Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  And because of the company they kept, P.D.s were universally despised—by the judges, the D.A.s, the public; and, because they were usually the bearers of bad news, even their clients.

  Summer slid her ID card into an electronic lock and opened a frosted glass door: Haze County Public Defenders Office. She breezed down cramped aisles, smiling and issuing silent hellos to the paralegals and receptionists.

  It was an hour after the verdict had been read, and she was calm. She had filed away Marsalis in an isolated part of her mind, and this enabled her to function. All public defenders acquired this skill; if you didn’t, you wouldn’t last. Like her father, a homicide detective who had worked the other side of the criminal justice system, had taught her. Got the flu? Suck down some vitamin C and get back to work. Depressed? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Got menstrual cramps during closing arguments? Walk it off. Because when others depend on you, there are no excuses.

  Summer headed to the conference room, where her boss, Jon Levi, and her BFF, Rosie Aridjis, were chatting over lunch.

  Levi was gesturing with his hands. “...waiting for the light to change. If I’m late again Judge Landburgh’s going to serve my scrotum on a plate. So I sprint across even though the light was red. I figure I’m in the clear until a cop pulls me over. I just about spew my lunch: Patrolman Samuel Hoeg. I’d skewered him on cross like a week ago. I figure just to get back at me he’s going to throw me in the slammer. I mean, for jay-fuckin’-walkin’?”

  Rosie was painting her fingernails maroon to match her toes. Her arms were scarred from the removal of gang tattoos. “They love doing shit like that to Latinos,” she said, not looking up from her brush. “Just to fuck with us.”

  When they caught sight of Summer, they applauded.

  “Congrats on your first ‘not guilty,’” Levi said.

  Summer bowed her head a smidge. It had been a hollow victory, but it was a victory nevertheless.

  “How’d Gundy take the agony of defeat?” Rosie asked.

  Summer flipped her lunch bag on the table, next to some mail. She picked up the stack of post-its and envelopes and peeked under the rubber band. “Señor Gundy didn’t show, so Raines did the honors.” She turned to Rosie. “Did that new secretary give you my mail again?”

  Rosie nodded with sarcastic eyes. “He can’t remember who’s who.”

  “Actually,” Levi reflected, “except for the hair and Rosie’s nightmarish taste in clothes, you could be sisters.”

  Rosie sputtered. “My taste in clothes? Look at you, dressed like some acid-popping hairy-legged commune-dwelling”—she turned sweet when Levi raised an eyebrow—“first class legal mind. It is an honor, an honor I say, to serve under you.”

  “Duly noted,” Levi said. “Sure not like Gundy to miss a rape verdict.”

  Summer shrugged. “What happened with Hoeg?”

  “Oh, yeah. So I’m wearing this Jerry Garcia tie and the same suit I wore to this party a few days ago, and I—shut up, Rosie.”

  Rosie’s neon-charged smile caused her to trap a hair in the crook of her mouth. Because her nails were wet, she couldn’t get to it. She tried spitting it out. Summer pulled it free. “Thanks. I didn’t say anything, Jon.”

  “You didn’t have to. Anyway, I remember I have this joint in my pocket. I could see the Haze County Register headlines: ‘County’s Chief Public Defender Arrested for Drugs.’”

  “So,” Rosie asked, “you do some kung-fu action upside his head? Or did you beg?”

  “I begged. ‘Please officer, I’m late to court. No hard feelings because I questioned your manhood on the stand, blah blah blah.’ He let me go with a warning.”

  “Close call.” Summer unwrapped her sandwich. “Good thing they don’t drug test public defenders. If they did, there wouldn’t be any.”

  Rosie blew on her nails. “You know, the cops who get all righteous over traffic laws are usually the ones who shake down dealers and then re-sell their shit on the street.”

  “Well,” Levi said, turning to Summer, “enlighten us, oh victorious one. How’d you manage to win an acquittal in a case where the cops had a fucking video of the crime in progress?”

  Summer reached down to pick her napkin off the floor. “Davenport’s phone records show she phoned my client a bunch of times before and after the incident. She took the stand and denied it.”

