One and Done
James Chandler
ONE AND DONE
Copyright © 2020 by James Chandler.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-101-1 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-102-8 (Hardback)
Contents
Also by James Chandler
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
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For Hannah and Abigail,
I loved you first.
No father ever had finer daughters.
1
Greg Goodrich of the Custer, Wyoming, Police Department was three-quarters of the way through a twelve-hour shift and patrolling Teton Avenue when he saw a man sitting on the sidewalk in front of a convenience store. He’d had about his fill of drunks and tweakers, but given the time and the early October weather, and sensing a problem, he pulled in front of the store without turning on his lights. Exiting the vehicle, he drew a flashlight and shined it on the man. “What’s going on, sir?”
“I guess I got a flat,” the man slurred, covering his eyes with one hand to block the light.
“Where’s your car?” Goodrich looked around, shivering slightly in the cold.
“Oh, my car’s home. I walked tonight, ’cause I knew I’d be drinkin’.”
“Good decision,” Goodrich said. It was three a.m., and the store clerk was laughing at him through the frosted front window. She’d clearly dealt with the man already. “You got any ID on ya, buddy?”
“I think so.” The man attempted to reach for his wallet. Goodrich watched him closely, always on alert. Something about him was familiar.
“So, tell me about the flat,” Goodrich said, taking the driver’s license handed to him and calling it into dispatch to check for warrants. He continued to look around the parking lot for a car, fully expecting to make an arrest for drunk driving.
“Well, how ’bout I show you?” The man reached down, fumbled with the leg of his jeans, and then tried to hand Goodrich an artificial limb. “See that? I lost the adapter between my socket and my knee, there,” he said, pointing and grinning. “I got a flat.”
Goodrich looked at the leg, then the man, then the empty pant leg while listening to the dispatcher talking on the device in his ear. “You’re Sam Johnstone, the lawyer—right?”
“I am,” the man answered. “I am indeed.”
“I’ve never seen you without a tie,” Goodrich observed. “You’re the guy that walked Tommy Olsen a while back?”
“Well, that’s not exactly what happened, but close enough, I guess. Guilty as charged, Officer.” Although still seated, Sam was teetering unsteadily.
Goodrich reached down and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder to stabilize him. “Mr. Johnstone, why don’t you put that leg back on and I’ll give you a ride home tonight, and you can work on fixing that flat tomorrow?”
“Sounds good to me, Officer.”
After he helped Sam to his feet and into the patrol car, Goodrich locked the door and walked into the store. “Good morning,” he said to the clerk. “This guy drive here?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “Not unless he parked somewhere else. I was outside smoking a cigarette when he came staggering up, talking about how he lost his men in Afghanistan and had a flat. I didn’t see no car and he was freaking me out, and I was just about to call 911 when I seen you.”
“Okay, good enough. I’ll get him home.”
“Aren’t you gonna bust him for public intoxication?”
“No. This guy’s a hero. I think I’ll cut him some slack.”
“He don’t look like a hero.”
“Well, he is.”
Minutes later, as they neared the address Sam had given him, Goodrich looked at Sam and said, “Counselor, probably not a good idea for you to be shit-faced drunk and out on the streets on a night like this. Just sayin’.”
“I hear you. Didn’t intend to get drunk.” Sam shook his head slowly and looked at his legs. “Sometimes I don’t stop when I should.”
“If you need some help, I know a guy.”
“I already got a guy.”
“You gonna tell him about tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“You should,” Goodrich said. “Look, normally I’da run you into the jail for public intox, but after all you done for this country, well . . . We’re here.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Sam said. “You need something, you let me know.”
“Got it, Mr. Johnstone. You need some help?”
“Naw, I can get that far,” Sam said. He exited the car, and with an exaggerated wave turned and staggered toward his front door, adding, “I’ll be fine.”
Goodrich made up his mind. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. He exited the vehicle and caught up with Sam, extending an arm and putting Sam’s over his own shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”
Sam was snoring on the couch when Goodrich locked the townhouse door behind himself.
