Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

  “Don’t worry.” Her taste lingers. Virtue doesn’t always have its own rewards.

  She drives off, winking her lights at me. I watch her disappear. For the first time in my life I’ve turned down a piece of ass I wanted.

  “IN THE CASE OF the State of New Mexico versus Jensen, Paterno, Hicks, and Kowalski, Judge Louis Martinez presiding, all rise.”

  The butterflies leave my stomach as I stand. We’re in Courtroom A, the biggest courtroom in the state. Classic Southwestern adobe architecture: high-ceilinged, dark wood beams, elaborately carved benches. It’s what a courtroom’s supposed to look like, even more so to me than the neo-Roman and -Greek stuff you find back east. I love participating in trials here; it makes lawyering feel like an elevated profession.

  It’s crowded. Every seat is taken, people are standing in the back in violation of the fire regs. Reporters hover, sketch artists got here at the crack of dawn, jockeying for decent seats. There are seven lawyers, the four of us and three from the prosecution side, plus staff, all of us wanting to stake out our position, gain the upper hand.

  Martinez gives a little speech. All trials are unique, all trials are important, but this one is a little more unique, a little more important. This is a capital offense involving multiple defendants, any or all of whom may wind up being executed by the state. Which means, he’s telling everyone, this has to be scrupulously tried. No grandstanding, no media histrionics, no F. Lee Bailey-type playing to the mob via the press, using the John Landis case in L.A. a few years ago as an example. He’s not going to impose a gag order on the participants, particularly the lawyers, he says, unless they force him to. That’s fine with me, I think to myself as I listen to him, there’s going to be press coverage coming out the yin-yang before this is over, most of it not in our favor. Robertson and his minions can’t win it on the outside, they’ll have to win it right here, with a tightly sequestered jury; they’ll have to win it on merit if they can. The newspaper and television pundits, those high-and-mighty arbiters of right and wrong, have already concluded we’re stone-cold losers, but that’s peripheral shit, titillating on impact, but ultimately not important.

  Moseby delivers the prosecution’s opening remarks. His suit is pressed, he’s clean-shaven, he’s had a haircut. Still, he’s a rube; a cultivated rube, ‘one of us.’ Small-town, a husband and parent, Godfearing, a regular churchgoer like you folks. (I have to stifle a sour laugh when he mentions that; still, I know too well that that kind of cheap crap plays.)

  “I am a public servant, pure and simple,” he tells the jury. “I have no ax to grind. I’m here on behalf of the people of New Mexico for one reason—to see that justice is done.”

  He talks for over an hour, presenting his case in two basic thrusts: one, he has incontrovertible evidence. An impeccable eye-witness. The indisputable findings of one of the country’s foremost forensic pathologists. Physical evidence that clearly ties the victim to the accused. So forth and so on.

  The second, more important part of his argument is an attack on the defendants, which, he’s saying between the lines, is really what this trial’s about. I can’t blame him, I’d do the exact same thing with defendants like these. He throws plenty of red meat, but it’s nothing compared with what he’ll do in final summation. Still, just listening to him, it’s damning. They are outlaws, they hold the rules of civilized people in contempt. That is known, a given. They have no morality, no soul. They’re psychopathic, he tells the jury: they know the difference between right and wrong but they simply don’t give a damn, they have no social or moral obligations, the only thing they care about is their immediate personal gratification. And if that results in suffering or death to some innocent party, too damn bad.

  He winds up riding a crest of moral outrage. These four beasts killed in cold blood. They committed murder in a calculated, premeditated way. They caused the victim great suffering, they committed horribly perverted indignities. And they laughed about it.

  Moseby concludes by walking to our side of the room and standing in front of our table, close enough to the defendants, Lone Wolf particularly, to touch them.

  “We’ll see who’s laughing when this jury brings in its verdict,” he says, staring Lone Wolf right in the eyes, “when this jury of decent, civilized men and women bring in the only verdict they can under the evidence: murder in the first degree. Murder punishable by execution.”

