With the deputy’s help, Harlan stood and shuffled to the stand, his leg shackles clattering on the floor. The deputy put his arm around the elderly man as he painstakingly navigated the single step to the witness box.
“Mr. Hamilton,” said the judge, “do you, under the penalty of perjury, swear to tell the whole truth?”
“Yes, I do.”
“For the record,” Marc said from the podium, “please state your name.”
“Harlan Charles Hamilton.”
“Where do you currently reside?”
“Arrowhead Correctional Center in Canon City, Colorado.”
“What is the length of your sentence?”
“Ten to twelve years.”
“How far are you into that sentence?”
“Five years, eight months.”
“What were you convicted of?”
“I pleaded guilty to five counts of felony theft in excess of ten thousand dollars per count.”
“This was a plea bargain down from ten counts, and the total amount of how much?”
“One hundred thirty-six thousand.”
“That’s a very serious crime. How devastating was that to your victims?”
“I’ve thought about this every day for—” Harlan’s voice broke “—five years and eight months. My actions were unconscionable, and caused tremendous devastation to innocent people.”
“What have you done to make your victims whole?”
“Complete repayment to the victims was made within four years of my sentencing. I’ve also written letters of apology to each.”
“Why did you steal?”
“I needed the money to cover financial losses in my investment and retirement accounts.” Even from where Marc stood, he could see his father’s chin quivering. “Horribly, horribly selfish of me.”
Seeing his father’s weakened health, shackled arms and legs, and emotional desolation was ripping him apart. Marc looked at his file notes as though reading them, buying a few moments to calm himself.
“Where did you get the money to repay the victims?” he finally asked.
“You loaned it to me. Thank you, son.” Harlan looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I have only one son and he’s also my lawyer today.”
“I know, Mr. Hamilton. It’s obvious your son faithfully stands by you.”
Marc scratched the side of his face. “Mr. Hamilton, do you have family in the area who you plan to have around you, should you be released?”
“Yes. I have you. Some friends. I have my dearest granddaughter, who visits Denver. I have a long-standing friendship with a young woman seated in the gallery.”
“For the record, what is her name and how do you know her?”
“Cammie Copello is a confidante who I came to know while I was in prison. We share aspects of our lives in common, and her compassion and strength of character are not found many places these days.”
Marc flipped a page in the binder and briefly read something. “How is your health?”
“I have issues relating to kidney failure and high blood pressure. At Arrowhead—the prison I’m in—the state can’t afford to treat me.”
“Do you have the ability to pay for these treatments should you be released?”
“I’m by no means a wealthy man anymore, but my son has told me that I don’t have to worry about my medical care. He’ll take care of me.”
“Do you have arrangements for ongoing psychological counseling upon your possible release?”
“Yes. The pastor of my church has put me in touch with a local social worker, Darcy King.”
“What assurances can you give this board that you will not steal again?”
“I’m ashamed of my past actions, and am no longer that person. When I die, I want to be known as a person who once failed, but learned his lessons and died a trustworthy man.”
Marc nodded to Berto. “I pass the witness to you.”
Berto stepped briskly to the stand. “Mr. Hamilton,” he said into the microphone, “the people gave you money, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you promised to provide them legal work for value, but what you really did was lie to them, manipulate them and steal from them. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“As a result of your theft you were disbarred.”
“Yes.”
“Up to your disbarment, your only career had been as a lawyer. Therefore, you have no career and no means of making money if you are released into society today. Seems to me, Harlan, you’re destined to be a thief and to steal from innocent people again.”
“My son will support me—”
“Oh!” Berto said with a dramatic double take at Marc. “The son who was recently under suspicion of theft himself from his own clients? Like father, like son?”
“He was exonerated—”
“Yes,” Berto snapped, cutting him off, “nice of your son to help and give you all that money that he’s come legitimately by—”
“Objection!” Marc surged to his feet. “This is irrelevant and pertains to a case that has been favorably resolved in my favor by the Attorney Disciplinary Agency.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “Any further questions, Mr. Martinez?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Hamilton, you lied six years ago.... How do we know you’re not lying today?”
Harlan straightened, held his head high. “Six years ago, I was a pride-filled, selfish man who only saw things my way. Today I am broken and humble, but I know that life is lived with compromise and sharing, and that it’s better to speak the truth than to shape it to get what you want.”
Berto looked up from checking his watch. “Versus what you did—bend the truth to get what you want. I pass the witness.” He returned to his seat.
The judge spoke into the microphone. “Your next witness, Mr. Hamilton.”
Marc returned to the podium. “I call Mr. Hamilton’s granddaughter, Emily Hamilton.”
With a last glance at Cammie, who smiled her encouragement, Emily crossed to the stand and took the oath.
