by John Grisham
Two hours later, a short, thin black man of forty eased into Sebastian’s office and said hello. He said his name was Bradley, which didn’t fit at all. He wore a tailored black suit, starched white shirt, and a narrow red-and-yellow bow tie. With his horn-rimmed glasses and squeaky voice, he could easily have passed for a minister or an English teacher in a prep school. Anything but a drug dealer.
With prefect diction and an impressive vocabulary, Bradley described himself as an entrepreneur with fingers in lots of pies. At the top were apartment buildings and car washes. At the bottom was the real moneymaker—distribution. Tee Ray had been working for an organization that Bradley was “affiliated with.” This organization was well managed and highly disciplined. It had a policy of taking care of its own.
“It’s a crack operation, right?” Sebastian asked.
More or less. Tee Ray was a rookie, but then experience is hard to gain out there because of the risks. “How much will you charge to represent him?”
Sebastian whistled softly and found the question funny. Bradley never cracked a smile. “I think you should let the public defender handle it,” Sebastian said.
“We know the system, Mr. Rudd. Believe me, we know how things work.”
“Okay. To mount a proper defense of a man charged with the capital murder of a police officer will cost you a quarter of a million dollars.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“It is. No one can afford it. I’ve never heard of a lawyer getting a fee like that for such a case. Maybe a white-collar crook or someone like that, but not murder.”
“Why is it so expensive?”
“Because it will eat up my life until the trial is over. I’ll spend a fortune on investigators, jury consultants, expert witnesses. The State will throw everything it has at Mr. Cardell and spend whatever it takes. Trust me, Bradley, it’s a fat fee all right, but I won’t get rich off of it.”
Bradley swallowed hard and gently adjusted his glasses. He gave the impression of a man who could not be perturbed. Softly he said, “We’ll pay seventy-five thousand. That’s all. Cash. Think of the publicity you’ll get.”
Publicity was already on his mind. Sebastian nodded and smiled. He also admitted to himself it was unheard of for a criminal defense lawyer to collect a fee of $75,000 for a street crime. Cash. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
“No problem. I assume you’ll need witnesses.” Bradley asked this as if he could snap his fingers and find all the testimony Tee Ray might need.
“Do you have witnesses?” Sebastian asked cautiously.
“Well, not yet, but I’m sure we can find some. Look, Mr. Rudd, we control the streets, not the police. This shooting happened on our turf. I’m sure there are eyewitnesses. We’ll help you find them.”
“Okay. While you’re looking, keep in mind that I prefer witnesses who are credible and have not spent time in jail.”
“That could pose a problem in our neck of the woods, but I’ll see what I can do.”
6.
On a beautiful Saturday afternoon, six days after he died, Buck Lester was given a lavish farewell, complete with a full funeral Mass at a downtown cathedral, a somber procession along streets lined with hundreds of uniformed brethren, and a full military interment with flags and guns. It was televised from beginning to end and lasted two hours.
Sebastian figured it was a good time to slip across the street and meet his new client. He visited clients in jail every week and always in one of the many attorney conference rooms on the second floor. There, they talked in private through a screen. Tee Ray, though, was the man of the moment, the hottest defendant in town, so for him there were different procedures. Sebastian was taken to a windowless room on the fourth floor, a room he had never seen before. He bitched at the guard about the extra security. The guard ignored him; the lawyers were always bitching about something.
The partition was not a wire screen but rather a thick sheet of some type of unbreakable glass with a three-inch hole in the middle of it. Sebastian stared at the hole, glanced at his watch, and waited. It was not unusual for the guards to make the lawyers wait, and wait. Bitching usually led to more waiting, but the trade-off was worth it. It was important to bitch to show the guards that they, the lawyers, were not intimidated. As a general rule, the guards despised the lawyers. The lawyers neither liked nor disliked the guards. They barely existed. They were either minimum-wage flunkies or part-time hobby cops lacking enough brains to get a real badge.
Sebastian pondered these things as he waited. The $75,000 in cash was locked in a safe-deposit box in a downtown bank. He was still debating how much to put on the books.
A door opened and a guard appeared. He was followed by Cardell, who for the occasion was wearing a Kevlar vest, a helmet, and of course the usual assortment of chains and cuffs, all for a two-minute walk down the stairs from the protective custody wing on the fifth floor. Because of the wound to his left elbow, the guards had generously cuffed his wrists in the front and not the back. Two more guards crowded behind him. Sebastian shook his head in disbelief as they went about the task of removing the restraints. Cardell stood perfectly still, his eyes on the floor. The helmet came off.
When they finished, one guard said, “You have an hour.”
To which Sebastian replied, “Bullshit. I’m his lawyer. I have as much time as I need.”
“An hour!”
“Take the damned Kevlar vest off, okay? The guy is here to see me, his lawyer. You think I’m planning to shoot my own client?”
The guards laughed at the lawyer’s stupidity. They left the room and Cardell, still wearing the vest, dropped into the plastic chair and looked through the glass. He slowly took the phone hanging by the partition.
Sebastian picked up his and said, “I’m Sebastian Rudd, your lawyer.”
