“I’m not worried about that.”
“Okay, well, sometimes it can be a problem between lawyers and clients and the people paying the tab.”
“Won’t happen here. My Davonte doesn’t have any secrets. He is a good boy. He didn’t do this. It’s not the way I raised him.” She put down her coffee and stood, looking Sam in the eye as she extended her hand. “Sam, would you get me that bank information?”
After Davonte’s mother had departed with the two young men and Sam’s voided check, he wandered around the office for a time, unable to focus on real estate matters. He’d committed, but nothing would be final until the paperwork was signed. The first order of business, of course, was to discuss the matter with Paul, so he sent a quick text asking him to call Sam at the office. While he waited for Paul’s call, he stood and worked his way around the office, repositioning items moved earlier by Reggie. When he got to the shadow box he stared for a long time at the contents. The rank insignia he had worn, medals and ribbons he had earned, the shoulder patches identifying each unit with which he had served were all arranged neatly and displayed underneath a tattered American flag that had flown over the forward operating base from which he’d deployed the day he got hurt. It all seemed so long ago. As he turned toward his desk, he bumped his prosthetic leg into the chair where Damon had been sitting. Smiling sheepishly, he repositioned the chair, sat behind the desk, and began looking for the form the partners used for a representation agreement. He was filling in blocks when his phone rang.
“Sam, what the hell are you doing?” Paul asked. “Single man, Sunday night, and you’re in the office?”
“I’ve been meeting with Davonte’s mom,” Sam said.
“Aw, Sam,” Paul said. “Really? I kinda thought we’d decided that maybe we didn’t want to do this? I was going to see if you wanted to have dinner with me and Jeannie.”
“They got ahold of me when I was coming back into town. I was fishing.”
“There’s a surprise. Do any good?”
“Yeah, I caught several nice browns,” Sam bragged.
“Where?”
“Where I was. You want to know, you got to go.”
Paul had always had a wonderful laugh. “You met with his mom?”
“Yeah, and his big brother and a cousin. The ‘henchmen,’ I think I’ll call them.”
“They all as big as he is?”
“Damned near. Hell, his mom—her name is Sharon—has to be six feet tall. They want us to take the case.” Hearing nothing in response, Sam asked, “You hear me?”
“You quote ’em?” Paul asked.
“I did.”
“And she’s still interested?” Paul was incredulous.
“She’s gonna have the money wired tomorrow morning,” Sam said. He was typing and talking. “Sounds like her husband died in an accident, so maybe the proceeds from a personal injury case.”
“So, you haven’t signed anything?”
“Not without talking with you. I’m drafting the agreement right now,” Sam said, correcting a mistake.
“I appreciate it,” Paul said. Sam could hear a door slam. Paul must have walked outside. “Damn, Sam. I really don’t want to do this, but—”
“It’s a shit-ton of money. Tide us over.”
“Yeah, it is that. How much trouble will momma be?” Every lawyer had stories to tell about conflicts with the mothers of their clients.
“Momma is a neat, neat lady. You’ll like her.”
“And the others? The ‘henchmen,’ I think you called them?”
“I don’t know. I think on their own they might be trouble, but I think Sharon has a handle on them,” Sam said. “She’s beautiful, by the way.”
“I can hear you typing,” Paul said. “You are working on the agreement, you said?”
“I am,” Sam acknowledged, leaning forward to see the screen.
“Make sure we’ve got an escape clause,” Paul instructed. “Something like, ‘In the event the parties deem themselves incompatible, blah, blah, blah.’ Look at the file on my Thorson case. It was a civil matter, but I think there’s some language in there we can poach.”
“Will that stand?” Sam asked. The general rule was that once an attorney entered an appearance in a criminal case, he or she was on the case until a judge ruled otherwise.
“Doubt it,” Paul said. “But I’d like them to think we have a little more leverage than maybe we do.”
“So, we’re in?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. God help us. Buckle up.” Paul sighed. “I can’t believe you got us into this.”
Later that evening, Paul and Ronnie were in Paul’s office. It was after nine, but Paul had called his son and asked to meet.
“Dad, what’s up?” Ronnie asked when he came through the door. He was ten minutes late.
“You’re late.”
“What?”
“You’re late. I asked you to meet me at nine. You will never get anywhere in life if you are late.”
Ronnie said nothing. He was not up to arguing with the old man tonight. The two sat and looked at each other, saying nothing. Finally, Paul cut to the chase. “What are your mother and I going to find out about you in the next couple of months?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean. Sam is going to take on Davonte’s defense. That means everyone—cops, Sam, me—will be looking into Kaiden’s background, as well as Davonte’s . . . and yours.”
“Nothing! There’s nothing to find out, Dad. I told you that when we met before.”
“Are you certain? I need the truth.”
“Nothing.”
“Drugs?” Paul asked.
“Well, maybe a little bit of weed, but nothing serious.”
“Is that how you were raised?”
“No, but it’s legal in Colorado. Better for you than beer—”
“Oh, stop. Save that shit for your dorm rat buddies,” Paul said. “The fact is, the stuff’s illegal. You are choosing to break the law. Society breaks down when people pick and choose what laws they will follow, son.”
