As Scott left the courtroom, Samarkos picked up his briefcase and led Gordon out into the corridor. Gordon’s face was still crimson. They walked to the end of the corridor where there was a window overlooking the street below. It was midmorning and the street was flush with traffic. A light rain had just stopped, and the sidewalks were alive with men and women hurrying in both directions, some holding umbrellas over their heads and others stepping left and right to avoid them. They stood silently, peering out the window for a long while. Samarkos was the first to speak.
“Max, I would like to meet with you tomorrow morning. We have a lot to cover. Can you be at my office at nine?” Samarkos deliberately avoided mentioning the confrontation with Scott.
However, the young prosecutor was all that was on Gordon’s mind. His thoughts flashed back to May 1, in this same courthouse where he was defending John Harrison for murder. As the jury returned a verdict of guilty, TV cameras were trained on the defense table, where Gordon and the defendant stood. Gordon had seen that scene only once in a TV clip after the trial, but it had played hundreds of times in his mind. He had watched as the judge polled the jury and set a sentencing date. As soon as the judge announced that the court was adjourned, while Gordon was still standing and stunned from the verdict, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and faced a man he had never met. “Mr. Gordon,” the man said, “I’m Carl DeBickero, an agent for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I have a warrant for your arrest for subornation of perjury. Sir, place your hands behind your back. Now!”
Those words kept echoing through Gordon’s head. And he recalled that as the agent said “Now,” he saw Scott Marino from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t smiling, but he had a look of pure satisfaction on his face. And now, this day, in that same courthouse, he not only had to enter his plea to that charge, but he had to listen to that same young prosecutor argue that Gordon “should not be out and about in the country serving as defense counsel in any trial, anywhere.” This was beyond unbearable!
“I’ll be there in the morning,” Gordon said. “And the first thing I want to discuss is how you plan to get that little prick off this case. You may not be able to get the charges dismissed, but you can get that young punk dismissed. I don’t want to see his smug-ass face again in any courtroom. That’s your first order of business.”
“Max, I can understand your anger, but it’s misdirected. You wouldn’t benefit by having someone else prosecute this case. Marino is the least experienced prosecutor in the DA’s office—less than two years and some of that as a clinic student. Forget it. We have some important matters to discuss tomorrow.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. Let me know if you have a hearing problem. I said I want that shithead off the case. I probably can’t buy him, he suffers from some sort of ethics disease. You recall what I told you when I hired you—that money is no problem? Spend what you need to spend. Now, look at my lips. I’m about to say something you need to hear. I want Marino off this case. Now, did you hear me?”
Samarkos immediately stood erect, squared his shoulders, and looked directly into Gordon’s eyes. He held the gaze for a long moment.
“I have your message, Max, but I’m your attorney, not your lackey. I’ll look into everything that I know—or you can provide—that may be grounds for Marino being removed, and I’ll file any motion that’s appropriate. Perhaps there’s a conflict of interest. I’ll look into it, but so far, I don’t see it.”
“Well, look harder. I want him off.”
“You’ve made that clear. Frankly, I’m surprised the DA has assigned this junior assistant to this case. My advice is to let it go. You think about it. You don’t want to replace the least experienced attorney with the most experienced. And that’s what you’ll get if Marino goes.”
“Listen, Charles. I’m paying you six hundred an hour because you’re supposed to be the smartest lawyer in town, and if you’re that smart, it shouldn’t be a big problem. This trial is going to last a week, maybe two. But I don’t want to watch that little prick strutting around the jury like he’s a big dick. Not two weeks, not one week, not one fucking day. He’s gotta go. Have I made that clear?”
“You’ve made it clear that you want him off the case. You haven’t made it clear that there is anything we can do legally to accomplish that, or that it’s good trial strategy for it to occur. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
Samarkos picked up his briefcase and walked rapidly down the corridor. He did not look back. He mused to himself that this was going to be an exceedingly difficult case, made more difficult by an exceedingly difficult client.
❖ ❖ ❖
After leaving the courtroom, Scott didn’t get ten steps down the corridor before hearing a familiar voice behind him. “Hey, Scott, got a minute?”
