Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

  THE CLERK OF THE COURT has a high, reedy voice that seems inadequate for the size of the courtroom, dissipating into the air before it can reverberate against the walls and ceiling. You feel such a voice should bounce, echo, resonate with authority. The voice of the law. I’m probably the only one that notices stuff like that. I like to hear my own voice resonate.

  “Call Steven Jensen,” the clerk says.

  Lone Wolf stands. He turns for a moment and stares at the jury; not a threat, a look—this is me, make sure you know who I am. He has undeniable presence. He walks to the dock, places his hand on the Bible, takes the oath in a firm, clear voice. He’s dressed in a suit and tie. It won’t fool anyone; he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing for sure.

  The outcome of the trial could hinge on what happens while Lone Wolf is on the stand. It’s a calculated risk, putting him on. We’ve debated it endlessly. In the end, we decided we had to. We won’t call the others to testify. They’re too nervous, unpredictable. Lone Wolf is unpredictable, too, he could blow things sky-high, but we have to put him on, we have to confront the jury head-on with him, especially after his outburst at Grade.

  I learned a long time ago that constitutional rights to the contrary, a defendant’s silence, his refusal to testify in his behalf, is too often construed as a tacit admission of guilt; the jury wants to hear the accused say he didn’t do it. And there’s another reason, particularly in cases like this one where the accused are thought of as being beyond the pale. We want the jury to see that they are people, human beings. That they can speak, that they are not animals, but men; men who perhaps live by a different code, but men. They have limits, like all men, limits that they have personally defined, marked off, won’t go beyond. In this instance their boundaries exclude sodomy and murder, not as a package, and this is critical, because this crime is specific. Maybe under other circumstances they would kill. Maybe I would, too, or anyone else. But under these specific circumstances, they would not. That is what his presence is going to say; what he is going to say.

  The danger, of course, is that once I put Lone Wolf on the stand, his prior record, and by inference the records of his partners, will be brought out by the prosecution on cross-examination. It will hurt us, we know that for sure, we discussed it with our clients at length, but in the end we all decided that to not go on the stand at all would be even worse.

  I lead him through their story. Yes, they all had sex with Rita up in the mountains, but it was okay with her. That’s how she earns her living, she’s already copped to that, he says. He’s lying there about it being okay, we both know it. I can’t help that. I’m paid to defend him, not to justify his every action. If the goddam cops had done their job right he’d have had to tell the truth about it. Tough shit. I’m not going to do their job for them.

  It goes well. He’s a good witness, articulate, funny, with charm.

  His public voice is louder than I’m used to, there’s a whiskey drawl in it. A voice that women would find attractive. I can see some of the women in the courtroom looking at him; he’s turning them on. I’m a man who does things he shouldn’t, but that’s the way men are, he’s saying. That’s what real men are. Maybe not faggots, but that’s something else. He wouldn’t know about that. He has no interest or desire in fucking a man, not even as some kind of sick punishment. Real men don’t fuck guys in the ass.

  By the time I finish my direct it’s the end of the day. We recess until tomorrow, when Moseby’ll cross-examine. My colleagues and I regroup to my office, order in sandwiches and coffee. It’s been a good day. Lone Wolf did well; he told his story and he was civilized. I think he dissipated some of the ill will built up by his verbal attack on Dr. Grade.

  We finish our homework and split up. I kiss Mary Lou goodnight outside her car. I’d like to be going home with her; that’s for another time, I’m going to keep my vow of abstinence with her. It’s a head-game I play with myself, if I do A then B will happen. If I don’t get involved with her or with any woman for a while, then Claudia will stay in Santa Fe. It’s a dream, a wish. It’s all I have to go on.

  LONE WOLF LOOKS DOWN at Moseby, who is pacing back and forth in front of him.

  “I can’t help how you feel, man, that’s how it was,” he drawls in response to a question. Low-key and cool.

