by Jay Brandon
“We’re having an arraignment this morning. The defendant is eligible for a court-appointed attorney. It sounds from your experience as if you would be perfectly qualified, and certainly no one can fault your availability. Would you consider accepting the appointment? I can promise the case would not be time-consuming.” He studied Jordan again. “Or perhaps you would rather not waste any more of your valuable time in Green Hills?”
“No, sir, Your Honor, it would be a privilege.” It was a little bit sickening the way Jordan’s mouth said things like that with no support at all from his brain.
“It would be a privilege to waste time here?” the judge asked with the closest-to-humorous tone Jordan had yet heard from him, which was not very.
“Not at all, sir. I mean I would not consider it a waste of time and I’d be happy to accept the appointment. I should have made myself clearer.”
“Yes,” Judge Waverly agreed. “What, after all, is a legal education for?”
Jordan grinned, waiting for the punch line, then realized the question had been rhetorical.
The judge laid a hand on his shoulder as he guided him to the door. “Do you have any other clothes with you?”
“Yes, sir, but not a suit I was on my way to Port Aransas.”
“Of course. Well, we won’t be very formal. And we’ll still make sure you reach the beach today. Cindy, this is Mr. Marshall. He’s going to represent Wayne Orkney. Would you please show him where he can confer with his client before the arraignment”
Wayne Orkney? It was maybe the guiltiest-sounding name Jordan had ever heard. Some local thug heading back to prison for his fifth or sixth conviction, probably. He hoped this wouldn’t take long. Contrary to what he’d unctuously declared to the judge, he did consider every minute spent in Green Hills (was that the improbable name of this backwater?) a waste.
“I guess the judge means for you to talk to Wayne before they bring him over,” the secretary said. She looked Jordan up and down, once, as if now that he’d been revealed as a lawyer rather than a criminal her opinion of him had declined.
As she wrote out an authorization, Jordan reflected that Deputy Delmore’s dire forecast had proven accurate. He was on his way to jail after all.
When he should have been, by rights, close enough to the beach by now to smell the salt. This was the weirdest speed trap he’d ever heard of.
2
Attempted murder,” the district attorney said. “And we’ll consider taking a plea today if you’re inclined.”
“Well, wait a minute,” Jordan said. “I couldn’t do that. I need to do some investigation first”
The DA shrugged. “If you want. There’s your witness list.”
He had just handed Jordan a police report Attached to it was a list of eyewitnesses that made it appear Jordan’s as-yet-unseen client had committed the crime in the middle of a football stadium at halftime of a big game. “All these people and nobody tried to stop it?”
“It happened pretty quick. By the time anybody could get between them, Kevin Wainwright was just a heap in the dirt.”
Jordan was quickly skimming the police report. “Well, this was just a fistfight. Aggravated assault at most. What makes it attempted murder? Where’s your intent?”
The DA leaned forward to flip the report to its second page. “That will be tricky,” he drawled. “We’ll just have to go with the fact that he shouted, ‘I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch,’ right before he jumped the victim.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “I guess, yes, to a lay witness, without the benefit of legal training, that might be taken for intent to murder.”
“Or to twelve lay jurors.”
Jordan laughed. “Oh, sure, to a jury.” The district attorney chuckled along with him. So far the prosecutor and Jordan weren’t opponents, they were just fellow lawyers reviewing a case. If things went well, they could maintain that amiable relationship.
When the judge’s clerk had called the jail, she had learned that Wayne Orkney was already in transit, so Jordan had decided to meet the prosecutor while he waited. As it turned out, the district attorney was handling the case personally rather than turning it over to his staff—that is, to his one assistant. The DA’s name was Mike Arriendez. He had jet black hair but skin only slightly browner than Jordan’s, as if he avoided the sun. He and Jordan were on friendly terms at once, especially after Jordan had explained that almost all his own legal career had been spent as a prosecutor and that he still felt like one.