Scott turned to see Bill Baldwin, a reporter for the South Georgia Times. Bill had covered the two armed robbery trials of John Harrison as well as his murder trial that had ended just five weeks earlier. Scott and Bill had established a professional friendship that had served both of them quite well. In fact, it was a tip from Bill that had led to the investigation that ended with the murder indictment against Harrison. And as information became available about how the investigation was preceding, Scott made sure that Bill and his newspaper were the first to know. He was aware of the internal guidelines about releasing information. He didn’t know if he had broken them, but he knew they were often seriously bent.
“Bill, you know I always try to make time for you, but I’ve really got some pressing matters upstairs that need attention. Can’t talk now.” Scott turned and continued down the corridor to the elevator. Bill was right behind him.
“How about lunch at Churchill’s? You gotta eat somewhere.”
Churchill’s Bar and Grill, about eight blocks away on West Bay, was a pub where the two met occasionally. Bill was a regular there.
“Can’t do,” said Scott. “My day is filled.”
“Then after work. Churchill’s. I’ll buy.”
“Sorry, Bill, I’m meeting Jennifer at six at the Library.”
Jennifer, Scott’s long-time girlfriend, would be entering her senior year in the fall at Savannah College of Law—generally known as “Savannah Law.” Scott and Jennifer met when Scott was a senior and she an entering first-year student. As president of the Student Bar Association, Scott was assisting with student orientation, which Jennifer was attending. He invited her out the first day they met, and they had been a couple ever since. Now, almost two years later, they were very much in love and looking forward to their life together. Jennifer was not enrolled in any law classes for the summer, but was on campus almost daily, conducting research for her Advanced Research Project, the “ARP,” a comprehensive research project required of all Savannah Law students before their final semester. It was a major undertaking.
Bill and Scott had now reached the bank of courthouse elevators. A door to an elevator opened, and Scott quickly walked in. As the doors closed, Scott heard Bill shout, “I’ll call you.”
And Scott knew he would. In fact, the phone was ringing in Scott’s office as soon as he sat down at his desk. Scott picked up and answered.
“Hello, Bill.”
“Scott, I really would like to have a chat. Won’t take long. How about meeting you at the Library about five thirty? When Jennifer arrives I’ll pay the tab and leave quickly—that’s a promise.”
That sounded reasonable to Scott. He wasn’t trying to avoid Bill, but he was in fact quite busy that day. He enjoyed their conversations, and frequently Bill provided information on people and events in the community that Scott found important to his job. Bill had been covering the Chatham County Courthouse for over twenty years and had a wealth of knowledge about judges, detectives, police officers, and administrative personnel. He had been a solid confidant during the Harrison murder trial.
“OK, five thi
rty.”
Chapter Two
Thursday, June 5
The “Library” was really the Library Bar and Grill, located within a block of Savannah Law. Scott had been a frequent customer during his three years as a student and had become good friends with the owner, Jaak Terras, and Jaak’s brother Juri, who served as the assistant manager and head bartender. The building got its name from its original purpose, a Chatham County public library built in the 1920s. The granite-faced building was solidly built, with heart-of-pine floors and twenty-foot ceilings for summer comfort before air conditioning. It had been abandoned for years after a more modern library was built nearby. Jaak purchased the deteriorating building directly from the county and, after almost a year of renovations, opened the Library Bar and Grill the same year Savannah College of Law opened as a new law school. Scott loved the place and went there often with Jennifer.
Scott arrived a little early for the 5:30 meeting with Bill. As he walked through the large oak double-doors of the entryway, he saw Juri behind the bar, polishing wine glasses. As soon as Juri spotted Scott, he began shaking his head slowly from side to side, with a sad look on his face. Scott had expected it. Juri and Scott were avid Atlanta Braves fans, and Scott had read in the morning paper that the Braves lost to the Marlins the night before, 4-6.
“Can’t even beat a lousy Marlins team,” Juri said, as Scott took a seat at the bar. “We got six guys making over a million this year, and none of them can find home plate. We didn’t make the playoffs last year, and if they don’t get their act together soon, we won’t make it this year. You think Bobby Cox can manage this team to the playoffs?”
