The Last Innocent Man

by Phillip Margolin

  “What do I want…? Goddammit, you’re lucky I talked to you at all. I should have dragged your wife in front of Judge Rosenthal and made her recant on the stand. But I’m still your lawyer and I want it from you. Did you kill Darlene Hersch?”

  Stafford wagged his still-bowed head from side to side but did not look David in the eye.

  “I don’t care anymore,” he said. “And once the jury hears what we did…”

  “If,” David said.

  Stafford looked up at him, like a dog begging for food.

  “You’re not going to-?”

  “You aren’t the only one involved in this. I don’t know if you killed that woman or not, but I’m not going to let you drag your wife down with you, by making her admit that she perjured herself.

  “And if you are innocent, there isn’t a chance that a jury would find you innocent if it learned about what you two did.”

  Stafford started to cry, but David did nothing to comfort him.

  “Just one more thing, Stafford. Are there any other little goodies that I should know about? And I mean anything.”

  “No, no. I swear.”

  David stood and walked to the door. Stafford seemed to lack the energy to move. He sat hunched over, staring at the floor.

  “Pull yourself together,” David ordered in a cold, flat monotone. “We have to go to court.”

  David took his place at counsel table and watched the events of the day unfold like a dream. The jury was seated in slow motion and Monica appeared, her arms loaded with law books. If he had been concentrating, this would have struck him as odd on a day set aside for closing argument, but nothing was registering for David. He just wanted the case to end, so he could decide what to do with his life without the pressure of having to care about the lives of other people.

  Stafford had been brought in by the guard before the jury appeared, but he exchanged no words with his attorney. The judge came in last, and the final day of the trial commenced.

  “Are you prepared to argue, Ms. Powers?” Judge Rosenthal asked.

  “No, Your Honor,” Monica replied. “The State has one rebuttal witness it would like to call.”

  “Very well.”

  Monica signaled toward the back of the room, and Cyrus Johnson swaggered in, dressed in a white shirt, crewneck sweater, and brown slacks. David watched Johnson walk to the witness stand, trying to place the face. It was only when the witness stated his name that David began to feel uneasy.

  “Do you know that man?” David demanded. Stafford paled and said nothing, unable to take his eyes off the witness.

  “Are you also known as T.V., Mr. Johnson?” Monica asked.

  “You’d better tell me what this is all about,” David said, his voice low and threatening. Stafford did not reply, but his face had the look of a person who knows that his death is imminent.

  “And would you tell the jury what your occupation was on June sixteenth of this year?” Monica asked, swiveling her chair to watch David and Stafford react.

  “Uh, well, uh,” Johnson started uneasily, “I guess you could say I managed some women.”

  “You mean you were a pimp?” Monica asked.

  There was a commotion in the courtroom and the judge pounded his gavel for quiet.

  “Ms. Powers, you are asking this man to admit to criminal activity. Has he been warned of his rights?”

  “Mr. Johnson is testifying under a grant of full immunity, Your Honor,” Monica replied, handing a notarized document to the Court and a copy to David. The judge studied it.

  “Very well,” he said when he was finished. “You may proceed.”

  “Mr. Johnson, have you ever seen Larry Stafford, the defendant in this case, before?”

  Johnson stared at Stafford for a moment, then turned back to Monica.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Would you tell the jury the circumstances of that meeting?” Monica asked.

  Johnson shifted in the witness box and Monica tensed, waiting for David’s objection. When it did not come, she glanced tentatively at her former husband. She was startled by what she saw. David, who was usually so intense, was slumped down in his chair. He looked sad and uncaring. Monica had sprung surprises on David before and had seen him handle other lawyers’ challenges. Thinking on his feet was where David excelled. The David she saw now looked defeated.

  “It was a couple of years ago. I would say in September. This dude, uh, the defendant, come up to one of my women in the Regency Bar, and they split a few minutes later. Now, I don’t make it a practice to bother my girls when they’re workin’, but somethin’ about this dude bothered me, so I followed them.”

