by Diane Capri
Holding down my anger at his pig-headed single-mindedness now, I accused, “So it was something to do with the confirmation.” He said nothing. “Alright, then. How did your gun get to be a murder weapon? Maybe if we know that, Drake will still let you go. It’s the only real evidence they have against you.”
“I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did.” I must have looked skeptical because he said, “Really. I would. I haven’t seen that gun for a while.”
“Well, where was it the last time you saw it?”
He let my hand go, sat back in his chair, and said, “On that, I’m still checking.”
Exasperated now, I cross-examined him, the long-buried skill surfaced. “You don’t remember?”
“I’m not prepared to discuss that just yet,” he said.
The food I’d eaten with such relish now sat like lead in my stomach. I could keep confronting him, but his will was stronger than mine.
I’d lost too many arguments with him in the past. I knew not to start up about something so important when he held way more information than I did.
So I gave it up for now and turned our conversation to other things, trying to end on a pleasant note. I had other battles to fight and I would need his help later.
What I knew that George refused to accept was that Drake had a deadline. He needed to find enough evidence to present George’s case to a grand jury for indictment, and, as a practical matter, he had to do it within the next three weeks. After that, we could insist on an Adversary Preliminary Hearing where testimony is taken and evidence presented and the judge determines whether there is sufficient evidence to indict George.
But Drake would move quickly. He had momentum now and he’d want to take advantage of it.
I felt as if I had a bomb strapped to my back with a fairly short fuse. Drake’s deadline was now our deadline. We had less than three weeks to convince Drake that he could never try George for murder and win. Could we do it?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 9:30 a.m.
January 27, 2000
BACK IN MY CHAMBERS, before I took the bench, I got out my Florida Bar Journal directory issue and looked up Florida’s best criminal defense attorney, Olivia Holmes. Olivia could be the poster child for the idea that names determine destiny. Could it be mere happenstance that she bore a feminized version of the moniker of one of the greatest American jurists of all time, Oliver Wendell Holmes?
I knew that she lived in Miami, but Olivia also had offices in Tampa, Orlando, Gainesville, Jacksonville and Tallahassee. Today, I reached her in the Tampa office, on the third try. I made an appointment to meet with her at Minaret early afternoon.
I put the receiver down slowly, wondering if I’d done the right thing. Olivia Holmes had never tried a case in my courtroom, which wasn’t surprising since there just aren’t that many female trial lawyers in Florida, let alone that many doing federal criminal trial work.
Besides that, it takes an iron will and a strong level of self-confidence to hold a man’s freedom in your hands and know his life depends on your skill and judgment. Not many lawyers have the stomach for it. I don’t.
Olivia and I had had a distant professional association over the years. We hadn’t been friends, partly because neither George nor I could agree with Olivia’s politics.
A criminal defense attorney usually justifies the work of put ting criminals back on the street by believing she’s serving the judicial system. Some go so far as to claim that it’s an honor to do so. They believe the prosecution must always prove its case, or lose. They believe they are guarding basic constitutional rights that must, at all costs, be guarded.
Criminal defense lawyers believe that drivel about how it’s better to let a thousand guilty men go free than to jail one man who is innocent. I’ve seen too many families and victims of the guilty defendants who go free. For them, philosophy rings hollow.
All of that stuff sounds good in theory. The problem is that theory and reality are so far apart. These days, a truly innocent man is rarely, if ever, brought to trial.
It’s hard enough to get the guilty ones arrested, tried and convicted. If they are arrested, they usually plea bargain. If they go to trial, they’re usually guilty. And when the defense attorney puts them back on the street, they commit another crime and we do the dance again. The recidivism rate is astronomical and the justice system is losing ground every day.
A criminal defense attorney is necessary, but not heroic. They aren’t crusaders or protectors of the American way.
At least, I hadn’t thought so before. Like so many people before me, as soon as I needed a good criminal lawyer to defend my husband on a bogus charge, I bent my principles.
It’s the age-old problem of being an American lawyer: we know the difference between right and wrong and good and evil but we also see the similarities.
I was counting on the system’s frailties to help George, not to hurt him. I hoped to avoid an indictment and prevent a trial. I wanted a lawyer who had beat Drake many times before.
Once Drake had his ego on the line by going to the grand jury and indicting George, there would be no way to avoid a trial.
I absolutely believed George was not guilty of murder, but his chances of winning at trial against a determined prosecutor were slim, indeed. Drake had the advantage of the full force of government resources, solid forensic evidence, a high-profile victim, a well-known defendant, and Robbie Andrews had provided the public with a strong motive.
I knew George would never kill because of an assault to his ego, but jurors would believe it. Men have killed for less. If we got to the point of trial, we’d need Olivia Holmes and a team of horses to pull George out of the muck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 10:00 a.m.
January 27, 2000
WHEN THE NEWTON TRIAL resumed, it seemed more trivial to me than ever and I was barely aware of it.