“Nice to meet you. I guess I’m your client.”
“I guess you are. And you go by Tee Ray, right?”
“Tee Ray works.”
“Tee Ray, we’re not going to talk in here. I’ve heard about this room. The cops around here are pretty stupid and they probably have this place wired. I’ll go to court Monday and get an order allowing us to meet on the second floor, where the attorney conference rooms are located. Those rooms are wire free, or so we think. So, let’s just say this is our first little hey-howdy meeting. We’re set for your first appearance next Wednesday in circuit court. I’ll be there, but we’ll talk ahead of time. Any questions?”
“My son—”
Sebastian threw up a hand. “Don’t say anything, because someone is listening. I’ve talked to Jameel, and I’ve talked to your mother, Miss Luella. A delightful lady. Jameel is living with an aunt while I try to arrange housing for him and your mother.”
Tee Ray nodded with gratitude but said nothing.
Sebastian said, “Don’t say a word about your case to anyone. I know you’re in a cell by yourself but that doesn’t matter. Every other inmate is likely to be a snitch, and he’ll pop up at trial and claim that you made a full confession. I’ll file a motion to keep you in solitary confinement. I know it’s not pleasant, but it will keep you away from potential snitches. You cannot trust anyone here, Tee Ray, do you understand this?”
He kept nodding.
“I’ll be back Monday afternoon and we’ll have a long chat. Until then, not a word.”
7.
The Sunday edition of the Chronicle was chock-full of color photos of Buck’s grand farewell. The flag-draped coffin being carried from the cathedral; the pretty young widow in black; the hordes of cops in full dress (and from seven states!); the throng at the cemetery. Even the city’s polished fire trucks were used in the procession.
And on the front page of section B, Metro, there was a mug shot of Thomas Ray Cardell, the cold-blooded killer, the man who’d caused all the suffering. Next to him was a photo of his lawyer, the Honorable Sebastian Rudd, described as a “well-known criminal defense
lawyer.”
When Rachel checked the voice mail early Monday morning, the third message came from a husky voice that promised, “If that nigger walks, Rudd’s a dead man.”
8.
Bradley came through with his promise to procure testimony. The first witness was a nineteen-year-old part-time college student who lived two blocks from the Flea Market. His name was Jacoby, and he swore to Mr. Rudd that he saw Tee Ray on his knees with his hands in the air and that he heard four loud shots, then two not as loud. He also heard Tee Ray scream, “Don’t shoot!” but the shots kept coming. Jacoby claimed to be lurking in the shadows because he was in the process of sneaking into the Flea Market to buy some pot for himself and a friend. The friend happened to be the girlfriend of a rather rough character, thus the sneaking around.
A month before the trial, Jacoby disappeared. Vanished without a trace. The police searched and investigated and went through the motions but found no sign of Jacoby. Sebastian had warned him that he could be in danger, and the kid claimed to be lying low. His mother said she had been concerned because he had been flashing around some cash, but she had no idea where it had come from. A week into the search, Jacoby called home, said he was in L.A. with some new friends and wasn’t coming back.
Bradley and his boys swung into high gear and found another witness, an unindicted felon named Rufus. He claimed to have seen and heard everything, just like Jacoby. Sebastian spent hours with Rufus and became convinced the man could handle the rigors of a trial. He could stick to his story and withstand a brutal cross-examination.
9.
The State’s case against Tee Ray was built upon the solid eyewitness testimony of Officer Keith Knoxel. By the time he had secured the murder scene, put the handcuffs on Tee Ray, and followed the ambulance to the hospital, Knoxel had created, rehearsed, and refined his story. Without a word about the hooker, Knoxel claimed to have been just on the other side of Crump Street, not far at all from Buck, when he too saw the black guy in the oversized overcoat. He heard voices and began to cross the street to cover his buddy. The black guy charged Buck as they exchanged fire. Then, somehow, Buck dropped his weapon, and Mr. Thomas Ray Cardell shot him in the face. It had all happened so fast, but there was no doubt in his mind. He had witnessed a murder.
The chief prosecutor was a blustering, hard-charging climber named Max Mancini, and Max was finding it impossible to keep his picture out of the papers. He was pushing for a speedy trial. There would not be a plea bargain. It was a clear-cut death penalty case. Anything remotely related to the upcoming trial of the cop killer required either a press conference or a serious sit-down interview. Every motion was hotly contested and reported on.
Sebastian moved for a change of venue. The hearing took two days and the courtroom was crowded. The motion was denied. Sebastian filed a notice of a claim of self-defense, and Mancini offered his thoughts to a reporter. Sebastian moved for a gag order in an effort to stifle the prosecutor, but the judge said no.
