He even liked the neighborhood which was still relatively crime free and the inhabitants were certainly interesting. Colorful was a good way to describe them. And they usually made for more interesting clients. Certainly more interesting than the insurance and corporate clients the boys and girls in the downtown towers had to put up with.
He smiled a sly smile as he remembered what a law school classmate, a modern day slave in one of the big, downtown firms, recently told him about big firm clients.
“Every time you turn around,” he had said, “you’ve got another ass to kiss. I’d rather suck their dicks. At least that’s finite. There’s an end to it at some point. The ass kissing never ends. When you win a case for these bastards it’s because you had an easy case and when you lose it’s because you screwed up. They’re never satisfied and they always want their ass kissed. And don’t get me started on the senior partners in the firm. They’re even worse. Smart, good lawyers but in many ways the dumbest sonsabitches God ever put on the planet. Most of them don’t have the sense to open an umbrella in the rain.”
“Good morning sunshine,” he heard Carolyn say as she came into the office through the door behind him.
He leaned back in his chair, tilted his head back and staring straight up at the ceiling calmly replied, “One of these days you’re going to say that to me and I’m going to kill you. And I don’t care if your old man is a St. Paul cop. I’m going to get up and beat you to death with your own computer. Now, that would feel good.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “Want some coffee? You love me and you know it.”
“Yes, please,” he answered as he leaned forward to retrieve the cup he had left on the windowsill. He held it up for her as she filled it.
“How are you today, Marc?” she asked with sincere concern.
“I’m okay,” he replied without much conviction.
“Are you sure?” she asked, “I worry about you, you know. We all do.”
“I know you do, love,” he said. “And I appreciate it but I’m really doing okay. I need time and patience right now, but I know I’ll be all right.”
He took her hand and kissed it lightly on the knuckles. She patted him on the shoulder in a motherly kind of way, turned and walked out, leaving him to gaze out the window while he sipped his coffee and gathered his thoughts for the day ahead.
A few minutes later, one of the other three lawyers that shared office space with Marc, Chris Grafton, lightly rapped on Marc’s door and walked in.
“How you doing?” Grafton asked as Marc spun his chair around to face his visitor. He had been expecting Chris. Chris was a bit older but they were good friends going back to their law school days at William Mitchell in St. Paul. They had attended Mitchell because of the evening class program the school offered. Most Mitchell students that attended the evening sessions were a little older and had jobs and families and parents that couldn’t afford to put them through law school. Chris still had his family while Marc’s was coming apart because of the divorce between himself and Karen, the problem Marc was trying to cope with and that his friends and colleagues were so concerned about. At times he handled it well. Other times, not as well since he found out that Karen was seeing someone long before they separated.
“I’m doing okay,” he answered with much more conviction than he had when he responded to Carolyn.
He pulled his chair up to the desk, set his coffee cup on the coaster and began to put the papers on the desk into a file folder. Grafton sat down in one of the two inexpensive client chairs in front of the desk and asked, “Where you off to this morning?”
“Criminal assignment court with Judge Eason and then go see the assigned judge about scheduling for our old friend, Raymont Fuller,” Marc answered.
“Raymont Fuller. Which old friend would that one be?” Grafton asked. “One of your public defender assignments?”
“Yeah, he is,” said Marc. “You remember, I told you about this guy. Goes into a convenience store with a gun and a driver waiting outside. Holds the place up for seventy three dollars. Then takes a shot at the clerk - thank God he missed - and the cops catch him half a mile away in a drug bust when he tries to buy crack from an undercover cop. Precisely seventy-three dollars worth. “An amazing coincidence,” he added, sarcastically. “The Public Defender’s office took the driver to represent so, I got the real stupid one”
“Oh, yeah,” said Grafton with a laugh. “Now I remember him. God I’m glad I don’t do criminal work. Why do you? I don’t get it.”
“There are worse things,” said Marc.
“Yeah?” asked Grafton. “Name one.”
“Eating someone else’s vomit,” Marc answered as he rose to go.
“How are your kids doing? Have you seen them lately?” asked Grafton as he too got out of his chair and stood facing Marc.
“I see, or at least call them, everyday. They’re both doing pretty good, all things considered. I’m trying not to drag them into this but it’s not always that easy,” Marc said with a resigned shrug and sigh. “At seventeen and sixteen they’re both a little too old not to be concerned about their parents. Especially me. I know Jessica’s worried about me and how lonely I am. I try to assure her I’m fine, but she knows me too well.”
“At least you have a good relationship with them. That’s more than most of us have,” said Grafton, with a shrug.
“I know. That’s what’s keeping me sane right now,” Marc replied.
“How’s Karen?” asked Grafton. “Do you talk to her?”
“Not much,” answered Marc. “I blew off some steam at her over the boyfriend. Said some things I shouldn’t have and now she doesn’t want me around when she’s there.”
“The boyfriend?” asked Grafton.
“Didn’t I tell you?” said Marc. “Guess she’s been seeing someone. I’m really not surprised. In fact, I knew it all along even though she lied about it. No one could be as stupid as she thinks I am. Anyway, seems she’s doing just fine.”