  My hand’s on Lone Wolf’s wrist under the table, gripping as hard as I can. My heart’s pounding; we’ve warned them over and over that this kind of accusation’s going to be thrown at them, they have to keep their cool. One incident, one outburst, and they might as well plead guilty as charged. And still it’s almost impossible, they only know one way to go: charge straight ahead.

  I look at Lone Wolf. His eyes are cold, there’s definitely murder in them. He’s capable of killing, that I know.

  He relaxes his tension, I let go of his wrist. I’m sweating. He turns to me, his look saying: ‘I can handle this.’

  I exhale silently. One hurdle cleared. I’m proud of him. He’s not going to blow it for me.

  We go in turn; Tommy, Mary Lou, Paul. Each talking about the specifics of his (or her) own client, each talking about the case, presenting things from different angles, different perspectives. Professional, prepared. Planting little seeds of doubt that hopefully will be full-grown by the time the trial’s over. Reasonable doubt, pushing the boundaries of reasonable doubt. Could they have done it? Maybe. Could someone else have done it? Definitely maybe. We’ll present our witnesses, too, scores of them, who will show that the accused could not, absolutely could not, have committed this crime under the circumstances. Can’t be, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.

  It’s late afternoon. The sun throws long tendrilly shadows across the room through the floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows. The dust hangs suspended in the serried air, grown thick over the course of the day despite the ubiquitous air-conditioning. It’s my turn, the last opening statement. I stand, ready to give ’em hell.

  There’s a commotion in the back. Someone’s opened the door partway. Martinez looks up, annoyed. This isn’t allowed, not in this courtroom, especially not this case, the very first day.

  “Bailiff,” he calls.

  A marshal quickly approaches the bench, whispers something in the judge’s ear.

  I glance over at Moseby. He’s sitting back, at ease. Next to him, Robertson smiles. He’s been here most of the day, he’s going to be spending a lot of time in this courtroom, to let the people know how seriously he takes this case. They’re both too smug, they’ve been let in on the secret, whatever it is. Robertson looks over at me, cocking his head. Fuck me, he’s saying, fuck you.

  “All right,” Martinez instructs the bailiff, “let her in.”

  The door swings open. A woman in a wheelchair is being pushed into the courtroom by a deputy sheriff. She’s probably fifty or so, but looks at least a decade older. Country to the bone: lank gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, long veinous hands, pocked with liver spots, the fingers callused, nails cracked, grotesquely twisted into themselves. Brutal, painful arthritis. A plain dumb face devoid of makeup. She’s dressed in black like an Amish spinster, down to her lace-up orthopedic square-heeled shoes.

  The buzz goes up, particularly among the reporters clustered in the rear, as the woman is pushed down the center aisle, all the way to the gate in the rail that separates participants from spectators. The deputy stops, awaiting instructions. The woman laboriously turns in her wheelchair, staring at the defendants. It’s painful to watch; even Lone Wolf looks away.

  “May we approach the bench, your honor?” Moseby asks.

  Martinez nods curtly. I join Moseby in front of the judge. He’d better have a solid reason for this bullshit.

  “This is pretty damn unusual, counselor.” Martinez admonishes Moseby with more than a touch of annoyance in his voice.

  “I know it is, your honor.” He turns to me, drip
ping with contriteness. “I don’t mean to step on you, Will, I really mean that, it’s just …”

  “Hold on, ace,” I interject vigorously. This is pissing me off royally, momentum is vital, this could completely fuck me up with the jury before I even get started. “Who the hell is this woman and why is she being brought in here just as I’m about to start my opening statement, judge?”

  “Her name is Cora Bartless,” Moseby says, throwing down a trump. “The victim’s mother.”

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Talk about a kick in the balls.

  “We expected her here first thing this morning, your honor,” Moseby says, turning back to Martinez, “but there was a screw-up on her airplane connection out of Salt Lake City because of the wheelchair. They made her sit in the airport half the day before they figured it out. She put up her own money to fly out here from Arkansas, you can tell by looking at her she doesn’t have money to throw around but this is everything to her. She wants to be at this trial, your honor,” he says aggressively. “She deserves it.”

