“Yes, but she’s married.”
Perry gave Scott a sober look. “Don’t be going down that road.”
Scott laughed. “I’ll be careful. I’m not interested in a load of buckshot. She’s the teacher at the school who is going to be the sponsor of the mock trial team I told you about. Her last name begins with W.”
“Mrs. Willston!” Perry exploded. “I can’t believe it! You had breakfast with her?”
“I ordered a full meal, but she only wanted a piece of cantaloupe. You know, it’s easier for her to eat something soft. Her teeth are not in good shape.”
Perry’s jaw dropped. “I can’t believe this is happening to you.”
“It’s going to be a character-building experience, but I’m sure I can handle it.”
“What did she look like?”
“Better than ever. She’s aged well.”
“And her voice?”
“Just like I remembered, especially her laugh.”
“Mrs. Willston never laughed,” Perry said.
“This teacher does.”
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t Mrs. Willston,” Scott said. “I had breakfast with Kay Wilson. You’d probably remember her as Kay Laramie.”
“Kay Laramie? Didn’t you date her when we were seniors?”
“Yes. Now she’s teaching English at the high school.”
“Did she marry someone from around here?”
“No. A guy she met in California. But they’ve been separated for months, and her husband has filed for divorce. He’s living in Virginia Beach with his girlfriend.”
“What’s she like now?” Perry asked. “All I remember is a skinny blond who made good grades.”
“Like I said, she’s aged well.”
“Which means?”
“She looks great, but she’s had a rough time over the past year. I didn’t cross-examine her about the details.”
Scott selected a pair of dumbbells from a rack. Lying on a bench he began working on his triceps.
“How did you feel being with her?” Perry asked.
Scott paused after completing the next repetition. “I don’t know. That’s a tougher question than the one I asked you.”
The first thing Monday morning, Scott stopped by Mr. Humphrey’s office. The older lawyer looked up.
“Come in. Did you talk to Dr. Lassiter at the high school?”
“Yes, sir. We ate lunch together, and I’ve also met with the faculty advisor. We have our first meeting with the students tomorrow night.”
Scott didn’t summarize his past relationship with Kay Laramie Wilson. Mr. Humphrey was too busy to listen to a story about Scott’s high-school dating history.
“You volunteered in the nick of time,” the senior partner said. “It would have been a shame not to have a lawyer helping from the beginning.”
Mr. Humphrey picked up a phone message and prepared to dial a number. Scott didn’t move.
“I didn’t come in to talk about the mock trial program,” he said. “I need to ask you about something else.”
The older lawyer put down the slip of paper. “What is it? I’ve got a full plate of phone duty left over from last week.”
Scott quickly outlined the Garrison situation and concluded by saying, “I can file a motion to keep it in juvenile court, but if the judge lets the D.A. prosecute Lester as an adult, my time will eat up the $2,500 fee long before it goes to trial.”
“Have you talked to the boy’s father?”
“Not yet. He’s a truckdriver, and it may take a couple of days to track him down. Even then, I’m not sure he can pay any more money.”
Leland Humphrey ran his thumb down the inside of his right suspender. “What do you want to do?”
Scott didn’t hesitate. “I want to stay in the case.”
Mr. Humphrey rocked back and forth in his chair a couple of times then sat up straight. “All right. If the boy’s father won’t pay any more money, the experience will be compensation enough. Keep track of your time and turn it in to me. I’ll explain it to the other partners.”
“And my lack of experience?”
“You’ll learn quickly, but if it becomes a felony charge in superior court, I’ll help you out.”
During the initial interview at the youth detention center, Lester had resolutely maintained his innocence; however, Scott had no illusions about the truthfulness of his client. In law school he’d heard that few lawyers handled criminal cases, fewer still did a good job, and even fewer enjoyed it. There was far more grind than glamour. But for Scott the Garrison case had the bloom of a fresh opportunity, and no matter what he thought about Harold and Lester Garrison personally, his client deserved due process of law.
In the law-firm library Scott found a thick treatise on criminal law in North Carolina. He buzzed the receptionist and told her to hold his calls. After several hours of research, he closed the volume with a much clearer picture of the possibilities facing his client. Lester was definitely on the bubble. He was young enough to enjoy the limited punishment provisions available in juvenile court but old enough that the judge had the discretion to allow him to be prosecuted as an adult. A delinquency conviction in juvenile court would probably mean a year in a youth detention center. A felony conviction in superior court could result in up to ten years of jail time, but such a stiff sentence was unlikely for a sixteen-year-old boy. Scott didn’t need a lawbook to tell him that Lester’s preference for racial segregation was a prescription for trouble no matter where he went.
Upstairs in his office Scott found Thelma Garrison’s phone number. The old woman answered on the fifth ring.
After introducing himself, Scott said, “I need to talk with Lester’s father. How can I contact him?”
“He’s somewheres between here and Michigan. He don’t never phone here to check on me or the boy. I don’t know what he thinks I can do . . .” The old woman’s voice trailed off, and Scott couldn’t understand what she said.
