by Marcia Clark
When I got to my office, I called Declan.
“Want to do the arraignment with me? May as well get your name on the record.”
He happily accepted.
Then I called Bailey. She accepted too, but not quite as happily. “I guess I should.”
When Declan and I stepped off the elevator, I saw that I’d been lulled into a false sense of security. The few cameras I’d seen in the lobby were the latecomers. The bulk of the attendees for today’s proceedings had already shown up, and they were clogging the hallway from one end of the courthouse to the other. I pulled Declan aside before we ran the gauntlet.
“Don’t answer any questions. Keep your head down and follow me.”
I took the lead and kept my eyes focused on the door to the courtroom. At first we got left alone. Only the reporters who regularly covered the courts knew who we were. But halfway to the courtroom, one of them spotted me. “Hey, Rachel! What’ve you got on Powers? Who’s the real killer?”
The rest of them picked up on the cue and started shouting questions. I shook my head, said, “No comment,” over and over, and wove my way through the crowd. I’d just pushed open the door when a semi-familiar voice with a British accent called to me from the anteroom.
“Rachel Knight! We meet in person at last. Andrew Chatham.” He put out his hand, and I reflexively took it.
Shorter than I was by about three inches, Andrew was very slim and dapper in a blazer, white button-down shirt, and dark slacks. Kind of Fred Astaire–ish.
“Hello, Andrew. I have no comment.”
“Well, that’s an improvement on our recent phone call.”
I looked at him, puzzled.
“When you hung up on me.” He smiled without a hint of malice. I don’t know why, but something about him made me smile back. “So I shall take this exchange as my victory for the day and not, as you Yanks put it, push my luck. Good day. Have a nice arraignment.”
Amused, I replied, “Thank you, Andrew.”
Only one camera was in the courtroom, so I surmised it would provide the “pool feed,” meaning everyone would use the footage it got. I moved to the prosecution side of counsel table with Declan close behind me. This courtroom was devoted exclusively to arraignments. Instead of the usual setup with separate counsel tables at either side of the courtroom, it had one big U-shaped table that gave room for the defense and prosecution to sit on opposite sides and other interested parties—bail bondsmen, cops, or probation officers—to sit in the middle. It was also the only courtroom that had a glass-enclosed section on the defense side. That was where the prisoners sat. Mornings were always crowded in this courtroom, but today was the worst I’d ever seen, with the press and the public in full attendance, eager to get their first up-close look at everyone. The audience section—twice the size of a normal courtroom—was filled to capacity, a very rare event.
I immediately spotted Don Wagmeister on the other side of counsel table. It wasn’t hard to do, since he stood six feet four and was built like a solid rectangle—a rectangle that was usually adorned with brightly colored theme ties, like sharks, the scales of justice, and the guy on the Monopoly “Get Out of Jail Free” card. I’d heard he had hair plugs, but I’d never noticed it myself. Then again, he slicked his hair back with so much goo, who could tell? I was about to go over and hand him the first batch of discovery—all the crime and evidence reports that’d been generated so far—when the judge took the bench.
The bailiff told everyone to rise. Declan and I were already standing, so we stayed that way. Judge Patrick Daley, a bird-thin, nervous man in bifocals, moved up the steps to the bench swiftly, his black robe flowing around his legs. His eyes landed briefly on the camera, then flicked away as he called the court to order. He spoke so rapidly, the sentence came out as one long word. “Everyone-be-seated-court-calls-the-case-of-People-versus-Powers-and-Averly.” The judge paused just long enough to take a breath. “Lawyers-please-state-your-names-for-the-record…People?”
Some judges are definitely not in love with the limelight, and Judge Daley seemed to be one of them, so he chose to get rid of us first—a very wise move. I hated it when judges put a high-profile appearance last on the calendar. It meant everyone had to suffer through a courtroom crowded with reporters that much longer. Declan and I gave our names, then the defense—with Wagmeister drawing out the opportunity for free advertising by announcing his name in a booming voice.
“Donald Wagmeister for Ian Powers, Your Honor.”
The next voice, low and husky but firm, took me by surprise. “Terry Fisk for Jack Averly.”
Terry Fisk? Unlike Wagmeister, Terry was easy to miss—at first. Barely five feet tall, with a pug nose and a square jaw that jutted out when she argued—which was often, and with vigor—she was one of the toughest in the business. Smart as they come and always prepared, she was a brawler of a lawyer who took her gloves off when she walked into court and never put them back on. If you were looking for a gentlemanly trial, you’d never get it with Terry. I’d counted myself lucky not to run into her before. Now, obviously, my luck had run out. It couldn’t have happened in a worse case.
“People, please arraign the defendants.”
I read the charges, then asked, “Mr. Powers, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
Powers cleared his throat to declare in a voice he tried to pack with outrage, “Not guilty!”
“Mr. Averly, how do you plead?”
Jack Averly’s head had been down. Terry nudged him with her elbow and whispered to him. He glanced up briefly, then dipped his head and stuttered, “Not-uh-not guilty.”
