The Indictments

by William Eleazer

“There’s a small Chinese restaurant a couple of blocks away,” Jessica said. “Let me order. They deliver, and you have to eat something, somewhere. Why not here?”

  Indeed, why not? thought Scott. But he immediately came up with several reasons, all good ones. His mind flashed back to a movie he had recently seen, Derailed, in which Jennifer Aniston played the femme fatale. He decided he should just change the subject.

  “I really can’t. But what a beautiful apartment you have, Jessica. Did you decorate it?”

  “No, my dad hired a local design firm. It was ready when I got to Savannah Law last fall. I wasn’t involved at all—no one asked for my input. But I love it.”

  Scott now had his shirt fastened and was slowly walking across the white carpet toward the door. He stopped by the roses and looked down. “Beautiful. Nice touch.”

  “From my dad. He has a dozen white roses delivered every week. He missed once, but I got two dozen the next week. It started as soon as I moved in. I told him I appreciated it, but I knew it was costly and said he should stop. He said he had plenty of money and loved spending it on me. So, if it makes him happy, it makes me happy.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful dad.”

  “He is. He’s also a very successful lawyer, with his own PI firm in Miami. You would love it there, Scott; I could get you an interview.” Jessica grinned and then laughed. “I could get you hired without an interview. Trust me. His new hires start out in six figures. Interested?”

  “Interested? Sure. But when I signed on with the DA’s office I signed a commitment for three years. I’m not sure it’s legally binding, but I intend to honor it. So, ‘interested’? Yes, but I’ll have to put it on the back burner.”

  “OK. But can I change your mind about Chinese take-out?”

  “Jessica, I’d love to. You are such a gracious host, but I must head home. I still have some work to do before tomorrow morning.” Scott was looking carefully at Jessica as he spoke and could see the disappointment in her face.

  “And you have to call Jennifer.”

  Scott not only saw the disappointment on her face, but he now heard the disappointment mixed with sarcasm in her voice.

  “I wonder if Jennifer has ever seen that long scar on your back.”

  An alarm went through Scott. What was going through Jessica’s mind? Did she really want to know if Jennifer had seen him undressed? Of course she had seen the scar—they had been in a close relationship for a year. No, this was more about control and could be translated as “reject my hospitality at your peril.” Scott recognized it for what it was.

  “I guess we will both have to wonder about that, Jessica. And I’m sure you won’t ask, will you?”

  Jessica smiled broadly—and knowingly. She paused before answering, “No, Scott. It’s our secret. You can trust me.”

  The whole conversation was unsettling. He’d had a splitting headache and somehow, without plan or design, he found himself on a soft leather couch being relieved by a wonderful massage. Yes, he could feel the warmth of Jessica’s breasts on his back, but what was he to do? Order her to get back and stay back? He felt it was all quite innocent, yet here he was, in Jessica’s apartment, plotting to keep this rendezvous secret from Jennifer. Suddenly, that seemed wrong. And the whole disquieting dilemma seemed to flow from Jessica’s simple statement, “I wonder if Jennifer has ever seen that long scar on your back.”

  Jessica’s last response, “It’s our secret. You can trust me,” for some reason was even more troubling. Especially the words, “You can trust me.” Scott opened the front door, then turned to face her.

  “Thanks,” was all he said before walking quickly to his car. He wondered if this was the first drop of rain forewarning of a bad thunderstorm.

  ****

  Scott drove to his apartment, making one stop on the way. A Chinese restaurant. Chinese food, which he had a few minutes before refused, suddenly was appealing—but in his apartment, alone. As soon as he arrived, he removed the paper Jessica had given him with the Federal Courts assignment and called Jennifer.

  “I have the assignment you were looking far.” He read it. “Chapters nine and ten from the textbook.”

  “I was just about to call you,” said Jennifer. “I found the assignment.” She paused. “But you said chapters nine and ten? That’s not what I have. In fact, those are two chapters that Professor Cooper said to skip. You suppose I can talk to Jessica—is she still there?”

  “You mean at the office?”

  “Of course.”