Three weeks later, an uneasy Sam was at Custer College addressing twenty-five freshmen. He’d never considered himself particularly bright, and his grades gave no indication he was wrong. He’d spent four years in college chasing women, playing baseball, and otherwise goofing off before graduating with a liberal arts degree. That wasn’t a particularly valued credential, and Sam recognized that if not for his status as a disabled veteran, he would probably not have been admitted to law school years later. Nonetheless, at the request of Marilyn Smith, a casual friend and the criminal justice instructor at the local community college, he was back in a classroom on a late October afternoon—this time to talk with the students regarding the criminal justice system. Marilyn had completed a short introduction about him and asked if anybody knew him.
“He's the guy that got Tommy Olsen off,” one student offered.
“Actually, he was convicted by a jury of his peers,” Sam said. “But the right thing was done eventually.”
“I don’t know how you can do it,” a student ventured. “I couldn’t represent someone I knew was
guilty.”
Sam smiled. He’d had this discussion on more than one occasion during his career. “A lawyer’s job is not to determine guilt or innocence. A lawyer’s job is to protect the rights of the accused, to see to it that the State is put to its burden of proving each element of each charge beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“That’s a bunch of crap, man.”
Sam looked at the speaker, a large young man wearing a light jacket with the college’s name emblazoned across the front. “I’m listening,” Sam said through slightly clenched teeth.
“You all are in business to make money, and the way you make money is to do as little as possible. Do a deal, throw your client under the bus, whatever.”
“I like money,” Sam offered. “But there are a lot of ways to make money. I do this because I believe in the system, and I think that most defendants are good people who’ve made bad decisions. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part I view my job as one where I’m trying to get my client out of a bad situation in the best shape possible. Sometimes it’s not possible.”
“Like if he’s black?”
Sam could hear the intake of air around the room. “Who cares?” he asked, looking steadily at the young man.
“You care. Because you’re white. That’s the way you were raised.”
“You’ve got no idea how I was raised or what I think. But here’s a clue: white or black or brown or whatever, if you’re an American citizen I think you’ve got rights and I’ll bust my ass to protect them. I did it for the Army while your mom was wiping your ass, and I’ll do it again tomorrow.”
While the rest of the class laughed nervously, the young man looked steadily at Sam, clearly unpersuaded.
“And there’s one more thing. You’re Davonte Blair, the basketball player, right?” Sam could feel the other students shifting nervously in their chairs.
“Yeah.”
“I read the sports page,” Sam said. According to the local newspaper, Davonte Blair was an NBA-quality basketball player who had failed to qualify academically to play at the NCAA Division 1 level. How he’d landed here Sam had no idea. “Mr. Blair, you didn’t get to be who you are because you enjoy losing. Well, I don’t like to lose, either. I didn’t like to lose when I was a college baseball player. I didn’t like to lose when I was leading men in Afghanistan before I got blown up. And I don’t like to lose in a courtroom. When I take on a case, I do it with the intention of winning—however I define it.”
Davonte smiled. “I get that.”
“Well,” Marilyn interjected, happy to see the tension had been lifted, “does anyone else have a question?”
“So, what happens if you have a client who you are absolutely, positively certain committed the crime?” another student asked.
“Again,” Sam answered, “it’s not my job to determine guilt, so if I have a client against whom I believe the State can prove the elements of the crime or crimes beyond a reasonable doubt, I look at my ability as an attorney to raise reasonable doubt in the minds of the members of the jury. Then I work to raise that doubt.”
“But if you ‘win,’ the defendant would be getting away with it!”
“No, if the defendant is acquitted by a jury of his or her peers, that means the State failed to meet its burden of proof.”
“That’s not right, though.”
“I’m not in the ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ business. I’m in the ‘lawful’ and ‘unlawful’ business. Remember, in our system, we seek justice, not truth. If we sought only truth, we would not be afforded the rights we have. That’s why a woman can be caught red-handed doing something illegal—possessing marijuana, for instance—and be exonerated if her rights were not respected during the search and arrest.”
“That’s people getting off on technicalities,” a student complained. He was a tall, skinny young man with thick glasses.
“What I have found,” Sam began, “is that if someone else beats the rap on a point of law, it’s a ‘technicality.’ If you get off, then it’s a righteous suppression. I’ve yet to have a client demand I overlook an officer’s failure to observe his rights and insist on pleading guilty.” Most of the students were smiling now, and Sam was getting more comfortable.
“That sounds good, but if you are a brother in the ’hood, none of that matters. You get busted, you’re goin’ down,” Davonte said.