As he was talking, Juri poured Scott a draft in an iced mug and slid it eight feet down the bar top, stopping directly in front of Scott. It was a technique Juri perfected during the twelve years he had presided at the bar. And as always, he followed up with a pumped fist.
“Sure, Juri, we’ll make the playoffs. It’s early. We’re over five hundred now, and most of the season is still ahead. You worry too much.”
“That’s what I do best, worry. Takes my mind off things. You meeting Jennifer here tonight?”
“Yes, and Bill Baldwin in a few minutes.” Juri knew Baldwin; he was a frequent customer.
“Good. I’ve got something special on tap from a brewery in Asheville I want him to taste. He always asks if I have anything new.” Just then, Juri saw Bill in the entryway. “There he comes now.”
“Hi, Juri. Hi, Scott,” Bill said as he took a seat at the bar next to Scott. Many of the tables in the grill were occupied, but Bill and Scott were the only two sitting at the bar.
“Juri, got anything new on tap?” asked Bill. Juri gave a knowing smile and a wink to Scott and went to get a frosty mug. He filled the mug with the new Asheville brew and a perfect head, and slid it down the bar top.
“I wish just one of the Brave’s pitchers was as accurate, just one,” Juri said. He pumped his fist in celebration as the mug came to a slow stop in front of Bill. “Which reminds me of a new joke. This one’s a reporter joke—for Bill. Want to hear it?”
He didn’t wait for a response; he never did. He had an unlimited reservoir of jokes, and he was an unceasing joke teller—and he was good at it. Even a joke that bombed ended being quite funny when told by Juri.
“This guy—he’s a tourist, taking pictures in Forsyth Park—sees a big dog attacking a young boy. Dog’s jaws around the boy’s neck. The guy rushes over, tackles the dog, pulls him off the boy and kills the dog—strangles him with his bare hands. News reporter sees it happen, congratulates the man and tells him the headline the next day is gonna read, ‘Valiant Local Man Saves Child by Killing Vicious Animal.’ Guy says he’s not from Savannah. Reporter says, ‘Well then, the headline will read, “Georgia Man Saves Child by Killing Wild Dog.”’ Man says, ‘Actually, I’m from Connecticut.’ Reporter says, ‘Well then, let me think . . . Why sure, the headline is gonna read, “Yankee Kills Family Pet”’!”
And with that, Juri began to smile, then let out a loud laugh, joined in by Bill and Scott, but the one who enjoyed it the most, as always, was Juri.
“Juri, that wasn’t as bad as your usual lawyer jokes,” said Scott. “And before you begin another one, Bill and I have some business.” Scott picked up his beer and motioned Bill to follow him to a quiet corner at the end of the bar.
When they were settled, Scott said, “So you want me to write your story for tomorrow’s paper? Must be a slow news day when the star reporter for the South Georgia Times hangs out on a hard bench in a courtroom listening to arraignments.”
“Not just any arraignment, Scott. Max Gordon’s arraignment. You may not have noticed, but there were several other reporters there, including Roger Curlin, who covered all the Harrison trials for the National Law Journal. Max Gordon on trial is not a slow news day. And, no, I don’t want any lawyer writing my story—I respect my readers too much to subject them to that. But I do have a couple questions, and the first one is about that motion to yank Gordon’s law license.”
“It wasn’t a motion to yank the license, just a motion to keep a lawyer who’s indicted for serious felonies—funding perjured testimony and tampering with witnesses—from continuing to appear in court as a defense counsel. You got a problem with that?”
“Looks like the judge did. What did the DA—and Joe Fasi—have to say? Isn’t Fasi still the felony chief?”
“He is.” Scott paused a moment, making eye contact before continuing. “Now, Bill, we’re off the record, right? None of this gets into your story.”
“You know that’s the agreement with all our conversations. And no change unless we both say otherwise,” replied Bill.