  “No. She left early. I left early too. I’m home, with Chinese take-out and about to tackle some work for a non-jury trial tomorrow. And if the day goes well and we have no surprises in the Harrison case, I’m looking forward to going home with you Saturday. You are coming back Sunday afternoon, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, for sure. I know you have that trial Monday, and I have a bunch of studying to do. Mom and Dad are looking forward to our visit. I hope we can get off around ten Saturday.”

  “Good. We’ll go in my car. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

  When Scott hung up, he thought about the Federal Court assignment that Jessica had given him. Completely erroneous. And for a moment—a very short moment—he considered it just a simple mistake, but he knew better. He was appalled, but it did not affect his appetite. He opened the bag containing the spring rolls and shrimp fried rice. His headache had not returned, and two hours later, when he had finished his work, his afternoon adventure in the lustrous, all-white apartment was only a distant memory.

  CHAPTER NINE

  September 17, 2007

  It was 8:15 a.m. Monday, and Scott was the first member of the prosecution team to arrive in Judge Desano’s courtroom. Although Nick had not offered him any part of the trial, Scott was prepared for any opportunity. He placed his briefcase on the prosecution table and awaited the arrival of Nick and Richard.

  The courtroom was filling fast, though the trial was not scheduled to start until 9:00 a.m. The media was covering the retrial with the same intensity of the first trial. Judge Desano had approved an extensive “Memorandum of Agreement,” signed by all the media organizations, concerning sharing of courtroom photos and TV broadcasts. Scott saw a tall tripod holding a TV camera near the far right wall and the same camera operator from the first trial nearby laying cable from it. Reporters from all the major Georgia newspapers were scattered throughout the gallery. One reporter with a camera was taking ambient light readings with a hand-held meter. He would be the only photographer and would pool his photos with the other reporters.

  Judge Desano’s gag order to both parties threatened severe and swift sanctions for any violation. So far there had been no violations; at least none had come to the attention of the court. Unlike the order at the original trial, jury consultants were specifically placed under the order this time. Gordon used one at the first trial, and she had performed more as his PR agent than jury consultant, infuriating the judge. Scott had not seen or heard of one for this trial.

  Scott leaned back in his chair and reflected on the past weekend. When Friday came and went without any surprises from Gordon or his team, he had been free to join Jennifer for a visit to her parents’ home at Hilton Head. Scott had become a frequent weekend visitor over the past year. Jennifer’s parents treated him as one of the family, as they were sure he would be someday. This had been another wonderful visit: dinner alone with Jennifer at a favorite seafood restaurant, followed by a barefoot stroll on the moonlit beach, and a family cookout Sunday afternoon before returning to Savannah. Although their weekends at Hilton Head had developed into a routine, they continued to be as welcome and exciting as the first.

  Richard arrived shortly with the large photo exhibits of Fast Eddie’s. Nick was close behind, and they quickly joined Scott at the prosecution table to discuss any last minute surprises or necessary changes. There were none. Nick had not heard from Max Gordon since the previous week, and the judge’s gag order had apparently kep
t him out of the media.

  “Things have been going a bit too smoothly,” said Nick. “I’ve got a feeling that the little dickhead isn’t going to show—probably hospitalized with bleeding hemorrhoids.”

  Scott shook his head slowly. “I’m still amazed that you were able to get this trial scheduled so quickly,” he said. “But I disagree about him not showing up. He’ll be here with a stack of motions that will take all week.”

  “If he does, Desano will be all over him, and he will indeed end up bleeding. It’s too late for motions.”

  “Not for Gordon. He’ll file a recusal motion based on newly discovered evidence or some other fabrication. I don’t believe this case will start today or this week.”

  As Scott was speaking, Max Gordon walked into the courtroom with his new assistant, Clarence Wilborn. Gordon was waving to the packed courtroom as if he were Grand Marshal of the Rose Parade. Wilborn, with a briefcase in each hand, was dressed in a dark blue shirt, yellow tie, and brown suit that appeared two sizes too small. He was about five feet nine, thin, and wiry. His dark hair was parted in the middle with a heavy, shiny coating of hair gel. He placed the briefcases on the defense table and took a seat.

