He’s shaking his head at this dilemma.
“What would you do, counselor?”
“I think you handled it well,” I say.
He perks up with this.
“A messy international situation,” I tell him. “It’s best that we say as little as possible for the present. No sense alienating our neighbors up north, or the State Department,” I tell him.
Though neither of these groups can vote for him in the next election, Emil seems to buy this, at least for the moment. He takes off his uniform cap and wipes the sweat out of the hatband with the palm of his hand.
“Will we be able to prosecute him?” he asks me.
I nod.
“For capital crimes?” He means can we invoke the death penalty.
“Yes.”
“Then maybe it’s not all bad.”
“The Canadians will make a lot of noise,” I say. “Big headlines.”
“Fuck ’em,” he says. Emil’s version of the Truman Doctrine.
“God help us,” says Claude, “when the next fugitive flees north.”
“As long as he doesn’t come from this county,” says Emil.
Dusalt looks at me. “You’ll have to call Jacoby in the morning, and tell him we won’t agree,” he says, “to return the suspect.”
“Damn right,” says Emil.
Chapter Seventeen
Lester Osgood is a judge of marginal abilities. He would have a tough time in any setting were he not king. But this morning Adrian Chambers and I are before him in Osgood’s temporary realm, a dingy chamber in the basement of the county jail.
This place serves as the courtroom of last resort in high security cases in this county. We are here for the arraignment of Andre Iganovich.
The Russian is seated, chained to a metal chair that in turn is fastened to the floor. He wears an orange jail jumper, the word “Prisoner” stenciled in letters eight inches high across his back. He is cuffed, and chained at the waist, his ankles shackled so that he sounds like Santa’s reindeer when he walks. Two beefy jail guards, unarmed, stand behind him.
Chambers has another chair next to his client, at a small table. Between them is a court-appointed interpreter, a woman who will be chattering in undertones into the defendant’s ear once we start.
There’s a gaggle of press and television here, the cameras outside in the hall. They lend a certain circus atmosphere to the proceedings.
Osgood shuffles papers on the table. He is in a hurry, mention of an 8:30 calendar back at the courthouse. He slaps his gavel on the metal surface of the table and a hundred conversations die in mid sentence.
“Mr. Chambers, is your client ready?”
I’m standing alone off to the side, far enough away so as not to invade any whispered confidences between Chambers and the Russian.
“We are, your honor.”
Osgood looks at me.
“The people are ready,” I say.
“You have a copy of the information, Mr. Chambers?”
Adrian holds it up, evidencing that he has received this, the charging document in these cases.
“Can we waive a formal reading?” says the judge.
Chambers is agreeable. This means Osgood can dispense with a voluminous and detailed reading of every word contained in the criminal information. Instead he hits the high points in layman’s terms.
“Mr. Iganovich.”
The Russian looks up at the judge. He does not appear overly disturbed by his circumstances. I would say less concerned than Chambers.
“You are Andre Iganovich?”
The interpreter is in his ear. A brief delay.
“Da.”
“Yes,” says the interpreter.
“Have you ever been called by any other name?”
Again an interpretation, then a dense look by the defendant. Suddenly, a twinkle in the eye.
“Sometimes call me some-of-bitch,” he says. A smile. Some laughing from a few of the reporters. Osgood looks at him sternly.
He tells Iganovich to speak his native tongue, to forget the butchered English and the comedy routine. “It is better for the record,” he says.
“I will ask you one more time. Have you ever been known by any other name?”
Iganovich gives him a leering smile, then the eye, something which in certain countries might be read as an offer of seduction, one man to another. He does not seem terribly intimidated by Osgood’s manner. I think perhaps he has seen more fearsome interrogation, maybe in the place from which he originates.
After interpretation: “Nyet” followed by the interpreter’s “No.” He has no aliases, at least if he is to be believed.
“Andre Iganovich, you are charged with four counts of first-degree murder.” Osgood reads off the dates of the crimes and the names of the victims, the four college students, Julie Park and Jonathan Snider, Sharon Collins and Rodney Slate.
“Do you understand the charges against you?”
A brief conference as the interpreter works the middle ground between Chambers and Iganovich.
“Da,” says Iganovich. It is the last thing I can understand. Suddenly he’s a staccato of unintelligible words, animated expressions, shaking his head, trying to bring his shackled hands up to ward off these slanders. During part of this, toward the end, he is looking at me, venomous little slits. When he is finished, he spits on the floor in my direction.
“Enough of that,” says Osgood.
“Yes. Ah—ah.” The interpreter is playing for time trying to pick through the exuberant language before she speaks.
“Yes, I understand,” she says. “But it is no . . . ah. I did not do these things. I did not kill anyone. These are perverse lies.” She searches for the right word. “Swill,” she finally calls them. I think perhaps he used something stronger, a little interpretive license. “It is not true what they say, what that man says. He is a liar, a . . . ah . . .”
The term “that man” I take to be me.