  “You didn’t handle this very well, counselor.” Martinez is mad and wants Moseby to know it.

  “It was the airline’s fault,” Moseby whines.

  “The airline my ass. It was your fault. For cutting it so close.”

  He steeples his fingers. “Well, she’s here now. Can’t shove that one back in the jar.” He turns to me. “Do you want to recess until tomorrow, counselor? If you do just say so.”

  I look at my team, at the defendants, at the poor unsuspecting woman sitting in the wheelchair, an unknowing pawn in a tawdry game Robertson and Moseby are playing.

  “I’d prefer to do it now, your honor,” I tell him. “In fact, I insist on it.”

  “I’m going to call a half-hour recess so we can get her settled somewhere unobtrusive,” Martinez tells us. “Then you’re on.”

  During the recess I let the defendants and my colleagues in on Robertson’s dirty little scam. My erstwhile friend and Moseby are carefully seating her at the far edge of the front row where the jury can clearly see her.

  “Motherfucker’s dead,” Lone Wolf says in his high whispery voice, looking over at her and them. “Stone fucking cold dead.”

  I lean towards him, keeping my voice down so no one will hear. “Listen to me, shit-for-brains. I am not going to tell you this again: you are to shut up in this courtroom and anywhere else where you might be overheard, comprende? I’m not going to see this case go down the drain because some reporter or court officer hears that kind of garbage from you. You do what I tell you when I tell you and nothing else or we’re walking and I mean all four of us.”

  The other bikers look at him, at me.

  “Do what he says, man,” Roach whispers.

  Lone Wolf wheels on him, as much as he can sitting in his chair.

  “It’s all of us,” Dutchboy adds. For the first time since I’ve met them, they’re asserting themselves as individuals, not just being dummies letting Lone Wolf do not only their talking, but their thinking as well.

  “Don’t bring us all down ’cause you’re pissed at something,” he says.

  “It’s all our lives,” Goose pleads. “You know we’re all together with you, Wolf, but come on, man. Please.”

  Lone Wolf is obviously taken aback by these sudden declarations of independence. “It’s an expression, for Christsakes.” He puts his hand on Goose’s shoulder. “Just an expression. You know me better’n that.”

  “I do know you,” Goose answers. I’ve never seen him stand up to Lone Wolf before. “That’s why I’m saying what I’m saying.”

  “It’s just an expression. Anyway … how am I going to get to him when I’m locked up tighter than a virgin’s ass?”

  “You got your ways,” Roach says.

  “All right,” I say. “Let it go. But no more loose talk. From any of you.”

  “Fine by me.” Lone Wolf leans back in his chair.

  “What about the aggrieved mother?” Tommy asks. He’s worried, he’s not experienced at being surprised like this.

  “What about her?” I repeat. “She’ll watch.” I pause. “Like everyone else. Maybe she’ll learn something.”

  Paul and Tommy smile at that. The big gun’s ready to fire his first salvo. Mary Lou smiles too. I like it—the knight errant going out to slay the dragon; at least inflict some serious damage. Poor woman; I’m going to be beating her off with a club after I finish my opening. I catch myself: get your cock out of this, man. People’s lives are at stake here. Your cock’s going to take a holiday.

  “Your honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” I pause, look around.

  The sun is almost setting, bathing the room in a warm, enveloping magenta light. It’s peaceful, almost lulling, until you remember that four men are on trial here for murder. Then the chamber doesn’t look so peaceful; more sarcophagus-like.

  I face the jury, establishing eye-contact with them, these twelve men and women. They do not know me, yet in some basic way I will know them intimately. I will try to find a way to get them to trust me, so that what I tell them isn’t simply a lawyer’s language of client-defense but the real thing, the truth of the matter.