Terry shot him a sidelong dark look. Notorious for demanding total control of her clients, she coached them to within an inch of their lives and expected them to repay her efforts by doing exactly as they were told. I knew that Averly would catch hell from her for that pathetic performance the moment they got back into lockup.
The judge accepted the pleas and I moved toward the defense side of counsel table as I spoke. “Your Honor, I’d like the record to reflect that I’m handing each defense counsel a copy of the discovery that we have to date.” I described the reports that were included in the packet.
“It will,” the judge said. “Counsel, please acknowledge receipt.”
“Acknowledged on behalf of Mr. Powers,” Wagmeister said as he took the packet from me.
Fisk took her packet without looking at it, or me. “I won’t acknowledge that’s what the prosecution gave me because I haven’t had time to look at it. All I’m prepared to say is that she handed me some papers.”
I walked back to my side of counsel table. “That’s fine, Your Honor.” I kept my voice calm but thought to myself, “Here we go.” Turning over the initial discovery was a routine thing—it was never a reason for even a minor skirmish. Even for Fisk this was an unusually testy start. “I’ve number-stamped all the pages and I’d like to lodge a copy of what I gave to counsel with the court at this time. Let the record reflect they’re numbered one through fifty-seven.”
I always made an extra copy of discovery to lodge with the court just in case of situations like this, though it’d been a long time since I’d needed to. Giving the court a copy of what I’d given the defense offered some proof that I hadn’t deprived them of anything. I handed the packet to the bailiff, who passed it up to the judge. He looked through the pages quickly. “The record will reflect I’ve received the pages and noted that they are numbered as you indicated. Now let’s pick a date for the preliminary hearing.”
“I’d like to go past the statutory ten days,” Wagmeister said, consulting his calendar and picking a date a few weeks out.
“That’s acceptable with the People,” I said.
“Ms. Fisk, is that acceptable to you?” the judge asked.
“No. We’re not waiving time. Mr. Averly wants his preliminary hearing within the statutory ten days.”
The judge, consulting the calendar on the wall, nam
ed a date barely over a week away. “People?”
“That’ll be fine, Your Honor,” I said. It wasn’t really so fine. Now I’d have to prepare two separate hearings. But since I intended to put on a bare bones preliminary hearing with just the physical evidence, it’d be a lot less painful than if I’d had to wrangle civilian witnesses.
“The case is assigned to Judge Daglian for preliminary hearing.” The judge banged his gavel and called the next case, the relief in his voice palpable.
Bailey shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Already.”
One measly arraignment and the ride was already getting bumpy.
48
The press was ecstatic. If there was blood in the water at the arraignment, they could expect Armageddon when this thing went to trial. They shoved microphones in my face and shouted questions: “Did Terry catch you by surprise?” And my favorite: “Is there bad blood between you two?”
I kept my head down and refused comment as Declan and I made our way through the mass of reporters. Not wanting to give them a chance to corner us by waiting for an elevator, I headed for the stairs. But the heat made the stairwell feel like a tomb. After two floors I was panting and it felt like the walls were closing in. I pushed open the door at the seventh floor and poked my head out. The coast was clear. I heard the ding of an arriving elevator. We ran for it, but there were people inside, so we didn’t speak until we got into our wing of the eighteenth floor.
“Is she always like that?” Declan asked.
“Pretty much. Though I didn’t expect her to bite this hard at an arraignment.” We stopped at my door, which I’d taken to locking, and I pulled out my key and let us in. “On the other hand, I’ve never seen a lawyer who doesn’t prance and strut when there’re cameras around. So my advice is to get used to it.”
“Can’t the judge stop them?”
“To a certain extent. But not all judges want to. Some are worse press panderers than the lawyers—”
I was about to launch into all the ills of high-profile cases when Melia practically skidded to a stop at my door. I’d forgotten to close it—my bad.
“Rachel, have you seen the news?” Her voice was breathless, her eyes wide.
“What’s up?”
“Come on, you can watch in Eric’s office. He’s at a meeting.”
I wanted to ask her to just tell me what the heck was going on, but she’d already trotted back up the hallway. I shrugged at Declan and he gestured to the door. “After you, Fearless Leader.”
“You may never call me that,” I said as I stepped out into the hallway. “I’ll explain why later.” It was our nickname for Vanderputz—well, one of them.
The television was tuned to a local news channel and Melia was holding the remote. She turned up the volume as we entered the office. A young blonde who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model—plunging neckline and all—was emoting into the microphone.
…the reaction in Hollywood has been one of disbelief and anger. The camera cut away to a scruffy-looking young guy I vaguely recognized as a television actor on one of the law shows. Well, she’s obviously looking for her fifteen minutes. I mean, it’s just a bogus case—The camera cut to a forty-something woman in a black suit and leopard-print blouse. Ian Powers and I have locked horns over many deals and many clients, so I’m not exactly his best friend, but even I have to say that this is simply outrageous. The DA’s office is going to crash and burn and they richly deserve to—The camera cut away, and this time it was a young actress I’d seen in ads for a recently released vampire movie. Ian Powers has been my manager for years and I know him very well. Believe me, there’s no way this could possibly be true and that DA, what’s her name? A voice off camera supplied my name, and she repeated it. Yeah, Rachel Knight. Everyone knows she only filed these outrageous charges because she thinks it’ll make her famous. I felt as though I’d been smacked in the face with a frying pan. It’s one thing for friends and relatives to protest a defendant’s innocence, but this kind of nasty, personal diatribe against a prosecutor was unheard of. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.
