Chapter 26
The Defense
The courtroom was packed. It was a Monday, the day reserved for jury trials, first appearances and plea announcements. A month had passed since the accident, and the docket on this day included the first bond appearance in State of Oklahoma v. Michael A. Thomas, as the caption on the court file read. The news coverage of the Thomas case had resulted in a larger turnout than usual. The headlines of the local newspaper read, “Grandson of defense attorney almost killed by his own client,” and “Will drunk driver who victimized his own attorney’s family get the justice he deserves?” It was the first story in a long time that garnered two separate articles.
So far, though, the brouhaha had been reserved for local media. Indeed, even the not too distant markets of Tulsa and Oklahoma City had not yet caught the scent of the rather unique and interesting case. Thus, there were just a couple of reporters from outside the county in attendance, just in case something interesting happened, such as an unexpected plea or dismissal. There were also several DUI victims’ groups’ advocates in attendance, and the entire board of the local Mothers Against Drunk Drivers (MADD) chapter. The rest of the seats were taken by the dregs who were there to ask the judge for mercy, or just beg him to let them stay out of jail while their cases were pending.
The swiftness of the State’s action in charging Thomas was mind boggling for those knowledgeable of the criminal justice system, especially in rural Oklahoma—it usually took a good six to twelve months to investigate, secure forensic testing, and make the charging document bulletproof. This time was different, though great pains were taken to achieve so-called bulletproof status, at least. Charles had pressed his fellow fraternity brother, Sheriff Anderson, to expedite the process, to make sure that the scumbag who hurt his grandson (1) stayed in jail with an inordinately high bond, and (2) paid for his crime quickly, without delay. To accomplish both goals the DA had to file charges quickly. Charles had even done something that he wouldn’t have done under normal circumstances (the conspiracy theorist/defense attorney in him didn’t believe one should ever cooperate with the government): he had the hospital draw Robert’s blood and test his DNA to match it with the blood on Thomas’s bumper, which probably saved a good three months of waiting that would have otherwise occurred had the DA let the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation do that part of the investigation. So, within a month of the accident, the DA had all it needed to charge Thomas with the crimes of attempted second-degree murder, aggravated battery, felony theft (for taking Robert’s computer, cash and personal effects), felony driving under the influence of alcohol and/or drugs, hit-and-run, leaving the scene of an accident, and failing to report an accident. The first four charges were felonies and carried mandatory prison time; the last few were mere misdemeanors and were the least of his problems.
Charles was seated in the back of the courtroom, which was tiny compared to the courtrooms he was accustomed to. He made a mental note of the accoutrements, which had changed little from the time he had successfully defended Thomas two years before. The spectator gallery seated fifty people, with enough room around its edges to fit another twenty standing side-by-side like sardines packed in a tin can. On the other side of the railing that separated the spectators from where the action took place there was barely room to fit the two tables for litigants, one for a defendant and his attorney, and next to it an identical one for a prosecutor and his primary witness. Both tables faced the judge’s elevated perch. To the left of these tables was the jury box, which had the generous accommodations of twelve padded, slightly worn swivel chairs in two rows of six each. The witness stand was to the immediate left of the judge, facing the same direction as the judge and to his immediate right, with the court reporter’s space on the other side of the witness stand facing the same direction. Dark stained, oaken wood paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The carpeting and upholstery of the padded chairs were also dark-colored, probably brown, hiding whatever former occupants had spilled or otherwise deposited on their surfaces. Overall, the courtroom décor was very bland and boring, an interior designer’s worst nightmare.
Every seat was occupied, with in-custody defendants, including Thomas, occupying the jury box seats, several free defendants interspersed in the gallery, some standing and some seated. Observers, casual and otherwise, some seated, others standing, intermingled with reporters and with victims and suspects’ families. Robert and most of his family chose to skip the arraignment, though Charles was there to report what happened, which he knew from experience would be nothing much.