  Max Gordon saw Scott and Nick and quickly walked over, hand outstretched for a greeting. “Hello, Nick! Hello, Scott! So glad to see you. You both look great! The job is agreeing with you, I see. Wish I could say the same for me and my crew. Always rushing. Fighting to get on airplanes and running up courthouse steps just to get to the courtroom before the judge issues a bench warrant. Please forgive my appearance.”

  Max Gordon was a rotund man in his mid-fifties, five feet, seven inches tall, with rather sharp features, including a small pointed nose. His brown hair—at least what was left of it—was parted down the middle in the same style as Wilborn’s. He wore a gold Rolex watch on his left wrist and jeweled rings on two fingers of his right hand.

  Scott smiled as he stood and shook Gordon’s hand. He thought of saying “your appearance is quite unforgivable, Max.” But it was not because his clothing was disheveled. He was dressed as he was at the first trial, and then as now, his outfit looked strange in a Savannah courtroom on a hot September day. He was wearing a dark double-breasted suit with wide pinstripes and sharply pointed lapels. His yellow tie clashed sharply with his signature pink handkerchief, which hung loosely from his front breast pocket. And there was a small diamond visible in his right earlobe—a detail not present at the first trial.

  Nick stood and shook Gordon’s hand with the enthusiasm of a defeated politician on election night. He had no intention of engaging in small talk with this long-despised opponent. The Escobar trial was several years ago, but its result—and the role he was sure that Gordon played in Escobar’s escape—tugged on Nick like it was yesterday. He hoped this trial would provide the needed catharsis to put that trial, and Max Gordon, behind him forever.

  As Nick was about to take his seat again, two deputies entered with John Harrison in tow. They led Harrison to the defense table and unlocked his handcuffs as Gordon turned to watch.

  “Well, I see my client’s here. Must go. So good to see you again, Nick…Scott. Maybe we can talk later over a beer at Churchill’s,” Gordon said as he departed.

  Nick was gracious enough to suppress a sneer.

  As Gordon walked to the defense table, he was intercepted by a tall man in his late fifties with salt and pepper hair, in a very expensive suit. Both Nick and Scott immediately recognized him as the defendant’s father, former Senator David Harrison. He had been sitting unnoticed in the front row with his wife, Jill.

  Gordon and Senator Harrison smiled and shook hands vigorously. The deputies watched intensely as both men proceeded to the defense table. The shackles had not yet been removed from his legs, but the defendant managed to stand easily; he was now experienced in being manacled. It was obvious from his expression that he was pleased to see his father, despite many years of estrangement. The senator gave his son a manly hug. The deputies did not move. They had been instructed that Senator Harrison would be present and to allow the personal contact.

  Nick continued to watch as Gordon and the senator whispered at the defense table and then moved to a spot near the empty jury box for a more private conversation. Senator Harrison removed an envelope from his coat and handed it to Gordon. He was one of the wealthiest men in Georgia, and it was well-known that he was footing the bill for his son’s defense. It was entirely appropriate that he do so, all above-board. Nevertheless, to Nick, it seemed entirely improper and ill-timed to pass a check in the courtroom while leaning on the jury rail. He could not help but wonder about the size of the check. It might be proof of a father’s love for his son, he thought, but it was such wasted money.

  Promptly at nine, Judge Desano entered and called the court to order. The pageantry accompanying a new court session in the Chatham County Courthouse still impressed Scott as much as it startled new visitors. The bailiff, with his seven-foot oak staff decorated with thin silk streamers and a gold eagle on top, stepped forward and rapped sharply on the floor. Rap…Rap…Rap. The resounding noise brought all present immediately to their feet; the accompanying command “all rise” was unnecessary. Courts in Chatham County had been called to order in this manner since the middle of the eighteenth century when Georgia was a Crown Colony. While abandoned in other Georgia jurisdictions long ago, this mini-ceremony was still an integral part of every trial held in the Chatham County Courthouse.