The interpreter searches the air for the proper adjective. “A fucking liar.” So much for license. She omits the expectoration, only to look at the loogie, floating like some little green egg in its own juice on the concrete floor. There are limits it seems, even to verbatim translation.
“Mr. Iganovich, I will not tolerate foul language in my court. We are here for a reason, to get to the truth of these matters. You need not worry. You will be given a fair trial,” says Osgood. He is a wellspring of calming tones, a picture of composed paternal authority draped in black.
Iganovich looks at him like he is lunch, then another seductive smile. I think the defendant has a penchant for men of power. He would like to get Osgood in this room alone, bent over the table with his gown raised from behind. At least half the members of the bar in this county would vote to give him the chance, if they could.
Osgood informs the defendant of the smorgasbord of pleas available under law—not guilty, guilty, not guilty by reason of insanity, nolo contendere. He asks Iganovich if he has discussed the matter of a plea with his lawyer.
It comes back from the interpreter that he has. Before she can finish: “No guilty,” he says. He looks arrogantly off to the side, a smug expression as if this is his last word, an end of it, his final statement on the subject. Then he sees me, cracks a grin in my direction, something like a broken picket fence, a toothless map of the Old World. But in his eyes is a look, like he is sizing me up for a coffin.
Nikki would love it. The arraignment, and I am already getting psychic death threats. It is one of the reasons she insisted that I leave my job at the DA’s office in Capital City twelve years ago, the fear that one of my customers would ultimately get my home address, make overt moves on what to me, after a time, seemed like so many idle threats.
“Is your client ready to enter a plea, Mr. Chambers?”
“He is, your honor.”
Very well. Osgood walks the defendant through each count. To each charge of murder in the first degree, the interpreter
states for the record “not guilty” after listening to Iganovich butcher the term in Pidgin English. He has discarded Osgood’s earlier admonition. The judge has given up.
“Mr. Chambers, as to each and every count, do you join with your client in the entry of each plea?”
“I do, your honor.”
“Have you had a chance to discuss possible dates for a preliminary hearing?” Osgood addresses this to Chambers and me.
“We haven’t, your honor,” I answer.
“Your honor, at this time, before we get to the issue of a preliminary hearing, the defendant would like to make a motion for bail,” he says. He’s crossing off items on a yellow legal pad as he talks. I can see several other notations below the one just eliminated.
Osgood looks over at me. He seems a little surprised, but not nearly so much as I. Chambers cannot be serious. A suspect who all but fled to Canada and sequestered himself behind the Chinese wall of extradition, and he wants us to put him on the street. I don’t know who would be more dangerous at this point, Iganovich who might kill again, or Kim Park who would have a contract out on the defendant’s life within the hour, were he to be released.
“Your honor, we would object to any thought of bail,” I say. My face is a full smile, like this is some kind of joke. I talk about the problems, the fact that the defendant is a public safety risk, that he himself is a marked man in a community on the edge of hysteria.
“He is not a public safety risk,” says Chambers, “until and unless he is convicted. In this country there is a presumption of innocence. I would have thought Mr. Madriani, so recently of the defense bar, would be the last to forget that.”
He sees me turn a little smirk his way.
“I’m glad Mr. Madriani sees some humor in this motion,” he says. “Perhaps it will be easier for him to find his way to some reasonable middle ground on the issue.”
“Isn’t there some code section?” says Osgood. He’s fumbling through his book on the table.
A state with a law for everything, and we have a judge who knows none of them. Like much of the bench in the rural counties of this state, Osgood was a borderline lawyer with better political instincts, one of three municipal court judges in the county. At local bar meetings he is the cock-of-the-walk, aloof to anyone not seen as his social peer, which includes all humans below the level of superior court. There is not the slightest chance that he would release this defendant on bail. He may not know the law, but he has mastered the theorems of politics in a small county. He will deny it, even if he has to ground his ruling on the schoolboy doctrine of “tough titty.”
I tell Osgood to look at section twelve-sixty-eight of the Penal Code.
He is all thumbs to the bench book, the judge’s bible.
“In capital cases,” I say, “where the proof is evident and the presumption great, the defendant cannot be released on bail. We would argue this is just such a case, your honor.”
“There,” says Osgood, “I knew there was a statute.” Like he gets points for just seeing the issue. Osgood treats every day in court like a new bar exam with lawyers to kibitz him.
“But the proof is not evident,” says Chambers. “And there is certainly no great presumption of guilt here.”
Osgood looks over at me, with a look that says “surely he doesn’t expect me to apply the statute to the facts?” There are little hints of panic in his eyes, a look of what do we do now.
I try to calm him. “It’s not an overly high standard, your honor. The question of whether proof is evident or the presumption great turns on whether there is any substantial evidence to sustain a capital verdict.”
I take him by the hand on a verbal tour of the stakes and the cord found in the defendant’s vehicle, the bloody rag found on the front seat. The fact that forensics has tied these items to the four murders.
By the time I finish, Osgood is a full convert to my line of argument, confident, shaking his head, like certainly this has been clear from the beginning, a judge who’s come to a decision.
