Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set Two

by Kenneth Eade

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brent Marks sat with his clients, James Fredericks and Ronald Bennett, in the second row of the gallery waiting for their case to be called, and his thoughts ran wild with boredom. He also couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated: not because he was sitting between two gay men (which some guys might be a little uncomfortable with), but because they were dressed so much better than he was. And neither of them seemed to have the budding spare tire around the middle that Brent had been wrestling with at the gym for the past three years. It was embarrassing. People might think that Brent was the shabby client who had come to court with his two good-looking lawyers, instead of the other way around. His three-year-old brown Cerutti suit was no match for the crisp, clean, brand-new navy blue Versace that Ron was wearing; nor was it even in the same league as Jim’s slick, slim black Armani. Brent could never understand how a man could be attracted to another, but he did know one thing: his two clients had good taste and they were always in good shape. He made a mental note to consider asking one of his gay friends to go shopping with him next time instead of his girlfriend, Angela. She seemed to always be nicely dressed, but FBI agents like her were not known for their men’s fashion sense. Maybe I could find a gay trainer at the gym to help me shed these extra pounds?

  It was the hallowed ground of the federal court at 312 N. Spring Street, an old art deco building which contained some of the smartest men and women on the bench. The interior of the courtroom was all marble and dark wood. Brent and his clients sat on wooden benches that looked more like church pews than seats.

  The gallery was full of people; some attorneys, but mostly reporters who were anxiously awaiting a ruling from Judge Beverly Sterling on Brent’s motion for summary judgment. Brent knew that the hearing was a long shot. A similar case challenging California’s Proposition 8 had already been appealed and was pending before the United States Supreme Court. But, every case is different and each has its own life. So far, there had been no ruling in Brent’s case to stop the locomotive, so he was determined to see it safely into the station.

  This was just the type of case that appealed to him: blazing a trail for civil rights; lighting a torch for tolerance. In his early days as a lawyer, he wasn’t as fortunate, taking every case that he could just to keep the office doors open. But now, with over 25 years of practice under his slightly bulging belt, he could concentrate on the cases that really meant something: civil rights, consumer rights, governmental abuses… cases that were more than about just paying the bills.

  Judge Sterling appeared from her chambers at precisely 9:00 a.m. She demanded promptness from everyone who appeared in her courtroom and applied the same rule to herself. At about 5’4”, she looked a little like a child in a Halloween costume or perhaps the judge’s daughter, as she strode to the bench in her overflowing black robe. She called the court to order, lowering her voice in an attempt to sound more authoritative, which fell short of its objective due to nasal overtones. She disposed of the entire law and motion calendar, saving Brent’s case for last.

  “Matter number seven on today’s calendar is the case of Fredericks and Bennett v. County of Santa Barbara. Counsel, please state your appearances.”

  Brent rose, traversed the wood-paneled courtroom, and paused in front of the microphone on the counsel table nearest to the jury box. “Brent Marks appearing for the plaintiffs, Your Honor.”

  Brent’s opposition, Ted Penner, forged his way to the opposing counsel’s table, cleared his throat, and announced his appearance into the microphone. “Ted Penner for the Intervenor, MarriageProtect.com.” Ted had a much too serious look on his face, as if this case were as important to him as it was to Jim and Ron. He believed that marriage was not just a legal relationship, but a holy sacrament ordained by God; and that this sacrament would be tarnished by same-sex marriages. Ted’s client had fathered Proposition 8 in California against gay marriage, which had been the ballot initiative with the largest grass roots support in U.S. history. Homophobia was alive and well in America.

  Judge Sterling tried to compensate for her lack of powerful voice with a serious look that she launched with a frown as she regarded both counsel with brown pupils over her half-moon glasses, as if she were a drill sergeant looking over a fresh new set of recruits in boot camp.

  “I understand that the County of Santa Barbara, the State of California, and the Governor have declined to participate in this action as party defendants.”

  Brent rose to address the court, as is required in federal court procedure, and took advantage of the open door that had been left for him by Judge Sterling. “That is correct, Your Honor. The State of California believes, as do I, that Proposition 8 is unconstitutional.”

  “Mr. Marks, I also understand that your request for a writ of mandate to compel the County Clerk of Santa Barbara to issue a marriage license to your clients is based on the case of Hollingsworth v. Perry, is that correct?”

  “Yes and no, Your Honor.”

  “That’s not exactly an unequivocal answer, Mr. Marks. Which is it? Is it yes or is it no?” Federal judges would make lousy doctors. Why bother with this medical treatment? You’re going to die anyway and we need the bed space.

  “My clients’ petition is based on the same principles that the Ninth Circuit was presented with in Hollingsworth v. Perry, such as equal protection under the law and due process; but also, under California law as it stands, same-sex couples already have all the rights as opposite sex couples under the law before Proposition 8. It denies my clients their right to designate their relationship as a marriage.”

