by Scott Pratt
“Are you asking the court to appoint a lawyer to represent you free of charge?”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
“Forgive me, Your Honor, but that seems hard to believe,” Ben Clancy said from my right. “Mr. Street has been practicing law for several years now, and from everything I’ve heard, he seems to be quite busy, quite successful. As a matter of fact, if I’m not totally misinformed, he recently moved into a half-million-dollar home. And surely he has financial accounts, investments, things of that nature. The federal defender program is designed to help indigent defendants, people who have no means to hire a lawyer. I don’t believe for a second that Mr. Street is indigent.”
“I might be able to work out some kind of financing arrangement with an attorney if I was going to be able to continue to work,” I said to the judge. “But I don’t see that happening. Does Your Honor intend to set me a reasonable bail?”
“He’s charged with first-degree murder,” Clancy said. “We have a strong case against him. He’s a danger to the community.”
“I’ve lived here my entire life,” I said. “My family is here. I’ve never been charged with any kind of crime until this. I’m not a flight risk, judge. I plan to prove myself innocent and go back to practicing law.”
“You’re representing yourself right now,” Judge Geer said. “That’s never a good idea. And the answer to your question is no. I’m not going to set you a bail. Mr. Clancy is right. The indictment charges you with a premeditated murder by ambush. I’m going to ask you to fill out an application for an appointed lawyer. If you meet the criteria, I’ll approve the application. If not, I’ll expect you to hire a lawyer and have him here the next time you appear in court, which will be a week from today. We’ll do a formal arraignment then.”
I cringed at the thought of waiting a week to find out who my lawyer was going to be, but there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. The marshal took me by the arm and led me toward the inmate exit. I looked back over my shoulder at my mom, who was standing there with tears running down her cheeks. Just as we cleared the door, another marshal appeared. He was carrying a sheaf of papers, which he handed to me with a smile.
“Looks like your wife isn’t impressed,” he said.
I looked down at the papers. Katie had either been preparing or she had flashed some money at a divorce lawyer over the weekend, probably money given to her by her parents or her geriatric boyfriend. I read through the papers quickly: a petition for divorce that asked for all of our assets plus full custody of Sean; a temporary injunction barring me from going anywhere near my home, my wife, or my child; and a petition to terminate my parental rights.
It was Monday at ten in the morning. It looked like I was in for a hell of a week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Grace Alexander, at thirty years old, was the youngest federal defender in the Knoxville office. She scanned through the e-mails on her phone, looked up at the clock on her office wall, and drew in a deep breath. She let it out slowly, then started tapping a pen on the top of her desk.
Twenty-four hours earlier, Grace had been assigned to represent Darren Street. It was a huge case as far as publicity, and that was exciting, but it was also a first-degree murder, and the stakes were high for her client. She hadn’t yet met Street, but she was about to meet his mother. The woman had been calling for days, asking whether the judge had appointed a lawyer for her son. Yesterday, she’d been told yes, and she had asked immediately to speak with Grace.
Grace had dealt with mothers of clients in the past. For the most part, she’d found them to be unrealistic excuse makers, blind to the things their offspring had done, and unwilling to accept that their babies were headed to prison. But this one had seemed reasonable on the phone, so Grace reluctantly agreed when she asked if she could come to Grace’s office and talk.
Grace stood as the woman walked in. She was attractive, around fifty, with brown hair and green eyes.
“Miss Alexander?” the woman said.
Grace could tell immediately that she was expecting someone older. She looked dismayed.
“Yes.”
“I’m Shirley Royston, Darren’s mother.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Grace motioned to a chair, and Ms. Royston sat down.
“How can I help you, Ms. Royston?” Grace said.
“I just wanted to come here and look you in the eye and tell you my son is innocent,” Ms. Royston said.
It was all Grace could do to keep from rolling her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said.
“I was with him all during that week because his wife was too self-absorbed to give a damn about her own child. He didn’t kill anyone, Miss Alexander. The problem we’re going to have, I believe, is that we don’t have . . . oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? When you can prove you were somewhere else when something happened?”
“An alibi?”
“Exactly. We don’t have an alibi.”
Of course you don’t, Grace wanted to say. Nobody ever has an alibi when they’re guilty.
Instead, she said, “Why not?”
“From what I understand,” Ms. Royston said, “Mr. Jordan was shot and killed on Thursday afternoon that week, sometime in the early afternoon. Darren was fishing with his son, Sean, during that time, but I doubt that there’s a videotape of it.”
“Maybe he stopped and bought gas or something,” Grace said. “I’ll ask him when I go talk to him tomorrow.”
“So you haven’t talked to him yet?”
“No, ma’am. They just told me about the case assignment yesterday afternoon, right before you called. I’m planning to meet with several people today and find out what I can, and then I’ll go to Maryville and talk with him tomorrow.”
“Would you like for me to fill you in on what happened leading up to the shooting?”
“By all means.”
