***
Ben walked hurriedly into his office where Cain Simmons and his attorney, Melvin Wallingford, had been waiting for about thirty minutes. He apologized for being late to the meeting that he had only learned about five minutes before when he’d stopped in Etlzer’s office.
After shaking hands with both the counselor and his teenaged client, Ben went behind his desk and plopped down his briefcase. Then he opened the file folder he’d just received from Etlzer. He sat down in the leather straight-back chair and pulled out the plea form. He stared at it for a minute before calmly placing it back into the folder, which he then moved to the left top corner of his desk, out of the way. He moved the briefcase to the floor down by his knee. He looked from Wallingford to Cain.
The teen met his eyes for all of ten seconds before awkwardly turning away. There was no sense in prolonging this, Ben thought. “Calvin Leeson died this morning.” His interlocked fingers rested atop his desk. He swiveled his head from Wallingford to Cain. “He’s dead,” he reiterated. ”I listened to his mother as she described to me how she’d been in the room, helplessly watching her son die before her very eyes. I studied her face as she talked to me about how her son died slowly, in pain, while she was able to do nothing about it. It wasn’t a booboo she could kiss and make better. It was real, and it was permanent. She also told me about his dreams, his hopes, and his life. Now, there is nothing neither she, nor I can do about his hopes and dreams.”
Wallingford cleared his throat noticeably, indicating his disapproval at what he obviously considered an unnecessary spiel. But he wasn’t prepared to do more than that.
Ben ignored him just the same and continued. “What I can promise is that I can give him justice.” He stopped and stared hard at Cain. “Son, there’s going to be justice. You know more than what you’ve shared thus far. It’s time to give that up.” `
“Wait a minute,” Wallingford said. “My client has already admitted to the altercation. He has no more to say.”
Ben leaned back in his chair and exhaled an exaggerated flow of air. “Okay, okay.” He looked for a moment at the folder he’d placed on the left top corner of his desk and then turned back to Wallingford. “This is what we’ve got—one kid dead, one kid admitting to beating dead kid. Witnesses confirm that the dead kid got into a car with this same kid, who, I repeat, has admitted to administering the beating that ultimately led to the first kid’s death. I’m looking at first degree. I can argue premeditation. Your client here picked up the soon-to-be-deceased and drove him to a location for the specific purpose of killing him. But, if I’m feeling particularly charitable, I may give the jury the option of second degree which still carries the option of life in prison without the possibility of.”
Cain jumped up. “Man, you’re kidding! I told ya’ll what went down, and ya’ll try to pull this crap. I didn’t commit no first degree murder or second degree!”
“Sit down,” Wallingford said firmly.
Cain hesitated before dropping back down in the chair like a scolded six year old.
“Look,” Wallingford said coolly. “Witnesses may have seen Calvin Leeson get into the car with my client. Kids jump in and out of cars with their friends all the time. Kids also have disagreements. And, unfortunately, sometimes those disagreements lead to fisticuffs. I believe it can be demonstrated that my client did not have a gun, or a knife, or any weapon of any sort. And the facts are both my client and Calvin Leeson are seventeen-year-old kids. Both are approximately the same height and weight. My client’s fists aren’t registered as weapons of destruction. Surely, even with the boldest vision of grandeur, my client wouldn’t have assumed he could have ended a fellow teen’s life with only the use of his fists. So premeditation is your wet dream at best. Same with second degree. Now if the state wishes to waste valuable court time and public money pursuing an unwinnable case, then by all means, have at it. But in the best interest of all parties involved, we will accept a charge of simple assault.”
Ben confidently drummed his desk with his fingers. “Leeson’s skull was bashed in. His eyes had literally been pushed into their sockets. If your client’s fists aren’t registered weapons, they most certainly should be. But I believe I can prove to the jury’s satisfaction that fists alone weren’t used here. The deceased’s wounds are consistent with those caused by a blunt object. And it’s possible that the deceased could have fainted, fallen, tripped, or had otherwise somehow become temporarily incapacitated. At which time, your client took full advantage, ultimately beating Calvin Leeson to death. Even if I acknowledged the difficulties in proving first degree, second degree would be a slam dunk.”
Cain fidgeted in his chair, but didn’t utter a word.
Wallingford shifted ever so slightly in his chair, a minor, almost indiscernible concession that the prosecutor had a valid point. “Your case is still sketchy counselor. But humor me. What do you want?”
“I want names. Witnesses have placed at least two other people in the car. I want the names of those individuals. It’s clear that one person did not cause the injuries that led to the death of Calvin Leeson.”
“And if those names are provided?”
“I’ll go after them. Your client signs that plea form.” He nodded at the folder. “It’s a simple assault charge and carries only a few months of probation, no time.”
“And if they aren’t?”
“We go to trial with first degree at the top of the ticket.”
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