* * *
They were deep into the movie when the brown Suburban pulled slowly past the house, down to the end of the block, and came back around. Behind the wheel was the Ragman, newly in town.
He had timed his appearance so the security agents disappeared for five minutes inside the guest house, de-briefing and the new shift arming themselves. It was just a temporary lapse in security, but for the Ragman it was enough.
He paused in front, shifting into park so the brake lights remained off, and watched the windows. Without breaking his gaze, he lifted a camera with telephoto lens and snapped a dozen pictures of the keypad over the door. He would find out everything there was to know about that keypad and its vulnerabilities.
Then it would be a matter of choice. It was his choice to make, the when and the how.
Mascari wanted the kid now. He couldn’t forget that.
Mascari was paying the bill.
42
Bat’s opening day of trial was Cinco de Mayo.
The city of Las Vegas had a large and politically potent Hispanic community, and spirits were high and smiling faces evident as Thaddeus and Bat made their way inside the doors of the courtroom and through the throng. At security, people waited to pass through the magic arch and off to the elevators and their courtrooms.
Outside it was warm—nearly hot—eighty-eight degrees, and inside it was a comfortable seventy-seven. Thaddeus was wearing a lightweight gray suit, heavily starched white shirt, and foulard tie. Shoes were plain black Allen-Edmonds lace-ups. Bat was wearing black slacks, a yellow button-down shirt, and brown striped tie. He looked appropriate for his role as defendant, dressed just like Thaddeus had asked, but not over-dressed, as some attorneys required. Both men were clean-shaven and neatly groomed.
Bat had the entire week off from work. Thaddeus had set aside three days on his calendar for the trial. He guessed it might take two full days, but three, max.
They rode the elevator up in silence. All passengers fastened eyes on the flickering floor numbers, as was mandatory. Thaddeus almost had to laugh. From casino owner to defender of citizens charged with sale of narcotics, controlled substances, in this case, marijuana. How far the mighty have fallen, he mused. Or is it that I’ve actually arisen? Which is better for my life, screwing people out of their money, or depriving the state of Nevada of new inmates for its Department of Corrections system? That was a no-brainer, he decided.
They stepped off the elevator and hurried into the courtroom.
No sooner had the twosome taken their seats at defense table than Bat leaned over to Thaddeus and whispered, “I’m thinking of going to law school. Is that possible for me?”
Thaddeus was jolted out of his self-calming pre-trial reverie. “Law school?”
“Maria Consuelo says I should set my sights high.”
“Look, can we talk about this later? I’m a little busy at the moment.” Trying to keep your dumb ass out of prison, he thought, but didn’t say. He brushed the thought away. “Get enrolled. Get a year of A’s under your belt, and then we’ll talk.”
“I’m already signed up for Bonehead English starting late this month.”
“Who called it that?”
“My advisor.”
“God.”
At which point the judge entered the courtroom. There was an animated mix of people in the room. Prospective jurors, court personnel, and members of the D.A.’s staff huddled and whispered, but when the judge enthroned himself all conversations broke off. Many began to disperse.
Thaddeus thought him a bland-looking little man; sunshine-deprived pasty, bald with gold-rimmed glasses and blue eyes busily scanning the file he would preside over at trial that day. Probably the first time he’s seen it, Thaddeus thought, and he was actually right.
“My name is Richard Martini, and I’ll be your judge today,” the man began in a huge voice that belied his diminutive stature. “So I’m going to ask those of you who are here today pursuant to a summons for jury service to please say ‘here’ when the clerk calls your name. Don’t try to go into the reasons why you shouldn’t have to be here, not at this time. We’ll take that up later, once we have our panel drawn. Madam Clerk, please proceed with the roll call.”
It droned on for a good ten minutes, A to Z, most of whom answered “here.” The clerk then drew a group of names at random, and those called immediately took a seat in the jury box.
Bat leaned close to Thaddeus and whispered. “I don’t like any of them.”
Thaddeus nodded but shushed him, as the judge continued.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m now going to ask you a series of questions, and if your answer is ‘yes’ to any of what I ask, please raise your hand and I’ll come back to you. All right.”
He then buzzed through the usual litany of knowledge about the case, opinions about guilt or innocence of the defendant “as he sits here before you today,” relationship to anyone in the courtroom, anyone in the D.A.’s office, anyone in law enforcement, anyone in the probation department’s office, the DOC, and on and on.
A few raised their hands and the judge made a note to get back to them, which he later did.
On and on the questions went.
Then it was time to take up the half dozen requests to be excused from jury service, for reasons ranging from a sick child at home to extraordinary busy season at work. Some just didn’t want to be there, but they were forced to stay anyway.
Thaddeus took notes. He would get rid of those who wanted nothing to do with it, whom the judge wouldn’t outright excuse. If they didn’t want to be there then Thaddeus didn’t want them on his jury. They would be angry and unforgiving toward the defendant who, as they would see it, was the root cause for their discomfort and displacement from home and their customary daytime game shows, soaps, and Drs. Oz, Drew, and Phil. Who knew what illnesses and social problems would go unsolved without the complaining juror there at home in front of the flat-screen, to observe? How could Wolf be expected to explain missing aircraft, Russian incursions, and the latest school shooting without a full viewing audience?
