“Me, neither,” said Jaak. “What’s going on?”
“Both his father and mother are buried in Bonaventure,” said Bill. “Denis’s dad had great expectations for Denis. Denis would have a large family, and all would be buried in the family plot with a big memorial. Shortly after his wife died, he bought two big lots from the city.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jimmy. “Savannah owns the cemetery? In Effingham, cemeteries are owned by churches. Bonaventure is owned by Savannah?”
“Not only Bonaventure but Colonial Park, Greenwich, and a couple of others—all owned and maintained by the city,” said Bill. “Those lots that Howard Nolan bought were each twelve-space lots that cost almost ten grand each.”
“I could buy a whole cemetery for that, maybe two,” said Jimmy.
“I shouldn’t say ‘bought,’ because the city doesn’t actually sell the real estate,” continued Bill. “What the city sells is interment rights, along with perpetual care. I’ve seen the Nolan space. It’s beautiful. Big live oak trees and a spectacular view of Wilmington River. Not many spaces that big left in Bonaventure, and none with such a view. His dad wanted a family monument to match the beauty of the site. And with his money, he could hire the best architect available.”
“Hire an architect to put up a tombstone?” asked Jimmy.
“Not a tombstone... a memorial. His dad brought in a big architectural firm from Chicago, one of the biggest in the country— specializes in museums and art galleries. I was involved with them a couple years back. They hired me as their local architect on a big downtown project. They wouldn’t listen to anything I told them about local codes and Savannah’s historical preservation agenda. They got bogged down in permits, and eventually the project faded away. Now that same firm is back in Savannah on Denis’s nickel, thrashing it out with the city’s cemetery department. I haven’t seen the design, but a friend of mine who works there told me they’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Meaning what?” asked Pete.
“Meaning big—huge—colossal. It’s even bigger than the one originally planned by Howard. Seems Denis gave the architect instructions that his family memorial was to be a walk-in, visitor-friendly mausoleum. And it must be topped by a marble tower higher than any others, including the Rauers monument.”
“You mean that tall, white obelisk?” asked Jaak. “It’s over fifty feet high.”
“But that’s what Denis wants. Something tall and modern and technological—a walk-in building under the tallest obelisk in Bonaventure Cemetery. The technology in the building is to be videos on plasma screens, highlighting all of the enterprises that Howard was involved in. There would be a list of his activities, which could be called up by voice activation. Say the word ‘bank,’ and the history of Savannah First Savings Bank and every other bank that Howard had been involved with would appear on the screen. Say ‘law school,’ and the history of Savannah College of Law would appear.”
“Say the word ‘crook,’ and a big picture of Howard would appear,” said Malcolm, the retired detective.
They all laughed.
“Could be,” said Bill. “The whole project is on hold. There aren’t a lot of rules on the type of monument that can be erected on a family lot, only a vague regulation that the structure can’t be offensive or detract from the appearance and dignity of the cemetery. The written permission of the Director of Cemeteries is required, and he has refused to approve the design. Denis hired a big-name trial lawyer from Chicago to get the approval—Max Gordon.”
“The Max Gordon? Man, that could cost some money,” said Pete. “I saw him gloating on CNN after he got an acquittal in LA— some Hollywood actor charged with killing his wife. He and the prosecutor were walking out of the courthouse, and cameras were everywhere. He had a big grin spread across his face, and the prosecutor looked like he had just come up for air and there wasn’t any.”
“I saw Max Gordon being interviewed by Geraldo Rivera a couple of months ago,” said Malcolm. “Geraldo was giving one of his suck-up interviews, and toward the end, he asked Gordon if it was true that he was the highest-paid criminal defense lawyer in the country. Gordon said it was true and that he was worth every dollar. He bragged that one of his clients called him on the phone the day before a trial to ask if the trial was to start at nine, or at nine-thirty. Gordon claims he sent him a bill for a thousand dollars. ‘That’s my minimum for a phone conference,’ he said. What an asshole.”
“Who, Gordon or Geraldo?” asked Rench.
“Both,” said Malcolm. “But Geraldo’s mustache makes him look the part.”
They all laughed. Rench had finished counting out the chips and placed them in stacks in front of each player.
“Fighting Savannah City Hall is usually a losing cause, and fighting City Hall to put a memorial like that in Bonaventure has as much chance as finding Malcolm sober on St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe Denis’s dad, when he was alive, could have pulled it off. He had the power to catch lightning in a jar. But not Denis. Not gonna happen,” said Rench. “Now, let’s play poker.”
And the Sunday-night poker game was underway—without Denis and his marked cards.
CHAPTER 32
Monday, September 4
Labor Day
It had been a terrific two days. Jennifer and her family were wonderful hosts, and Scott’s plan to return early Sunday afternoon failed under the weight of their hospitality. Jennifer’s dad was making a rapid recovery. He insisted on taking all of them to dinner Saturday night at Boathouse II, overlooking the salt marsh on Skull Creek. A talented, female, blues vocalist with a guitar provided live music, and the skilled chefs provided fresh-off-the-boat seafood cooked to perfection. It was an absolutely delightful evening, made even better when Jennifer’s parents retired early and left Jennifer and Scott to entertain themselves.
