“But Archie didn’t do it!”
“I agree. So we’ll have to prove it.”
Right on cue, my phone buzzed. I recognized the Dellville area code and had a pretty good idea who it was. I answered. “Hello, T. Marvin.”
“Good afternoon, Nate. I had the most wonderful visit today.”
“Oh?”
“Ms. Ackerman came to see me, and do you know what?”
“What?”
“She’s walking! Isn’t that fantastic?”
“It certainly is.”
“Of course, she still can’t identify anyone else as her attacker, so I’ll be relying on the evidence to present my case against Mr. Mack.”
“I see.”
“And her opinions, well, her opinions aren’t based on any evidence from that night at all, are they?”
“No. Just a lifetime.”
“Hmm. Which can change in an instant as I’ve seen far too often in my office. But listen, I’m always willing to listen to evidence, Nate. Do you have direct evidence that someone else committed this terrible crime? A witness? Cell phone video?”
I paused. “No.”
“Ah, so perhaps your client is saying he didn’t do it? I’ve certainly never heard that before.”
“T. Marvin, Archie had no reason to do this. There’s no motive. Abby knows that.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The more important thing is all the evidence points to him. And I'm going to point the jury to all of that evidence.”
“You're making a mistake,” I said, and as soon as I said it, I knew I had made one.
I heard the inevitable bristle on the other end of the line. “I know we're just a small town up here, Nate. Nothing like the big city of Carrefour. And I know I’ll be all alone against a team of big-city lawyers who are going to charge into town to tell the good folks of Dellville how to think and how to evaluate evidence and how to judge their prosecutor's office. That's all fine, I'm sure it works in Carrefour and Lansing and Detroit all the time. But this is Dellville. I've lived here my whole life. So has the judge. At least half the jury will have too. See, you can tell me how I'm looking at this all wrong and you can tell the judge how she's weighing the evidence all wrong and you can tell the jury they're coming to the wrong decision, but in the end, it's going to come down to who the jury thinks is steering them in the right direction. And I'm not going to be steering them at all. I'm going to be pointing them to your client’s picture and your client's truck and your client’s blood that he left behind. So thanks for the warning, and when this is all over, we can revisit this and you can show me just how I went wrong. Or how you did.”
I paused for a moment. Having screwed up, I came to an in-for-a-penny conclusion, then said, “Not everyone can handle it you know.”
“What's that?” said T. Marvin Stritch.
“The pressure that comes with going undefeated.”
“Yes. It's very hard to just win cases all the time.”
“I'm not saying it's hard or easy. I'm saying that it creates its own weight and, sometimes good people, talented people, crumble under it. The 2007 Patriots. UNLV basketball. Even Dan Gable, who was the best wrestler who ever lived, got beat in his last college match by someone half as good.”
T. Marvin Stritch chuckled. “Oh good, sports analogies. I love sports analogies. I prefer Edwin Moses myself. Do you know who he is?”
“I do.”
“Then you know he’s the best 400 meter hurdler who ever lived. He won the 1976 Olympics and then won one hundred and seven finals in a row over the next ten years. Do you know why?”
I did, but I said, “Why’s that, T. Marvin?”
“Because he measured his steps. Every race, thirteen steps between every hurdle, every time. Without fail. No one else could do it for the whole race except for Edwin. And every year, every race, he just kept running, thirteen steps between every hurdle, and destroyed everyone he ran against.”
T. Marvin Stritch paused. When I didn’t respond, he said, “Cases are no different. You measure out the evidence and clear each hurdle until you cross the finish line.”
“I guess we'll see then,” I said.
“I guess we will.”
“See you in a few weeks.”
“I look forward to it.”
I hung up.
Danny was looking at me.
“What?”
“Why would you do that?”
“I might have gotten carried away.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“So why do it?”
“You just had to hear him…” Finally, I smiled and shrugged. “No good reason, actually.”
Danny laughed then and the surprise in his voice just about made the whole thing worth it.
31
Cade Brickson was a huge man with a huge caloric intake. To keep two hundred and sixty good pounds on that frame of his, he usually ate five meals a day and none of it was bad food. My dad used to say that Cade ate a barn-full of chickens and a pond-full of fish every day, and, as far as I could see, that process hadn’t stopped.
I went to his house for dinner with him and Olivia after my meeting with Abby and call with Stritch. I had asked to meet with them and, because of the time, Cade had insisted that we meet over dinner. His dinner. Still, it was one less meal I had to make, so I didn't really mind.
His house boasted a double fridge, a double oven, and a large stovetop and he had used all of it to serve Olivia and I some sort of Mediterranean chicken dish accompanied by greens that were half delicious and half an acquired taste. He even took the time to dole the dishes out on the plates for us, saying he had to get the presentation and mix of sauces just right. It smelled great.
I told them about the developments of the last few days over dinner. As Olivia stabbed some leafy green thing, she said, “So who did it?”
