The doors to the courtroom were about 15 yards away. The heels on his wingtips clicked and echoed as he walked down the hall. He wasn’t sure what was going to be on the other side of those doors.
Maybe he would be placed under immediate arrest. Maybe Judge Delaney would find him in contempt for being late. Maybe nothing would happen; the trial would simply proceed.
Michael thought about it, but he was ready for the future, whatever the future may be. Something had happened to him. Something had changed. He had resolve.
He wasn’t going to be stupid, but he wasn’t going to be afraid either. He could only control himself. If they wanted to arrest him, then they would arrest him. If Judge Delaney was going to scream, then let him scream. For the first time in a long time, Michael felt a tiny sense of peace. It was surrounded by nervousness and anxiousness, but at its core, there was still a fragment of peace that he could draw upon.
He just had to take care of himself.
That wasn’t easy. Michael’s whole body was tied in knots. But it was that fragment of peace that propelled him forward.
He pushed open the courtroom doors. Everyone stopped, turned, and looked.
The courtroom was packed. They had been waiting. He didn’t recognize most of them, but he saw a few familiar faces. Justin Kent sat next to Agent Frank Vatch. Michael ignored Vatch, but locked eyes with Kent. Michael felt his jaw tighten as he glared, and then Kent finally looked away.
Elana Estrada sat at the plaintiff’s table. She had been alone, waiting, just as Michael had imagined. Michael felt bad that he had almost forgotten about her. He had almost abandoned her without giving it a second thought. He was so self-absorbed that he was forgetting the people that mattered in his life. He was forgetting the faith that people had placed in him.
She stood as Michael crossed the bar separating the gallery and the plaintiff and defendant’s tables. He walked over to her. Michael put his briefcase down on the table, and he gave her a hug.
She relaxed in his arms. He felt her relief.
“I couldn’t leave you. We have to finish,” Michael whispered in her ear.
Michael knew that he was a lot of things, some good and some bad. He had lied. He had dropped out. He had run away. Because of that, some people might think he was a quitter. But he wasn’t a quitter, at least not this time. He wasn’t going to quit. He was going to win this case for Tommy Estrada and his family. Then the future would present itself. Michael couldn’t control the future.
###
The side door that led from the courtroom to Judge Delaney’s chambers opened. A bailiff began to instruct the people in the courtroom to rise, but Judge Delaney waved the bailiff off.
Judge Delaney wasn’t in his robe. He looked casual, wearing dress pants and a white dress shirt. He didn’t have on a tie or his suit jacket.
Instead of walking up the three steps to the bench, he came down to the same level as the attorneys.
He stood a few feet in front of the attorneys’ tables, near the podium where Jane had questioned Dylan McNaughten less than 24 hours before.
Judge Delaney looked out at the people in the gallery.
“My understanding is that we have a number of federal agents and law enforcement officials here. This is a free country. This is a public place, and you have every right to watch these proceedings. But I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge if I’m going to continue this morning. Let my law clerk know who that is, and we’ll meet in a few moments. I’m going to speak with the attorneys first.”
Then, Judge Delaney looked at Harrison Grant, and then Michael.
“Both of you,” he said. “Let’s go.”
###
“First I apologize that I was late this morning. I should have –”
Judge Delaney raised his hand, cutting Michael off.
“Let’s move on to more important things.” He leaned back in his large leather chair, thinking.
“We have a situation,” he finally said, “and I have some thoughts.”
Harrison Grant opened his mouth, but Judge Delaney shot him a glare before Grant could say anything.
“First, we have an attorney who was hurt badly last night.” Judge Delaney looked at Michael, and Michael could tell that the judge knew everything. “Ms. Nance is a wonderful attorney. As you all know, she’s in critical condition, but stable.”
Michael nodded. He was relieved. His feelings toward Jane were complicated, but he didn’t hate her. He didn’t want her hurt, and he appreciated what Judge Delaney was doing. Judge Delaney was passing information along to him.
“So here we are.” Judge Delaney folded his hands together and placed them on the top of his desk. “We are in the midst of a trial. I have jurors who have no idea what is going on, but obviously they will notice if Ms. Nance is not present at counsel’s table.”
Judge Delaney leaned in and lowered his voice.
“So here is what I propose.” He paused, making sure that he would not be interrupted. “We will continue this trial. I will tell the jurors that there has been a medical emergency and that Ms. Nance would like to be here, but that she is unable to do so.”
Judge Delaney turned to Michael.
“Then, Mr. Collins, I believe that you were going to recall several witnesses to testify about Deputy Maus and rest, correct?”
Michael nodded.
“Correct.”
Then Judge Delaney turned to Harrison Grant.
“And then it’s your turn, Mr. Grant. Correct?”
Grant started to nod, but stopped himself.
“Your Honor, while I respect the court’s effort to continue, I don’t have much choice but to again ask for a mistrial.”
Judge Delaney half-smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“On what grounds?”
“The absence of Ms. Nance – in light of the other testimony – it may suggest that my client was somehow responsible for her absence. It could also create sympathy for the plaintiff.”
Judge Delaney shook his head.