“Change isn’t made by following the law!”
“Are you kidding me?” Paul asked. “What cause are you behind? Not having to make the bed in your dorm? Give me a break. I asked you what we’re going to find out here. So we got drugs. What else?”
“I don’t know.” Ronnie was looking at the floor.
“Don’t be petulant. I know that look.”
“And I know you’re a judgmental asshole,” Ronnie said. “A racist, homophobic, white-privileged Generation Xer who doesn’t understand what’s going on in the world!”
“Wow,” Paul said. “I guess I need to listen up, then. What’s going on in the world? What’s the bad stuff I’m missing? I look at the world and see full employment, every family with two cars, the big health issue being obesity, and schools and culture catering to people who are weirder than cat shit. Seems to me that for someone who is unhappy with tradition and culture, this is the greatest period in the history of mankind.”
“All built on the backs of slaves, people of color, native Americans, LGBTQ+ people, and women. All by oppressing others!”
Paul watched his son for a moment. “Even assuming, arguendo, that everything you say is true—and it is more complicated than that—but even if we assume it is, all I asked is, ‘Is there something you need to tell me?’ So, let me ask again: is there anything you need to tell me?”
“No.”
“Anything I need to tell Mom?”
“No. She wouldn’t understand any more than you.”
“Okay,” Paul said, standing. “So, here is the deal, son: I’m going to help Sam defend Davonte. That means he will soon become my priority. I have given you the opportunity to tell me if there is anything going on with you, or you and Davonte, or involving you or Davonte or Kaiden. In return, you provided an insulting, frankly sophomoric rant. So, when and if you get caught in the crossfire between a prosec
utor and Davonte, or between Sam and Davonte, understand that I was here, that I offered to listen, and that I offered to help. Good night, son.” He opened his office door with one hand.
“Dad, I—” Ronnie began.
“Good night, son.” Paul pointed to the hall with the other hand. “Good to see you,” he said to his son’s back.
“So, you got your money?” Davonte asked. It was Monday morning and outside visiting hours, but Sam had talked his way into the jail for what he’d promised would be a brief visit.
“Sharon says she will deposit the money later this morning. Assuming she does that, you’ve got yourself a law firm,” Sam said.
“I got a lawyer, you mean.”
“Davonte, I meant what I said. Paul and I are a package deal. If that doesn’t work for you, let me know now.” The young man looked at him for a long time. Sam met his stare. “This is a deal-breaker. Both of us, or none of us.”
“Okay,” Davonte said at last.
“Good. Now, we’ve got an initial appearance this afternoon. I’ll be there with you. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Don’t I gotta plead not guilty?”
“Not yet. The hearing is just to tell you what they are charging you with and to inform you of your rights—stuff like that. The judge we see today doesn’t have the jurisdiction to take a plea on a charge like this.”
“So, when do I get out?”
“Depends on how much money your family has. The judge will set a bond. I’ll do my best to keep it down, but I’m expecting she’ll set it at a million or so.”
“A million bucks? You aren’t serious, man! I didn’t do it!”
“Keep your voice down!” Sam hissed. “The judge sets a bond based on her assessment of whether you are a flight risk and whether you pose a danger to the community. This is a murder charge and you’re not from here.”
“That’s bullshit, man, I—”
“Davonte.”
“I didn’t do it, man. This is a bunch—”
“Davonte.”
“White bread mother—”
“Davonte!” Sam barked.
“Yeah?”
“Think of this like a basketball game. There’s two ways we can do this. One, you can piss and moan about the rules, the referees, and who we are playing. Or two, we can prepare the best we can to play the game, so to speak. How do you want to go? You want to help me, or not?”
Davonte nodded in understanding. “What do you need to know?” he asked.
“Let’s start with everything good about you.”
14
Later that morning Sam was loading his briefcase with the materials he would need for Davonte’s initial appearance. When he was ready to go, he stopped in Paul’s office. “You ready to go? Hearing’s in twenty minutes.”
“Why don’t you handle this one?” Paul asked. “I just got a letter from an out-of-state attorney who is making noise about contesting a will I did twenty years ago. I better see what’s going on here. Try to head this one off at the pass.”
“Okay, got it.”
“Good luck. And don’t get run over by one of those protesters.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“Didn’t you see that gathering of idiots when you came in this morning?” Paul asked.
“No. It was still dark when I got here.”
“Oh, yeah. Must’ve been thirty or forty clowns marching around, carrying signs and chanting.”
“Whose side are they on?”
“Not yours.”
“Nice.”
Walking down the street from his office to the courthouse, it occurred to Sam that he probably should have called court security to see if they would open the back door for him. He was pulling his phone from his pocket when a couple of the protesters saw him, pointed, and began moving toward him. Feeling his pulse quicken, he replaced his phone and then touched the pistol he’d put in a shoulder holster that morning. He hit the steps at a near-run, ignoring the insults and invectives hurled his way. “Good morning, Deputy,” he said, and placed his briefcase on the belt to the metal detector. “You need me to empty my pockets?”