Thomas sat in the back middle of the jury box wearing the mandatory orange jumpsuit and tattered plastic flip flops over sock-covered feet, all provided compliments of the Darkwell County Sheriff’s Department. His parents had refused to pay his bond, instead choosing to pay an Oklahoma City-based defense attorney in hopes of securing better representation than the public defender.
As the judge rattled off the names on his docket, Charles looked over at his former client. He wasn’t a bad looking young man, Charles reflected. He was of average height and medium build, and was normally clean-cut in appearance. He remembered the first time Thomas asked for his help. At the time he looked to be in his early twenties, had striking facial features—he could have been a model, Charles remembered thinking—and appeared to work out on a regular basis. He had medium-length black hair, and was very polite, always saying “yes sir,” and “no sir” in response to questions. Back then Charles found it hard to believe that the clean-cut boy sitting before him was facing a felony DUI charge, but then his investigator looked into the matter. He’d had two prior DUI convictions within the previous three years and had barely escaped aggravated assault charges two years before that as a juvenile.
Charles thought back to the file on that previous arrest—the case had arisen from a fight allegedly started when the other boy hit Thomas in the stomach with a baseball bat—usually a good way to knock the wind out of someone. That is, unless that someone who happens to be your client takes the bat away from the boy and proceeds to smash him in the skull until it cracks open, which might have happened had Thomas not been pulled away from the other guy. Thomas also had a smattering of petty theft and drug possession convictions as a juvenile. Thomas’ looks had been definitely deceiving back then. Not anymore. A scraggly, unkempt, longhaired punk sat in the jury box on this day. Charles shook his head and wondered what his parents were like. Were they the ones who inspired him to be the man he was on this day? Were they losers and drunks, too? His experience defending criminals told him the answer was likely yes.
“Michael A. Thomas,” the judge announced.
A slightly built, short man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail stood up from the left of the two chairs sitting behind the defense table. The ponytail contrasted sharply with his otherwise conservative dress: dark, pinstriped, three-piece suit and cordovan wingtips on his feet. “Defendant is present in custody and also appears through counsel, Jacob McAllister,” Thomas’s attorney replied.
“Stand up, Mr. Thomas,” the judge said in the direction of the jury box.
Michael stood as instructed, his arms pulling up those of the defendants cuffed on each side of him for security reasons—it was harder to run if you had to drag two other suspects along with you. “Yes, sir,” he said.
He’s still polite, Charles thought. Not that it means anything with these liars.
Just a few weeks before, he was in the habit of giving his clients the benefit of the doubt. How things do change, he reflected.
“Please make your announcement, counsel.”
Barbara Dixon, the Assistant District Attorney, was an athletic-looking, mid-twenties-aged, long blond-haired beauty about 5’8” tall. She stood up and handed McAllister a multi-page document, which he took. She returned to her seat once he accepted the document.
“Your Honor, we acknowledge receipt of the complaint, enter a plea of not guilty, and reque
st a preliminary hearing. We also respectfully request that the court lower the bond to an amount more in line with the severity of the charges.”
The prosecutor shot up from her seat much quicker this time and almost yelled, “We object. Counsel has not filed a motion for reduction and has not given our office proper notice. Also, Your Honor, this is not a minor matter. Mr. Thomas almost killed a teenage boy. He has multiple prior DUIs and other crimes of violence and is a menace to society. If anything the bond should be increased.”
“Your Honor,” McAllister begged. “I was just retained last Friday and have not had time to file a motion, and this prosecutor has a habit of making us give her the seven-day statutory notice. In the meantime, my client will have to sit in jail another week just because his family couldn’t afford an attorney until now.”