“I’ll listen to those arguments on the record and keep an open mind, but I don’t think so. I’m not interested in starting this trial over in the future. The facts are the facts, and they aren’t going to change three months or six months or a year from now.”
Judge Delaney turned to Michael.
“Any objection from you related to my plan?”
Michael shook his head.
“No, Your Honor. I’d like to finish this case, and my client wants to go back home.”
Judge Delaney smiled. He liked that answer.
“Very well.”
The attorneys stood. They started out the door, but Judge Delaney stopped them.
“Mr. Collins, I’d like to talk with you for a moment.” Judge Delaney looked at Harrison Grant. “Any objection to me speaking with Mr. Collins ex parte related to matters beyond the scope of this trial?”
Michael could tell that Harrison Grant wanted to object. Grant wanted to tell the judge that his conduct would be highly irregular and improper, but Grant also knew that it wasn’t worth the fight. It was clear that Judge Delaney had turned on him and his client, and Grant didn’t want to make matters worse.
“No, Your Honor, that’s fine,” Grant said. “Provided that it isn’t about this case.”
“Of course not,” Judge Delaney said. “And Mr. Grant, please close the door on your way out.”
Michael returned to his seat as Grant left the room. The door closed behind them, leaving Michael and Judge Delaney alone.
“Mr. Collins,” Judge Delaney tilted his head to the side. His crystal blue eyes softened. “Are you okay?”
The question took Michael by surprise. Judges weren’t known to be sympathetic to attorneys or their feelings, but Judge Delaney was different. While the rest of the judiciary slouched into a political gutter, Judge Delaney was a judge’s judge. He wasn’t there to root for one side or the other. He wasn’t trying to get appointed to a higher c
ourt or advance his career. He simply wanted to do a good job, a refreshing concept and increasingly rare.
“Frankly,” Michael said. “I have no idea.” Michael thought for a moment about the tangle of emotions inside of him. Then he returned to that small fragment of peace to drive him forward. “I just want to finish. I want to finish what we started here.”
Judge Delaney took a deep breath. He stood and walked over to his large window.
“I want you to finish as well,” he said. “A case is not a bottle of wine. It doesn’t get better with time. Whether you win or lose …” Judge Delaney’s voice trailed off, and then he shrugged. “I think Ms. Nance would want you to finish.”
“I think you’re right,” Michael said.
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of other things going on out there.” Judge Delaney didn’t look at Michael or elaborate. Instead, he turned from Michael. He looked down and watched the cars and people below. He was thinking.
“I’m going to see if I can persuade them to hold off on whatever they’re doing until we’re done. I’ve got no power to do so, but I’ll try.”
Judge Delaney turned away from the window, and then he looked right at Michael. His eyes cut Michael down, and Michael could see them evaluating him. Judge Delaney was figuring out whether he could trust Michael.
“I need you to promise me that you will not make me look bad. I need your word that you will not run. I need your word that you’ll see this trial all the way through. Do you promise?”
Michael didn’t shrug or laugh or joke or dodge. He didn’t blink.
Judge Delaney had asked him a question. It was a fair question. It was a question he had asked himself and already answered back on the yacht. He wasn’t going to be stupid. He wasn’t going to confess or plead with Agent Vatch for mercy. But he wasn’t going to run, either. He was going to finish what he had started.
Michael held out his hand.
“I promise,” he said. “You have my word.”Judge Delaney walked over to Michael, took Michael’s hand, and they shook.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The trial continued for three more days. Michael re-called each of the workers that had previously testified, including Miggy. This time, however, they were allowed to tell their full stories. They were comfortable and confident. They talked about Deputy Maus and the brutal and grueling life of the farm workers in Jesser.
Finally, Michael called Elana Estrada to the stand as the plaintiff’s last witness.
The gallery of seats in the back of the courtroom had mostly returned to its prior status. Occasionally a law clerk or a student would come to watch the trial, but the army of federal agents and law enforcement officials that had greeted Michael on the morning after Jane’s accident were gone. They were all gone, that is, except one. Agent Frank Vatch sat by himself in the back of the courtroom in his wheelchair.
His lips were tight. His eyes glared at Michael. He had hunted Michael for years, only to see him leave New York and have his supervisors order him to back off the case. It was obvious that it took everything in his power to remain quiet, but he did. And each day, Michael ignored him. Michael continued to find that small reservoir of peace and drew upon it. He walked past Agent Vatch a dozen times a day. Michael never met Vatch’s eye, and neither man spoke a word.
When Michael finished questioning Elana Estrada, he allowed her time to wipe away her tears. Then he waited as she slowly walked down off of the witness stand. She came back to the table and sat down.
Michael had been at the podium. He followed behind her, but remained standing. He put his hand on her shoulder. He looked at Harrison Grant. He looked at the jurors, and then Michael looked at Judge Delaney.
“At this time, Your Honor,” he said, “the plaintiff rests.”
Judge Delaney nodded, and then looked at Harrison Grant and Brian McNaughten. “Counsel?”
Harrison Grant rose. His chin held high, defiant. Even after days of damaging testimony, Grant still managed to exude confidence.