“No, Sam, I don’t. Are you carrying?”
“I am.”
“Okay, walk around the machine to the left here, okay? I don’t want to start a riot by you lighting this place up.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Just remember, your carry permit for this building expires the day after the jury comes back.”
“Got it.”
Sam followed the deputy’s instructions and was inside the courthouse a few seconds later. As always, he was struck by the grandeur of the place. Stone wainscoting complemented floors of gray marble. Ornate ceiling fans thirty feet above the gathering crowds circulated air. At opposite ends of the building, broad curving stairways led to the second-floor district court courtroom. He made his way down the hall to Judge Downs’s courtroom while courthouse security, augmented by contracted off-duty law enforcement, struggled to keep onlookers in line. Sam nodded at head custodian Jack Fricke and his assistant as he made his way to the courtroom double doors. “Good morning Mr. Johnstone,” the assistant—widely known as “Frac”—said shyly.
“Good morning,” Sam replied, and flashed the young man a tight smile.
Judge Downs’s first-floor courtroom was approximately half the size of Judge Daniels’s second-floor courtroom. Perhaps fifty feet on a side, it was a windowless square dominated by the judge’s raised bench, adjacent to which was a witness box. On the other side of that was the jury box. A lectern in almost the exact center of the courtroom was flanked by two library-type tables that would soon be occupied by the attorneys and parties from the prosecution and defense. Several chairs were arranged at each library table. Sam removed the items he’d need from his briefcase, then sat at the defense table, took a deep breath, and looked toward the ceiling and closed his eyes. Behind him, serving to separate the trial’s active participants from the audience, was a waist-high divider known as “the bar.” Since the mid-twentieth century, all courtrooms in Wyoming contained such a barrier. The rows of seats behind him were filled with observers. Cathy Schmidt arrived with Rebecca Nice and Chief Buck Lucas in tow. Sam stood and shook hands with Cathy. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Sam,” she replied, and he couldn’t help but think of the stark professional contrast between Cathy and Ann Fulks, who had prosecuted the case against Tommy Olsen. So far, Cathy had impressed him as a smart, tough-but-fair prosecutor.
The parties waited for approximately five minutes before court security officers brought Davonte into the courtroom. Sam could hear the intake of air into the lungs of the observers as his client entered. Davonte’s hands were restrained in front of him and each foot was connected to the other by a length of chain that allowed him to walk relatively normally but would impede his ability to run. Because the legs on the jumpsuit were designed for a normal-sized man, the white, jail-issued socks were visible all the way to their tops. Sam stood and pulled Davonte’s chair back and seated him, then sat beside him and put his arm around the young man’s shoulders. It was an old trick, designed to show anyone observing that Davonte was a human being. “All right, just as we discussed, okay?”
“I got it.”
“Okay. Remember: just sit and listen and answer when she questions you,” Sam reminded Davonte. “No commentary. Every question will require only a yes or no response. That’s it.”
“You told me all this yesterday, man.”
“I did. I’m telling you again because it is important,” Sam insisted. “You can’t afford to dork this up.”
“You want me to play the game.”
“I don’t really care,” Sam said. “It might be worth one hundred thousand bucks for you to fake it—but you be you.”
“My mom here?” Davonte asked, starting to turn around.
“Look straight ahead, just like I told you,” Sam said. “Your mom, R
eggie, and Damon are two rows back on our side on the aisle. You can nod to them as you are being led out after this hearing. That’s it.”
“Gotcha.”
“All rise,” the bailiff said as Downs entered. Sam and Davonte joined everyone in standing.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Please be seated,” Downs ordered. “Court is in session. The first matter before the court is State of Wyoming versus Davonte Blair.” Downs, as a circuit court judge, didn’t have the jurisdiction to take a plea. Instead, the purpose of the hearing was to ensure Davonte understood his rights, the charges, and the possible penalty should he plead or be found guilty, and—since he had already retained Sam—to set the terms of his pre-trial release. “Mr. Blair, would you please step to the podium?”
Davonte rose and shuffled to the podium, followed by Sam. “Your Honor, Sam Johnstone, appearing for the defendant.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnstone. Have you been retained?” she asked. She was nervous, Sam thought. Her first big case; she had a slight quiver in her voice.
“I have, Judge.”
“Well, if Mr. Blair has already retained you, we’ll be able to dispense with a lot of what is usually covered and then we’ll talk about the terms and conditions of pre-trial release.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your client may be reached through you, Mr. Johnstone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Will Mr. Blair waive an advisal of rights?”
“He will, Your Honor.”
“Thank you, counsel,” Downs said. “Mr. Blair, you are here pursuant to an Information and Warrant alleging you are guilty of one count of first-degree murder, a violation of Wyoming Statute—”
“Your Honor, my client will waive a verbatim reading—” Sam began.
“Thank you, Mr. Johnstone,” Downs said. “Not on my watch. Anything else?”
“No, Judge.” Sam waited while Downs read the statute for first-degree murder and the warrant verbatim. “Mr. Blair, do you understand all that?”
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 15