by John Decure
“For three convictions? That’s a joke.” Shaking her head.
“But he still managed to break his old man’s heart. I guess his dad thought he was something he wasn’t.” I remembered my surprise at seeing the mayor slide into the back of the courtroom at the last settlement conference we’d had on that case, his face ashen but the chin thrust forward as if to provide moral support for a son who refused even to make eye contact with him.
“So, how do you think I should handle this?”
I didn’t want to crowd her with my opinions, but I knew a few things about Roger Turnbull, so I was relieved she’d asked. “He’s a deal maker, Therese, so don’t worry about it. As you know, there’s no settlement in a reinstatement case like this. Silver has to prove his case, not you. His lawyer shouldn’t have much of an impact.”
Therese sighed. “I hope not.”
I glanced back down the empty hallway that led to the lobby, scanned it anyway, as if someone who could hear me might be hiding there.
“What’s wrong, J.?”
The last-minute substitution of attorney still bothered me. I hate courtroom surprises. They always seem to turn out badly.
“I don’t know. Bobby Silver and Roger Turnbull. Guess I just can’t picture those two together,” I said. No need to undermine her confidence.
Therese leaned in so close that I could smell the apricot body wash she must have used that morning. Then she smiled like a self-assured young woman who didn’t concern herself with phantom eavesdroppers in empty hallways. I should have felt relieved, but was instead swayed back on my heels as a chemical reaction altered my senses. My knees locked and my face felt hot—animal attraction. I held her gaze, assuming an utterly false calm.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “They probably can’t picture us together either.”
Not waiting for an answer, she turned and went back inside.
Dale came in and sat with me in the gallery, and we watched Roger Turnbull guide Silver through his bid to start anew as a reformed lawyer. Therese did just fine, making the right objections and keeping out of evidence three “new” exhibits Silver hadn’t listed in his pretrial statement. Judge Wachter was polite enough to both sides but her manner was merely perfunctory, as usual. Today she was wearing a new wig, a deep reddish brown thicket of curls that made her heavyset face appear tired by comparison. The synthetic hair seemed to tilt a little too far forward, like an ill–fitting hat. She bore down on her laptop computer, tapping out a steady stream of notes. Not that she would have cared about the sliding hair. Judge Wachter rarely looks up from her keypad, and almost never smiles. The judge has always struck me as someone who doesn’t much enjoy her line of work, or the company of lawyers for that matter. This probably made her the best jurist Therese could have drawn in a contest with a smooth operator like Roger Turnbull.
The early portions of the hearing were predictable and dull. Silver testified about his consulting experience, which by his description sounded less like business counseling and more like ground-floor pitch making for various “investment opportunities.” As he spoke, I noticed the caressing effect his Texas drawl had on words. He tended to stretch each suffix like saltwater taffy, his voice low and even, the consistency of pitch somehow soothing to the ear.
“We–yall, yessirrr, the project wuzzz a bit on the sma–wall saahde, but it wuzzz verrry, verrry succ-ssessful for all pahh-teees in–volllvved. In fay–acttt …”
Although I was consciously thinking this guy probably has the moral makeup of a sock filled with horse manure, his steady vibrato had a lulling effect, like a persuasive undertow constantly threatening to pull me under. Bobby Silver had some serious sales skills.
The action heated up briefly when Therese got her turn to crossexamine him. She began by surprising him with a quick counterpunch to the sanctimonious claims of reform and rehabilitation he’d made at the close of his direct examination.
“Mr. Silver, you just described yourself as a man who has learned from his mistakes.”
“That’s correct.” Silver’s gray eyes were blank.
“You just described yourself as”—pausing to check her notes—“here it is, a ’solid citizen, with a lot to contribute to society.’ Isn’t that right?”
“Aah said that, you heard me right, dear,” Silver said with a touch of sarcasm, glancing at the judge for approval. He didn’t get it.
“Ask your next question, Counselor,” Judge Wachter said without looking at Silver.