Judge Miles Bosco, part-time cattle rancher and full-time District Court judge, looked the part of a rural Oklahoma judge. He had a handlebar mustache and a slightly graying, dark, almost military-style crew cut. He looked to be in his late forties by Charles’s estimation, and he was clearly not happy with the recent verbal exchange between the prosecutor and defense counsel. He glared at McAllister and said, “So, let me see if I hear ya right. The state legislature says this pretty little thing—” he gestured towards the grinning prosecutor and continued “— is to be given a seven-day notice, and you have a problem with that?”
“Your Honor, under the circumstances, I believe an oral motion is appropriate.”
The prosecutor remained silent, though Charles suspected the “pretty little thing” comment gnawed on her. Winning the argument, which it was obvious she was doing, was the important thing, pretty or not.
“I disagree. Mr. McAllister, unless I am mistaken, the least of your client’s felony charges, aggravated battery, carries a prison sentence of up to ten years. That sounds like a pretty serious charge if you ask me. The court needs more information to adequately address the public’s need to feel safe and secure from the likes of your client. Motion denied. File a written motion and provide the prosecutor with the notice she’s entitled to and I will reconsider, though I strongly suspect that if I see a response from the prosecutor asking me to increase the bond amount, I am just as likely to do that than to give your client a reduction.” He paused and glared back and forth between the defendant and his attorney, winking at the prosecutor in between those less-than-friendly looks. “Preliminary hearing is set for July 20 at 9:00 A.M.”
Charles stood up and left the courtroom. He was seated next to an exit so he did so without anyone noticing, even the reporters who had until that very moment been keeping a close watch on him. He nervously awaited an elevator in the three-level courthouse, hoping against hope that he would avoid the press gauntlet strung along the courthouse hallways, exits, and sidewalks leading up and out of the courthouse at least for the day. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the 2 key, holding it down to tell the phone’s microprocessor that he wanted to dial his second speed-dial number. After it began ringing, he released the button. After two rings, a familiar voice answered. “Hello?” Jessie said.
“Hi,” he replied. “It’s done.”
“Good. What’s next?”
“The prelim is set for July 20.”
“You and Mom coming over tonight for dinner?” she replied, trying to change the subject to a more pleasant one.
“I’ll call her. Probably so, if that’s an invite.”
“You know it is,” she chuckled. He laughed too, and their call ended.
The elevator chimed its arrival and Charles walked in after the doors parted. No press had seen him, so his escape appeared to be without a hitch. No one was in the elevator, so, as soon as the door shut he let out a belch and sighed with relief. He pressed the first floor button and leaned his back against the rear elevator wall, glancing up at the floor numbers lighting up on the top of the doors.
“I should call that number for alpaca ranching I keep seeing on TV, become an alpaca rancher or something,” he said to himself, grinning. “It’s gotta beat this darn legal business.”
The elevator arrived on the first floor and Charles walked out and toward the front entrance of the late-nineteenth century rock structure. Once out of the modernized swinging glass doors that clashed violently with the rock façade of the courthouse entrance, he walked down its front stairs, a good thirty feet wide, and toward his SUV parked parallel immediately in front of the courthouse next to a meter. Still no press in sight, though there were a couple of television broadcast vans with satellite uplinks shooting toward the starts, so he assumed they were all still in the courtroom upstairs or fighting for a spot on the only two elevators available. He glanced at the clock steeple atop the courthouse and noted he still had a half hour on his parking tab but then he thought, I’ve been in Oklahoma long enough. He got in his SUV and sped off, constantly thinking about what he’d do with the rest of his life besides being a good husband to Nancy, which wouldn’t change till they were parted by death, hopefully his and not hers. He loved her and her family too much, which further compelled him to seek another career before his overwhelming guilt led him to drastic action.
Out of a newly-embedded habit, he glanced ahead to the road and said, “God, please show me what you want to do with my life. Please give me a career I can take pride in, that won’t make me feel as if I’m killing people just by going to the office every morning. Amen.” It was a prayer he had recently begun praying at least a dozen times each day. It was a habit he told himself he would maintain until God answered him.
Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness Page 37