“I’m not sure yet. But the most important thing is that I can put other people there at the time of the attack.”
Olivia munched. “You need to figure it out.”
“What I need to do create reasonable doubt and get Archie acquitted.”
“Abby deserves justice.”
“Abby deserves a lot of things.”
Olivia put down her fork. “Shep, that’s why I sent the Macks to you in the first place.”
“I thought it was because Archie didn’t do it?”
“And because you’d get to the bottom of it.”
“I’m working on it. We’re working on it.”
Olivia picked her fork back up and her vegetables seemed to be paying the price for her irritation. “Just make sure you don’t stop.”
I nodded and I watched her for a minute, then said, “My mom asked about you the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“Said you used to go to her reading group?”
She smiled. “Sometimes. I don’t have much time anymore.”
“That’s what I told her.” I took a bite. “Have you been taking any time off?”
“What’s that?”
As I finished my piece of chicken, Cade stood, grabbed the serving plate, and said, “We have two breasts and a quarter left.”
I groaned. “He’s going to kill us. So no?”
“No what?”
“No time-off.”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m not built that way, you know that.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
She put her lenses on me. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Oh, and my dad said he’d be by to mount your tv.”
She smiled. “Yeah. When?”
“Thurs…was that yesterday?”
“And I need the time off.”
“Sorry about that.”
She shrugged. “Pops was always more reliable than you. We’re all used to it.”
I shook my head. “Did you get a new one or something?”
“Yeah, got some more smart features. I was a little
behind the times so I needed the upgrade.”
“How’s it look?”
“Still tinkering with the settings but pretty good.” She stabbed a vegetable. “I mean it about finding the real attacker.”
“I know you do. And I mean it about winning my trial.”
“Who’s more likely? Gut feeling.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think Hamish has it in him, even if he is being a snake about the well to his family. I think it had to have been Wellington.”
“The choir boy?”
“It just makes too much sense—the timing, the knowledge, opportunity, all of it. It’s right out there but Stritch just can’t see it.”
Olivia smiled. “That happens sometimes.” She tilted her head back. “Cade?!”
“Yeah?” came the voice from the kitchen.
“Does that temple of yours allow for dessert?”
“Fruit salad.”
Olivia sighed. “Coffee at least?”
“Brewing.”
Olivia smiled, played with her bangs for a moment, then kept eating. A moment later, Cade arrived with a platter of still more chicken, a monstrous glass bowl of fruit salad, and a promise that the coffee was almost done.
“Abby’s driving again, by the way,” I said.
Olivia’s face lightened. “Really?”
“Yeah, she’s off crutches and using a cane.”
“What about the face fracture?” said Cade.
“It seems like her vision’s back, but the bone isn’t healing right. It’s a little…dented? I think is how I’d describe it.”
Cade shook his head. “I’m still surprised this bond has worked out.”
“That Hamish hasn’t gone over there?” I said.
He nodded.
“Maybe he’s listening to Abby,” said Olivia. “Some guys do that, you know.”
Cade glanced at her, then nodded.
I smiled. “You know we always listen to you, Liv.”
“Right. You’re more likely to show up at 4:30 a.m. for a sunny-side up hash skillet at the Cast Iron Kitchen.”
“See, now that’s just unfair. I’m sure I’ve listened to you at least once.”
We talked about other things then, the gym, Cade's bail bond business, and the wanna-be MMA fighter he was sparring with who was actually pretty good. Olivia said it seemed like the fighter had been getting the better of Cade on the mat which, of course, was totally untrue but seemed to get under his skin just the same.
All in all, though, dinner with true friends is a rare thing and I knew it, so I thoroughly enjoyed the last time I went out before Archibald Mack’s trial.
ASH
32
Judge Eliza Jane Wesley liked to meet with the attorneys on the Friday before trial to iron out any last-minute details. I stood at the defense counsel table along with Danny. T. Marvin Stritch stood alone at the prosecutor's table.
Judge Wesley leafed through some papers as she said, “Mr. Stritch, are you ready to proceed on Monday?”
“I am, Judge.”
“Do you still expect it to take a week?”
“I do.”
“Have you offered a plea agreement?”
“We have, Your Honor. It was rejected by the defense.”
Judge Wesley looked back to me. “Is that true, Mr. Shepherd?”
“It is, Your Honor. A recommendation of fifteen years didn’t seem like much of a bargain.”
“You’re aware a conviction carries more?”
“I am.”
“And you’re aware of the success rate of prosecutions here in Ash County?”
I smiled. “Mr. Stritch has been kind enough to fill me in.”
“You don't believe it’s in your client's best interests to accept a plea deal, I take it?”
“I believe that Mr. Stritch is prosecuting the wrong person, Your Honor.”
Judge Wesley put her papers down. “Do you intend to present alibi evidence?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Do you intend to present evidence of the identity of the person who you believe in fact committed this crime?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then how do you intend to prove that your client is innocent?”