“That’s not the failure of the system, though, is it?” Sam asked. “That’s the failure of the actors in it, isn’t it? The Constitution affords the same protections for the rich white kid from Loudon County as ‘the brother in the ’hood,’ as I think you phrased it.”
“That sounds good, but that ain’t the way it is,” Davonte said.
“It may not be the way it is in practice. But if it isn’t, the place to look is at the actors in the system. Why do the voters in those places continue to enable failure? Why are they re-electing and reappointing people who can’t get the job done to positions of public trust? The system isn’t perfect, but it’s the best one we have, and for my money the best one any people on earth have ever had,” Sam said.
For another half hour, Sam answered questions about being a lawyer, the legal system, and defendants. After the class had been dismissed, he and Marilyn sat and talked. “I appreciate you taking the time,” she said. “You’re something of a celebrity.”
“Well, I’m glad to help. Looks like you’ve got some bright students here. A couple of them asked tough questions.”
“You gave some straight answers. It’s unusual to find someone who believes in the system as strongly as you do. Mr. Blair spoke out, but I can tell you that he’s not the only one who believes the system is rigged against some groups.”
“The system is genius. It’s the people in the system who fail us,” Sam said. “And I’ve practiced in a couple of places now, and in my experience the system functions ninety-nine percent of the time. But that doesn’t make for books and television and movies. How boring would a book be if the system worked?”
“Again, thank you for being here,” she said. “My students come from limited means and they set limited goals. It is wonderful to have someone like you come to meet with them.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Will you come again?”
“Of course,” Sam said. “You call and I’ll be here.”
The rhythmic sound of the basketball hitting the empty field house’s hardwood floor was interrupted only by the soft swish of the ball passing through the net. Over and over Davonte took a shot, then ran to another spot on the floor and received a pass from one of the two much smaller young men serving as rebounders. The only words came from Davonte: “Got to be at my chest, man.” “Hurry up!” “Now. Now!” Eventually, he said, “One hundred,” signifying the end of the drill.
The three young men walked over to the folding chairs that would be occupied by the home team during a game and sat down. While Davonte drank water and looked at his phone, Kaiden Miles and Ronnie Norquist talked among themselves.
After a few minutes Davonte stood, looked down at the two managers, and said, “Let’s go.” Kaiden and Ronnie grabbed a basketball apiece and ran to their positions. This time, Kaiden looked at a stopwatch while Ronnie rebounded shots by Davonte, who shot, moved to another spot just beyond the three-point line, received a pass from Ronnie, tossed the ball to the floor with a spin so it came back to him, and then shot again. Kaiden called off the times as the drill went on: “thirty seconds,” “one minute,” “ninety seconds,” and then—as the three-minute mark approached—counted down the last ten seconds as Davonte and Ronnie sped up the drill accordingly. After the time expired, Davonte took a final pass from Ronnie near the free throw line, dribbled the ball once, and effortlessly dunked the ball with two hands while Ronnie looked on in admiration. “Thanks, man,” he said to the two managers. “See you in the morning.”
“We’ll be here,” Kaiden said as Davonte walked away.
“Man
, I’d give anything to be able to dunk like that,” Ronnie said. “Just once.”
“Yeah, me too,” Kaiden said. “But what I’d really like is for him to pay me my damned money.”
“Kaiden, be cool. You’ll get your money,” Ronnie said. “Davonte is gonna be a pro in a year. He’ll pay you. You just need to be patient, man.”
“That go for you, too?”
“I’m working on it,” Ronnie said. “I told you, as soon as my financial aid comes through, I’ll square up with you, man.”
“You better.”
“Just you wait.” Ronnie smiled. “Davonte goes pro, and he’s gonna take us to the top with him. We’re all gonna be golden!”
2
Sam was having dinner at a tavern on Yellowstone Avenue with Veronica Simmons, the assistant to one of the judges in town. They had dated off and on since shortly after his arrival in Custer. The restaurant was across the street from the courthouse and near his new office, making it a convenient place to meet for a casual dinner. She was drinking a glass of Chardonnay and he was having tonic water, having eschewed alcohol since the debacle at the convenience store a couple of weeks prior. “What is this crap we are listening to?” he asked, grabbing a fried pickle.
“It’s country music,” Veronica said. She was looking somewhat dubiously at a chicken wing.
“Have one,” he urged.
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 1