Thaddeus said nothing and kept his head down, occasionally making notes but mostly working on a doodle of a horse in full gallop. Which was where his heart really was, he decided at that moment. What the hell was he doing here, in a courtroom, no view of the mountains and green pastures, scared half to death by what he was facing on his client’s behalf? Why wasn’t he out at some ranch on some beautiful stallion, maybe seventeen hands, chuffing at the ready to go poking around in a Ponderosa stand? He sighed and poured two glasses of water. It was actually iced and, for that, he was momentarily grateful.
At least they had a good bailiff.
Over the next hour the attorneys were allowed to question the jurors.
First the D.A. went to the podium and tried to work some magic and make herself and her case sound irresistible to the panel, while playing like she was in good faith only trying to discern their fitness to serve.
Then it was Thaddeus’ turn, and he more or less played the same game, trying to ingratiate himself and his client with the jury, looking for people who would be slow to convict and quick to forgive, while at once seeming only to be interested in winnowing out those jurors fit to serve on the jury.
It was a game of words, a game of strategy, and lawyers all over America were playing the exact same game at the same moment, all in the fictional pursuit of seeing justice done.
Early on, in the Ermeline Ransom trial, Thaddeus had been so nervous addressing a jury for the first time that he had found himself gasping for air.
This time, he was slow, steady, and came across as accessible to the jury amidst their desire to find a lawyer they could believe in. He was understated, nothing approaching flamboyant, and came across as truly interested in each juror—because he actually was. The true mark of a successful trial lawyer. Someone whom the jury perceives as caring, because caring equals honest. At least that’s how Thaddeus had found it
to be.
An hour and half into jury selection he had the names of the panel memorized.
“Mister Youngman,” he said, and made eye contact with the juror. “You previously told the District Attorney that you had no compassion for those who would sell drugs. But you’re not saying your mind is already made up about this case without hearing the evidence, are you? Because I don’t think that’s what you’re saying at all.”
“I can listen.”
“Exactly. You’re of the same frame of mind you would want a juror to be in if they were sitting in judgment of you, aren’t you, Mister Youngman?”
“I am.”
“Meaning, you have absolutely no bias as you sit there today, against my client, who has only been charged with the sale of marijuana. As far you know, he might be guilty and he might be innocent. Your mind just isn’t made up yet, is it sir?”
“No, I have an open mind.”
“So you’ll wait to hear the evidence before you decide, correct, Mister Youngman?”
“Correct.”
When Thaddeus had finished and returned to his seat, the first thing Bat did was slide him a note. “Get rid of Mister Youngman,” it said.
“I plan to,” whispered Thaddeus.
The exercise had been nothing more than a teaching moment. He had planned on kicking Youngman off the jury before he had even asked him the first question, based on answers he had given the D.A., and based on how he had immediately warmed up to the D.A. when she started asking him questions.
“He’s adios, bye-bye, gone,” said Thaddeus under his breath. Bat nodded.
By noon they had their jury and it was time for the lunch break. Back at 1:30 sharp.
* * *
They strolled leisurely down the street, ordered burgers and malts, and started going over the list of jurors.
They were looking for minorities. They were looking for the poor. They were looking for those with teenage sons—the theory being their kids would likely be in trouble or just getting out of trouble. They were looking for employees rather than employers. They wanted college educated, non-farm-owning although farm-working was acceptable. They wanted union members, younger women and younger men, people who wanted to see justice done but who wanted to give a defendant a fair break if he deserved one. They were striking business owners. They were striking the elderly. They were striking engineers (too literal). They were striking all government workers. They were striking WASPs and they were striking the sick, lame, and halt, mainly because such people would argue that they were getting by without the need to sell drugs.
After lunch the attorneys exercised their peremptory (no reason needed) strikes, made their objections to those who plain old shouldn’t be on the panel, and accepted the remaining.
It was true that day as it was always true in American courtrooms. The game wasn’t about whom you kept, the game was about whom you got rid of.
The state got rid of the poor, disaffected, and minorities, and the defense got rid of the rich, ruling class. If you held a position of authority you weren’t going to serve on Thaddeus’ jury, all else being equal.
So, in the end, the parties were left with twelve jurors and two alternates. Neither state nor defense strongly wanted what was left behind to serve on the jury; neither state nor defense violently objected to the remaining fourteen. Both sides had gone to great pains to get rid of the jurors the other side would like; so the potential jury foreperson, the person with the alpha dog personality, had been shown the door by one side or the other. The potential jury foreperson was, thus, at that moment anyone’s guess.
Opening statements followed.
For the most part they were a drowse, as both parties told the jury what they expected the evidence to show.
In opening statement, Thaddeus knew he couldn’t argue the case, he could only describe testimony. Closing argument was where the family’s dinner table argumentative child would make his or her money.
