was nursing his rage at their hotel bar.

  The reportage on Devlin has followed an interesting arc. Early articles skewered him for letting a millionaire off the hook. But Devlin went on the offensive, making appearances on all the local TV stations. He had two themes. The first: the moral high road. He recognized that his decision was politically unpopular. “But,” he was quoted as saying, “I cannot claim to apply the laws evenly regardless of social status and then send an innocent man to prison simply because he’s wealthy.” And that led into Devlin’s second theme: David Hanson was innocent. Devlin espoused the view that Jennifer Yamura was likely murdered during a burglary gone bad, the killer having gained entry to her house through an unlocked door. It must have galled Devlin to declare David innocent, convinced as he is of David’s guilt. But it’s the road he has to take.

  Devlin’s new spin was manna from heaven for David Hanson. It sent the message that David hadn’t gone free due to high-priced legal trickery but because he deserved it. Like Devlin, David Hanson was making the TV news circuit. The Inquirer quoted an interview on Channel Six’s Sunday-morning news magazine. Anchorman Jim asked David whether he intended to bring a wrongful-prosecution case. David said no. “The city is financially strapped as it is. And my mission isn’t to take—it’s to bring money to the citizens and taxpayers of this town by cementing the business relationships that will pull jobs into our region.”

  Now David is well placed to complete those Asian deals, having been grudgingly reinstated by Edwin at Hanson World Industries and promoted to president of HWI-Asia.

  It’s Monday, and I’m back at the office now, refreshed and renewed by my time at the shore with Piper and Gabby, hoping I’m strong enough to face the ordeal ahead: the “accounting” I promised David Hanson. He’s been waiting in the conference room for thirty minutes. I had Angie park him there because I can’t abide his presence in my personal office. I’ve had him wait so long because . . . well, because I want to make him wait.

  When finally I enter the conference room and close the door, David looks up at me. I can see his mind spinning, trying to figure out how to play his part so that the scene between us resolves to his advantage. Should he be contrite, beg my forgiveness? Or go on the offensive, use whatever ammunition Piper had given him to justify her betrayal? He elects to open with a question.

  “Why did Devlin fold like he did?”

  “You heard him. He believed Piper was telling the truth.”

  “He could have cross-examined her in open court. Let the jury decide.”

  I shrug. “He was convinced you’re innocent.”

  David studies me for a minute. “Marcie thinks there’s more to it.”

  I shrug. “Occam’s razor. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the truth.” I hold David’s gaze as I lift a water bottle from the silver tray on the table, open it, take a sip. “So, why did you do it?”

  David looks away, but only for a second. “It began by chance. Piper and I ran into each other at the mall and . . .”

  I put my hand up to stop him. “Not that. I know why you did that. You’re a self-serving narcissist who can’t keep your dick in your pants. No, what I want to know, now that you can never be retried for it, is why you murdered Jennifer Yamura.”

  David stares at me. I can feel the heat rising in him. He leans ever so slightly into the table, toward me. “I didn’t kill her, Mick.”

  “Did Jennifer really threaten to tell Marcie,” I ask, “like her brother said? I know Tredesco put him up to saying that on the stand. But did it really happen? Did you see the scandal of it playing out in the newspapers? Were you terrified Marcie would leave you, take the boys and a bunch of your money? Or was it that you’d never get to the top at HWI?”

  “I did not kill Jennifer,” David repeats, a little more strain in his voice.

  “And here’s another question. What were you doing between 11:50, when you left your office, and 1:45, when you showed up at Jennifer’s house?”

  “Piper asked me to come to the hotel in the afternoon. It was a nice day, though, and I wanted to leave the office earlier. I knew the arts festival was happening on Rittenhouse Square, so I decided to take it in. I did just that. And in answer to your next question, no, there’s no one who can vouch for me being there.”

  I snort. “I don’t buy it. My guess is you paid a visit to another special friend. Jennifer and Piper weren’t enough for you. You had a third one in the mix. You really are a piece of—”

  “Enough,” David interrupts. “What am I here for? Because it’s sure as hell not to take shit from you.”

