This lunch is with FBI Special Agent Robert Hastings. Pete Stanton, who set it up, told me that Hastings’s friends call him Robbie, but that since I’m a defense attorney, I should call him Special Agent Hastings. Pete knows him from a few cases where their paths intersected, and he describes him as a stand-up guy.
The stand-up guy is already sitting at a table when I get there. At least I think he’s sitting. Right now he’s about half a foot taller than I am when I’m standing. I had asked Pete how I’d recognize him, and he described Hastings as dressing conservatively and balding slightly. Apparently, Pete considered these more distinctive features than the fact that Hastings is in the neighborhood of six foot nine, three hundred pounds.
Hastings is looking at his watch when I arrive. The lunch was called for noon, and a quick check of my own watch shows it to be one minute after.
I reach the table and introduce myself, and then say, “I’m not late, am I?” I say this with the full knowledge that I’m not.
“Yeah, you are,” he says.
“Didn’t we say twelve o’clock?” I ask.
A slight nod of his massive head. “Yeah.”
I decide not to pursue the time issue any further, and I quietly let him take the lead in the conversation. It turns out that conversation-leading is not a specialty of his.
After about five silent and excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes, he says, “Pete tells me you’re a pain in the ass.”
I smile. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”
Hastings goes on to tell me that Pete also said that even though I’m a little runt, there’s not a lunch check ever made that’s too heavy for me to pick up. He picked this really expensive restaurant to test out that theory.
He’s in the middle of ordering enough food to feed the Green Bay Packers when it hits me. “Hey, you’re not Dead End Hastings, are you?”
It turns out that he is, in fact, Dead End Hastings, who spent two years playing for the Denver Broncos and who was so named because when running backs came into his area, they were entering a dead end with no way out. An untimely knee injury cut a very promising career short.
The transformation is immediate. He goes from quiet and surly to affable and gregarious. Fortunately, his mouth is large enough that simultaneous talking and eating presents no difficulty for him at all. He regales me with stories of his playing days and is impressed with my knowledge of rather arcane pieces of football trivia. I always knew that all those Sunday afternoons in front of the television set would turn out to be worthwhile.
We’re having dessert when I bring up the reason I wanted to have this lunch in the first place. “I need to know everything there is to know about Alex Dorsey. I’m representing the person accused in his murder.”
His nod confirms my expectation that Pete had alerted him to at least this general subject matter. “And why exactly did you come to me?” he asks.
“Because I know the Bureau conducted an investigation that somehow involved Dorsey and that it got him at least temporarily off the hook when Internal Affairs was coming after him. That’s all part of the public record.”
I’m stretching the truth some: FBI involvement with Dorsey was never publicly confirmed. Hastings doesn’t seem to care one way or the other. “It’s not my case,” he says, “so all I can do is tell you whose case it is.”
“That’s a start,” I say.
“Darrin Hobbs. He’s number two man in the eastern region, heading for number one.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Any chance you can set up a meeting for me with him?”
He shrugs. “I can tell him you want to talk to him. I wouldn’t count on it, though. He’s a busy guy.”
“I understand,” I say. “By the way, you said ‘is.’”
“What’s that?”
“You said it is his case. I thought the federal investigation involving Dorsey ended a long time ago. Did you just make a bad choice of words?”
He looks across the table at me with a stare that makes me glad I was never an offensive lineman. “I’m even better at choosing words than I am at eating.” That is a significant statement, because based on the size of the check when I get it, Winston Churchill wasn’t better at choosing words than Hastings is at eating.
Driving home, I try to focus on that which makes this case unique. In most cases, my view is that my client is wrongly accused and that the real criminal is out there. While that is certainly true here as well, the twist is that Laurie’s arrest is not just the result of police error. Stynes’s involvement makes it crystal clear that she was set up from the very beginning. It is likely, but not absolutely definite, that the person behind the setup and the murderer are one and the same.
I find it very helpful to sit down with Kevin to just bounce ideas off each other. He has a sharp mind, and while he’s emotionally involved in this case, he’s far more dispassionate than I am.
We have one of those talks this afternoon, though it’s a little hard to hear because Edna is typing like a maniac in the background. Kevin points out that my instinct about Stynes not being disappointed when I turned down his case was right on target. He wasn’t in my office for the purpose of hiring an attorney; he was there to plant information in my head. He was betting that my belief in his guilt would cause me to defend Garcia.
“So two people got framed,” I say. “First Garcia and then Laurie. But Garcia was always meant to be temporary; he was never meant to take the ultimate fall. He was just there to get me into the case.”
Kevin shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think he was there to get Laurie into the case. She works for you, so they had to bring you in first.”
In an instant I realize that he is right and that what he is saying has a logical extension. “Which means Garcia was not picked at random; he was chosen because Laurie had a long-standing grudge against him. And now Dylan will use that to say she murdered Dorsey and framed Garcia, thereby removing two people she hated.”
He nods. “We’re up against somebody pretty smart.”
“Lucky we’ve got Edna the dynamo on our side.”
After a while Kevin is about to leave, and together we persuade Edna to leave with him. She vows to be back early in the morning, and I tell her that I’ll set the alarm.