  Judge Rosenthal looked over at David. He, too, was waiting for an objection. When David said nothing, the judge toyed with the idea of calling the lawyers to the bench to discuss the direction the testimony was taking, but Nash was an experienced attorney, and he had conducted an excellent trial so far. The judge decided to let David try his case his way.

  “We was usin’ a motel on the strip then, so I knew right where they was goin’. I parked in the lot near the room and waited. About ten minutes later I heard a scream, so I went up to the room.

  “Mordessa is naked and scramblin’ across the bed, and this dude,” Johnson said, pointing at Stafford, “is right on top of her, beatin’ her good. She got blood comin’ out of her mouth and her eye looked real bad.

  “I was carryin’ a piece which I pulled and told him to freeze. He does. Then I asked what happened. Mordessa says Stafford wanted her to do some real kinky stuff, like tyin’ her up and whipping her. She tells him it’s extra and he says that’s cool. Then somethin’ about him scared her and she changed her mind. And that’s when he starts beatin’ on her.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The cops, uh, police arrived. I guess someone heard Mordessa screamin’ and called ’em. Anyway, this white cop asks Stafford what happened and he don’t even speak to me. Stafford says we tried to roll him and the next thing I know, we’re down the station house charged with prostitution and attempted robbery.”

  “Did you tell the police your story?”

  “Sure, but they wasn’t too interested in our version.”

  “What finally happened to the charges against you?”

  “Nothin’. They was dropped.”

  “And why was that?”

  T.V. smiled and pointed at Stafford. “He wouldn’t prosecute. Said he never said no such thing to the police.”

  “Is there any question in your mind that the man who beat up Mordessa is the defendant, Lawrence Dean Stafford?”

  Johnson stared at Stafford and shook his head.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Monica paused for effect, then said, “Your witness, counselor.”

  The courtroom was hushed and all eyes turned toward David. Stafford’s head was bent and he stared at the blank legal pad that lay before him. He had not moved during Johnson’s testimony.

  David also sat motionless. As Johnson had testified, the lawyer in him had seen the numerous objections and legal motions he could have made to keep Johnson’s testimony out, but he had made none of them, because there was another, more human, part that would not let him.

  Each time he thought about objecting, he thought about Tony Seals and Ashmore. He was tired of letting the animals out of their cages and tired of justifying his actions by the use of philosophical arguments he no longer believed in. Stafford was guilty. He had murdered Darlene Hersch. There was no longer any doubt in David’s mind. David had to protect future victims from a man like Stafford, not use his skills to endanger others. Stafford had taken a life and he would pay for it.

  The judge was calling his name for a second time. The jurors were staring at him. A low rumble of voices was beginning to build among the spectators. David shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “No questions,” he said.

  And Stafford never said a word in protest.

  PART IV />
  TRIAL BY FIRE

  1

  The visitor’s room at the state penitentiary was a large, open space filled with couches and chairs upholstered in red vinyl and outfitted with chrome armrests. Three vending machines stood against one wall. There was an occasional low wooden table with an ashtray on it.

  Jenny had never been in a place like this before, and the visits depressed her. The other prisoners seemed strange and threatening and not like anyone she had ever met. Whenever she entered the prison, she felt like a visitor to a foreign country.

  Larry did not understand her reluctance to touch him. All around them wives, lovers, and relatives embraced the other prisoners. She tried to explain how she felt to Larry, but he saw her reticence as another betrayal.

  “I talked to Mr. Bloch,” Jenny said. “He says he’ll have your brief filed at the court of appeals this week. He sounded hopeful, Larry.”

  Stafford shook his head. He had fired David as soon as Judge Rosenthal had imposed the mandatory life sentence on him. Jerry Bloch, an experienced appellate attorney, was representing him now. They had talked about the appeal last week.

  “I’m not going to get out. That bastard Nash saw to that when he railroaded me at the trial.”