“For the record, can you please repeat your name, and how you’re related to Harlan Hamilton?”
“My name is Emily Corinne Hamilton. I’m Harlan Hamilton’s granddaughter.” She smiled at her granddad.
“Can you please describe how your grandfather’s changed since getting into trouble and going to prison?”
“He’s more considerate, selfless, and when he talks to me, he really listens. Change is hard, you know. As Tolstoy said, ‘Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.’”
“Thank you, Emily, but Tolstoy isn’t testifying today, so let’s limit your testimony to your own observations and thoughts, all right? Please give an example of how he really listens.”
“When you and Mom—I mean, when my parents—divorced, he was the only one in my family who wasn’t in the battle. I could call him at any time of the day or night, and he’d listen to me. Sometimes I’d call him in the wee hours and he never got mad. I had a lot of trouble sleeping then.”
An old, familiar ache rocked Marc’s insides as he remembered yet again what his daughter had gone through because of his own mistakes.
“Thank you, Emily,” he said quietly before sitting down.
“Your witness,” the judge said to Berto.
Berto snatched his smartphone and crossed to the podium. “Good people who really take care of other people don’t get sent to prison, right?”
“Nelson Mandela went to prison,” answered Emily.
“Speaking of political activists...” He tapped buttons on his smartphone. “Your blog posts on the internet show you to be quite the little radical. Let me see here...this is a quote fro
m April. ‘We must remember that the more days we spend in jail, the more change we can effect.’ Did you write that?”
“Yes, but—”
“Here’s another one,” he interrupted. “‘The property rights of the ruling class are meaningless and must be sacrificed to the will of the people.’ You write that, too?”
“This isn’t fair.”
He drilled her with a hard, level look. “Please answer the question yes or no, Miss Hamilton.”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather took the property of others to accommodate his whims. Like father, like son, like granddaughter.” He shifted his attention to the judge. “The witness can step down now.”
Reading Emily’s startled look, Marc indicated with a quiet nod that she needed to comply with the D.A.’s request and exit the witness box.
While walking past his seat, Emily flashed him a this-is-so-wrong look. He agreed, but kept his face immobile, stoic, because his next task was the toughest yet.
“Your next witness, Mr. Hamilton?” the judge asked.
“By agreement of the parties,” he said, “I’m moving to admit petitioner’s exhibit A, the statement from Dr. Christenson, prison physician at the Arrowhead Correctional Center at Canon City, Colorado.” He eased in a calming breath before reading from the statement. “‘Harlan Hamilton is a seventy-four-year-old Caucasian male who appeared at this facility numerous times over the past four years with symptoms consistent with advanced renal failure. The prison hospital, at some great expense, has conducted tests that confirm Mr. Hamilton is in the—’” Marc felt as though his throat was filled with marbles, but forced himself to continue “‘—end states of renal failure. Without further treatment, which unfortunately is not available to inmates at this facility, his life expectancy is eight to twelve months.’”
“That’s unfair!” cried Emily from her seat in the gallery. “Nobody told me!”
Marc glanced behind him. Emily had taken a seat next to Cammie, who had her arms around the girl and was quietly talking to her.
“One more outburst, Miss Hamilton,” the judge said gently, “and the bailiff will escort you to the hallway.” He looked at Marc. “Any further witnesses?”
Marc glanced again at Cammie and Emily, both of whom looked stricken. It wasn’t fair that they’d learned of his father’s prognosis in such a public setting, but he hadn’t received the physician’s statement until minutes before the hearing.
As his gaze locked with Cammie’s, it was as though the brightness in the room dimmed, the way the world fell into shade when clouds blocked the sun. Around them, shapes blurred, lost their contrast. Only the two of them were clear and defined—call it sixth sense, but he knew she knew what he was about to ask.
Her expression told him her answer. No.
Holding her gaze, he subtly made the gesture—trust—that she’d shown him that night that seemed so long ago, yet had only been a few months. The gesture the little girl had made to her deaf mother.
Trust me, Cammie. I need you, my family needs you.
* * *
CAMMIE RECOGNIZED the hand sign. Trust.
She knew Marc wanted her on the stand to testify about Harlan’s character. Her first instinct had been not to do it. She hadn’t prepared her testimony, wasn’t ready to be cross-examined by Berto the Bastard. Call her weak, but she also didn’t know if she could set aside her own unresolved issues to help anyone else, even a deserving man like Harlan.
But Marc was asking her to trust him. To take the risk, to believe that, under his guidance, she wouldn’t fail Harlan...or Emily...or even Marc.
Her heart pumping spastically, she stood, crossed to the witness box and took a seat. After taking the oath and stating her name for the record, she mentally psyched herself for Marc’s questions.
“Miss Copello, how many years have you worked as a private investigator?”
“Ten.”