He waited a second before continuing. “Something has come up on Lester’s case, and it’s important that I talk to his father as soon as possible.”
“I don’t see how if he don’t call.”
“But if you hear from him, please tell him to call me.”
“I doubt I will. What’s your name again?”
“Scott Ellis.”
“I’ll try to remember. Is Lester all right? I’ve been a-worryin’ about him. He’s been fretful recently, always banging around in that shed of his out back of the house.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am. He’s fine.” Scott decided it would be better not to tell her about the fight at the detention center. “I’m working hard on his case.”
“Help him if you can. God knows I can’t do anything. Bye.”
The phone clicked off.
Scott couldn’t count on Thelma. He dialed the phone number for the trucking company where Harold Garrison worked and spoke to a dispatcher. The man promised to leave a message for Harold at his next scheduled stop.
As the last act of the day for his new client, Scott called the district attorney’s office. It was after 5 P.M., and he doubted any government employees were still at work, but it was worth a try. To his surprise, a receptionist answered the phone.
“I’ll see who is handling the file,” the woman said. After a moment, she added, “That would be Lynn Davenport, one of the assistant district attorneys.”
“Is she available?”
“I’ll check.”
He stayed on hold until a woman with an accent that was more New York than North Carolina answered the phone. “Lynn Davenport, here.”
“Ms. Davenport, this is Scott Ellis with Humphrey, Balcomb and Jackson. I’m representing a juvenile named Lester Garrison. The receptionist said you were handling the case.”
“Yes.”
“Have you had a chance to look over his file?”
“Yes.”
Scott paused. It didn’t appear that Ms. Davenport was goi
ng to engage in friendly banter with him about Lester’s tattoos.
“I’d like you to consider handling the case as a juvenile court matter.”
“No.”
“But he’s only sixteen, and no one was injured.”
“No.” The lawyer’s clipped accent made her brief answer seem even more abrupt.
“What are your intentions?”
“To prosecute the defendant as an adult for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to inflict serious injury and criminal destruction of property.”
Scott’s face flushed. “I understand that, but I’d hoped we could cooperate.”
“Not unless your client pleads guilty to a felony charge and agrees to a significant prison sentence.”
“To a felony with prison time? You’re kidding.”
“No, Mr. Ellis. I’m very serious. If you don’t have any more questions, I have things to do before I leave the office.”
Scott couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound petty. “No. I’ll be filing my notice of representation in the morning.”
“Arraignment will be on Thursday morning at nine o’clock in the old courtroom.”
Supper was being served when Deputy Hicks pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped aside to let Scott enter. Lester sat alone at a round table. His swollen right eye had turned slightly purple, and the cut on his right temple was healing with the rapidity reserved for young people. Scott sat down beside him.
“Assigned seating?” he asked.
“Yeah. I can’t sit with anyone else. In class I’m in the front row under the teacher’s nose.”
“No more trouble?”
“I’m keeping to myself like you told me to do.”
“Good.”
“Did you come to get me out? I want to go home.”
The young man’s mood was subdued. He looked down at his plate of barely eaten food.
“No, I didn’t come to get you out. The whole status of your case has changed.”
“What do you mean?”
Scott summarized the district attorney’s decision to prosecute Lester as an adult. When he finished, Lester put his head in his hands. Scott waited. He couldn’t tell if Lester was crying or not, but several other boys looked in their direction, poked one another, and laughed. Scott thought about reaching over to put a hand on Lester’s shoulder but hesitated. There had not yet been an invitation to that type of personal touch.
Lester raised his head and blew his nose on a paper napkin. “I’d rather be dead than locked up. I’d never make it in a prison where I had to share space with blacks.”
Scott recoiled from the sympathy that had welled up inside him seconds before. Instead of reaching over to place a comforting hand on Lester’s shoulder, he suddenly had a strong urge to knock him out of his chair.
“Lester, look at me,” he commanded.
The young man glanced up through watery eyes.
Scott spoke slowly. “Before I became a lawyer, I served in the U.S. Army. My best friend was a black man from Syracuse, New York, named Steve Robinson. We were as close as brothers. We met in basic training and served together in the same unit for almost three years.”
Lester’s bleary-eyed look became a dull glare. Scott wasn’t going to be stopped by a hostile look from a sixteen-year-old.
“I visited with my friend’s family when I was on leave. I slept in their house, ate their food, held his baby girl, and kissed his wife on the cheek when I left. Later, when we were in a very dangerous situation overseas, Steve saved my life. Get one thing straight: I don’t agree with you about blacks, browns, yellows, or any combination of colors you can imagine.”
Lester grunted. “I can’t talk like you, but I’ve got my reasons.”
“Maybe you do, but unless they have something to do with your case, I’m not interested in hearing about them. Is that clear?”
Lester didn’t reply.
Scott had intended on discussing pretrial strategy, but insuring due process for Lester Garrison would have to wait for another day.
“I’ll be back later,” he said and left Lester with his hate and a cold piece of corn bread.