Laurie and I have a quiet dinner, trying our best not to talk about the case, while knowing we’re each thinking about nothing else. We haven’t really had a full-blown attorney-client discussion yet, and I ask her if it’s okay if we start the process tonight. She agrees, and we sit on the couch in the den, soft music in the background, sharing a bottle of wine. In terms of the atmosphere for attorney-client conferences, I’ve experienced a hell of a lot worse.
I start off by telling her that it is important for us to put our personal relationship aside in working her case; that is how we can be most objective and effective. She has to be prepared for me to treat her like any other client. She nods. “So we won’t be sleeping together?”
“Sure we will,” I say. “I sleep with all my clients.”
That dispensed with, we get down to business. Laurie knows the importance of total honesty in speaking to one’s lawyer, but since knowing it in the abstract and living it are two different things, I take pains to remind her.
Laurie tells me that she doesn’t know any more about Dorsey’s disappearance and murder than I do. Accepting that at face value, I try to focus in on her relationship with Oscar Garcia.
Laurie begins by once again reciting the story of her friend’s teenage daughter, who became a drug customer of Garcia’s before running away from home. I’ve heard it all, but I let her go on. I often find it’s better to let a client talk uninterrupted as much as possible; I get more information that way. It’s strange to be thinking of Laurie as a client, but I’m getting used to it.
“You made a comment to me the other day,” I say. “Something about knowing what Oscar’s been up to recently.”
>
She nods. “I’ve kept my eye on him from time to time.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means that when I’ve had time I’ve watched him, hoping he would make a mistake. Something that could get him sent away.”
“You’re not a cop anymore, Laurie.”
“No, but I know a few.” She can see I’m a little worried about this. “Andy, the guy is a slime. I have the right to watch him.”
“Did you catch him doing anything?” I ask.
“Not that I could prove.”
“What about personal contact? Did you have any?”
“No.”
I feel like she’s holding back, although she must know that wouldn’t make any sense. The rest of the conversation consists more of her trying to get information from me than the other way around. She wants to know how the case is going, and even though it hasn’t had time to go anywhere, I make myself sound upbeat. My goal is to be honest but not depressing. In this case, at least for now, that’s not easy.
I’M UP AND SHOWERED BY SEVEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning, which is exactly the time that Edna shows up. I see her through the window; she has brought donuts and coffee for the early assembled press and is outside divvying it up. Obviously, there was no need for press-relations coaching from me; Wonder Woman picked it up on her own.
At nine o’clock I get a phone call from the court clerk informing me that the grand jury has handed down an indictment against Laurie. Dylan has been working fast. She also informs me that a trial judge has been assigned, and I am wanted at a meeting in one hour in his chambers. I start to argue about the inconvenience of this hastily called meeting when she tells me that the trial judge is Walter “Hatchet” Henderson.
I stop arguing. Hatchet could just as easily have given me ten minutes to get there, and held me in contempt if I was late. He is autocratic, obnoxious, and legendarily difficult for all lawyers, though I’m sure he scares Dylan more than me. Hatchet was the judge on the Miller case, and I was pleased—make that stunned—by the competence and fairness he demonstrated while conducting that trial.
Before I leave, Laurie reminds me of her one demand: that the trial begin as soon as possible. It’s a very common feeling among the accused, especially the wrongly accused. This experience is so trying, so frightening, so humiliating, that the need to have it over as quickly as possible is overwhelming.
By the time I get to Hatchet’s office Dylan is already there, kissing the judge’s ass by marveling about how much weight Hatchet has lost on some diet. Lawyers instinctively try to kiss Hatchet’s ass, but even though that ass has in fact gotten smaller during this diet, the tactic doesn’t work. Hatchet does not respect ass-kissing attorneys. He also does not respect prosecuting attorneys, defense attorneys, outstanding attorneys, mediocre attorneys, or any attorneys.
“Good morning, Judge,” I say.
“Let’s do without the small talk, gentlemen. We’ve got a trial to conduct.”
“Oh,” I say, “I assumed we were changing defendants again.”
“No,” Dylan responds, “we’re going to put this one away for a long time.”
I laugh. “Dylan, I’m going to clean your clock.”
Hatchet interrupts and berates us for our unprofessional conduct. He then takes out his calendar and opens the floor to discussion of a start date for the trial.
“I would suggest July fourteenth, Your Honor,” Dylan says.
“That is unacceptable to the defense, Your Honor. We wish to invoke our right to a speedy trial. We would be looking at the middle of May.”
Dylan is clearly surprised, mainly because he knows rushing is not in our best interest; it’s an accepted truth that time is always on the defense’s side. And besides, I had already agreed to the July 14 date when the defendant was Oscar. Dylan has no choice but to accede to our demand, however, since we are simply exercising our constitutional rights.
Dylan estimates that the prosecution case might take two weeks, and I say that I doubt we’ll even need to mount a defense, but if we do, a week should do it.
Hatchet looks intently at the calendar, then stares at us. “My vacation begins on June twenty-eight.”
I nod. “And I hope Your Honor has a wonderful time.”