“I intend to present evidence that the prosecution cannot prove that my client is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, Your Honor.”
She straightened. “I assure you that I am very aware of what the State’s burden is, Mr. Shepherd.”
“I wasn't implying that you're not, Your Honor. It’s the same in every state.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So you’re going to mount a prairie dog defense.”
I kept my face straight. “I'm not familiar with that term of art, Your Honor.”
“It’s where the defense simply pops up with cross-examinations around whatever evidence the prosecution puts on but doesn't put on any real evidence of its own.”
“I don't know that I would describe it exactly that way, Your Honor.”
“I suppose we'll see.” She looked back and forth between us. “Is there anything else we need to take care of for Monday? I intend to hit the ground running at eight-thirty.”
“No, Your Honor,” both Stritch and I said.
“Very well. I’ll see you then.” With that, Judge Wesley gaveled us out and left.
“She’s seen it all, you know,” said Stritch to me.
“What do you mean?”
“She was the chief prosecutor for almost twenty years and never lost a case. She’s seen every trick that defense lawyers try.”
“I'm sure she has.”
“I've seen them all too.”
“I’m just going to put on my evidence, T. Marvin.”
Stritch smiled and somehow his cadaverous cheekbones became even thinner as his eyes lit up. “Evidence belongs to everyone, Nate. Just like the truth.”
I smiled back. “I have to get your fortune cookie vendor when this is over.”
He blinked then said, “And we all know where that points.” Which is the kind of non-sequitur you get when you have a conversation cued up in your head in advance. T. Marvin Stritch put his legal pad into a battered leather portfolio and left the courtroom.
I shrugged to Danny, who was smiling, as Ronnie Hawkins came up from the gallery to see us.
“Watching?” I said.
“I have to let Abby know we’re on for next week,” Ronnie said.
I nodded. “Is Judge Wesley always like that or am I just lucky?”
“Judge Wesley isn’t a fan of out-of-town lawyers.”
“I live in the county. My taxes go to her salary for Pete's sake.”
Ronnie smiled. “As far as EJ is concerned, you're a big city lawyer swooping into her town.”
“I don’t think anyone calls Carrefour ‘the big city.’”
“They do in Dellville. Anytime we see a letterhead with Carrefour, Jackson, or Detroit, the radar goes up.”
“Great. ‘EJ’ by the way?”
Ronnie smiled and shrugged. “She insists on us calling her that when we’re at the young lawyer mixers. Says that the constant ‘Judge’ and ‘Your Honor’ keeps her from having a regular conversation.”
“I take it I can’t get away with that?”
She smiled sweetly. “You haven’t been given permission.”
“Hmm. I assume Stritch has though?”
“They were coworkers for a long time.” Ronnie’s smile faded. “Stritch wasn't exaggerating about one thing, Nate. Judge Wesley was a great prosecutor and she trained Stritch in every aspect of his job. He's not going to make mistakes.”
I didn’t tell her that we all do. Instead, I said, “Looks like I have a fun weekend to look forward to then. Thanks, Ronnie.”
“See you Monday, Nate.”
One of the things that’s interesting about the difference between a civil case and a criminal case is the time you spend with your client. When you're getting ready for a civil case, you spend an awful lot of time
getting your client ready to testify. They always have to take the stand to tell their side of the story, and you have to prepare them to be ready for any little thing the other side may cross-examine them on. That means that you spend hours together working through things and, as a result, get to know each other.
It's completely different in a criminal case. You're never going to put your client on the stand (or almost never anyway), so you don’t spend any time preparing them. Instead, you spend every waking minute on the things that do matter—investigating, preparing examinations of other witnesses, and doing whatever you need to do to get an acquittal. Your client is a resource for information but you just don’t have to spend nearly as much time with him to win his case.
Which can be very disconcerting for someone who is looking at the very real possibility of spending then next couple of decades in prison.
So, the last thing I did on Friday was go to visit Archie out at the farm. The trial was the week after Halloween, so it was getting close to winter in Michigan where the wind could just as easily blow freezing rain as snow right in your face at thirty miles an hour.
I found him out in his barn tending his pigs. Before I got too far in, he pointed at his shoes and back at the house. I nodded and went up to his side porch. A few minutes later, he was there letting me in.
Archie poured us each a coffee without asking and took off his hat. The tan line across his face was gone and he looked like he’d lost twenty pounds.
“How many pigs do you have?” I asked.
“About forty all told. Wish I had more.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I prefer livestock to crops personally.”
“Is it hard to switch?”
He shrugged. “It’s not what we do.”
I told him then about the meeting with the Court and that we'd be going on Monday.
Archie nodded. “So it’ll be over after next week?”
“It will.”
“One way or the other?”
“Yes.”
“Will Abby be there?”
“I assume so. I saw her lawyer today.”
“How about my parents?”
“Yes. Your mom called my office yesterday asking about the time.”
Blind Conviction (Nate Shepherd Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 17