“Your Honor,” he said, and then paused. “The defense also rests.”
Judge Delaney couldn’t hide his surprise. He had heard the same comments that Michael had heard before and during the trial. Grant continually dismissed and minimized Jolly Boy’s conduct. He had alluded to witnesses that would testify and undermine the case against his client. But in the end, Grant had nothing. A case that he had offered to settle for only a few thousand dollars was now going to cost his client far more.
Judge Delaney looked at Michael, and then back at Harrison Grant.
“Very well.”
He nodded and turned to the tired jurors.
“We will take a recess until after lunch so that I may talk with the attorneys. We’ll return, listen to closing arguments, and then you will begin your deliberations.”
Judge Delaney gaveled the proceedings to recess, and everyone in the courtroom stood as the jurors walked out the side door to the jury room in a single file line.
Once the jurors were gone, Judge Delaney gathered up his papers.
“Be here at one so that we can finalize the jury instructions. You can make whatever motions you’d like to make at that time.”
He walked down the steps behind the bench and through the door to his chambers, leaving the attorneys.
Soon after the judge had left, Harrison Grant and Brian McNaughten left as well. Michael stayed seated at the plaintiff’s table with his client.
Michael turned to Elana Estrada.
“One more step,” he said. “Just one more step.”
Elana nodded. She was reserved, unsure. She looked back at Pace. Pace had been seated in the front row behind them the whole time. He sat in the same seat every day, while his aunt took care of his sisters back in Mexico.
Elana turned to Michael, seeking another confirmation.
“Then it’s done?”
“Yes.” Michael put his hand on her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and then he picked up his worn and battered briefcase. “After closing arguments, it’s done.”
Michael turned, and saw Agent Vatch waiting for him.
Agent Vatch had rolled his wheelchair into the center of the aisle. He was one of the few who remained. There was no way Michael could avoid him. There was no way that Vatch would let himself be ignored any longer.
Michael walked toward Vatch, and Agent Vatch glared at him. Neither said anything until Michael was just a few feet away.
Michael stopped. He looked down at him.
“Francis,” he said, knowing that Agent Frank Vatch hated the name Francis. “It’s been a while.”
Agent Vatch nodded. His narrow tongue flicked out each side of his mouth.
“It has,” Vatch said. “You miss me?”
“Not really,” Michael said. “I did, however, enjoy breaking your nose back in New York. Now, if you’d excuse me, I need to go prepare for my closing argument.”
Michael took a step to the side and started to walk around Agent Vatch and his wheelchair, but Vatch reached out and grabbed Michael. Vatch’s hand was a vise, pinching Michael’s wrist.
“Hold on,” Vatch said.
Michael struggled, and then, after a few pulls, he was able to break free. He put a little distance between himself and Vatch, and then Michael stopped and straightened his tie.
“Are you placing me under arrest?”
Vatch didn’t answer.
Michael smiled.
“I didn’t think so,” he said. Michael had thought a lot about what had happened on the night of Jane’s accident. She was wearing a wire, but he had never said anything. There was no confession.
“You’ve got no case,” Michael said. “You forced a good attorney and a friend to turn on me, but it didn’t work and it nearly killed her. You’re an embarrassment.”
Michael turned and began walking toward the door.
“Mr. Collins,” Vatch said. “You know I’m never going to stop.”
Michael opened the door and
walked out into the hallway. He pretended that he hadn’t heard a thing.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Closing arguments were an art form, but they had unwritten rules. Michel had learned them as a young associate at Wabash, Kramer and Moore. His mentor and senior partner, Lowell Moore, may have been a horrible person, but he had been a great attorney.
Three months after starting at the firm, Lowell had taken Michael to watch the closing argument of a civil medical malpractice trial in downtown Manhattan.
They had sat in the back of an otherwise empty gallery and had watched an elderly man with white hair, two hearing aids, and a bow tie stand in front of a jury.
He had been making his closing argument on behalf of a woman who had fallen off an operating table during brain surgery. Her head had been cut open. The doctors had been in the process of removing a small tumor from behind her ear, but the nurse hadn’t properly restrained her on the table. She fell when they had attempted to adjust her position. The patient had hit her head on the floor, landing on the open incision.
She had suffered a permanent brain injury, and the old plaintiff’s attorney had sought punitive damages on behalf of the family.
Lowell Moore had leaned into Michael, just before the argument had been about to start. He whispered, “Listen and learn these rules: Keep it simple, don’t be afraid to show emotion, and always ask for a specific amount of money.”
Michael repeated those rules to himself as he walked toward the podium. He put his papers down, and then he continued to the area directly in front of the jury box. Judge Delaney had just spent the past 15 minutes instructing the jurors and reciting the elements that must be proven in the case. Now it was Michael’s turn.
He kept repeating Lowell Moore’s rules, silently in his head.
He was going to do this. He was going to ask for more money than anyone on that jury had ever earned or had even thought about earning in their lives. He wasn’t going to blink. He wasn’t going to be ashamed. He was going to pretend that he did this every day. He was going to make his case.
Michael made eye contact with the first juror in the front row.
J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die Page 21