He was still in the habit of analyzing a case from the prosecution viewpoint—assuming, for example, that most of the witnesses would condemn the defendant—instead of searching for signs hopeful to the defense. But even when he looked for the holes in the case before him, it still looked like a lay-down. No wonder the DA had decided to prosecute it personally.
So Jordan wouldn’t be here long. He might as well make a pleasant experience of it “First offense?” he asked, less than hopefully. There was no rap sheet in the thin sheaf of papers he’d been handed.
The DA nodded. “As good as. Couple of misdemeanors, but nothing serious.”
That made things easier. Jordan ran it through the prosecution computer that was still part of his brain. First offense, really just a fight that got out of hand. It was a probation case, nothing more. He might be done with this case by noon after all, assuming his client was willing to do the right thing.
“So you have an offer?” he asked lazily.
“Twenty,” Mike Arriendez answered just as lazily. “And for that we won’t ask for an affirmative finding that his fists were deadly weapons.”
“Twenty?” Twenty years was the maximum sentence for what the defendant was charged with, attempted murder. Leaving off an affirmative finding would make Wayne Orkney eligible for parole earlier, but it was still far from an enticing offer. For a first offense, it was a ridiculous offer. “I thought we were going to work this out quick,” Jordan said. “I’m on my way to the beach.”
Arriendez shrugged. “If we haggled over it for hours and hours, I might come down to eighteen, but that’s as good as it would get. We couldn’t accept anything less than that.”
“Come on. You like this on all your cases? Where’s my incentive to plead?”
The district attorney gestured at the police report. “Where’s my incentive to come lower?”
Jordan said, “Well, I couldn’t take that. I’d rather go to the judge for punishment without a recommendation.”
“We could do it that way,” Arriendez said easily, so easily it gave Jordan pause. He’d better ask around first, find out what kind of sentencer the old judge was. He remembered the dark eyes and acerbic humor. Mercy might be a seldom- used component of Judge Waverly’s sentencing repertoire. “I’ll just talk to my client and get back to you.”
“Do that,” Arriendez said. Only two little syllables, but there was in them that same quality of restrained anticipation that had been in everything the prosecutor said, as if Arriendez knew of unhappy surprises lying in wait for Jordan.
Jordan lingered. “What’s this Wayne Orkney like?”
Arriendez frowned. “He’s the kind of guy who could try to beat his best friend to death.”
“His best friend?” Jordan had a glimmer of an idea. “Where’s the victim now?”
“Still in the hospital.”
Jordan studied the prosecutor a moment longer. Arriendez looked only slightly older than Jordan, closer to forty than to thirty: young to hold his position of authority, especially in a county where conservative Anglos probably still outnumbered Mexican-Americans at the polls. Arriendez would be skilled at appeasing the public interests. There was something powerful about him or something devious, and Jordan felt sure he held a wealth of information, but he wouldn’t be sharing it. One didn’t get to Mike Arriendez’s position by giving away secrets.
The courtroom was staffed when he returned to it. A bailiff—Mexican-American, young, but overweight in th
e traditional way of bailiffs—sat at his desk near the front of the room, opposite the jury box. He looked up quickly when Jordan entered, and his stare hardened. He didn’t ask if Jordan needed help, which was a way of asking his business, so he must already have been informed of Jordan’s reason for being there. The clerk, Cindy, busy at her station beside and below the judge’s bench, saw Jordan and turned away and left the room.
The court reporter was loading paper into the machine she would use to record any testimony. Her hands, which were her livelihood, moved efficiently, even as she watched Jordan walk to the center of the room. Her mouth was held in a tight line, making her lips almost disappear. Her cheeks and nose thinned with disapproval.
For all the traditional south Texas friendliness evident in the room, he might as well have been in Dallas. The court staff had never seen Jordan before, and he doubted they were clothing critics, so the hostility must have been aimed at his client. In his own amiable way, the DA also obviously held a grudge against the defendant with his twenty-year offer. This Wayne Orkney must be the terror of the town. They’d finally caught him at something, and they were going to hammer him. Well, fine. Jordan’s role would just be to step to the side a little, which he was perfectly willing to do if someone would only let him know what was going on.