Dylan revisits the issue of bail, as I knew he would. I’m very concerned that Hatchet might revoke the bail and put Laurie in jail.
“I would not have ruled as Judge Timmerman did,” Hatchet says. “It is a decision that makes me uncomfortable.”
“The decision is wrong,” Dylan agrees. “Almost without precedent in this county.”
I won’t get anywhere by arguing with Hatchet; all I can do is give him another point of view to consider. “I’m not going to defend Judge Timmerman’s ruling, though it obviously is one I was pleased with. But there are new circumstances to consider.”
He peers at me from behind his glasses. “And they are?”
“Her order has been followed, and there have been no negative consequences. Ms. Collins is safely contained, electronically monitored, and guarded by the police. The community is safe, and will remain so, and there is no risk of flight. Respectfully, sir, altering Judge Timmerman’s order provides no benefit to anyone, while hampering Ms. Collins’s considerable ability to aid in her own defense.”
Dylan starts to argue some more, but Hatchet isn’t listening. He is turning the issue over in his mind. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid Hatchet won’t be able to hear over it.
Finally, after what seems like a couple of months, he nods. “Without a change in circumstances, I’m inclined to let Judge Timmerman’s ruling stand.” Then he looks at me. “Make sure there is no change in circumstances.”
Hatchet dismisses us, and I permit myself a condescending smile at Dylan as I leave. I’m on a winning streak which won’t last, but I might as well let Dylan know that I’m enjoying it.
As we had planned, Kevin is waiting for me at the bottom of the courthouse steps. He takes me over to a nearby coffee shop, where I am to meet Marcus Clark. I had asked Laurie and Kevin to each come up with a list of investigators to join our team for this case, and Marcus’s name was the only one on both lists.
Marcus is late arriving, so Kevin uses the time to brief me on his background. Soon after Marcus had become an investigator, Kevin represented him on an assault charge: Marcus had broken a guy’s nose in a bar fight. Kevin won the case with a claim of self-defense, which he has always considered one of his greatest victories. He tells me that I’ll understand why when I see Marcus.
Marcus comes in moments later, and it’s immediately obvious what Kevin was talking about. It is hard to imagine that Marcus could have acted in self-defense, because it’s hard to imagine anyone being dumb enough to have attacked him.
Marcus is a thirty-year-old African-American, about five foot ten, with a bald head so shiny you could guide planes to a runway with it. His body is so sculpted, his muscles so perfectly formed, that the clothes he is wearing don’t seem to impede a view of his body.
But Marcus’s most distinguishing physical feature is his menacing facial expression. Fighters like Mike Tyson and Marvin Hagler were noted for cowing their opponents during the pre-fight instructions with the power and anger in their stares. Marcus makes Tyson and Hagler look like Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Marcus nods a couple of times as Kevin makes the introductions, but it’s a few minutes before he says his momentous first words.
“Rye toast.”
The waitress says, “Yes, sir,” which seems to be the appropriate response to Marcus, no matter what he requests. My guess is that if the coffee shop didn’t have any, the waitress would have gone outside, captured a rye, and slaughtered it herself.
I explain Laurie’s basic situation to him, and when I finish, he simply says, “She is a good person.”
I nod vigorously in agreement, which I would have done had he said the earth was an isosceles triangle. “Yes, she is. A really g
ood person.”
“I’ll take the job,” he says, despite my not having offered it. “A hundred an hour, plus expenses.”
“Great,” I say. “But just so we’re on the same page, tell me how you operate.”
He doesn’t seem to know what I mean. “My style?” he asks.
“Right, that’s right. Your style.”
Marcus turns to Kevin. “He serious?”
Kevin, who hasn’t said two words during this entire meeting, is surprised to be called in at this point. Marcus and I have to wait until Kevin chews the pound and a half of hamburger in his mouth. I think Kevin actually stores food in his mouth, just in case he should get hungry.
“I suppose,” Kevin says with a shrug, a stunning statement clearly worth waiting for.
Marcus matches the shrug and turns back to me. “My style is, you tell me what you want to know, and I find out.”
“How?” His stare gets a little meaner, so I soften the question. “I mean, generally …”
“I ask people questions,” he says, “and they answer them. I’m real easy to talk to.”
I accept his explanation, even though I personally would rather be questioned by the SS. I decide to hire him, but I don’t have to announce it, since he did so earlier. I have reservations, but Kevin and Laurie recommended him highly, and they know as much about this stuff as I do, in Laurie’s case even more.
We bid Marcus a warm and poignant goodbye, then Kevin and I drive to my house. We pull up in front, and Edna comes rushing out to meet us.
“Have you noticed Edna is a little high-energy these days?” I ask.
Before Kevin can answer, Edna reaches the car. “Come inside, quick.”
The look on her face says that she’s not calling us in for calisthenics, that something is wrong.
“What is it?” I ask, already on my way inside.
“Laurie should be the one to tell you.”
Kevin and I break into a run, and Laurie is at the front door when we open it. Her cell phone is in her hand, which seems to be shaking.
“I just got a phone call,” she says in a nervous voice.
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