  “But Mr. Bloch-”

  “I talked to Bloch. Don’t forget, I’m a lawyer. There aren’t any errors Bloch can work with, because Nash never objected when they put that pimp on the stand. That son of a bitch socked me in here but good.”

  Jenny said nothing. She had been through this before. Once Larry got started, he would stay in a rage during the entire visit.

  “If he’d cross-examined Johnson or kept him off…Jenny, there were a thousand ways he could have kept that pimp off the stand.”

  He could also have told the judge that you and I lied, she thought to herself, but he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. An image of the last day of Larry’s trial slipped unbidden into her consciousness. Once again she saw T.V. Johnson walk from the hushed courtroom. The jury filing out. The judge and prosecutor following. But David and Larry had not moved. And when the guard finally led Larry away, David still remained seated. She had waited for him in the back of the room, wanting to talk to him, to hold him.

  When everyone else had left, David got to his feet slowly, as if he were climbing the last section of a steep mountain grade. When he turned, he looked exhausted and his eyes had lost their focus. He packed his papers away and walked toward the door, up the aisle in Jenny’s direction. When he reached her, he paused for barely a moment and looked down at her. Where she had expected hate, she saw only despair. The look of a man who had given up everything without a fight.

  That evening, after short deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of guilty. She had not seen David since. He never answered her calls and never seemed to be at home. After a while she stopped trying.

  “Bloch says if we lose the appeal in the supreme court, I can go into federal court and allege incompetence of counsel. But I have to wait and exhaust my state appeals first.”

  “We can do that, if you want to.”

  “You bet I want to.”

  “Won’t it come out that…about my not being with you that night?”

  “I don’t care, Jenny. That’s only perjury. I’m in here for life for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  And what about me? she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t. If she had to be punished in order for Larry to get out, she would be getting what she deserved. If she hadn’t betrayed David, he would never have collapsed the way he had. Larry was in prison because she had destroyed David with her lies.

  David. How she loved him. More so now that he was lost to her forever. She remembered the night they had first met. It had taken all her control to refrain from calling him. And why hadn’t she? Guilt. It was always the same answer. Guilt had prevented her from asking Larry for a divorce long before Darlene Hersch was murdered. Guilt prevented her from telling David the truth. And guilt was keeping her shackled to a man who would probably spend the rest of his life in prison.

  The upturned collar of Thomas Gault’s jacket blocked the icy wind and sent it skittering through the drunken sailors and carousing longshoremen who crowded the sidewalk. Gault pushed open the door of The Dutchman, a noisy workingmen’s bar that took its trade from the docks. A gust of wind chilled two men who were sitting at the bar, and they looked Gault’s way when he entered. The bar lined the wall to Gault’s right, and a row of booths occupied the wall on the left. Most of the room was filled with Formica-topped tables. Two pool tables stood in a cleared space near the gents’ room.

  “Shut the door,” one of the men at the bar commanded. Gault smiled to himself. He didn’t come to the docks for the atmosphere. He came for the action. And it looked as if tonight the action might start sooner than he’d expected. He had planned on shutting the door, but now he let it stay open.

  “Shut it yourself, asshole,” he said, and walked down the bar without another glance in the man’s direction. He heard an angry murmur behind him, and a few seconds later the door slammed shut.

  Gault positioned himself with his back to the wall at an unoccupied table by the jukebox where he could view the room. A waitress brought him a beer and he took a sip, watching the man he had insulted over the rim of the glass. He was a little over six feet. A thick roll of fat slopped over his belt at the waistline, and his shirt was partially out of his pants, exposing a sweat-stained undershirt. His movements were slow and jerky. It was obvious that he had been drinking for some time.

  The fat man’s companion was Gault’s size. His figure was trim and he seemed sober. The fat man seemed to have forgotten about the incident at the door and was back in his cups. Too bad, Gault thought. He let his eyes drift over the rest of the room. A sailor and a heavyset woman with teased blond hair were shooting pool against two boys in work shirts and jeans. The woman sank her shot. One of the boys swore. The sailor laughed and smacked the woman’s ass.