7
Know thyself.
PLUTARCH
The following morning there was a message in Scott’s voice mail from Harold Garrison. He immediately dialed the number. It was a freight depot in Michigan.
“Yeah, he’s still here. He’s in the drivers’ lounge waiting for his trailer to be loaded.”
Harold answered the phone. “What’s happened? Have you taken care of everything?”
“Not exactly.”
Scott outlined the status of the case.
Harold swore. “Are you tellin’ me they’re gonna send a sixteen-year-old kid to prison?”
“Probably not immediately. He’d be sent to a long-term youth detention center until he reached eighteen, then transferred to a facility for younger offenders; however, my focus is not where he might go to jail but defending him from the charges. This is a much bigger problem than a juvenile court proceeding, and the initial fee will not cover the cost of his defense.”
“You want more money?”
“Yes.”
“I gave you $2,500 a few days ago, and now you want more?”
“That’s the way it works in criminal cases. The entire fee is paid up front.”
“How much more are you going to charge?”
Scott kept his voice steady. “Another $7,500.”
Harold swore again. “What! I don’t have that kind of money! You don’t even want to know where the $2,500 I paid you came from.”
Scott had not considered that possibility.
Harold continued, “How many cases have you won anyway? I’m not paying you to take target practice on my son.”
“I’ll be prepared,” he answered. “I’ve already met twice with Lester, and I’ll be filing several motions with the court before arraignment on Thursday.”
Harold grunted. “You’d better get this case moving. I’m tired of you backin’ up.”
For a moment, Scott had second thoughts about continuing to handle the case. It would be easier to withdraw, refund the fee, and try to forget Lester and Harold Garrison. But Scott wasn’t a quitter. Ever since he was a little boy, he’d always tried to finish what he started.
“Okay,” he said confidently. “When you come home, call me.”
“That won’t be anytime soon. I’m on my way to Oregon, and next time we talk, I want some good news. Until that happens, don’t ask me for more money.”
Scott had set aside part of the afternoon to prepare the motions he wanted to file before Lester’s arraignment on Thursday. However, the criminal-law books in the firm law library didn’t have up-to-date forms, and what he’d learned in law school prepared him more to argue a case before the United States Supreme Court than represent a sixteen-year-old boy in Blanchard County Superior Court.
He took a short walk to the courthouse and copied the standard motions filed by a local lawyer with the best reputation as a criminal defense attorney. Returning to the office, he modified the other lawyer’s forms, then drafted a motion asking the judge to send Lester’s case back to juvenile court. Finally, he prepared a request that the judge set bond so Lester could be released pending disposition of the charges against him. Scott wasn’t sure his client could keep his rage bottled up indefinitely at the youth detention center, and a new set of charges for assault and battery would only make resolution of the entire situation more difficult.
Tonight was the first meeting of the mock trial team. Scott went home to check on Nicky, then drove to the high school. The first meeting would be important. It would set the tone for everything that followed.
Several cars were lined up alongside one of the modular units behind the gym. Scott parked beside a silver sports car. A young man was sitting in the vehicle talking on a cell phone. When he entered the trailer, everyone glanced in Scott’s direction. Kay was standing
beside her desk talking to a group of four girls.
“Good evening, Mrs. Wilson,” Scott said.
Kay adopted his formal tone. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Ellis. We’ll start in a few minutes.”
Kay introduced the girls to Scott. He caught a whiff of perfume but couldn’t tell if it was coming from the teacher or one of the teenagers. He doubted Kay dumped massive amounts of perfume on her neck before leaving home to spend six hours teaching English grammar to high-school students in a trailer. The girls all looked young to Scott, probably ninth or tenth graders.
“What year are you?” he asked.
“We’re juniors,” Janie answered.
Kay glanced around the room. “I think everyone is here. Take a seat in one of the desks toward the front of the classroom.”
While the students found seats, Kay continued, “I have nametags. Most of you know each other, but we need to make it as easy as possible for Mr. Ellis, our volunteer attorney.”
She handed a white sticker to a tall, broad-shouldered young man with startling blue eyes. “Print legibly, Dustin.”
Kay nodded to Scott. It was his cue to begin.
“Each of you is going to come to the front of the class and introduce yourself as if you were beginning a court case.”
He took a couple of steps to the wooden stand beside Kay’s desk and made sure his voice carried clearly to the back wall of the trailer. “May it please the court, my name is Scott Ellis, counsel for the plaintiff.”
One by one they came to the front. A few giggles greeted the first two or three speakers, but the novelty quickly wore off. Scott made them repeat the sentence slowly and distinctly until he was satisfied with the inflection and pacing of their delivery. One student adopted an exaggerated Southern drawl.
Scott read Dustin’s nametag. “Colonel Rawlings,” he said, “that sounded a bit fake. Do you intend to maintain that accent until the end of the competition?”
“He’s a phony, all right,” Frank Jesup called out.
Dustin ignored Frank. “No, sir, I was kidding. Why did you call me colonel?”
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