  “You have quite a temper,” I say. “I never picked up on it when we were in law school. Then again, everything was going so swimmingly for you back then. You were surrounded by friends—admirers, really. Kevin Kratz got you on the Law Review, then abdicated the editor-in-chief position to you. You were getting laid left and right. You were the star of the show.”

  “You have no idea of the pressures I was under, then or since. The expectations placed on me . . .” David’s voice trails off, and we sit in silence for a moment. “Just send me the bill. I’ll pay it as soon as I open the envelope.”

  I pin him with my stare. “Yes, you will pay. I also told you there’d be an accounting between us.” I pull the DVD from my desk drawer, set it on the table.

  David knows where I’m headed. “You don’t dare leak that,” he says, “or Piper will go to prison for perjury.”

  I smile. “Oh, I doubt that. She has a good attorney. He could probably get her off. He found a way to keep you out of jail, and you’re a murderer.”

  “Fuck you.” David sighs. “What’s your endgame here?”

  “I just want you to pay your legal bill. And to show a little gratitude for the exceptional job that I’ve done, I think a five-million-dollar bonus would do it.”

  “That’s highway robbery!”

  “No, that’s blackmail. You should recognize it; we’ve both been down this road before.”

  This would be the perfect time for me to disclose to David that Anna Groszek had demanded only $3 million, and not the $4 million I’d made David come up with. But I hold my tongue.

  David glares, perhaps seeing this side of me for the first time.

  “There’s one thing I just don’t get,” I say. “You hired me because you knew that Piper would have to lie for you on the stand, and you figured I was the only person who could get her to do that. But what made you so sure I’d be confident enough in your innocence to persuade her?”

  David’s face lights up, and he laughs a bitter, full-hearted laugh. “Your confidence in my innocence? Oh, Mick, you really are a crack-up. I wasn’t counting on your believing I didn’t kill Jennifer. The truth is that I didn’t know what I’d be able to hook you with once you found out about Piper and me. But you’re right that I figured you’d be the only person who could get Piper to perjure herse
lf. So I hired you with the hope that somewhere down the line, I’d find something to use as leverage against you.”

  I hold my breath. If the dying Jennifer Yamura told David I pushed her down the steps, this is where he’ll spring it.

  He shrugs. “I never did, but you convinced Piper to perjure herself anyway. And I’m torn as to why. The idealistic part of me says that, even knowing what I did with Piper, you helped me because, deep inside, you know I didn’t kill Jennifer. But my gut says that you offered up your wife because that’s what it took to carry the day. When Marcie told me she ordered you to do whatever it would take to win, I laughed and told her she needn’t have wasted her breath. She might as well have been telling a fish it had to swim.”

  I’m about to launch into David when I hear a knock at the door. It opens, and Susan peeks her head in. “Everything okay in here?”

  “Peachy,” I answer. “David’s just told me that he’s so happy with the job we did that he’s paying us a five-million-dollar bonus!”

  Susan’s jaw drops. She looks from me to David, back to me. “Holy shit” is all she can get out.

  Before I can say anything else, David stands. He walks away but pauses and turns in the doorway.

  “You know what, Mick? I’m happy to pay you the five million. Teaching your wife how to fuck was worth every penny.” And with that, he brushes past Susan, leaving her to witness the humiliation in my burning face.

  An hour later, I still feel raw as I speed up the 476 toward Jim Thorpe—and Tommy. I take deep breaths, steel myself. I’ve resolved to fix things. The chasm between us, opened by Tommy’s euthanizing our father, has to be closed.

  I turn onto the dirt road leading to his trailer and see Tommy open the door and come outside to meet me. He knew I was coming; I called before leaving the city. I park the car, walk to Tommy, shake his hand. It’s chilly this November afternoon in Jim Thorpe, and Tommy is wearing a long-sleeved red-flannel shirt, the tail hanging outside his worn jeans. His black-leather biker’s boots crunch the gravel beneath his feet. I feel out of place in my business suit and wingtips.