Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion

by Grif Stockley

  Amy says, quietly, “It sounds to me like you don’t take Sarah too seriously.”

  “I do, too,” I reply hastily.

  “It’s just that I don’t want her to be overly influenced and do things

  she’ll wish she hadn’t” “Gideon, you want her to make mistakes you approve of and not her own. Don’t forget she’s twenty years old.”

  That must sound old to Amy.

  “She’s still a child,” I respond

  “I know her. She’s like a lamb being led to the slaughter.”

  “How ridiculous!” she says affectionately.

  “I forget how melodramatic you are.”

  “When it comes to Sarah,” I confess, “I don’t have much perspective. I guess it’s just that I’ve got her close to being grown up, and I don’t want her to blow it.”

  “Are you crazy?” Amy says, sounding almost smug.

  “You know there’s no magic age when humans stop screwing up. Look at us.”

  In the last couple of days Amy and I have talked on the phone, and I have probably confided in her more than I should. I find myself telling her about Rosa, Sarah, even discussing my relationship with Rainey. She seems wise beyond her years, but it comes as no surprise to me that most women have more insight into relationships than men. But, as she says, it doesn’t keep them from messing up their lives. Her abortion was a case in point. Only last night she told me about an affair she’d had with one of the men in the prosecutor’s office when she worked there.

  He was terrible, but she’d fallen head over heels in love with him.

  “I thought you’d be more sympathetic,” I complain. Rainey, with a daughter older than Sarah, would have been reassuring.

  “I am sympathetic to her,” Amy says dryly.

  “You don’t want her to grow as a woman because it threatens you. I think you should be proud that she’s involved in some thing more than

  boys or cheerleading. She’s trying to deal with things that are important to women, and she’s willing to challenge you. Lots of girls her age would keep their mouths shut and their hands out.”

  “Sarah’s never done that,” I say.

  “She’s always been on my case.”

  “Poor Gideon!” Amy teases.

  “What a hard life he has!”

  “Wait’ll you have children,” I say irritably.

  “It’s not as easy to raise them as you apparently think.”

  “Don’t be such a baby!” Amy says uncharitably.

  “Sarah’s doing great. If you have any sense, you’ll sup port her in this.”

  I’m ready to end this conversation and am rescued by Woogie, who is scratching at the front door. I hang up after telling her that I will call her when I get back. We’re supposed to go out again this weekend.

  While I am giving Woogie his dinner (a good reason not to be a dog), the phone rings again.

  “Mr. Page,” Dade says, his voice anxious, “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I got something in my mailbox telling me there’s gonna be a hearing on Friday at ten” “Who’s it from?” I ask, thinking how inevitable it was that the university would get involved. Despite the signs, like an idiot, I had harbored the hope that somebody would make the decision to let it be resolved in court. I should have started preparing for this last week.

  “A woman named Clarise Dozier. It says she’s the Co ordinator of Judicial Affairs. It says to contact her for a pre hearing conference where she’ll explain my rights.”

  “I want you to call her tomorrow first thing and tell her you and I’ll be in her office at ten. Find out where to go.”

  “Am I gonna be kicked out of school?” Dade asks.

  “Can they do that?”

  He is scared. I can hear it in his voice. That damn group WAR. The university couldn’t stand the heat. Yet, if I were the father of the girl, I’d be screaming they should have done this five minutes after criminal charges were filed.

  “No,” I tell him, “you’re not going to be kicked out of school. Let Coach Carter or one of the coaches know what’s going on. I’ll call you about nine thirty tomorrow morning and find out where to meet you.

  By the way,” I add, trying to relax him, “you had a great game against Tennessee. Think y’all can beat Georgia?”

  “I don’t know,” Dade mumbles.

  He sounds as if he is in shock.

  “Listen to me,” I say sharply.