  “Awesome!”

  “I hated it, Jon. My client was… ” Summer paused, unsure how much to reveal. “I’ve never had a case where I knew the guy was guilty and a threat to public safety and still got him off.”

  “That’s because you never won before,” Rosie said.

  “Nobody wins around here,” Levi said. “Hell, it took me six years before I won one, and that was in the days when the State Supreme Court was liberal and the legislature hadn’t gotten into the act. Back then, you had a fighting chance. Now it’s just one big funnel to convict. But what do I always tell you guys?”

  Summer and Rosie said in unison, “Don’t get caught up personally with clients or the case. Just provide the best possible defense counsel possible.”

  They laughed as Levi offered mock applause. “If you have a picture of the guy, I could pass it out to the bailiffs, make sure he doesn’t show up here or in court,” he said.

  Summer considered it, but no. Marsalis was right. After getting him off, there was no way Summer could ask for protection. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Want me to get some of my, uh, associates to kick his ass?” Rosie often defended old acquaintances from the ’hood.

  “Do you have pics of the alleged rapee?” Levi asked.

  Summer rummaged through her briefcase and showed them a xeroxed photo of Davenport.

  Levi whistled. “I’d do her.”

  Rosie squinted. “Shit. I’d do her, too.”

  P.D. lore: The chances of winning acquittal in a rape case diminish with the attractiveness of the victim.

  Summer pushed her sandwich away and stood up to stretch. “I’m still recovering from Tuesday’s closing arguments. My butt fell asleep.”

  “Gundy does go on,” Rosie said. “Whenever I go mujer-a-mano with Gundy I’m tempted to bring my ben-wa balls to court. Give myself something to do until he stops talking—or I find a boyfriend—whichever comes first.”

  “When you object, you’d better stay seated,” Summer said. “Anyway, I thought you had a boyfriend.”

  “We broke up.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Levi broke in. “Speaking of Gundy, did you hear? Jack Brauer got out of county psych last week.” Noting Summer and Rosie’s blank expressions, he clarified. “I guess that was before your time. About what, eight years ago, this pro-life artichoke shot Jonathan Sadbury, an abortion doc, in the head, right outside his clinic. Gundy, as you know, is pro-life himself—”

  “Except when he’s prosecuting one of our clients,” Summer interrupted.

  “—And he let Brauer plead not guilty by reason of insanity and had him committed. Now Brauer’s free.”

  “I remember this,” Summer said. “His wife was that feminist who goes by initials, SK.”

  “Right. When Gundy let Brauer cop an insanity plea, SK said the minute Brauer got out she’d hunt Gundy down and blow him away.”

  “It’d sure save us a lot of grief if she made good on it.” Rosie poured soda into her mouth without letting the can touch her lips.

  “They never give insanity to us, only when they know they’ll score political points.” Summer sat down and picked at the remnants of her sandwich.

  Rosie rested her head on the cool of the conference table. “Man, I think the nail polish got me high.”

  “Don’t let Officer Hoeg hear you.” Levi tapped Summer on the shoulder. “At least Marsalis is out of your hair.”

  “I hope so,” Summer said, nibbling on leftover sandwich bits. “He’s a computer hacker. Today, during the reading of the verdict, he greeted me with my
financial records.”

  “Guess he wanted to ensure primo service,” Rosie said.

  Levi dished the remains of his potato salad into the trash. “Spooky. But hell, we make so little money, what harm could he do?”

  Summer rubbed her eyes. “I am so sorry I got him off.”

  Levi tucked his Tupperware into his briefcase. “Think of it this way: He makes up for some of the innocent clients who are convicted.”

  Rosie perked her head up. “Yeah, all one of them.”

  * * *

  Outside Summer’s office, Rosie had tacked up a Not Guilty banner, which would stay up until someone else got a client off. Could be a while. Summer leafed through her mail and checked her voicemail—the usual junk, clients demanding action, D.A.s demanding discovery evidence, P.D.s from other cities demanding information on ex-clients.