  It’s been a long morning. For the first half-hour of cross-examination I had terrible butterflies in my stomach for fear that Lone Wolf was going to do something stupid, crazy, fuck up all the good he’d built up yesterday. As the questions and answers droned on, I became less tense, to the point where I’m relaxed now. Alert, but at ease. Moseby’s been looking for an angle all morning, some edge to pry the lid off Lone Wolf’s composure. He hasn’t done it. Lone Wolf’s in command.

  “Let’s go back up on the mountain again,” Moseby says now. “The first time.”

  “There was only one time, ace,” Lone Wolf says.

  Moseby picks at his teeth. “The time the four of you were up there with the girl. That time.”

  “That’s the time, man. The one and only.”

  They’ve been sparring like this all morning. I wonder how long Moseby’s going to keep it up; he isn’t looking good. He’s not stupid, he knows when he’s not looking good.

  “One more time,” he says. “You say Rita Gomez freely and of her own volition had sexual intercourse with you. Without coercion or threats. You didn’t even have to pay her.”

  “I know a sad sack like you finds that hard to believe, but yes, she did. Ladies like outlaws and outlaws like ladies, friend, don’t you know that? Don’t you listen to country music? I thought ever’body out west here listened to country music.”

  Smiles and laughter from the spectators. The jury, too. This man is a good witness, a real con artist. That he sounds like John Wayne doesn’t hurt his cause either.

  “I’m a fan of the classics myself,” Moseby smiles self-deprecatingly, his stock in trade. That’s good, he’ll make points like that. “Anyway … you had sex with Miss Gomez but not with Richard Bartless.”

  “He wasn’t there so how could I?”

  “But even if he had been there you wouldn’t have, because you don’t have sex with men.”

  “You got that right, ace.”

  “How do you feel about sex with men? Abstractly, in general.”

  “It makes me want to puke,” Lone Wolf says. He grimaces.

  “Just the idea of it.”

  “Goddam right.”

  “How do you feel about homosexuality in general, Mr. Jensen?” Moseby continues.

  “Objection,” I state. “This is not a trial about homosexuality.” I know in part it is but I want to ward it off as much as possible, this is where Lone Wolf’s fuse is shortest.

  “Over-ruled,” Martinez snaps. “The victim was anally penetrated. Homosexuality is part and parcel of this. Answer the question,” he directs Lone Wolf.

  “It’s sick,” Lone Wolf says.

  “You feel homosexuals are sick,” Moseby says. “Do you feel sorry for them, then?”

  “You crazy, man?”

  “The answer is no?”

  “Damn straight it’s no.” He leans toward Moseby. “If I was ever going to kill somebody—and I never have—it wouldn’t be a queer. Killing queers ain’t my style. It’s beneath me, you know what I mean?”

  “In other words,” Moseby sums up, “you have nothing to do with homosexuality or homosexuals.”

  “In those exact words,” Lone Wolf replies.

  Moseby starts back towards the prosecution table as if to get something. Suddenly he turns back to the bench.

  “No further questions, your honor.” He sits down, slumping low in his chair.

  Martinez looks at him. He’s surprised. So am I. It’s almost like Moseby’s working with me, not against me.

  Martinez shrugs. “The witness is excused.”

  Lone Wolf steps down, comes back to our table, takes his seat. He winks at me, out of sight of the jury.<
br />
  They didn’t lay a glove on him.

  I stand up. “The defense rests, your honor.”

  Martinez nods. “Closing arguments will commence Monday unless there are rebuttal witnesses.” He looks at Moseby. Moseby looks sick to his stomach.

  “We’re trying to locate one, your honor. We’re not having much luck.”

  “After Monday morning it’ll be too late. If you have anyone else he had better be an important factor or I’m not going to allow his testimony. This has been a long trial. It’s time to finish it up. I’d like to be charging this jury by the end of business Tuesday.”

  “Yes, sir,” Moseby says. “If this witness turns up, you’re going to want to hear him.”