  “Until somebody in authority says otherwise, you’re still on the team. So you have to make the most of it. How you did last Saturday is going to affect some of the people who will be sitting in judgment on you, no matter how much they’ll pretend it doesn’t. I’ll try to get it delayed so that you can keep playing. Maybe we can drag it out until after the season is over. You’ve got to practice and stay focused like you’re playing for the SEC title this weekend, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dade answers. I can barely hear him.

  After he hangs up, I realize I didn’t even ask him what else the notice said. I try to call him back, but his line is busy. It doesn’t matter what the paper says. We both know what can happen. The university can do whatever it wants if it takes the trouble to go through the motions.

  Yet, who is really the boss hog? The chancellor? Hell, the governor may be calling the shots for all I know. I fight down a panicky feeling. If he does get kicked out of school, the effort to keep him playing will have backfired. Maybe I should have advised Dade to request a suspension from the team until after his trial. That might have headed off this hearing. I call Barton’s number to find out the name of the lawyer I blew off last week. No answer. Shit. Four days. This is a rush job if there ever was one. I dial Sarah’s number but get her answering machine.

  Relieved (I don’t know what I would have said), I leave a message that I will call her tomorrow.

  I hang up and realize I was going to drop Woogie off at his kennel on my way out of town. Now I won’t have time. I call Amy, who says she’ll be glad to take him.

  Would she be calling me to ask me to do the same thing for her? Probably not. I hate to use Amy, but the truth is, she is so damn user-friendly.

  Clarise Dozier’s office is on the second floor of the Student Union across from the library. She is a tall, smiling woman of about my age, but her gray hair, pulled back in a bun, and the vanilla-colored shawl she has draped around her shoulders make her look distinctly grandmotherly. She takes my hand and looks me in the eye.

  “I’m glad you could come with Dade, Mr. Page. Unless you’ve done one of these cases before, the hearing Friday will probably be quite a bit different from anything you’ve experienced. Please have a seat. Can I get either of you some coffee?”

  Dade shakes his head, but I say, “Thank you,” taken slightly off guard by her unexpected courtesy and friendliness.

  We could be here to dispute a parking ticket. If she is uncomfortable at being in the presence of an alleged rapist, I can’t tell it. I look around her office and notice mainly photographs of campus architectural projects under construction. I recognize Bud Walton Arena, the new home of the Razorback basketball team. Seating about twenty thousand people, it is a magnificent structure. A good omen, I tell myself.

  After handing me my coffee, Ms. Dozier warns me, “Frankly, lawyers find our hearing procedures a little unsettling.

  Are you at all familiar with what we do?”

  I do not say I received and mostly ignored a mini lecture on the subject from a Fayetteville lawyer just last week and ask for a full explanation. Rubbing her hands together as if she knows she has her work cut out for her, she nods.

  “Well, we view the hearing process as a part of the educational mission of the university. Punishment is not our goal here, education is, and, if warranted by the facts, that can entail correction.”

  She makes this statement with a straight face. Doubtless, this message is appropriate when someone has been accused of playing his stereo too loud, but I suspect that if
the board finds that Dade is guilty of what he’s been charged with, it will entail more than writing one hundred times on the blackboard: I won’t rape Robin anymore.

  “What is the burden of proof?” I ask, looking down at the form that Dade handed me on the way over. It lists Robin as one of four witnesses. The other three are identified as Robin’s roommate, a woman from the local Rape Crisis Center, and a nurse from Memorial Hospital. It has already occurred to me that this proceeding will be useful for discovery purposes. Arkansas does not require witnesses to talk to opposing counsel in criminal cases be fore trial. Depositions are not allowed, so I can’t force a witness in a criminal case to say a single word. All I can do is get the statements they gave to me prosecutor.

  “The same as in civil court cases,” Ms. Dozier says.

  “Fifty-one percent. I’ll just run through the procedure, if you don’t mind, and then you can ask questions.”

  “Fine,” I say, feeling like a school kid in front of this woman who surely was a teacher at one time.