The pebbled glass doors behind Jordan opened and some kid pushed through. Jordan knew him at once for a defendant. He had that sullen, hopeless look of someone who blamed everything on bad breaks. The kid’s black T-shirt emphasized his skinniness. His cheeks were covered in black stubble, and his eyes were sunk in dark hollows as if he’d been up all night doing something bad for him. His eyes were downcast.
A sheriff’s deputy pushed in behind him, holding the kid’s skinny arm, and Jordan saw that the kid’s hands were handcuffed behind him. Jordan looked past him for the rest of the prisoners, in particular for the monster Jordan had been assigned, but there were no others.
Jordan stared as the deputy, a heavy Anglo man with arms twice as thick as the handcuffed kid’s, guided his charge to the long bench at the back of the courtroom, and pushed him down onto it with no hint of gentleness. The prisoner didn’t seem to notice his treatment. His eyes stayed lowered.
Jordan walked to the back of the courtroom. Behind him, the bailiff was also in motion. The deputy escorting the prisoner gave the bailiff a friendly one-finger salute, said, “Hey, Emilio,” then noticed Jordan.
“Is this Wayne Orkney?” Jordan’s question was freighted with doubt
The deputy had deep, painful-looking wrinkles in his cheeks and iron-gray, curly hair at his temples. He looked as if he opened pecans by cracking them against his forehead. He glared at Jordan through amber lenses. “Who’re you?”
“I’m his lawyer.”
The deputy’s eyes searched Jordan for worthy qualities and found none, but then he glanced past him and received some sort of affirmation, so he didn’t block Jordan’s approach to the prisoner slumped on the bench.
“I need to talk to him before the hearing. Would you mind removing his handcuffs?”
The deputy unclipped the keys from his gunbelt weighed them in his palm, and walked away with them. Jordan rolled his eyes. He turned his attention to his client who hadn’t moved since being deposited on the bench. This was the scourge of Green Hills? It must be a featherweight town, because this guy looked less menacing than a banana peel on a staircase. He couldn’t have been in the terror business very long either; Jordan doubted the kid was as old as the twenty years he’d been offered for his crime.
“Mr. Orkney?” No response. Jordan sat beside him. “Wayne? My name is Jordan Marshall. Judge Waverly appointed me to represent you. Understand? I’m your attorney.”
He waited. Wayne Orkney finally muttered, without ever looking up, “ ’Kay.”
“Do you know what they’re charging you with, Wayne? Has anyone told you? Attempted murder. They say you tried to kill this Kevin Wainwiight.” Wayne Orkney’s head jerked, but he didn’t form his reaction into words. Jordan continued. He found himself leaning lower, as if trying to talk to someone in a cave. “Now, the penalty range for attempted murder is two to twenty years. In the penitentiary. Understand? If you get sentenced to ten years or less, though, you’d be eligible for probation. Do you know what that is? Wayne, could you help me out a little?”
His client nodded, but in response to what, it was impossible to tell.
“Just lift your head a little, Wayne, okay? Look around you and see where you are. The judge is going to come out in a minute and tell you what your rights are and ask you to enter a plea. Say whether you plead guilty or not guilty to attempted murder. Now, I haven’t heard your side of the story yet, obviously, but I’ve read the police report, and I think they’ve got you overcharged. I think it should be aggravated assault at the worst; that’s only got a maximum of ten years. Understand? Now, I understand this Kevin Wainwright that you hit is a friend of yours, is that right?” Wayne Orkney’s eyes showed the first glimmer of light. He nodded.
“Well, that could be good or bad, I don’t know. I’ll need to talk to him. And to you. But we don’t have time right now. For today just follow my lead and say ‘Not guilty’ when I tell you.
“Oh, one other thing. The DA’s made an offer for you to plead guilty, a real preliminary offer, I’m sure he’ll come down later on, but I have an obligation to pass the offer on to you. He’s offered twenty years. Maybe eighteen, he said.” Wayne Orkney said his second word of the conversation. No, it was the same word. “ ‘Kay,” he said, nodding.