Therese stood up, pulling what looked like a magazine from her file box on the floor, contemplating it as if for the first time.
“Now, when you talk about making a contribution, Mr. Silver, does that include writing articles for a magazine called Modern Outlaw?”
“No,” Silver spouted over his lawyer’s objection.
“Specifically, an article, well, more of an editorial I guess, called ‘Leave a Vapor Trail’—”
“What is this?” Silver barked. “Why is she showing me some dumb magazine? She can’t—”
“Mr. Silver, contain yourself!” the judge responded. “Now—”
“Objection!” Turnbull yelled.
Therese lifted the magazine in offering. “Your Honor, I was only—”
“Hold on, hold on, everybody,” Judge Wachter said more evenly. “Counselor, what is this?”
Therese handed a copy of the piece to both the judge and Turnbull, and both silently pored over it for a minute. Roger Turnbull betrayed no emotion as he read, but I saw a tiny grin crease the judge’s lips as she turned the page.
“Objection,” Turnbull said. “No foundation.”
Judge Wachter looked amused by the challenge. “Ms. Rozypal, why don’t you lay some foundation for Mr. Turnbull.”
“Yes, Your Honor. May I approach the witness?”
The judge put down her copy of the article and folded her arms.
“By all means.”
“Mr. Silver, I’m showing you page thirty-one of a magazine by the name of Modern Outlaw, April 1992 issue. The article is entitled”—pausing for effect—“‘Leave a Vapor Trail, Not a Paper Trail.’ To summarize, it describes a method of cheating the IRS out of otherwise taxable earned income using various means of nondisclosure.”
Silver did his best to look bored.
“That’s nice. So what?”
“The author is a ‘Bob Silverstein,’” Therese continued, “and the italicized byline describes Mr. Silverstein as a ‘legal rustler par excellence’ who plies his trade in California.” Therese let the magazine drop to her side. “You wrote this article, didn’t you, Mr. Silver?”
“I did no such thing, ma’am.”
I was thinking Therese would be stuck by now, unless she planned on calling someone at the magazine who could testify that Silver was the author, which I didn’t expect, since Therese had not even mentioned the article in her office this morning. But Silver did something stupid: he kept talking.
“I look like a Silverstein to you?” he said, gazing up to the bench.
“Let me get this straight,” Wachter said slowly. “What you mean, Mr. Silver, is not ‘Do I look like a Silverstein’ but ‘Do I look like a Jew,’ isn’t that correct?” Glaring at him now.
“Your Honor,” Roger Turnbull said quickly, “I don’t think Mr. Silver meant—”
“He can speak for himself about what he meant, Mr. Turnbull, so please be quiet and allow him to do so.”
“All aah mee-yeen, Yurrr Honorrr—Was that thi-yiss Mr. Silverstein, whoever he may be, is not me. Aah did not write that article. Never e’en seen it before. Aah swe-yerrr.”
The judge sat very still, her face tight. Wayne Fong tried to make himself busy at his desk beside the bench.
“You don’t have any more questions on this issue, do you, Ms. Rozypal?” she said, signaling to Therese that her intent was to move on.
“No, Your Honor.”
I was relieved to hear that response. For an inexperienced prosecut
or, Therese seemed to possess a pretty good set of courtroom instincts.
Silver straightened up from his chair as if he were finished as a witness.
“What are you doing?” the judge asked him.
Silver glanced at Therese, then the judge. “I thought she said she was done.”
Wachter allowed herself a flicker of a smile. “Are you through questioning the witness?” she asked Therese.
“No, Your Honor. I’m finished with the magazine, but there’s more.”
“Very well. Sit down, Mr. Silverste—” The Judge caught herself. “Stay there, Mr. Silver. You’re not done yet.”
Silver eased his carcass back down and frowned into the chrome microphone. Therese, who’d been camped before the witness stand all this time, slowly floated back to her seat at counsel table.