  IT ALWAYS STARTS OUT the same way. It’s late, you’ve been working your brains out seven days a week, eighteen-hour days. You finally go home to a place you can’t stand—either you can’t stand the people you’re living with, like my situation with Holly, the woman to whom I was married and now am about not to be—the final decree’s coming down any day now, just another deadly thorn in my side—or you hate the physical place itself, like this fleabag condo. It’s one of the reasons, maybe the biggest one, that you put in those hours. You don’t admit that to yourself; your posture is that you love your work, you’re a workaholic because of your love for it. That’s bullshit, elementary denial. You damn well may love your work, but don’t pretend it’s the only thing that keeps you away.

  Anyway. You’re wired, being in trial is like eating raw volts of electricity, you don’t turn it on and off like a spigot. You have to wind down. The problem is in a few hours you’re due back in court again, and you have to be sharp. People’s lives are in your hands. You need your beauty sleep, baby, you have to get your rest. You’re going to strip down, maybe take a shower or a hot bath, watch the late news on CNN. And to ensure that you will mellow out, at least enough to sleep, you’ll have a glass of wine. One, that’s all, it’s late, you’re going to sleep soon, you’ll sleep better. Red wine, that’s more suitable late at night, a nice Zinfandel or maybe a Merlot, you still have some of the ’82 Newton stashed away you bought for some special occasion. What was that occasion anyway? Doesn’t matter, it’s nice, good body, good legs, if you can’t have the woman of your dreams tonight a nice glass of Merlot will substitute just fine.

  It tastes good, you’d forgotten how good, you don’t as a rule open a bottle at home when you’re alone and you haven’t had anyone over that would have appreciated this (except Mary Lou, and the circumstances didn’t call for it), you’ll top up your glass, maybe he in bed with it and watch something else for awhile, “Saturday Night Live,” and it’s a good show, a rerun but you haven’t seen this one, and you sip your wine and you’re finally, finally after the strain of the workweek, relaxing. Savor it, tomorrow afternoon you’re rehearsing your closing arguments, it’s showtime again. You have to be double-sharp for that, you won’t even allow yourself two cups of coffee.

  You watch and sip and chill out until you fall asleep.

  One of these days maybe I’ll wise up and learn something. It’s morning, the bottle is empty, the TV is blasting Jimmy fucking Swaggart, and my mouth feels like the elephant’s graveyard. I’m not hung over, nothing near that, one bottle of wine doesn’t come close to bringing on a hang over for a drinker of my stature and experience, but I feel bad. I feel slow, unfocused, my head’s stuffed with cotton. I have to prepare my final summation today, run it by my colleagues, listen to and critique theirs, and incidentally try to save the lives of four men I strongly feel are innocent of the crime of which they’re accused.

  Most important, I’ve violated a trust: my own, to me. I don’t mean the promise I made under coercion to Andy and Fred, I’d have promised my right testicle there and then; or the implicit promises I’ve been making to Patricia for years when she’s mentioned how Claudia talked about my drinking; none of that. I mean the promise about taking care of my life. I don’t care so much about the drinking, it’s the inner lying that’s eating me up. If you can’t be straight to yourself who are you ever going to be straight to? Quit bullshitting yourself, Alexander. Have the goddam drink and don’t be a martyr to it, tell your partners how you feel. Stop making excuses, stop asking the people who care the most about you to make excuses for you. You wake up one day and look around and they aren’t there to do it anymore. You got rid of them all. More bullshit: they dumped you. No more family, no more kid, no more law partnership.

  The most important things in your life: gone.

  I OWN THREE MAJOR SUITS, all Oxfords: a charcoal-gray, a navy, a medium-gray with a muted pinstripe. I’ll wear them for the next three days. By then, except for the deliberations, it should be over. In New Mexico the judge charges the jury before closing summations, so Martinez is going to take part of the morning, at least an hour, then Moseby will give his first closing. He goes first and last: the burden of proof is on the state, they have rebuttal. Then, probably after lunch, it’ll be our turn.

  Today it’s standing-room-only in the courtroom, the fire marshals were turning people away before eight. I’ve been here early, the first lawyer to arrive. I love days like this, it’s what I live for. The slender wall between a defendant and annihilation. An awesome responsibility.