  Ms. Dozier refers to a sheet of paper on her desk and says: “Let me start with the individuals who will hear this case. The All-University Judiciary is made up of nine people five faculty members, one of whom is the chair person, and four students. Dade will have a right to have present two counselors who may advise him but who can’t speak or ask questions. This isn’t like a case in court where the judge acts like a referee for the lawyers.

  It is much more informal than that. We aren’t bound by hearsay rules or rules of evidence, though, of course, the T Board takes the source of information into account in assessing credibility. The hearing is closed to the public and confidential. The complaining party and respondent each have the opportunity to make an opening statement.

  The members of the board and the opposing parties can then ask questions of the witnesses and each other. Dade will be allowed to summarize his position at the end, a closing statement, if you will, and so will the complaining party. I’ve written down the names and positions of the witnesses who’ll be called by the complaining party.

  They include her roommate, a woman from the Rape Crisis Center who met the complaining party at the hospital, and a nurse there.”

  As the woman drones on, I realize quickly why this procedure drives lawyers crazy: we don’t get to do anything to help our clients except whisper in their ears.

  Dade could hang himself if we aren’t careful.

  “What is the range of possible punishments?” I ask.

  “Educative sanctions,” Ms. Dozier insists on saying, “range from probation to expulsion. The board also could suspend the student from representation of the university in intercollegiate activities.” She hands me some papers labeled, “Student Judicial System Procedural Code,” and the list containing the names of the witnesses and adds, “This contains everything I’m saying and more. You’ll notice that appeals go to the vice-chancellor and chancellor, but there is no rehearing of the facts by them.

  Finally, the chancellor reviews the decision of the vice-chancellor.”

  I flip through the papers.

  “How do I formally request that the hearing be postponed?” I ask.

  “Three days isn’t much time to prepare when so much is at stake.”

  Ms. Dozier’s smile disappears.

  “You could ask Dr.

  Ward, the faculty member who presides over the board, but I don’t think you should expect it to be postponed. Actually, it is in the university’s discretion to require immediate expulsion and have a hearing later.”

  Her tone leaves no doubt that had the decision been left up to her, Dade would have been living off campus by now. I may still ask for a postponement.

  “Are you a member of the board?” I ask.

  “I’ll be there,” she assures me, “but only in my capacity as coordinator. I have no vote.”

  Good, I think but do not say.

  “Dade,” I ask, “do you have any questions?”

  Dade shrugs.

  “No.” He seems intimidated by Ms.

  Dozier, whose voice has become increasingly stern. I have my doubts about his ability to ask any meaningful questions at the hearing. Of course, that is what lawyers are for.

  I stand, followed by Dade.

  “I’ll call you if I have any questions,” I promise Ms. Dozier, whose smile has re turned now that we are leaving.

  “That will be fine,” she says.

  “The hearing will be down the hall in room two-thirteen.”

  “We’ve got a lot of work to do between now and Friday,” I tell Dade once we get outside.

  “I want you to get in touch with Eddie Stiles and the four people who you told me were at the party last spring with you and Robin.

  Tell them you need them to meet me at the Ozark Motel at ten tomorrow. Try to see if any of your friends know anything about Robin and her roommate. And let your mother know about the hearing. Tell her I’ll be calling her, okay? ““Yes sir,” Dade replies, his voice listless.

  “Come on now!” I snap at him.

  “It’s really going to be just your word against hers. This isn’t going to be any picnic for her either. You can do this.”

  “She talks real good,” Dade says, not quite looking me in the eye.

  A pretty black girl, dressed in a beige sweater and tight jeans, yells in our direction: “Come here, Dade!”

  This is not the time or place for a pep talk. Students, several of them black, look over at us from a huge bulletin board where they are gathered. This must be where the black students hang out. I see more here than I have on the rest of the campus combined except for Darby Hall, the athletic dorm.

  “Believe me,” I whisper, “she’ll be a lot more nervous than you will. I’ll see you tonight.