My thoughts returned to George again and again as Newton began his case in chief by calling his expert witness to the stand. There would be no surprises, since the famous psychiatrist, a specialist in treating criminal psycho-sexual disorders, was previously deposed and had fully explained his opinions.
Listening only with half my brain, I heard the expert testify that Mr. Newton’s sexual preference, whatever it was, was a private fact that had been publicly disclosed. He said disclosing Mr. Newton’s sex life was offensive and objectionable to all reason able people of ordinary sensibilities and could not be of any legitimate concern to the public.
Further, he said, unless Mr. Newton admitted he was a homosexual, which he most certainly had not, labeling a person “homosexual” without his consent denies a basic human right: the right to self-identity.
Most of it was above the jury’s head, steeped in history and philosophy. The short of it was, though, that personal relationships are private matters and ought to stay that way. Most of us in the room agreed with that, except, presumably, Mr. Tampa herself. And her employer.
When Tremain rose for his cross, he covered truth, justice and the American way again. He questioned the expert about hypocrisy, lying and misleading others. He covered the social necessity to eradicate AIDS, which kills indiscriminately, and the courageous coming out of gay celebrities like Rock Hudson, Chastity Bono, Richard Chamberlain and Ellen DeGeneres.
Finally, in rapid succession, he asked, “Sir, are you married?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“Do you have children?”
“Yes. I’ve got three adult children, two girls and a boy.”
“Are you heterosexual?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you mind telling us these things about yourself, sir?”
“Of course not.”
Tremain turned around and looked at the jury pointedly. “You don’t consider
these facts about your life private?”
We couldn’t hear the answer over the laughter in the gallery and the jury box, but the court reporter got it down. He’d said, “I do consider my life to be none of your business.”
The rest of the trial day was spent on one witness after another who provided testimony I found impossible to follow. My attention wandered. I was grateful when we finally recessed at 1:30 and I could get to more important work: George’s defense.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 1:45 p.m.
January 27, 2000
I FOUGHT MY WAY through the reporters posted at the entrance to the Plant Key bridge and reached Minaret after Olivia Holmes arrived. Was it unreasonable of me to think she’d be driving something a little less conspicuous than the bright red Ferrari parked in our driveway?
“Olivia,” I said, shaking her hand. She followed me around to the back stairs and up to our flat.
I hadn’t asked George for his permission to hire a lawyer, but I hoped I’d be able to talk him into it if Olivia would take the case.
Defense attorneys had called the house almost non-stop since George’s arrest, offering to work for the free publicity of the trial and the subsequent book and movie deal. After all, a Supreme Court nominee had never been murdered before.
This was the case of a defense lawyer’s lifetime. Those who wanted to be George’s lawyer knew they didn’t have to win. Just having their names in the paper was all that mattered.
But, by reputation I knew that Olivia was particular and she liked not only to be asked, but persuaded.
Olivia Holmes built her stellar career by defending high pro file defendants in political crime cases. When the senator’s mistress was killed, the congressman’s son was arrested for dealing drugs, the mayor’s wife was charged with vehicular manslaughter for driving under the influence, Olivia got them off. Sometimes with a plea bargain, sometimes with a little back room dealing, sometimes with a spectacular trial, but Olivia’s clients never went to prison.
Early in her career, she represented anyone who would hire her. These days, Olivia’s clients had to be innocent. At least that was the rumor.
I figured she’d want the case because defending George could add to her reputation and not spoil her record.
“Please join me in the den,” I told her.
Olivia accepted iced tea and we settled ourselves. “First, Willa, let me say right off the bat that if you’ve called me here to ask me to defend George, I accept. If you hadn’t called me, I’d have called you.”
I schooled my features not to reflect my surprise. “I don’t have to beg?” The tales of Olivia’s refusals to represent the accused were legendary.
She laughed. “I love those stories. They make it possible for me to charge my exorbitant fees. After the client begs long enough, if I say yes, he’s willing to offer me his first born child.”
“You’re joking, surely.”
“Actually, no, I’m not. You’d be surprised how many unwanted children there are in the world,” her tone was serious now. “But some of what you’ve heard is true. I do have plenty of work. More than I want. And I’m sad to say that there are always more criminals than good lawyers to defend them. So I do turn a lot of work down.”
She stopped for a quick sip. “I’m swamped right now, actually, and it will be hard for me to handle this case.” She settled into the chair, perched on the edge so that her feet would touch the ground. “Although I’m hoping there won’t be much work to do for very long, I’m sure you realize that the evidence against George looks damning. But I’m sure George didn’t kill General Andrews. We have someone else to thank for that.”
I felt a little better, for a second. Until she added, “As soon as I find out who did it, I’ll probably volunteer to defend him, too.”
Her last words startled me. She hadn’t meant them facetiously.