  “You’re here for a reason,” I tell them. “A very simple reason. To see that justice is done. That’s why I’m here, too. That’s why the judge is here, and the prosecutor. We may have different ideas about what justice is in any particular case, but we are all here to serve it. To find it. Even the spectators watching us, the reporters in and out of this courtroom—we’re all involved, no one is impartial, because one of the basic tenets of this great country of ours is that we’re all in it together, we’re all responsible. We’re all here to judge innocence and guilt.”

  I pause, turn and stare at the victim’s mother. She looks around until she realizes I’ve fastened on her, abruptly turns away. Robertson and Moseby look back at me for her. During the break Ellen, one of the paralegals, had done some quick research using one of the phones in the lobby, getting back inside before court resumed with a smile of triumph, pressing a note in my hand.

  “That lady over there,” I continue, pointing to Mrs. Bartless, fixed in her wheelchair directly in their line of vision, they don’t know who she is yet, Moseby was hoping to save that for a delicious moment, “she’s here to find justice, too. She has a special interest in finding justice in this case. Because it was her son who was the murder victim.”

  The expected murmur arises from the crowd. A couple reporters dash out. Robertson and Moseby stare at me, at her, finally at each other, a study in consternation. Judge Martinez looks at me with renewed interest; it’s going to be a good contest, he won’t have to worry about falling asleep up there under the hot lights.

  “She wants to find out who did it,” I say, “and when she does she wants the guilty party put away. Not just stuck in a cell for the rest of his life: she wants him exterminated, eliminated, wiped off the face of the earth like her son was.”

  Another seed goes in the ground. One person, not several. One person did it, I’m saying. Which one, if one of those in the dock? A much harder call than to throw a blanket over the whole gang.

  Mrs. Bartless’s mouth is open, her eyes darting about nervously, looking to Robertson and Moseby for reassurance. They’re preoccupied. She sits, stuck in the wheelchair.

  “I can understand her feelings. I’m sure you can, too. They’re legitimate feelings, heartfelt feelings, and if anyone deserves to be present here, it is this unfortunate woman.” Now I fire a shot across the prosecution’s bow. “But what is not legitimate is that this woman is being used!”

  “Objection!” Moseby’s on his feet, his face florid.

  “Over-ruled.” Martinez turns to the jury. “You are to disregard that outburst by the prosecution. Opening and closing remarks by their very nature are subjective and not bound by the same rules we adhere to during the body of the trial.” He swivels around to the prosecution side, leaning forward. He is one unhappy judge,
and he wants everyone to know it, especially the prosecutors. All he needs is to have the trial overturned on some petty legality like that.

  “You are out of order,” he tells Moseby harshly.

  “Yes, sir.” Bastard won’t even look the judge straight in the eye.

  “Another such outburst and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Martinez turns back to me. “The court apologizes for the interruption.”

  “No apology necessary, your honor,” I say deferentially. My team, lawyers and defendants, are smiling. A bird’s nest on the ground which we’ll gladly take.

  “Proceed.”

  Once again I turn and face the jurors. “This woman didn’t get here today by accident. She didn’t cash in her savings bonds and fly here from her home a thousand miles away so she could see the men the prosecution says killed her son. She didn’t even know the trial had started until yesterday, when she was called up and told about it by a member of the District Attorney’s staff. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution brought this woman here today. They’ve been looking for her for months and they finally found her and they bought her an airplane ticket and they got her a room in a motel down the street and they’re going to pay for that room and her meals and anything else she needs until this trial is over. Even her wheelchair attendants, who cost twenty dollars an hour. They’re paying for it; rather, you’re paying for it. The taxpayers of the state are paying for it.” I pause, letting that sink in.

  “And they should. It’s the least they can do for her.” Immediately I regain the high moral ground. “But what they shouldn’t do, what none of us should do, is use her. Life has already used her enough, far too much. The prosecutors don’t want Mrs. Bartless here so she can see a trial; they want her here so she can be seen. By you.” I’m at the jury rail, practically leaning over inside it, pointing at them, looking at each of them in turn.

  I turn back to look at her. Robertson is morose, his head down. Moseby glares at me. Good; maybe he’ll fuck up some more.