  I’m going to the prosecutor’s office and see if I can get the statements she and the others have given.”

  Dade nods again perfunctorily, and I head for my car, wishing I knew what I could say to him that would get his head off his chest. Yet, I have the same discouraged feeling that is registered on my client’s face. If Dade were going to appear before a group of kids like himself, he would have more of a chance. Instead, I have no doubt the students on the “J” Board will resemble Robin (in more ways than just skin color) instead of him. Surely, there will be one black face, but all it will take to “discipline” him will be a majority vote. As I unlock the Blazer, I think of Marty’s comments about blacks and nearly laugh out loud. I don’t think she would choose to trade places with Dade right now.

  Binkie Cross, the Washington County prosecuting attorney, has the bearing of a hillbilly—not the wormy, inbred sodomite who buggered poor Ned Beatty in Deliverance, but the rugged, lean, born individualist to whom the law is at best a painful necessity. At six-five he towers over me in an ugly brown suit that is too short in the sleeves and pants. Oblivious to his appearance, he sticks out his hand and swallows mine in his.

  “Sorry, I missed you last week,” he says.

  “I was on vacation. Call me Binkie, by the way. Everybody else does.”

  “That’s all right,” I say, deciding not to mention that I heard his vacation was being cut short. He may feel he needs to protect his assistant, and I don’t want to make him defensive.

  “I’d just like to get a copy of the file, and I was told only you could let me have it.”

  Binkie winces as if he had been reminded of an un pleasant conversation. He invites me to sit down, then says candidly, “I would have preferred that my deputy wait until I was back in town to file a charge that serious.”

  I nod, delighted to hear him say this.

  “I wish he had too, because I don’t think my client is guilty of anything but some incredibly bad judgment.”

  “How do you mean?” Cross says casually, as if we were colleagues instead of on opposing sides. He looks about my age, and I wonder if he went to school up here.

  “To hear him tell it,” I respond, “sex was
her idea, more than his. If you’ve seen this kid, you realize in a hurry he’s not lacking for female companionship.”

  “How come he didn’t talk to the police?” Binkie asks.

  “If he had, I doubt if Mike would have been in such a hurry to charge him.”

  “Kids have seen a million cop shows on TV where the Miranda warnings are given,” I say.

  “It probably wasn’t such a bad idea at the time. I’ll bring him down to talk to you anytime you want. I’d like to get this university hearing out of the way first though.”

  Binkie reaches into his desk and pulls out a manila folder and hands it to me.

  “I had this made for you Monday,” he says.

  “I think it’s up to date. The girl’s statement is near the top.”

  “I appreciate it,” I say, genuinely relieved I’m not getting another runaround. He knows that I don’t want Dade talking to him until I’ve seen the evidence against him.

  “How was your trip?” I ask, deciding I like this guy. He doesn’t seem as if he is going to make me jump through any unnecessary hoops. To impress the voters, some prosecutors will make you play games with them from start to finish. Maybe he’s not going to run again. That would be fine with me.

  A slow smile spreads to Binkie’s sunburned face.

  “Damn, it was wonderful!” he says enthusiastically.

  “My wife and I were bushwacking through a provincial park outside of Vancouver and we walked right up on this big of brown bear. I guess the look on our faces scared him because he took off the other way. If he hadn’t, we would have become permanent residents. God, it’s pretty country up there,” he adds wistfully.

  “The closest I’ve come is a nature program on TV,” I confess, “but I’ve heard it’s wonderful.” Poor guy. He sounds as if he had died and gone to heaven. I’m lucky he didn’t come back mad. I would have if my vacation had been interrupted.

  “I’ll be happy to produce Dade for some blood, hair, and saliva samples the first of next week,” I say, trying to appear equally cooperative.

  “You don’t need to file a motion.”

  “Why don’t you bring him in next Wednesday at eleven?” Binkie says, looking down at his calendar.