Grace listened as Shirley Royston recounted the unbelievable tale of what had happened to her son that week. She took detailed notes, nodded a lot, and asked a great deal of questions. When Ms. Royston was finished, Grace said, “Wow, that’s quite a story.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that,” Grace lied. “I just said it’s quite a story. So while all of this was going on, someone else apparently shot Jalen Jordan on a trail in Gatlinburg.”
“That’s right, and we don’t have any idea who it was or why he or she did it. We were just relieved to know that Sean was safe.”
“And this was after Darren had talked to the FBI?”
“The day after, I believe. Are you going to be able to get Darren out of this?”
“I have no idea, Ms. Royston. It’s too early to make any kind of prediction. I have no idea what kind of proof they have, but my experience with the federal government has been that if they indict and arrest someone, they have a pretty strong case, or at least they think they do.”
“How well do you know Ben Clancy?”
“Fairly well on a professional level. Not at all personally.”
“Do you like him?”
“I don’t really like to talk about people, Ms. Royston.”
“So you don’t like him. Please do me a favor and look up the history between Mr. Clancy and my son. There’s a case—State of Tennessee versus Tommy Royston—that should tell you everything you need to know. Tommy was my brother, Darren’s uncle. Ben Clancy convicted him of murdering his wife when he knew all along my brother didn’t do it. Darren hates him.”
“Does Darren hate a lot of people?”
“No. Darren is a good person, Miss Alexander. An extremely good person who has worked hard to get to where he is. No one has given him a thing. His father was awful. He used to beat him terribly. He beat both of us terribly, and I think Darren developed some issues be
cause of that. Darren was the one who finally stood up to his father. He was only thirteen, but one night when Billy—that was Darren’s father’s name—started in on me, Darren beat him up with a baseball bat and dragged him out of the house. He told him he had to leave, that he was never going to hurt either of us again, and he meant it. I think Darren would have killed him if it had come down to it, but Billy was a drunk and a coward and he just left and never came back. Darren probably suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, and he has a bit of a hero complex. I think that’s why he got into criminal defense law, that and what happened to my brother.”
Beautiful, Grace thought. My new client beat his father with a baseball bat and has some issues.
“I appreciate you helping me understand, Ms. Royston,” Grace said, “but it would probably be best if you didn’t say anything about Darren’s mental or emotional issues to anyone else.”
“What? Oh, right, of course. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I just told you that because . . . oh, well, I don’t know why I told you other than I want you to understand why Darren might have overreacted at first to his son being threatened. But he didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never known him to own a rifle and I don’t think he’s ever been hunting. And besides, how could Darren have known where Jalen Jordan would be that Thursday? He wasn’t spying on him. We were hiding from him.”
Grace nodded and looked at the clock on the wall. She had another meeting in ten minutes.
“Ms. Royston,” she said, “I really appreciate you coming in to talk with me, but I have another—”
“Wait, please. Would you mind telling me just a little bit about yourself? The rest of my son’s life is apparently going to be at stake. I’d like to know something about the person who is going to be representing him.”
“Of course,” Grace said, not really wanting to tell the woman anything. “What would you like to know?”
“I’m not sure. How old are you, for starters?”
“I’m thirty.”
“And how long have you been out of law school? Five years or so?”
“Right. Five years. I graduated from the law school at Vanderbilt University, and then I clerked for Judge Donald Kincaid in Memphis for two years. I applied for the federal defender program and was lucky enough to get a job in Knoxville. I’ve been here for three years.”
Grace saw Ms. Royston’s eyes pass over her left hand, which did not display any rings.
“Do your parents live here?”
Grace smiled and shook her head.
“No, ma’am. My parents are in San Diego. My father is a colonel in the Marine Corps, a career officer. My mother teaches journalism at San Diego State University.”
“So you’ve traveled a lot.”
“We actually spent a lot of time in San Diego because that’s where my dad’s unit is headquartered. He was gone a lot, but it wasn’t all that bad.”
“Are you close to your parents?”
Grace thought about her answer for a second, and then said, “Why is that important, Ms. Royston?”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry. It’s just that Darren and I are very close. We always have been, mostly because of what we went through with his father, I’m sure. And the thought of him sitting in a jail or a prison . . . the thought of him being convicted of a murder . . .”
Ms. Royston’s voice trailed off and tears began to stream down her face.
“Please, Miss Alexander,” she said, “please don’t let Ben Clancy destroy my son. I’m terrified for Darren because I know what Clancy is capable of.”
“I’ll do what I can, Ms. Royston,” Grace said, growing more uncomfortable by the second as this stranger wept in front of her. She reached into a desk drawer, brought out a box of tissues, and offered it to her client’s mother. “But I have to warn you, it isn’t easy to win against the United States government in federal court.”
Ms. Royston stood, wiping her eyes with tissue.
“I’ll go now,” she said. “I’m sure you’re very busy. Just please, please remember that Darren is innocent. He’s worth fighting for.”