The pretrial maneuverings were intense as the clock ticked. Through it all, Sebastian skillfully eliminated a few crucial elements of the State’s theory. For example, the press had labeled Tee Ray a drug dealer, but there was no proof of this. He had not been in possession of anything when he was arrested. He had admitted nothing. He was not known to the police to be involved with trafficking. Simply walking down a street at night near the Flea Market was not evidence of guilt. His gun, the alleged murder weapon, was indeed an illegal firearm. It was unregistered and its serial number had long since disappeared. However, and much to the surprise of everyone, the Beretta 9-millimeter fired by Buck Lester was also unregistered. Apparently, it was a leftover from his Marine days and he preferred it over the 9-millimeter Colts issued by the city police. Sebastian doubted the prosecution would get near the topic of illegal firearms. The jury might expect a guy like Tee Ray to carry one, same as everyone else in Little Angola, but not one of the city’s finest young policemen.
The cops and Max Mancini had failed in their efforts to create testimony. Sebastian had succeeded in keeping Tee Ray in protective custody, in a cell by himself, and had thus prevented the involvement of any of the prosecution’s web of snitches. They were career deadbeats, most of them druggies, and they were always in jail for small-time felonies. The cops would feed them the details of a crime, stick them in the cell with the accused, and—presto!—get a new witness who’d heard a full confession. After the snitches lied under oath to the jury, the charges against them would be either reduced or lost in the paperwork.
Just for the hell of it, Sebastian filed a formal motion that he labeled “Motion to Prevent the Police and the Prosecutor from Employing the Use of Jailhouse Snitches to Attempt to Elicit Fabricated Testimony from the Defendant.” The motion was deemed out of order and overruled, but the point was made.
10.
Two weeks before the trial, Rufus was pulled over for allegedly driving through a stop sign without making a complete stop. He argued with the officer, who called for backup. Two other patrol cars arrived and Rufus was handcuffed. In his rear floorboard, a policeman found a shipping carton with a pound of crack.
Rufus swore he’d never seen it before, swore it was planted by the cops.
Sebastian visited him in jail and told him he was lucky he hadn’t been shot. He wasn’t sure if Rufus would now be useful at trial. Sebastian would make a decision in a day or so. Meanwhile, he would speak with Bradley, the financier, and try to arrange bail. Rufus asked if he would be safer in jail than out. Sebastian wasn’t sure.
As he was leaving the jail and crossing the street back to his office, a young man in a rumpled suit caught up to him and said, “You’re Sebastian Rudd, right?”
“I am.”
“I’m Walter Branch, a new lawyer in town. Just down the street.”
Sebastian stopped, smiled, offered a hand, and said, “Yes, I think I’ve seen you around.”
“A pleasure. Look, we need to talk, and soon. Like right now. Preferably in a room with complete privacy.”
“My office is right here.”
“How about the coffee shop around the corner.”
“And this is urgent?”
“Trust me.”
Branch paid for two espressos and they huddled in a corner, as far away from the other three customers as possible. As Branch spooned in some sugar, he glanced around, and in a low voice began, “I have this client, kid’s a real mess. Twenty years old, part-time college student, full-time crackhead. He’s been through every rehab clinic this side of Betty Ford. Nothing sticks. They lock him up for two months, he stays clean for a week, then back on the crack. Very sad. Pathetic really. Family has a ton of money, so they keep shucking out big bucks, hoping some clinic somewhere can find the magic cure. Not likely to happen. Anyway, the kid knows what happened when the cop got shot.”
Sebastian stared out the front window and watched the pedestrians hurry by. “And how does he know this?”
“He was there. In a parked car with a buddy, both stoned to hell and back. In fact his friend, still unnamed, had passed out in the driver’s seat. My client was on the passenger’s side, the sidewalk right beside him. He says he saw the black guy, Mr. Cardell, walk by him, headed west, and the cop came out of nowhere, yelling and then firing. Says your guy hit his knees, threw up his hands, and the cop kept shooting. Finally, your guy got hit, sort of rolled to one side, and whipped out a gun. A helluva shot.”
Sebastian sipped his espresso. “That’s identical to Cardell’s version.”
“Right. And there was no second cop on the scene until the shooting was over. My client even thought for a moment that the second cop was gonna shoot Cardell. He didn’t, though, because he was freaking out over his buddy. My client slid lower in his seat, afraid he might be seen, and he eventually slipped out of the car and got away without being noticed.”
“So why can’t he testify?”
“That’s where it gets complicated. This is a p
rominent family. The kid’s parents are divorced. Everybody’s been through rehab. Calling the family dysfunctional would be giving it a compliment. The money was made by the grandfather, who still controls it all. A real prick. Tightfisted, arrogant, hard-nosed, domineering, really rough on his family because the family is so screwed up. He’s spent a fortune trying to get this kid clean and sober. Good money down the drain. Now he’s fed up. The kid turns twenty-one next year, and when that happens some trust funds kick in, courtesy of Gramps. Gramps, however, retained the right to revoke the trusts, and he’s been threatening to do so. About a year ago, he gave the kid an ultimatum—get clean or forget about the money. So the kid’s been kissing Granddaddy’s ass and telling him that all is well, no drugs, lots of studying in college, loves being sober, and so on. He manages to stay clean when he’s around the old man, but when he’s not he’s back to his old habits. He can’t help it. Frankly, the last thing this kid needs is a load of cash, but the trust funds are there and he sees easy street.” Branch paused for a sip. “Don’t have to tell you this is a big trial. If the kid comes