“Let’s talk about an office in Glendale you’re affiliated with, Mr. Silver, a place called the Glendale Lo-Cost Law Center.”
Roger Turnbull’s murky gray eyes took a run from the blond prosecutor on back to me. Twice in a row now he’d apparently lost his way, which for him, I figured, was probably closing in on some kind of a record—and of course I knew there was more confusion in store for old Roger. But my face showed nothing. Up front, the judge was typing away, getting it all down on her laptop.
Eleven
Therese cross-examined Silver about the events of four days earlier beginning when Dale and I had popped into the law center in Glendale. Silver paused, then admitted that he had been there last Thursday, but he stared right back at his questioner as he denied having had any involvement with Angie, Carlito, or Rudy Kirkmeyer. If he was trying to intimidate her, it didn’t take; Therese went down her list, asking all the right questions and setting the stage for my rebuttal testimony.
When Roger Turnbull’s turn came to question his client on redirect, he asked Silver only two questions.
“Mr. Silver, what were you doing there, at this office in Glendale?”
“Well, ah’d heard there was a possibility aah could pick up some paralegal work there. Thought a legal job might be a good idea, even if ah wasn’t actually practicing, you know, to help ease me back into the law.”
“Were they hiring that day?”
Silver made a nonplussed face. “Nah, turned out the rumor was false.”
Judge Wachter tapped more notes into her computer. Turnbull told her “Nothing further” as if he was tired but satisfied, as if mining the truth was a taxing endeavor. The explanation had a reasonably convincing ring to it. I might even say it was believable, if I didn’t otherwise know Bobby Silver was totally full of shit.
Therese didn’t bother with recross, not with me about to give my side of the story.
Turnbull rested Silver’s case.
“Rebuttal?” Judge Wachter asked.
Therese sucked in a deep breath and called me to testify. I took the oath, settled in, and waited for Therese’s questions, slowly recounting for the judge my experiences of last Thursday afternoon.
“Let me get this straight,” Turnbull asked me first on cross. “You were out there, at this legal center, with this Mr. Bleeker.” He paused to stare at Dale, who sat up straighter in his gallery seat, eyes on the judge, who was taking full notice of him for the first time that morning. “Because you were his probation monitor?”
“Yes.”
“And he was in trouble?”
“Yes. Without knowing it. As I said earlier, he’d accepted a position as an attorney. I thought it sounded like an operation in which they were using his license to—”
“Objection, hearsay, and the witness is speculating, Your Honor.”
Judge Watcher overruled the objection. “You asked a question that invited just such speculation, Mr. Turnbull.”
Turnbull thanked the judge as if she’d ruled in his favor. This was how I’d remembered him from before: unflappable.
“Is this how it’s done around here, Mr. Shepard?” Turnbull went on. “Prosecutors like yourself, handling the probation oversight of … disciplined lawyers like Mr. Bleeker here?”
“Right,” I said. “Disciplined, just like your client was, sir. But actually Mr. Bleeker never got disbarred.”
“Objection, nonresponsive.”
“Answer the question, Mr. Shepard,” the judge ordered me.
“No, it’s not how it’s typically done,” I said.
Turnbull rubbed his forehead, which was about as shiny as his wing tips, as he paced the floor behind his chair. “So this little … outing you had, it wasn’t part of a state bar investigation, was it?”
“Not.”
“Did you make an official report of some kind?”
“Yes. I telephoned the Glendale Police Department and spoke with a detective about it.”
“I mean, here at the bar?”
“I looked up Mr. Silver on the bar’s computer system and saw he had a hearing scheduled for today, saw that Ms. Rozypal was the attorney assigned to handle it. So I went to her office and told her what I told the court today.”
“I see.” He tilted his head toward Therese as if he’d just made a connection. “Mr. Shepard, do you and Ms. Rozypal work together?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Raising his eyebrows. “You work together closely, don’t you?”