  “Isn’t that what the Ninth Circuit said in its ruling on the Hollingsworth case?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Then why should this court not stay these proceedings until the Hollingsworth ruling has been considered by the United States Supreme Court?”

  “Your Honor, my clients are not the same parties as in Hollingsworth, and they are entitled to have their case considered on its merits.” Obviously, she’s not buying it. But you never know. Sometimes they ask a question just to throw you off your game.

  “Mr. Penner, how do you weigh in on this?”

  Penner stood up anxiously and spoke too quickly. “Your Honor, the issues in this case are identical to those in Hollingsworth. If the Court were to rule in favor of the plaintiffs in this case and they were issued a marriage license, and then the Ninth Circuit’s ruling in Hollingsworth were overturned by the Supreme Court, any ruling this Court would make could potentially be moot. The Supreme Court has the last say on what is the law of the land. As an Article III court, this Court cannot presume to second guess what it will do.”

  Sterling’s eyebrows lifted. That was exactly what she wanted to hear.

  “I agree with Mr. Penner, Mr. Marks. I think it is best to defer ruling on your petition until the Supreme Court makes a decision in the Hollingsworth case. A further status conference on this matter will be set by the Clerk, at which time we will take a look at whether the Supreme Court has spoken on the issue.”

  “Your Honor…” Brent interjected.

  “Mr. Marks, is there any urgent reason that your clients need to be married right now as opposed to after the Supreme Court has made its decision?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then, that will be the order of the Court. Thank you all.”

  The judge went on to call her next case, and Brent packed up his briefcase and joined his clients as they left the courtroom, dejected. Brent waved off questions being shouted by a crowd of reporters who had congregated in the corridor outside the courtroom. Losers make lousy press conferences. Penner, however, eagerly jumped into the fray like he was falling off the stage into a mosh pit.

  As Brent and his clients trudged away, before he could even have the chance to console them, Joshua Banks, a bible-thumping, homophobic, religious fanatic, blocked their path. Brent had had run-ins with Banks several times, to the point where he had been forced to
obtain a restraining order against him because of death threats. But he was mainly a zealot and a windbag who was always preaching to anyone who would listen, and a lot of people who wouldn’t.

  “Marriage should be honored by all, and the marriage bed kept pure!” Banks proclaimed, lifting his finger in front of them as if he was giving a sermon.

  “Step aside, Mr. Banks. Do I have to get another restraining order against you?”

  “Men committed acts with other men, and received in themselves due penalty for their perversion!”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “He’s just a nut job, James. I’ve dealt with him before.”

  Banks stepped out of the way and the three proceeded down the escalator to the lobby of the courthouse.

  “He’s a religious fanatic. Part of the group opposing gay marriage.”

  As they descended, they could hear the echoes of Banks yelling verses from the Bible.

  “These dreamers pollute their own bodies, reject authority and slander celestial beings!”

  “He’s really harmless. Just ignore him.”

  “Sounds like he’s got a screw loose,” said Jim.

  Brent nodded. “More than one screw, I think.” The bellowing began to fade from their ears as they descended.

  “Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders, not thieves, nor the greedy or drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God!”

  “I guess it’s official, Jim. We’re both going to hell.”

  “At least we’ll be there together.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brent bade farewell to his two clients in the underground parking lot of the Los Angeles Mall, across the street from the Spring Street courthouse. He had declined their offer that morning to make the long drive together. It was always better for him to have the solitude of the drive to think before any court hearing.

  He took the 5 Freeway to avoid the traffic. Los Angeles had four different rush hours: morning, evening, lunchtime and anytime that wasn’t between midnight and four in the morning. Brent attempted to pass around the before-lunchtime traffic, but was held up in a brake light party through the Los Feliz area. As much as he enjoyed arguing a case in federal court, he much preferred to have a state case in good old Santa Barbara.

  Less than two hours later, he cracked the window to smell the fresh ocean breeze along the Rincon. Almost home, he thought to himself as he glanced out the driver’s side window at the crashing waves. He exited the freeway at Coast Village Road so he could enjoy the short drive along the coast.

  As a young attorney just starting his practice, he had selected Santa Barbara not because of the fact that he spoke Spanish (which did help him establish his practice because of the large amount of Spanish speaking potential clients who lived there), but because of its “frequency.” Santa Barbara felt good for Brent’s soul.

  It was for the same reason that Ron and Jim had decided to settle there, as well. Santa Barbara, unlike other cities in Southern California, had that home-town feeling. It was still a place where you could still go next door to your neighbor and borrow a stick of butter or cup of sugar. They felt more at ease being in public there and, during the three years they had lived in Santa Barbara, had made friends with more of their neighbors than either of them had made in Los Angeles in the previous ten.