The anchor moved on to a young Hispanic man in a mechanic’s uniform. I don’t know about this case or nothin’, but Ian Powers came around to my hood when I was about to get jumped into a gang. He got me out of there… The young man started to tear up. He saved my life. That’s all I wanna say. He turned away, and the anchor looked after him with an Awww expression. I felt sick. The camera cut to a young man in a paramedic’s uniform. I braced myself for another shot to the heart as he began, Yeah, I met Ian Powers when I was—but suddenly, the screen went black. I turned, blinking and dazed, and saw that Declan had taken the remote from Melia and turned off the television.
“I heard the drumbeats starting last night. I was going to say something, but I didn’t want to distract you before court, and I guess I hoped it’d go away. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You did exactly the right thing, Declan.”
I turned to go, but Melia grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry, Rachel! I didn’t mean to upset you, I just thought you should know.”
I patted her hand. “Don’t sweat it, Melia. I did need to know. At least now I’m ready for…whatever.” But my readiness wasn’t really the issue.
If I kept getting slammed this way in the press, I’d never find a decent jury. And foisting the case onto someone else wasn’t an option, not after I’d pushed to get it filed. If I abandoned it now, it’d look like I didn’t believe in the case, and that would just prove the Hollywood toadies right: that I’d only filed the case because I wanted to be famous, and when I saw my approval ratings hit the skids, I’d jumped ship. In short, that I was a sleazy coward. No, I believed in the case, and if it sank under the weight of public opinion, then I’d go down with it.
But now that I was playing out the ugly possibilities, I had to take it all the way. If I lost the case after this drubbing…then what? I’d be exiled to live out my days in the hinterlands, relegated to drunk-driving and shoplifting cases. My career as a prosecutor moribund. And if I left the office, who’d hire me? I couldn’t even hang out my own shingle because no one would retain a former prosecutor who’d filed what some thought was a trumped-up case to gain fame and fortune—a case proven to be a sham when she lost it on national television.
It’s not that I wanted to go into private practice—I didn’t. I’d only ever wanted to be a prosecutor. But being a lawyer was all I knew how to do. I had no other way to make a living.
Now that I’d played out the possible repercussions, I was forced to face facts: I was staring down the barrels of a shotgun that read career—and life—destroyer.
49
I put my head down and tried to bury myself in case preparation. Work is always my refuge when I need an escape from misery. And since this time the source of misery was the case, I told myself it was doubly helpful. I could distract myself from the prospect of doom while devoting every ounce of energy to making the case as solid as possible. Win-win. Well, it was something anyway.
But it didn’t work. Every five seconds my phone rang with calls from the press: Did I see the public reactions outside the courthouse? Did I realize what I was up against when I’d filed the case? Did I regret my decision to file it? I wanted to let them all go to voice mail—then erase them. But I was already losing the battle for the hearts and minds of the public, judging by that last newscast, so I needed every bit of goodwill I could muster. I answered every last stupid question and hoped I was building some kind of rapport that would get me favorable coverage.
I bounced from call to call all afternoon and completely forgot about Declan until it was almost five o’clock. It was only the sound of footsteps stampeding for the door that brought me back to earth long enough to realize I’d neglected to give him an assignment. I’d never had a second chair before, so I wasn’t used to delegating.
I had to admit that the more I saw of him, the more I liked him. I was starting to think th
at Vanderhorn might seriously have miscalculated in thinking Declan would act as his spy. But what I didn’t yet know was whether he was a decent lawyer. I pondered what I could let him do that wouldn’t jeopardize anything. I had an idea and picked up the phone. Only in that moment did it occur to me that he might’ve left. He certainly would have been well within his rights to decide he wasn’t needed. He hadn’t heard from me all day. But he picked up on the first ring. Score another one for the kid, I thought. Very smart to hang out and show his dedication to duty.
“Hey, Rachel. I was hoping you’d call. Got something for me?”
“Yeah. Come on down.”
Twenty seconds later he walked into my office, buttoning his jacket.
“Declan, lesson one: no formal attire requested here. Take off your jacket, roll up your sleeves. Get comfortable.”
“How do you feel about my shoes?”
“Don’t push it.”
He smiled and sat down.
“Here’s lesson number two: you don’t have to wait for me to call. If you’re looking for work, just come tell me. Okay?”
Declan saluted.
“Here’s what I’ve got for you: I wrote the search warrant pretty broadly and I think it should cover Ian’s laptop—”
“You find anything on it?”
“No. And we probably won’t, but I gave it to Cliff Meisner to check for anything that might’ve been encrypted.”
“So you want me to get in touch with Cliff and find out if he’s got anything so far?”
“Yes, and I’d like you to do some research. Make sure we’re on firm ground with the seizure of the laptop and that there aren’t any limitations to what we can use if we do find anything.”