“Good. Really, Bill, I hadn’t planned to make that motion. But it had been bothering me for days, just thinking about that slimeball flying around the country appearing in court almost daily, while under indictment. So, as I looked on and listened as Samarkos entered Gordon’s ‘not guilty’ pleas, it really burned me. He’s guilty of more than just those felonies—he’s really responsible for the death of the teenager that John Harrison murdered. I thought of Daniel Voss and his wife going out to celebrate the good news of their daughter’s scholarship. How can your only child get murdered by just going out to a nice restaurant in Savannah with her family? It didn’t have to happen. Without that perjured testimony, John Harrison would still be in jail and Angela Voss would be entering Emory on her way to a medical degree instead of lying in a grave in Greenwich Cemetery. Sure, I should have at least run the motion by Fasi to get his take on it, but it was a last minute decision.”
“I understand, Scott. I will be filing a story on Gordon’s arraignment for tomorrow’s paper. You want me to leave your motion out of the article?”
“I have no objection, Bill, and even if I did, it’s a public record now. Print whatever you want to print.”
“I think the public will be interested, so I’ll probably include it. New question: You charged him with two counts of subornation of perjury plus two counts of influencing witnesses. Why both crimes?”
“Well, to prove the subornation charge, we have to prove that the witness actually lied under oath. But to prove a charge of influencing witnesses, we only have to prove he offered a benefit or reward to the witness to commit perjury—in this case $250,000 each. Doesn’t matter if they did or did not actually lie. The penalty is much less—five years for each charge. But if we prove they actually committed perjury, the penalty is a max of ten years for each charge and a minimum of one.”
“How’s the case shaping up? You say he’s slimy; is he slick enough to beat this charge?”
“No question he’s slick,” Scott replied. “But we have a strong case. You remember his sidekick, Clarence Wilborn—the attorney who sponsored him for the retrial?”
“Sure,” said Bill. “Weasel looking fellow, from Macon. I recall he was indicted a
long with Gordon.”
“Right,” said Scott. “And he’s given a complete confession. Gordon negotiated the perjury terms with the two witnesses, and Wilborn was the delivery guy—personally delivered $250,000 in cash to each of ‘em.”
Bill looked surprised at this. “Why would he confess? He’s a lawyer—seems he would know enough to shut his mouth and keep it shut.”
“He was also a part-time drug dealer, a two-bit player in a major syndicate—one of the biggest illegal drug operations in the Southeast. His law practice was in Macon, but his drug involvement was in both Macon and Atlanta. When he was arrested by the feds, the GBI was notified. Carl DeBickero, the GBI agent in charge of the perjury investigation, went to Atlanta and negotiated a deal with the feds to let Georgia handle the case. There were enough big fish from the syndicate for the feds to fry, so they didn’t mind turning a little fish over to the state. Fulton County now has the case. Wilborn had been defending drug cases for several years—that’s how he got involved with the syndicate. He quickly realized there was enough evidence to put him away for life if the authorities wanted to. And he believed they wanted to. So he cut a deal with the Fulton County DA which requires that he assist DeBickero with the perjury case. Right now I’m not sure of all of the specifics in the Fulton County case, but if he cooperates in the investigation and testifies against Gordon, it’s a pretty favorable plea deal—max of ten years or even less, depending on how well he cooperates. And they agreed to let him out on bail until Gordon’s trial. So, that’s how we got the case. I wasn’t even aware of Wilborn’s arrest until after Gordon was arrested.”
“You say he delivered $250,000 to each of the lying witnesses? Half a million total? That’s a lot of bills. And whose account did it come from—Senator Harrison’s?”
“Of course the senator funded it, so to speak. At least he was the source of the funds, but they were part of Gordon’s legal fees. Gordon could demand any fee he wanted. Senator Harrison was in a tough campaign, and his son sitting in prison was not helpful. Only thing on the senator’s mind back then was to get his son out of prison, and he believed Gordon was the man who could do it. Remember, Harrison is one of the richest men in Georgia—worth over a hundred million according to several news accounts. Whether he knew some of the exorbitant fees were going for witness payoffs, we don’t know and probably will never know. He had a series of strokes last winter and is reported to be both mentally and physically incapacitated.”
The Two-Witness Rule: A Novel Page 2