Grace watched her turn and walk out the door. When it closed, she said under her breath, “Right. Your son is innocent, and I’m the Easter Bunny.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
On Thursday, the guards showed up at my cell, slapped the cuffs and shackles on me, and led me to the attorney’s room. Sitting at the table was a young, pretty-in-a-prudish-kind-of-way, green-eyed blonde wearing a pink blouse and designer glasses that were perched on a perfect nose. I sat down across from her and didn’t say a word.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” she said after a minute or so.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m your lawyer.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a kid.”
“I’m also your lawyer. My name is Grace Alexander. I’m with the Federal Defender’s Office and I’ve been assigned to your case.”
“How old are you?”
She looked at me like she might spit in my eye. “I’m old enough to have graduated from high school, college, and law school. I’m old enough to have passed the bar and gotten a job in the Federal Defender’s Office. I’m old enough to have tried fifteen trials to a jury, two of which I managed to win. I’m old enough—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Did you just say you’re two and thirteen as a trial lawyer? Two wins, thirteen losses?”
“Most of them were drug cases where the government was offering thirty years. My clients felt like they might as well go to trial and take a shot with a jury. They were really no worse off having gone to trial and lost, and it gave me some valuable experience.”
“Wow, good for you,” I said. “Tried any murders?”
“Two.”
“Lose both of them?”
“Sure did.”
“Why?”
“Because my clients were guilty.”
She was young, but she was poised, and I’d known criminal defense lawyers who absolutely never tried a case to a jury. They were terrified of juries and resolved every case by plea agreement. This young lady had tried fifteen cases, and even though I was giving her a hard time, I was impressed.
“I can’t tell you how comforted I am that you’ve been assigned to my case.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you should have saved some money so you could hire a real lawyer.”
“If I’d known I was going to get charged with first-degree murder, I would have saved every dime I ever earned. Even that probably wouldn’t have been enough.”
“Probably not,” she said.
“I’m not guilty, you know.”
“Good for you. It always makes me feel better about representing someone when they come right out and tell me that, even if they aren’t telling the truth, and my experience has been that about ninety-nine percent of them aren’t telling the truth.”
“I’m telling the truth. I didn’t kill anyone.”
She folded her hands on top of the table and held my gaze. Her eyes were flecked with black, extremely pretty.
“Judge Geer is going to arraign you formally Monday morning at nine,” she said. “You can forget bail. I already talked to him and it isn’t going to happen. I spoke to both him and Mr. Clancy, and it looks like the soonest we can get the trial done will be six months from now, probably late September.”
“What do you think of Clancy?” I said.
“I think he’s a snake in the grass. He’d do anything to win a case, and he feels a special sort of loathing for you.”
“So you know what we’re up against.”
“I know exactly what we’re up against. Eight of my fifteen trials have been against Ben Clancy.”
“Have you beaten him?”
“Not yet, but back to what I was saying. The judge has a
greed to have you transferred to Knoxville so it will be easier for me to talk to you, but the Knox County sheriff says since you’re charged with first-degree murder, you have to stay on a max block. That means the same drill as here—twenty-three hours locked down in the cell. I also met with your mother yesterday, so I know basically what happened, although I’m going to need to hear it from you several times.”
“Why several times?” I said.
“Because it’s such a wild story that if you’re lying, you won’t be able to keep everything straight.”
“Fair enough.”
“I don’t want to get into it here today because I don’t really trust this place, but if you can figure out a way to get a cell to yourself when they move you downtown it would help a great deal as far as you and I being able to speak openly. I’ve never known of the Knox County sheriff to put listening devices in the attorney’s room, but from what your mother told me about you and Clancy, we should probably be extra careful.”
“Fine,” I said. “Extra careful.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she said. She stood, closed her briefcase, and within a minute, the only thing left was the scent of her perfume.
“I didn’t kill anybody,” I said to the walls. “I need you to know that, and I need you to believe it. I didn’t kill Jalen Jordan.”
The guards came in and led me back to the cell. As soon as they’d unlocked the handcuffs and closed the pie hole, I turned around and looked at Hillbilly.
“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “If you wanted to get a cell to yourself, how would you go about it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They moved me about twelve hours later. I was asleep in the cell at four in the morning when the guards came. They hustled me through the building, back through booking and the sally port, and chained me to a cold, steel ring inside a white van. We arrived at the Knox County Jail in downtown Knoxville in less than forty-five minutes, where I had to go through the entire booking procedure again. The sadistic bastards even strip-searched me again, made me squat and cough, spread my butt cheeks, and shower in front of them. There was absolutely no reason for them to do it—I’d been removed from a cell and had been supervised every step of the way—but they did it anyway. They gave me a fresh gray-and-white-striped jumpsuit, flip-flops, and the same thin bedding and led me to another maximum security cellblock. I was as humiliated as I’d been the first time they made me squat and cough, but this time there was another emotion pushing its way to the front: anger. I was already tired of being herded and humiliated and treated like an animal, and I was only a few days into it. Just as we were walking up to the cell door, one of the guards, who looked like all the rest of the guards—a white, muscle-bound skinhead—said, “Joe DuBose hired me, dickhead. I can’t wait for you to give me an excuse to bust your skull open.”