  The last message was from Eddie of Brockton, Myers & Bellamy, a glitzy firm specializing in defending pimps, drug dealers, and prostitutes. The only difference between their clients and Summer’s was that theirs earned a better living breaking the law and could afford private attorneys. Every few months Brockton called to offer Summer a position; but not, she knew, because she was a good attorney. To Brockton, she would always be just a nice-looking piece of furniture. Summer crumpled up the note, but then after thinking about it, smoothed it out and dropped it in her purse.

  On her way out, Summer passed Levi’s office. He motioned for her to come in. “I know I said this already, but nice work on the video-rape trial. You’ve come a long way.”

  “Thanks.” Summer checked her watch.

  “What are you working on next?”

  “Off to Court Nine to pick up a new client. His name is Jimi Cruz.”

  “What’d he do? Allegedly.” Levi smirked.

  “Petty theft at Neiman Marcus that turned into a felony-stupid when he assaulted a security guard. Until today, I didn’t know you could commit petty theft at Neiman Marcus.”

  “Hope he’s better behaved than your last.”

  Summer shrugged. “How about you?”

  Levi rolled down his sleeves. “After the verdict comes in on my capital case, I’m restarting jury selection for a molestation case. The judge wiped out the first batch with one question: Have any of you been molested or know someone who’s been molested? No shit. Sixty hands went up.”

  Levi gathered up his briefcase and walked with Summer to the elevator, cackling the whole way.

  He didn’t notice Summer wasn’t laughing.

  Chapter 3

  Court Nine was where arraignments were held. In a wire cage were about two dozen handcuffed men and a smattering of women, mostly hookers and dope shaggers. They were flanked by bailiffs. When Summer passed the cage, prisoners stomped, whistled, and made kissy noises.

  Summer didn’t look. She relied on the same steely resolve she used whenever she came here. She sat in the visitors’ gallery, in a section reserved for attorneys, and could almost hear her father’s words: Don’t let them get to you. Don’t ever show weakness. He had been talking about himself, his experiences as a cop; but for her, the same rules applied.

  She only had to wait a few minutes before Jimi Cruz’s name was called. A bailiff plucked a rangy kid out of the cage and stood him in front of the judge. His hair was matted in what were once-blond dreadlocks. He had dozens of tattoos—chains and snakes mostly—and piercings: rings and studs in his nose, eyebrow, earlobes, lip, and probably in places Summer didn’t care to know about.

  He was a member of the gutter tribes—suburban kids who came to the city to panhandle, sleep on the streets, and shoot heroin. Cruz wore a ripped tank top that, while once white, was now grimy puke. On his skin, where tattoos ended, filth began.

  “I’m your lawyer. Summer Neuwirth.” She handed him a business card.

  Cruz smiled, showing bad teeth. “I know. Been here before.”

  The arraignment judge, William Angiers, was second-generation Haze County judiciary. But while his father had clawed his way to a seat on the State Supreme Court, Angiers, because of a well-publicized drinking problem, was trapped here. Levi had warned Summer about Angiers her first day: Don’t talk back. He’s tough but fair, his wrath displayed in direct proportion to the degree of his hangover.

  But where was the district attorney? Although the D.A.’s office was notorious for bungling paperwork, no one ever missed an arraignment. Unless there was a mix up—or a crisis. First Gundy, now this. Summer wondered what was going on.

  Angiers shuffled through the pile of folders spread over his desk. “Cruz, Cruz,” he muttered. He looked over at his court clerk. “Where’s the file on Cruz?”

  The clerk searched through an even bigger pile, then shrugged.

  Angiers removed his eyeglasses, rubbed his eyes, and peered over his gavel. His face was even puffier than usual. Summer was struck by how labored his breathing was. “And where is the D.A.?”

  Summer, the clerk, the judge, and Cruz all scoured the courtroom, but came up empty.

  Angiers made a show of containing his anger. Then he turned to Cruz and growled, “Not in any hurry, are you, young man?”

  Cruz shook his head. “No, Your Honor. I’m very sorry the court has to take the time to locate my file. It must be frustrating to have to deal with bureaucracy on a day-to-day basis.”