“Mr. Chambers, the district attorney makes a persuasive argument,” he says. “I think the section would apply in this case.”
Chambers is up out of his chair, trying to talk.
Osgood’s hand is up cutting him off, like a good traffic cop. He doesn’t want to hear anything that might turn his decision to mush. He would plug his ears, and hum, if he could.
“Even if I were inclined,” he says, “to release your client”—he looks at the press out front which is now getting writer’s cramp—“which I am not.” He says this last sternly, with meaning, shaking his head now, jowls like Richard Nixon, swaying for emphasis. “The law is clear. I cannot release your client on bail. The motion is denied.”
Chambers sits down, talks to his client, a few whispered exchanges, conversation through the interpreter. Iganovich trying to talk with his hands is hampered by more than a foreign tongue. The handcuffs and waist chain are in his way.
“Where were we?” says Osgood.
“A date for the prelim,” I say.
“Oh yes.” He looks at Chambers.
“How long do you think for the defense?”
Chambers doesn’t hear him. He’s still talking to Iganovich.
“Excuse me, Mr. Chambers, if you don’t mind.”
Chambers finally looks at the judge.
“How long do you need for your case in the preliminary hearing? We’re trying to fix a date.”
“It’s academic,” says Chambers.
“Not if you want a date for prelim,” says Osgood.
“We have one,” says Chambers.
Osgood’s getting pissed. He may not know the law, but he certainly knows proper etiquette in his own courtroom. Treatment like this from a lawyer does not cut it.
“Counsel,” he says, “we are trying to fix a date for a preliminary hearing. If you cannot help us, I will assume that your case will take no more than”—he thinks for a moment—“two days.” The price of fucking with the judge. “And we will set it for . . .”
“The preliminary hearing will have to be in ten days,” says Chambers. “The defendant refuses to waive time,” he says.
Osgood sits in his chair, his body seeming to smoke, like he’s been hit by lightning. He looks at Chambers, not certain that he’s heard him correctly.
“Your honor.” I move toward the table. “This case cannot possibly be ready in ten days,” I say. “This is a capital case. A man’s life is at stake. Does the defendant understand this?”
“He does,” says Chambers. “If he’s going to remain behind bars pending the preliminary hearing, he refuses to waive time.” He looks at me and smiles.
“Ridiculous,” I say.
Chambers shrugs this off. “The district attorney has a choice, preliminary hearing in ten days or release my client and dismiss the charges.”
Chambers is citing the law. In this state, a defendant who refuses to waive time is entitled to a hearing or indictment within ten days. Otherwise he must be released.
“This is absurd,” I say.
Osgood’s shrugging his shoulders, like what can I do?
“Talk to the defendant, your honor. Ask him if he understands the consequences,” I say. I am worried about appeal later, a trumpeted cause for incompetent counsel.
Osgood makes this point, like an echo with Iganovich through the interpreter. There’s a little sorting out between Chambers and the translator. What is clear. What does not require translation is that Chambers is driving this decision. Iganovich sits passively and nods while his lawyer talks through the interpreter. His expression grows more sober as he contemplates. He utters something, a few words, his tone one of quiet resignation now.
“I understand,” says the translator. “I follow my lawyer. I refuse to waive time.”
“Mr. Chambers, I hope you know what you’re doing,” says Osgood.
“I do,” Chambers smiles at him, a mocking little grin, “know what I am doing, your h
onor.”
“Your guy’s a real fucking hustle artist,” says Claude. This is how he describes Adrian Chambers.
I have asked Claude to make some subtle inquiries about Chambers, specifically how Adrian came to land the Iganovich defense. I am wondering how he will get paid. But there is not a doubt as to why he wants this case. Besides a shot at my ass, he is getting advertising he could not buy, a case that regardless of outcome could go a long way toward restoring a ruined reputation.
“The Russian’s got an aging aunt down in the valley,” says Claude. “This was his contact to get into the country, and Chambers’s key into the case. She’s ninety-two,” he says, “a few bricks shy of a full load, but still the closest relative.
“Seems her name was in the papers right after we searched the Russian’s apartment. Some enterprising reporter dug it up out of employment records with the security company, Iganovich’s employer. They interviewed her. She gave ’em a lot of babble in print, character references for her nephew.”
“Did you talk to her?”
He flips open his notebook. “Seems Chambers landed on her doorstep with a briefcase full of contracts the morning the story appeared. This man lets no moss grow,” says Claude.
“She signed up?”
He nods. “Didn’t cost her a dime.”
“Generous man,” I say.
“A real prince.”
“What did he tell her?”
“That he could help her nephew. That he was convinced that Iganovich didn’t commit the crimes. That her nephew had an honest face. Russian’s picture was in the paper that morning,” says Chambers, “the one from his licensing file.” Claude’s talking about the agency that licenses private security guards in this state. Photos are required for their application.
“The old lady signed on all the dotted lines,” he says, “gave Chambers a full authorization to deal in the case with the only proviso that Iganovich accept him, ratify the contracts.”
Madriani - 02 - Prime Witness Page 17