  The others join me. Everyone’s nervous; we’d be crazy if we weren’t. A few minutes before nine Moseby and his team walk in, looking harried, preoccupied. I can’t believe he isn’t ready; but something out of the ordinary is going to happen, I make my living reading body language, his is not the language of a prosecutor about to try to send four men to their deaths.

  The prisoners are brought in, seated. We wait. A couple minutes after nine the clerk calls for order, and Martinez comes from his chambers in the rear. He’s wearing a scowl.

  “If there are no rebuttal witnesses,” he says, glaring at Moseby, “I’m ready to begin charging the jury. Any objections or additional witnesses?”

  I stand for the defense.

  “No objections, your honor. No further witnesses.”

  Moseby rises.

  “Your honor, the prosecution wants to present a rebuttal witness.”

  “Objection!” I hear myself, Paul, and Mary Lou overlapping one another.

  “Approach the bench,” Martinez barks.

  I look at Moseby as we cross to the front. Bastard has something up his sleeve, that’s the reason for the way he presented himself this morning, and for the scowl on Martinez’s face. He must’ve been notified minutes before, in his chambers. No wonder Moseby was late.

  “The defense was not informed of any rebuttal witnesses,” I say hotly. “He can’t pull this, your honor,” I add, pointing my thumb at the bastard’s gut, “it’s against the rules, plain and simple.”

  Martinez turns to Moseby. Explain this, he’s saying silently, and you’d better do it well.

  “Like I said on Friday, your honor,” Moseby says, “we’ve been looking for this witness for weeks without any success. That’s why we didn’t notify anyone. We just found him late last night. We had to charter a plane to get him here on time.”

  “Hey, fuck this …” I start.

  “Counselor,” Martinez admonishes me.

  “I don’t care, your honor.” I’m disgusted, I don’t give a shit about decorum. “I’m not going to let this low-life pull this twice.”

  “Listen …” Moseby says, his face turning pink.

  I brush him off. “He already did this with the victim’s mother. It’s a circus, it’s unethical, we don’t have to jump through these hoops. It’s wrong, I don’t care who his witness is, I don’t believe he couldn’t be found and we couldn’t be notified. It’s a cheap trick, beneath the dignity of your court and the trial you’ve been conducting.”

  Martinez steeples his fingers.

  “Mr. Prosecutor,” he says, “your conduct is less than wholly honest in this matter.”

  Inwardly I groan. He’s going to let Moseby present his wit
ness.

  “But,” he continues, “in the interest and compelling need for a thoroughly complete trial, I’m going to let him testify.” He turns to us. “Sorry, counselors. I can’t say ‘no’ on this one. It’s potentially too important.”

  We sit down, determined not to let it bug us. Brace up, man, I inwardly pep-talk myself, just one more witness, you can handle it, you’ve handled all the others so far. Moseby hands the clerk a sheet of paper.

  “Call James Angelus,” he reads.

  Lone Wolf reacts like somebody just stuck a cattle-prod up his ass.

  “What the fuck …” he says, loud enough to be heard by the jury.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Who is he?”

  “Nobody,” Lone Wolf shuts me off. “Just one dead motherfucker.”

  I look at him closely. I’ve never seen him shaken like this before.

  A man enters from the back of the courtroom. Maybe thirty, slender, his clothes slightly flamboyant for this neighborhood: definitely not from New Mexico, unless he’s one of the new breed who’ve moved here in the past decade from New York or Los Angeles.

  “He looks alive enough to me,” I observe.

  “He’s dead to me. Okay?” He’s got an involuntary twitch going now above his eye, and he’s gripping the table so tightly the blood’s left his knuckles.

  It takes me a moment to figure out what it is about the witness that seems a bit off; he’s gay. He’s not swish, there’s no mince in his walk, no limp wrist. But he’s gay, to anyone who knows.

  I look closely at Angelus as he takes the stand and is administered the oath, then at Lone Wolf, sitting next to me, still, like an owl watching a mouse crossing a field of snow, the little creature not knowing that in a few silent seconds he’ll be dinner; then back to the surprise witness.