  Judge Desano took his seat and looked at the packed courtroom. Members of the media filled the first row on the right side of the courtroom. The jury panel was still in the jury assembly room, so several rows on the left were reserved for them to sit during the selection process. Once the jury was selected and seated in the jury box, those rows would be open to spectators now lined up in the corridor. Richard took a reserved seat in the spectator section just behind the prosecution table.

  “Please be seated,” said Judge Desano.

  All in the courtroom took their seats except one of the defense attorneys.

  “Your Honor, my name is Clarence Wilborn. I am an active member of the Georgia Bar and will be representing the accused. I would like to introduce Mr. Max Gordon, a member of the bars of Illinois, Ohio, and New York. I wish to sponsor Mr. Gordon to assist with the defense, and I move his admission to the bar for this trial pro hac vice. We have filed all papers required by Georgia Superior Court Rule 4.4 to qualify Mr. Gordon to participate as such, and I believe you will find all those papers in proper order in the court’s file. Neither the Office of General Counsel of the State Bar of Georgia nor any other person or agency has filed any objection to Mr. Gordon’s application, and we thus request your approval of Mr. Gordon to participate as lead counsel in this case.”

  Judge Desano was well-aware that this motion would be forthcoming. He had examined all the papers and in fact, had double-checked with the bar counsel to see if they had uncovered any disciplinary proceeding against Gordon in other jurisdictions that would disqualify him. Yes, there had been disciplinary accusations, but to Desano’s surprise, none—at least so far—had resulted in disciplinary action. Bar disciplinary proceedings are confidential in most states, and while there were strong “rumors” that Max Gordon was being investigated in several states, there was no actual proof. Even the strong evidence of witness tampering in the defendant’s first trial in this same courtroom had gone nowhere.

  “We will take a short recess,” said Desano. “I would like to see counsel in my chambers.”

  All four counsel and the court reporter followed Judge Desano into the judge’s chambers. When they were all seated, Desano looked intently at Gordon, pausing a moment before he spoke.

  “I had planned a little conference before we begin this trial to review some of our court rules since Mr. Gordon proved a bit slow in that department in the last trial. But first let me address the pro hac vice motion. As I’m sure counsel are aware, I have discretion on this mot
ion. If I believe granting the motion for Mr. Gordon to participate in this trial would be detrimental to the fair and efficient administration of justice, I can deny it, and I don’t believe any appellate court in Georgia would reverse my decision. Based on your performance at the first trial, Mr. Gordon, I could easily make that determination. But the accused’s right to counsel of his own choosing is an important part of our justice system—perhaps trumping my inclination to disapprove the motion. In any case, I’m leaning toward approving the motion. Mr. Wilborn, I understand you are a practicing criminal trial lawyer, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “How many years have you been practicing criminal law?”

  “Nine years this month.”

  “Have you become familiar with this case so that you could take over without delay should I find it necessary to remove Mr. Gordon for cause?”

  Gordon’s face turned into a sharp frown. “Your Honor, that is—” Desano extended his arm, palm out, in Gordon’s direction.

  “I haven’t approved your participation yet—and I may not. I’ll let you know when you may speak.” His tone was sharp, and it had the intended effect. Gordon remained quiet.

  Wilborn also remained quiet while he considered the question. He realized that Desano was boxing him in. He also knew that Gordon wanted this case to start today.

  “Yes, Your Honor, I could take over without delay. But as you have just noted, the accused should have assistance of counsel of his choice, so we ask that you approve our motion.”

  “And as I said, I’m inclined to grant it. But first, I have some questions of Mr. Gordon. And some serious advice.” Desano looked directly at Gordon. “Your conduct in the first trial was deplorable. During jury selection, you brought up your football heroics in college for nothing but personal glorification. You continued to argue in your opening statement even after I had warned you—several times—and even after we had a conference in which you said you understood. After I dismissed you as defense counsel, you remained in the courtroom, and I believe you were behind the scheme to change the appearance of the defendant with a hair piece, and to hire ‘look-a-likes’ to appear in the courtroom to confuse eyewitnesses. And though the FBI has not proved exactly who on your team tampered with the witness, it is clear to me that it was a team effort, and you were the team leader.”