“Hang in there, Marc,” said Grafton. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
“Thanks,” said Marc. “Gotta go. Get there early and get out early. See you in a while.”
EIGHT
Marc sat in the twelfth floor courtroom of Hennepin County District Court Judge Martin Eason, waiting for the judge to come out onto the bench to hand out the felony case assignments. He arrived at 8:45 hoping he would be early enough to check in with the clerk and maybe get his case assignment as soon as Eason came out. There were already seven or eight lawyers there when he checked in and another seven or eight came in shortly after. None were from the county attorney’s office. Only defense lawyers had to be on time. The prosecutors were never on time. Usually too busy having their morning coffee and doughnuts with the judges, Marc believed. They never failed to whine about how overworked, understaffed and budget-poor they were, but try calling one before 8:30 A.M. after 4:00 P.M. or between noon and 1:30. Good luck. It was now 9:15 and no judge or prosecutor in sight.
He looked around the totally sterile, characterless courtroom. Hearing, but not listening to the buzzing of the conversation between the fifteen or so defense lawyers waiting, just like him, for the prosecutors and judge. He was sitting in the jury box, along with four other lawyers, when a female lawyer broke away from a small group talking by the rail that separates the spectators from the court area and walked toward him.
Veronica McMartin was a woman he had been working on a divorce case with for about six months. Veronica represented the wife and Marc’s client was getting absolutely screwed by the Hennepin County Family Court. The case was proceeding and looked like it was going to settle soon. Pretty much exactly the way Marc had warned his client it would. Since Marc had enough experience with divorce cases to prepare the husband his client was not too upset.
He smiled a genuine smile at Veronica as she approached. She had been decent to deal with and the whole case could have been a lot worse, he knew, remembering the first
time he had spoken to her over the phone. She had a soft, sultry telephone voice and the name Veronica conjured up, in Marc’s imagination, the image of a five foot, ten inch slinky redhead. When they finally met at the temporary hearing, the image crashed on the rocks of reality. She was about five feet tall and weighed almost as much as Marc. But she was pleasant, reasonable to work with, a good lawyer and he liked her.
“Hi, Marc,” she said as she arrived at the jury box rail and offered her right hand to him. He took it in his and they exchanged a brief handshake.
“Hi, Veronica,” he replied. “I didn’t know you did criminal work.”
“I don’t,” Veronica said. “I’m doing someone a favor. Just getting the judicial assignment for someone in my office. He had a conflict and I have to be on the fifth floor at ten anyway,” she continued referring to the Family Court seven floors below.
“Make sure you make that clear when Eason calls the case or your ass may be on it for good. Some of these judges can be jerks about that stuff,” advised Marc.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Once your name is attached to a criminal case,” he explained patiently, “you’re on it until the court allows you to withdraw. Most judges are good about it but some can be assholes. It’s not like a divorce case. If your client doesn’t pay you for a divorce, you send a couple letters and you’re out. Not so with criminal defense. You have to ask permission to withdraw and not all judges let you.”
“Great,” she said. “Now I find this out.”
“Welcome to the glamorous world of criminal defense,” he replied. “Don’t worry, it should be okay. Just be sure to note on the record the name of the lawyer you are appearing for and be clear that you are not the attorney of record.”
At that moment the courtroom doors opened and the attorneys from the prosecutors office came in; five women, two men.
“Are there enough of them?” Veronica whispered to Marc.
“This is Hennepin County,” he replied. “They travel in herds.”
“What now?” she asked him.
“Now the clerk tells Judge Eason court can begin. He’ll be out in a couple minutes,” he answered.
“You mean we hang out till they decide to show,” she asked referring to the prosecutors, “and then court begins?”
“Again, welcome to the glamorous world of criminal defense,” he laughed.
About five minutes later he heard the bailiff intone the traditional “All rise” as his Honor, Judge Martin Eason, came into the courtroom through the door behind his chair, took his seat and pleasantly told all to be seated and started to call cases for assignment.
Judge Eason was an affable, older judge. Appointed to the bench in the early nineties by, for Minnesota, a rare Republican governor. He was a couple years short of retirement and basically treading water. A middle-of-the-road kind of judge, Marc thought. Not too tough but not too lenient either. But he also did not take himself too seriously, which Marc liked about him. He took his job seriously enough, but unlike a lot of judges, he seemed to know full well that if he dropped dead right this minute, the world would keep right on turning without missing a beat.
Marc stayed seated in the jury box waiting for his client’s name to be called. Eason must be in a hurry for some reason today, thought Marc. He wasn’t chatting with the lawyers the way he normally did.
After ten minutes or so, he heard the clerk call the case of the State of Minnesota versus Raymont Fuller. He got up from his seat, stepped out of the jury box and started walking toward the bench when he heard Eason greet him by saying, “Good morning, Mr. Kadella, how are you today?”
“Good morning, your Honor,” Marc replied. “I’m fine, sir.”
“Nice to see you again. It’s been a while,” said Eason as he reached over to take the court’s file from the clerk who was seated just to his right and was handing him the case files as they were called. “Let’s see now,” he continued, reading the case name. “You’re here for Raymont Fuller, I guess. Is that right?”