  Three men a few tables from Gault were arguing about an upcoming heavyweight fight. When Gault’s eyes moved back to the bar, they met the fat man’s by accident and stayed there. The staring match was no contest. The fat man folded in less than a minute and gave Gault the finger to save face. Gault blew the fat man a kiss. The man got off his stool and started up the bar. His friend grabbed his elbow in an attempt to restrain him, but he lurched free, stumbling against the bar as he broke the shorter man’s grip. He staggered in Gault’s direction, and his friend followed after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Were you lookin’ at me, dog turd?” the fat man demanded when he reached Gault’s table.

  “Leave it be, Harvey,” the shorter man said.

  “He blew a kiss at me, Al,” Harvey said without taking his eyes off Gault. “You seen that. Fags kiss boys. You a fag, skinhead?”

  “You’re so cute, I’d let you find out,” Gault lisped effeminately.

  “I think you’d better split, buddy,” Harvey’s friend said, suddenly angry at Gault.

  “I thought you had more sense than your friend,” Gault said sharply, pushing his chair back and slowly getting to his feet.

  “I don’t like a smart-mouth any better than Harv, so why don’t you leave while you still can.”

  “Can’t I finish my drink?” Gault asked in a mocking tone. Harvey stared at Gault for a second, then swept the beer off the table. The glass shattered on the floor and the noise in the bar stopped. Gault felt a rush of adrenaline. His whole body seemed in movement.

  “It’s finished-” Harvey started, his wind suddenly cut off by the foot that Gault snapped into his groin. Gault’s left foot connected with the fat man’s temple. Harvey’s head snapped to one side and he sat down hard.

  Gault pivoted, blocking Al’s first wild punch with his forearm. He aimed a side kick at his opponent’s kneecap. It was off, striking with only enough force to jostle him off balance. The follow-up left only grazed Al’s eye.

  The advantage of surprise w
as lost and Al had good reflexes. He charged into Gault, wrestling him backward into the wall. Gault grunted from the impact, momentarily stunned.

  Harvey was on one knee, struggling to get up. Gault brought his forehead down fast. Al’s nose cracked. Blood spattered across Gault’s shirt. He boosted his knee and felt it make hard contact with Al’s groin. There was a gasp and the grip on his arm relaxed. Gault drove a right to the solar plexus and shot his fingers into the man’s eyes. Al screamed and sagged. Gault snapped the side of his hand against the man’s neck, and he sank to the floor, his face covered with blood.

  Glass shattered and Gault set himself as Harvey moved toward him, a broken bottle held tightly in his hand. Gault circled warily, keeping distance between them. Harvey feinted and Gault moved back. He felt the edge of the bar cut into his back. There was a flash of movement behind him and he shifted slightly, but not enough to avoid being hit across the back of the head by the sawed-off pool cue the bartender kept for just such occasions.

  The phone was ringing. David opened his eyes slowly and struggled to bring his other senses into focus. He became aware of a sour, phlegmy taste in his mouth and a dull ache behind his eyes. The phone rang again and he flinched. It was still dark outside. According to the digital clock, it was two in the morning.

  David picked up the receiver to stop the ringing.

  “Dave,” a voice at the other end called out.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Tom. Tom Gault. I’m in jail, old buddy, and you gotta come down here and bail me out.”

  “Who?” David asked. The words had not registered.

  “Tom Gault. Bring your checkbook. I’ll pay you back when I get home.”

  David sat up and tried to concentrate. “What did you do?”

  “I was in a fight. These clowns have chargedme with assault. I’ll explain it all to you once I’m out.”

  David didn’t want to go to the jail at two in the morning. He didn’t have any great urge to see Thomas Gault, either. But he was too tired to refuse Gault’s request.