But to lead things off, opening statements were pretty much met with glassy-eyed stares from a jury that had zero idea what in the world the lawyers were talking about. Both attorneys spoke and abruptly sat down. When they were finished, Thaddeus put the score at 1-1.
The state’s first witness was the arresting officer, the narc who had made the buy from Bat. Much blood was let, as he described how Bat, without any encouragement from the officer, had aggressively wanted to sell dope and how he had aggressively pursued the sale. To hear him tell it, there wasn’t a hint of entrapment. No effort by the state to go out and procure the sale from an unwilling seller. Rather, the Bat he described was all but beating on garbage cans and windows trying to get someone to buy his product.
The detective, Angelo Z. Banter, LVPD, was a Marine Corps–looking type, with shaved head, all but the very top, no sideburns, no facial hair, no rings, no necklaces, no jewelry, no tattoos, nothing distinguishing about him at all, which made him all but indescribable by one criminal victimized by his undercover purchase to another criminal who was yet to be victimized by an undercover purchase. And that was just how Detective Banter wanted it. Ambiguous.
When it was Thaddeus’ turn to cross-examine, he stood up but remained standing at counsel table. “Mister Banter,” he began—
“That’s Detective, sir.”
“Your mother named you ‘Detective’?”
“I am a detective.”
“I didn’t ask you about your occupation, did I?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said the D.A. “This is already irrelevant. If counsel really does need the detective to recite back to him what he was asked, counsel’s best resource is the court reporter, who took it down verbatim.”
Thaddeus tossed her a nice smile and told the court that he would withdraw the question.
He began again. “Mister Banter,” he said, and paused. This time the police officer didn’t challenge him on his rank in the LVPD. The point had been made. Or so he thought.
“Mister Banter, when Mister Tattinger entered your automobile that night, July twentieth, I believe you said he smelled funny?”
“Yes.”
“Funny as in ‘ha-ha’ or funny as in ‘too bad, he probably can’t afford shelter with a shower.’”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’m asking whether he smelled because you saw something funny about his body odor, or did he smell because he was broke, living on the street, and had nowhere to bathe?”
“Probably living on the street. I don’t know the guy so I had no way of knowing he kept up with good hygiene or not.”
“Let’s talk about what else you didn’t know about him.”
“All right.”
Thaddeus looked at his notes. The roll was beginning, just about to launch. “For example, you didn’t know that he didn’t have enough money in the world to even buy a cup of coffee, did you?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t know he didn’t have the money to pay first and last on an apartment, did you?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t know that the reason he was selling you marijuana was because he had no other way to get money, did you?”
“Objection!” shouted the D.A. “Counsel is testifying to facts that aren’t in evidence.”
“Let me rephrase, judge,” said Thaddeus. “Let’s try it this way. You didn’t know he was selling you marijuana because he just found out he was HIV-positive and didn’t have the money to buy the drugs that would keep him from getting AIDS—did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that. In fact—”
Then the police officer broke off. Thaddeus narrowed his eyes at him, watching the jury out the corner. “In fact, what? What were you about to say?”
“I was going to say that in fact if I had known he was HIV-positive I probably wouldn’t have let him in my car.”
“Yes, which was exactly his problem that night, wasn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Well, no one
would have anything to do with him for no other reason than he smelled bad, would they?”
“Probably not. Most normal people would be offended by how bad he smelled.”
Thaddeus looked sadly at the jury. “Most normal people? Did that include you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you offended by him?”
“Yes.”
“But not so offended you didn’t allow him to sell you drugs, were you?”
“No. Someone wants to sell me drugs, I don’t care what they smell like.”
“Even if they’re someone like Mister Tattinger, who can’t afford to eat, bathe, or sleep warm. You let none of that stop you from making a miserable little buy and putting them in jail, do you?”
“Objection!”
The tiny, pallid judge, whom Thaddeus had found to be easily troubled, called the afternoon recess. “Fifteen minutes. Then we’ll start up again.”
* * *
After the break, Thaddeus surrendered the witness back to the D.A.
She navigated here and there with him, but the bell had been rung and couldn’t be un-rung. Thaddeus had established that Bat was very sick, absolutely penniless, needed medications to stay alive, and had no hope of obtaining medicine except by the sale of the marijuana to the officer. That was the sum and substance of the case and, when the D.A. was finished with her redirect, Thaddeus could tell by a swift eyeball poll of the jury that she had won over some of them and that he had won over some of them. There was no way she was going to get a unanimous vote; there was probably no way he was going to get a unanimous vote. More than likely there would be a hung jury, followed by the state deciding it was a waste of time to retry the case for such a small amount of dope by a guy sentenced to eventual death by his own blood, and thus a plea would be offered, to a misdemeanor, no jail, and Thaddeus would allow his client to accept.
Which was exactly what happened.
At the end of the state’s case, Thaddeus made his motion for a directed verdict; it was denied, as usual, and the prosecutor asked for a recess.
Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 20