I leaned forward. “Olivia, this is very serious business to us.” I stopped a second for effect. I wanted her to understand me clearly. “Neither one of us has ever been in a situation like this and we want it over with as quickly as possible. In fact, I’m so angry with Ben Hathaway that I could personally strangle him without any hesitation. I can’t believe he’d accuse George!”
Either Hathaway or Drake could have made the decision to arrest George. If Drake was calling the shots, Hathaway would have had no choice but to comply. At the moment, I didn’t know which of them was driving this situation, but I intended to find out.
Olivia folded her tiny hands in her lap. She wore rings on three fingers of each hand, but not on either ring finger. “Of course it’s not a joke, Willa, and I’m not joking. I am more than willing to defend George.” She ticked her reasons off, one finger at a time. “First, because I feel sure he’s innocent. Which is not to say that he won’t be convicted, you know. In fact, unless things change dramatically, I’d say Drake is feeling pretty sure he has a winning case here.”
I must have looked as alarmed as I felt, because she softened her tone and continued, “Unlike a lot of criminal-defense attorneys, I’ve gotten to the stage in life that I don’t have to defend the guilty ones anymore. Everyone knows my clients are not guilty, and my reputation will help you with public opinion.”
“What’s the second thing?” I asked her, once I could find my voice again.
“I do believe that General Andrews was the worst possible candidate for the Supreme Court,” she said, as if Andrews’s death was an acceptable solution to that knotty problem. “So, yes, I’ll take the job if you and George want me. And I’m proud to do it.”
I digested this, taking her measure as she spoke. My gut told me she was sincere.
My gut had been wrong before.
I said, “Well, you should know that I certainly believe there’s no one who will do a better job than you. But there are a couple of problems.”
“No kidding,” she replied, dryly.
I hesitated a moment to show my displeasure at her levity and she noticed. “George doesn’t think he needs a lawyer, let alone the best we can get. Obviously, I disagree.”
“George has always struck me, at least by reputation, as someone who had more sense,” she said, while she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cookie. “But I’m not accustomed to forcing my services on someone who doesn’t want them,” she said as she ate the head off a piece of Mickey Mouse shortbread.
The sight of the cookie caught me off guard, reminded me of George’s teasing, calling me Mighty Mouse. I felt the emptiness in our flat, felt his absence. It took me a second to regain my composure.
I spoke more sternly than I intended, “I think I can persuade George that he needs not just a lawyer, but you in particular. I just wasn’t going to try to talk him into it until I found out whether you were interested. Please leave that part to me.”
Still munching on the cookie, she said, “Alright, I can live with that. What other problems do we have?”
She popped the last of the cookie in her mouth, brushing the crumbs off her fingers with a damp napkin.
I told her, straight up. “According to the news reports, there’s a lot of evidence against George, and he refuses to explain any of it. He seems to think that the truth will set him free and someone else will find out what the truth is.”
She grinned. “Although many Americans would feel the same way, that idea is absurdly naïve for a man with his political savvy.”
Unnerved again by her matter-of-fact acceptance of the trouble George and I were in, I cleared my throat before I said, “Yes. Well, I hope you’ll be able to convince him that it’s in his best interest to help himself.”
Husbands have a tendency to ignore their wives’ advice. Sometimes an independent expert can present the same arguments and be more persuasive. George had plainly rejected my opinion this morning. Maybe Olivia would have better luck.
Olivia considered the implications. It’s almost impossible to def
end an uncooperative client. If she knew the case would never go to trial, it wouldn’t matter. But if she actually had to make an opening statement, cross examine witnesses and mount a successful defense, not having George’s cooperation would make the task daunting, if not downright impossible.
Finally, she said, “Well, you’re experienced. You know what the risks are. Why don’t we wait and see if we can persuade him. If we can’t, I’ll have a talk with Drake and see where they’re going with this. If it looks like it’s going to be the whole shebang, then George will have to decide whether he wants to trade his gourmet cuisine for prison slop. I’m a great lawyer, but I’m not a miracle worker.”
Modesty didn’t seem to be one of her faults. Nor could she be accused of being coy. Success does strange things to a tiny woman.
“What else?” she asked me, seeming to know that while I’d already delivered some seriously bad news, there was more to come.
I considered just telling her my plans. I’d practiced saying the words. I am personally investigating the murder. And I will control the defense. No arguments. I even looked in the mirror, to see if I could look her right in the eye and say such an outrageous thing.
When it came time to deliver the lines, I couldn’t do it.
Instead, I told her, “We just need to be aggressive. We’ve got to stop this freight train as soon as possible.”
She seemed to realize that I hadn’t told her everything but didn’t push.
She said nothing for what seemed like several minutes. I imagined I could see the wheels going around in her head, testing the pieces of the case and trying to figure out what I wasn’t saying.
If I told her I was going to investigate the murder on my own because I didn’t believe anyone else could possibly free George, it would be more than enough to cause her to turn down the case. The idea was, for any lawyer we might hire, unethical.