  Upon entering the office, Brent’s secretary, Melinda, greeted him with a cheery smile and a small handful of messages. Melinda appeared to be the type who could be the subject of dumb blonde jokes; but in her case, none of them would apply.

  “Afternoon, boss.”

  “Hey, Mims. Anything important here?” he asked as he took the messages from her neatly manicured hand, finished with cherry red polish. How does she type with those?

  “Angela just called. She said if you got back in time, she’d like to meet you for lunch.”

  “When did she call?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago.”

  Brent stepped into the inner office and tossed his messages onto the walnut desk. I’ll check emails later. He sat down and dialed Angela.

  “Agent Wollard.”

  “Agent Wollard, I have a very important case for you to solve.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Angela laughed. “What case is that?”

  “The case of the hungry boyfriend.”

  “This would be my gay rights advocate boyfriend?”

  “One in the same – people’s rights, actually.”

  “Yes, I forgot – people’s rights. Gays have the same rights as all people.”

  “Damn right they do.”

  It was a lovely day, so they decided to meet at the Courthouse Café, which was right across the street from the old courthouse and within walking distance of both Angela’s and Brent’s offices. For a place through which had trudged such heartbreak and misery – murder, assault, fraud – over its 85-plus years of existence, the garden of the courthouse bloomed with life and beauty like the Garden of Eden.

  Lunch with Angela – any time spent with her really – always seemed to pass too quickly, whether there was too much to say and not enough time in which to say it, or just enjoying each other’s company without saying a word.

  The peace of the moment was broken when Angela glanced at her watch and said, “Wow!”

  “What?”

  “I’m late, that’s what.”

  “But we just got here.”

  “Yeah, an hour ago.”

  “Okay – off you go – I’ll get the check. We don’t want the Government to lose any of your precious time.”

  “Don’t start on the Government, Brent,” she said with a frown.

  “I’m not, I’m not.” He smiled, assuredly. Brent had a love-hate relationship with the Government. He hated what it had become over the years and loved to make an issue about it.

  ***

  When Brent made it back to the office, he didn’t even have a chance to go over the messages because Ron and Jim were sitting in the waiting room.

  “Hey, guys, I thought we already had our time together,” Brent chuckled. He could tell from the serious look on Ron’s face that neither one of them was in the joking mood.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Okay, then. Come on in.”

  Brent ushered them into his office, and planted himself behind the desk as they wiggled into the too-hard wooden client chairs.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked them.

  “We’ve been attacked,” said Jim.

  “Attacked? Did you call the police?”

  “We just came from there. They won’t do anything without a restraining order,” said Ron.

  Jim and Ron had stopped off for lunch on the way back from court, and by the time they arrived home, they had a surprise waiting for them. Their front window had been shattered by a large rock. But it was no case of ordinary vandalism. The perpetrator had left a message on the voice mail at Jim’s office.

  “It was that nut, Joshua Banks.”

  “Can I hear the message?”

  Jim played the voice mail for Brent, who immediately recognized the preachy voice of Joshua Banks:

  There is a time to throw stones and a time to gather stones. You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female! It is an abomination, punishable by death. So sayeth the Lord our God and his will shall be done!

  “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a threat to me,” said Ron.

  “It certainly does. We’ll get a restraining order to keep him away from you. I can prepare the papers today and get a temporary order tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I suggest that you install a good security system.”

  “We never thought we’d have to deal with something like this in Santa Barbara.” Jim put his hand on his forehead in emotional frustration. Ron put his arm around Jim’s shoulder to comfort him. “I just hope this piece of paper is enough to protect us.”

  CHAPTER THREE

&nbs
p; Before putting the finishing touches on his application for a restraining order against Joshua Banks, Brent had the unpleasant task of placing a call to Banks to give him notice that he would be in court the next morning to seek a temporary restraining order. He would have delegated the task to Melinda, but the last time she had a conversation with Banks, it had left her with a strong case of the jitters. Death threats tend to do that sometimes. Brent himself had purchased a handgun for protection after his first run-in with Banks, but later came to believe that Banks’ bark was bigger than his bite. Brent punched in his telephone number.

  “Mr. Banks? This is attorney Brent Marks.”

  The other end of the line was quiet. Maybe he’s trying to think of a bible verse to reply with.

  “Mr. Banks? Can you hear me?”

  “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

  “Good. Mr. Banks, are you represented by counsel? Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Lawyers! They weigh men down with burdens hard to bear, while they themselves will not even touch those burdens with one of their fingers!”

  “I take that as a no?”

  “You surely can, Counselor. I know why you have summoned me.”

  “I’m not sure you do. I need to inform you that I will be in Dept. 1 of the Superior Court tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. to seek a restraining order against you for James Frederick and Ronald Bennett.”

  “Men who lay with other men! An abomination! No one enters suit justly; no one goes to law honestly.”

  “Just the same, you’re invited to be there tomorrow, if you wish to oppose the order.”