“You’ve also written articles on the profession for Professional Investigator Magazine and have taught courses on private investigations at state private-investigator conferences, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recognize the man seated to my left?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“Harlan Hamilton.”
“Have you had the opportunity to work on Mr. Hamilton’s behalf through my office over the past few years?”
“Yes.”
“Precisely, what did you do?”
“I met with him personally at the Arrowhead Correctional Center. I interviewed him to help develop his request for release, which included identifying victims so that I could transport restitution to them.”
“And by restitution, you mean checks to make victims whole from his theft.”
“Yes. To pay back money he stole from them when they had been his legal clients.”
“In your meetings with Harlan Hamilton, did you have conversations about his remorse over his crimes?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us about those conversations?”
“Harlan often said he regretted his thefts. He said he thought about the pain and inconvenience he’d caused innocent people every single day. Once he cried. In fact, he was ashamed and humbled by what he had done not only to his victims, but to others close to him.”
After a beat, Marc asked, “To whom are you referring?”
“In the many hours I spent talking with him, it became very clear to me that he wanted to live the rest of his life working on behalf of others, not on behalf of himself. Harlan also yearned to be a father, and to have a relationship with his granddaughter. He was quite aware of the fact that time was slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t want to wait any more.”
“Do you think,” Marc asked with a slight hitch in his voice, “that he can be a valuable member of society again?”
“Absolutely. He can bring his background to the local legal aid society—”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Berto stood and held up his smartphone like it was some kind of sword of justice. “I’ve just looked up Miss Copello’s history on the internet, and she has three misdemeanors pending in Nevada, one for assaulting a peace officer, as well as a pending felony for complicity in an act of arson. She’s simply not a credible witness and no weight should be given to her testimony.”
“Your Honor,” Marc quickly countered, “may I respond?”
The judge, his brow wrinkled, nodded brusquely.
“Mr. Berto Martinez, as a deputy district attorney, represents the people of Colorado. Not the perfect people, but all people. In fact, in this very courtroom are some of those people, such as the court clerk who had her driver’s license suspended a year ago, representatives of the sheriff’s office who have been struggling with gender bias for years. Even my esteemed colleague, Mr. Martinez, was once disciplined for misrepresentations to a witness. Each one of these officers of the court have had second chances to correct their lives. Likewise, Cammie has failed, but she is working to correct her life. This also pertains to my client, my father Harlan Hamilton, in that—”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Berto interrupted. “This is about Miss Copello’s lack of credibility, reliability and trustworthiness—not about whether or not the petitioner, Mr. Harlan Hamilton, is eligible for parole.”
Judge Benning adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Martinez, your objection is overruled. First, I will hear Miss Copello’s testimony because her criminal history does not affect her truth-telling ability. Second, this does apply to Mr. Harlan Hamilton’s eligibility because this board is interested in why it should give him a second chance. Please continue, Mr. Hamilton.”
Marc bent his head, feeling the burden, the heavy weight, of what he should say next. Like in a relay, his words were the last
to perform in this race. He needed to pull Emily’s and Cammie’s testimonies over the line to win his father’s freedom.
Looking up, he said calmly, clearly, “He should be given a second chance because life isn’t about failure. If it was, everything would be black-and-white. But there’s a middle ground, a gray area, which is where second chances live, those corrective measures people take to change not only themselves, but others—family, friends, associates, even strangers—for the better. Second chances are fueled by good deeds and amends, both of which Miss Copello has attested to. Everyone deserves a second chance. Maybe especially...my father.”
The judge turned his attention to the prosecution. “Mr. Martinez, would you like to cross-examine the witness?”
“I believe I have sufficiently refuted her testimony,” he said, obviously agitated, “and I have nothing further.”
Judge Benning addressed the courtroom. “The board members and I will now confer and announce our decision in a few minutes.”
Marc sat next to his father and placed his hand on his arm.
Harlan turned red-rimmed eyes to Marc. “Whatever happens, son, I love you.”
Marc squeezed his arm. “I love you, too.”
“That Emily...she’s a spitfire.”
Marc had to smile. “She’ll be a dynamite lawyer one day.”
“You think?”
“I know. But don’t tell her I said so.”
Harlan gave a slow smile. “I’d like to be there when she walks down the aisle.”
“You’ll be there.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I’m going to take good care of you. You’re going to beat that prognosis.”
“I also want to be at your wedding.” He leaned closer and whispered, “That girl loves you, you know.”
Marc didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.
“Tell her you love her,” Harlan continued. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life.... If I’d been smarter, wiser, I wouldn’t have treated love like it was grass greener on the other side. Don’t let that one get away, son. Chase her, track her down, crawl on all fours if you have to, but let her know how you feel. Nothing else matters in this crazy world.”
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 28