I remembered the powerful charge that had briefly passed between Therese and me earlier that day. Christ, could that hidden attraction be apparent to an astute observer like Roger Turnbull? Not possible, I thought. At her table, Therese sat placidly writing a note on a white pad, nothing happening on her end. I bit my bottom lip. Not possible.
Then I began to consider whether I might have imagined the heated moment that morning. Maybe it had to do with Carmen’s moving in with me the week before but sleeping in another part of the house instead of my bed, our constant close proximity at home leading to nothing but frustration, false starts, and interruptions by my three other new houseguests. Perhaps my physical yearning for Carmen had manifested itself in a displaced projection onto an attractive coworker. Suddenly I felt better about myself. Ah, but of course, Therese was a mere symbol.
Just then the mere symbol crossed her legs, and I felt my heart skip like a windup toy with a broken spring.
“Mr. Shepard?” I heard the judge say.
Some fucking theory.
“We belong to the same trial unit,” I said.
Turnbull’s gray eyes were shining on me. “Well, how convenient.”
“Objection, argumentative,” Therese said.
“Let’s limit the sarcasm, shall we?” the judge said to Turnbull.
“So, you bring this information to Ms. Rozypal on the eve of trial, and …”
“That was just how it worked out. It wasn’t planned.”
Turnbull acted offended. “I wasn’t finished, Your Honor.”
I shrugged at the judge. “Sorry.”
He paced behind the cherry-wood lectern that stood between the two counsel tables and directly faced the bench, waiting for the judge to give him her full attention.
“After eight months of trial preparation in this case, four months in which the state bar investigated my client and found nothing, and four more months of discovery, you ask us to believe that you came to your coworker”—stopping to glare at Therese—“on the eve of trial, with this outlandish tale?”
I folded my hands in my lap, no expression. As talented as he was, Roger Turnbull was shadowboxing phantoms right now.
“As I said, that’s just the way it worked out,” I answered. “I had no control over the timing, didn’t know your client was going to be there until he pulled up in front of the law center in his Cadillac.”
“He showed up on his own accord?” Wachter asked me.
“Yes, Your Honor. About five or ten minutes after Mr. Bleeker and I had arrived.”
I eased back a little from the chrome microphone I’d been talking into, feeling pretty untouchable. Then Roger flung something of a wild p
unch.
“You said there is no state bar investigation into this matter as yet, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m wondering.” Pacing, making the judge follow his movements. “Did you take this issue up the ladder, so to speak, to a supervising attorney?”
“No. I mean, not yet.”
“Oh, really. Now, you’re a deputy trial counsel, aren’t you, Mr. Shepard?
“Yes.”
“You are subject to a chain of command in your office, aren’t you?”
I told him I was. He asked me who my boss was. The judge was typing in her laptop when I said the name Eloise Horton.
“Does Ms. Horton know that you chose to monitor Mr. Bleeker’s probation yourself?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I saw no need to tell her.”
Enjoying himself fully now, he beamed a wide toothpaste-ad smile my way. “What about this business at the place in Glendale, the law center, did you tell her about that?”
“No.”
“How about today? Does Ms. Horton know you’re here, trying so desperately to hit a home run for your coworker?”
Therese was on her feet. “Objection, relevance, and it’s argumentative.”
“Withdrawn, withdrawn,” Turnbull said before the judge could sustain the objection. I could feel my teeth grinding in the back of my mouth.
“I think I can get an answer to that last question by asking it in a different way, Mr. Shepard. Now, you haven’t told your supervisor that you would be testifying today, have you?”
“No. I was called to testify on rebuttal, only after your client lied about what happened last Thursday.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Shepard,” the judge said.
“Very interesting,” Turnbull said, slipping back into his chair. “You’re quite the free wheel, Mr. Shepard, aren’t you?” I didn’t answer as he turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I request that the court take judicial notice of a certain known fact.”
“That fact being?”
“The fact that this is precisely the kind of activity that the newly composed bar discipline system review panel will be most interested in.”