  Angiers leaned forward, rested his elbow on the desk, propping his chin up with his hand, his attitude like, Wow, it can talk! “You went to college?”

  “Yes, sir. Two years at Wesleyan University.”

  “You dropped out?”

  Cruz nodded.

  “Drugs?”

  “Heroin.”

  Summer glanced at Cruz’s track-marked arm. He lived in a world of needles—from piercings to tattoos to heroin—pain and pleasure and image inextricably bound. The result was a generation of needle addicts, addicted to the needle as much as to the drug.

  Angiers eyed his clerk, who was now rifling through the files piled next to the judge. He snapped at her: “I already looked through those. Listen, find me a D.A. so we can clear up these cases. And call the police, see if they sent over this young man’s reports. I don’t even know what he’s been charged with. ”

  Cruz was rocking back and forth on his feet. “I was hungry, so I shoplifted a box of gourmet cookies, Your Honor. When the security guard grabbed me, I slugged him.”

  Summer wanted to slug Cruz. Although Angiers seemed pleased with his honesty, there went any plea bargain. She said, “Let me do the talking for you, Jimi. You’ll just get yourself in more hot water.”

  Through the courtroom doors, a bailiff rushed in, sweaty and breathless. “Permission to approach the bench,” he said.

  Angiers reveled in his testiness. “Not unless you can magically transform yourself into a district attorney. You know I do not like my court disrupted, Sal. Before I let you approach, I want my overpaid clerk to tell me where Mr. Cruz’s file is.”

  Sal scratched his arm. “It’s an emergency, Your Honor.”

  Angiers slammed down his mug, spilling coffee on his wrist. The clerk handed him napkins and Angiers mopped up the mess. “Oh, all right. What is it?”

  The bailiff climbed behind the bench and whispered in the judge’s ear. Angiers’s face blanched. He whispered back. When the bailiff nodded, Angiers’s head drooped. “Thank you, Sal,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time.”

  It took Angiers a few restless moments before he got back to Cruz. He removed his glasses, clenching them in his hand. Summer could see tears bunching in his eyes. “Young man, I wake up every morning wondering why I should cut anyone a break. Do you know what answer I come up with?”

  “No, sir.”

  “In the hopes they never end up in front of me in court ever again.” Angiers pointed to a wall of photos behind him, more than a hundred of them, neatly arranged. “These are portraits of people with whom I cut a deal. The few covered with yellow stickies were those foolish enough to
get in trouble with the law again, and they are now very sorry they did. Do you understand?”

  Cruz nodded.

  Angiers itched his scalp. “I view them as personal failures. And failure does not sit well with me. Do you promise you will never show your face around my court again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you swear to me you will seek treatment for your drug problem?”

  “Yeah, Judge. You have my word.”

  “I’m not sure what that’s worth. Approach the bench, Mr. Cruz.”

  First the file, then the D.A. a no-show. Today was Cruz’s lucky day. Usually, Angiers gave this speech only when the holding tank was about to bust open. Cruz ambled forward. The clerk dusted off the camera. Summer averted her eyes to avoid the flash and caught sight of Rosie.

  Rosie mouthed: I have to talk to you.

  Summer held up a finger: Wait a sec.

  “Ms. Neuwirth!” Angiers shouted.

  Summer jumped through her skin. “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “Explain to your client what has transpired. Give him the names of drug rehabilitation programs. Make sure you get the message across. Now, get him out of here before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, Judge Angiers. I will. And thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Cruz chimed in, bowing.

  As the clerk printed out the photo and stuck it up with the rest, Angiers adjourned for the day.

  Summer led Cruz to a side room where they sat catty-corner at a tiny broken desk, her back to the door. Too close for Summer’s comfort. There was always the possibility of contracting TB from clients, especially those who lived on the street.

  He had said he’d been here before. That meant he probably had at least one prior conviction, if not two. If he had two felony convictions, two strikes against him, then the judge had made a crucial error. If they found Cruz’s file, the police could drag him back.

  “Thanks for your help.” Cruz was shaking.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, um, thanks for being here. The last few times—”

  “I’ve been instructed by the court to provide you with the names of drug rehabilitation facilities.”