“Yes, your honor,” Marc answered.
“Note that for the record,” Eason said to Marc.
“Marc Kadella, K-a-d-e-l-l-a, for the defendant Raymont Fuller who is presently in custody, your Honor,” Marc replied, spelling his last name for the benefit of the court reporter.
“And for the prosecution?” asked Eason looking at the young woman who had approached the bench from the prosecutor’s table when the case was called.
“Jennifer Moore, for the state, your Honor,” she replied.
“Mr. Fuller is in custody, you say?” Eason asked Marc.
“Yes, your honor,” he answered.
“Has bail been set?” asked Eason.
“Yes, your honor,” Marc answered. “One fifty.”
“One hundred and fifty thousand?” asked Eason
“He took a shot at someone,” answered Moore.
“Allegedly,” Marc responded.
“Yeah, right, allegedly,” Moore said rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “And he has very little to keep him here. He’s a flight risk.”
“Okay,” said Eason. “We’ll give this one to Judge Tennant.”
“Where is she?” Marc asked the clerk.
“1745,” answered Moore.
“Okay,” said Marc as he stepped forward to take the court’s file from the extended hand of Eason. He turned to Moore and said, “I’ll take the file up, check in with her and talk to you when you come up and we’ll see the judge then.”
“I’ll be up in just a few minutes,” she answered.
Looking back up at Eason, Marc said, “Thank you, your Honor,” as he turned to leave.
Eason replied with a polite nod of his head as Marc turned to walk out of the courtroom while the next case was being called. He had waited forty-five minutes for a court appearance that had lasted, at most, a minute and a half, he thought as he headed for the gate in the bar. He made a slight, brief gesture of a wave to Veronica McMartin as he went through the gate with his and the court’s file tucked securely under his arm. He walked out of the courtroom doors and headed for the elevators.
NINE
Marc stood in the hall by the bank of elevators on the court side of the government center thinking about what a waste of everyone’s time the assignment session was. He only had a five minute wait for an up elevator. Shorter than usual, he thought. Marc got on the already crowded car, punched the button for seventeen and quietly stood facing the doors as it made its way up.
He got off at his floor and headed for the courtroom of Margaret Tennant. She was appointed to the bench three years ago by the previous state administration. At the time, she had been out of law school only five years when the liberal Democrat had appointed her. A push to get more women on the bench. What the hell, thought Marc, she was turning into a pretty decent judge, as were most of the women appointed during that time.
Marc went through the unlocked door of 1745 and into an almost empty courtroom. Empty except for Margaret Tennant chatting at the bench with her clerk. Forty-one years old, Tennant was a very attractive woman. No longer beautiful in the sense of a fashion model but still, quite pleasing to the eye, he thought.
Marc had first met her at a continuing legal education seminar about two years before. She was seated directly across from him during lunch that day. They made a little small talk then and at the other breaks and became casual acquaintances. He had seen her a few times since, mostly around the courthouse and two or three times at social functions. He genuinely liked her personally, as much as he knew her, at any rate. This would be his first time in her courtroom and he had looked forward to it ever since Eason had told him of the assignment.
“Well, hello Marc,” said Tennant with a warm, wide smile when she saw Marc come through her courtroom doors. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Marc found himself feeling a slight, pleasing warmth from what seemed to him, a much more personal, genuinely affectionate greeting than what pr
otocol normally calls for from a judge. Maybe, he thought, he was reading a little more into it then what was there
“The pleasure is mine, judge,” he said. “What we have here is a criminal case assigned to you,” he continued as he walked through the bar gate into the courtroom well and continued toward the judge. As he reached her he took the court’s file from under his arm and offered it to Tennant who accepted it without taking her eyes off Marc’s face or relaxing her smile, which her eyes clearly showed was unmistakably genuine.
She read the case name from the file cover from Marc. “And what is our Mr. Fuller charged with?” she asked as she returned her eyes to his and the smile returned.
Marc playfully rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and flippantly replied, “Oh, no big deal really. Something about attempted murder, robbery and a couple of other minor kinds of things.”
The judge and the clerk, who had watched the exchange between Marc and her boss with a curious, amused expression, both laughed at Marc’s reference to the charges being minor little things.
“Do you want to talk to me now or wait for the prosecutor?” Tennant asked Marc, turning more serious.
“I suppose I better wait for the prosecutor,” Marc answered, noticing that the smile had all but vanished as the judge got down to business. It was then that he noticed that the ring finger on her left hand was empty and he recalled hearing courthouse gossip that Tennant was divorcing.
“Who’s the prosecutor?” asked Tennant.
“Oh, jeez,” said Marc, pausing to try to remember the young woman’s name. “Not one that I know,” he continued. “Jennifer something,” he said, remembering her first name.
“Jennifer Moore?” interjected the clerk.
“Yeah, that’s it,” said Marc in reply.
“She’s kind of new,” said the clerk with a slight shrug to Tennant when Tennant looked at her with an inquiring expression.
Tennant turned back to Marc and said, “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you for a while.”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 4