“No, no. We’re not going to accept that. That’s a crazy offer. Just—”
“All rise.”
Jordan was automatically on his feet at once. His client was slower. He didn’t do anything until Jordan took his arm and pulled him upward. The defendant seemed without volition. If Jordan hadn’t kept hold of his arm, Orkney might have kept rising, like a helium balloon.
It occurred to Jordan that the cops had done something to Orkney to zombify him. “How long have you been in jail?” he whispered as he led his client up the aisle to the front of the courtroom, but he didn’t get even a shrug in reply.
Judge Waverly was standing beside his chair. In his black robe he looked no more formidable than he had in his office, but the robe seemed to make him hold his head higher and gaze more sternly. Jordan wished he had a robe to hide his stupid shorts and polo shirt.
The judge sat and immediately said, “We’ll hear case number one two four CR, State of Texas versus Wayne Truman Orkney. Is the State ready?”
“Ready, Your Honor,” Mike Arriendez said crisply.
“The defense?”
“Ready, Your Honor,” Jordan said quickly. “Jordan Marshall appearing for the defendant.”
He glanced at the court reporter to see if she’d caught his name. The court reporter was staring straight ahead at the side wall, her hands on the keys of her machine, her posture rigid. The other court personnel were stiff, too, all of them staring at the defendant.
Judge Waverly turned his attention in that direction as well. “Mr. Orkney, this is an arraignment, your first court appearance on this case. I have appointed Mr. Marshall to represent you. Do you understand?”
The judge’s dark eyes were steady, their gaze almost palpable. They managed to do what Jordan had not: bring Orkney out of his daze. The defendant blinked in the strong light of the judge’s stare. Orkney looked more alert. He also suddenly looked frightened. “Yes, sir,” he said.
The judge went on to explain Orkney’s rights as a defendant, all the while holding him in that stare, so that Orkney answered quickly when asked whether he understood. All eyes in the courtroom stayed on the kid by Jordan’s side—except the court reporter’s, whose whole attention was focused in her ears—and the stares were hostile.
The judge was finishing reading the complaint, the document prepared by the district attorney’s office detailing the accusation
against Wayne Orkney. There hadn’t yet been time for a grand jury to indict Jordan’s client, but if the grand jury here was as compliant as most of those Jordan had known, when their indictment did come down, its language would be identical to what they were hearing Judge Waveriy intone now: “ ... intentionally and knowingly attempted to cause the death of Kevin Wainwright by striking Kevin Wainwright with his hands.’ In other words, Mr. Orkney, you are accused of committing attempted murder. How do you plead to that charge?”
Silence. Jordan nudged his client with his elbow, then looked at him. The silence wasn’t because Orkney had fallen back into his trance. He was staring at the judge, begging for the right answer or for a way out “Not guilty, Your Honor,” Jordan declared The judge’s stare settled on him. It was a heavy weight “Is that the defendant's plea?”
“Mindful of my responsibilities, Your Honor, I couldn’t let him enter any other plea at a preliminary arraignment. We haven’t even had a chance to confer about the facts of the case yet The district attorney has made a generous plea bargain offer—”
The judge shot a look at the prosecutor, who held up his hands and shook his head. Jordan, watching the exchange, didn’t pause a beat. “—but from my reading of the offense report it seems likely to me that the charge might be reduced as part of a plea bargain. There even seems to be the possibility the charge might be dropped altogether, since the defendant and the complainant are friends, I’m told." There was a gentle stir in the courtroom, like a breeze that springs up on a summer afternoon and touches everyone on a city block but offers no relief because the breeze is as hot as the surrounding air. Jordan couldn’t tell the source of the stir.
“Slim chance of that, Your Honor,” Arriendez said.
“I’m sure all the possibilities are slender ones, but there are enough of them that we can’t enter a final plea until after indictment. In the meantime, Your Honor, I don’t know if bail has been set yet, but the defense would ask the court to set bail in a reasonable amount. I’m sure—”