That, of course, called for a ride out to the beach and a walk along the edge of the surf. The beach was mostly deserted. The only sound was the steady, soft lapping of the incoming waves. The ocean breeze was gentle and steady. Scott had learned to savor the smell of salt-filled air since arriving in Savannah, something he had not experienced while growing up in Tennessee or attending college in Tuscaloosa. He and Jennifer made their way slowly down the beach, illuminated only by a crescent moon and a few distant stars. There was an effervescent sparkle in the churning waves a few yards offshore. They spread a thick, cotton blanket on the soft sand between two large dunes. The passion they had felt for each other the previous weekend was quickly ignited. Finally—a few hours together and alone.
It was a perfect evening and well after midnight when they returned home. Sunday started with a late brunch then another beach trip, some sightseeing, and a late-afternoon cookout for Jennifer’s dad to demonstrate his “skill with a grill.” Good conversation mixed with frequent laughter filled the patio.
As night fell, Scott and Jennifer drove off to find whatever nightlife was available on Sunday night in Hilton Head. The evening passed too quickly. It was after eleven o’clock when they returned to Jennifer’s home, and Scott began his drive back to Savannah.
Now, Monday, he was going to have to buckle down. He had a presentation to prepare for his Tuesday-night seminar and lots of preparation still to be done on the two additional cases he had been assigned. A major task, however, would be to clear Jennifer Stone from his mind. He had often heard the famous quote by Professor Story, “The law is a jealous mistress and requires a long and constant courtship.” He knew that was good advice. He wanted to focus “long and constant” on his law school projects, but his mind kept wandering back to the past two days.
By noon he had completed his preparation for his Tuesday-night seminar, and the rest of the afternoon he worked on trial preparation for his two cases. Grady called in midafternoon to discuss some last-minute preparation for the Harrison case, which was scheduled to begin the next day. In late afternoon, he met some friends for a pick-up basketball game at Savannah Law. When
he returned to his apartment, there was a text message on his cell phone. “I’ll be back late. Catch you tomorrow. Jen.”
After a quick shower and a meal of frozen pizza, Scott settled in for an evening of study, surrounded by his trusty laptop and stacks of law books. He was back in his routine. The “jealous mistress” would be pleased.
CHAPTER 33
Tuesday, September 5
Scott arrived at the Chatham County Courthouse shortly after eight and went directly to Courtroom K on the fourth floor where the Harrison case was scheduled for trial. Grady was already in the courtroom. Scott noticed the nameplate on the judge’s bench: “LAWRENCE J. DESANO.”
“Have you tried any cases before Judge Desano?” asked Scott.
“Quite a few,” said Grady.
“Good judge?”
“Damn good judge,” replied Grady. “He was a prosecutor for ten or twelve years before becoming a judge, and he’s been on the bench for over fifteen years. Runs a tight courtroom and brooks no nonsense. I’ve found him to be completely fair, but criminal defense lawyers complain he’s still a prosecutor at heart. He begins court proceedings in criminal trials by looking over at the defense table and asking, ‘Is the defense ready to proceed?’ After the defense counsel responds, he looks over at the prosecutor and asks, ‘Are we ready?’ emphasizing the we.”
“You’re kidding!” said Scott.
“Yeah, kidding. But some of the older attorneys say it happened frequently during his first years as a judge. I’ve never witnessed it. I like to see him on the bench when I’m trying a case, but most defense counsel aren’t too thrilled at the sight.”
Richard Evans entered the courtroom and walked over to speak to Grady. “I’ve got some bad news about Josh Johnson,” said Richard. “No chance of his getting here for the trial. I just got a call from Jim Thayler, the Colorado deputy who’s been trying to track him down. Johnson doesn’t have a phone line to his house, but Thayler drove out to his home just outside Breckenridge and talked to his wife. She said he was the guide on a three-day, fly-fishing trip on the Blue River. She gave Thayler his cell phone number, and Thayler gave it to me, but so far my calls have gone unanswered. Pretty remote country, not good cell phone service. I called every hour, no luck. Bottom line, you can scratch him as a witness.”
“That really is bad news, Richard. It leaves a single eyewitness, the clerk on duty,” said Grady. “But he’s a good one. Clean record, mature guy about fifty. He made a good ID from the photo lineup.”
Sidney Ellis entered the courtroom and approached them. Sidney was the assistant public defender assigned to defend Harrison. Normally friendly and cordial, even during trials, he had a grave look on his face. “I think I’m going to be relieved—or, as the media will say, ‘fired.’”
“You, Sidney, fired? You been sleeping with your boss’s wife?” asked Grady.
Sidney’s grave look was replaced by a smile and a quiet laugh. “No, no. Not that kind of firing. My client is firing me. Harrison claims he has money for a private attorney now. I just informed Judge Desano. He wants to see us in his chambers right away.”
Grady, Sidney, and Scott left immediately for the judge’s chambers. The defendant was not present; he was still in lockup at the jail. Once all were seated, Grady introduced Scott to Judge Desano, explaining that he was a certified clinic student, and that with the judge’s permission, he would be assisting on the case.
“I always welcome clinic students in my courtroom,” said Judge Desano, “but I rarely see them, even for a visit. And it’s even rarer for one to actually assist with a trial. I’m pleased to give my permission for you to participate in this case, Mr. Marino.” Then he looked sternly at Sidney and said, “You have some sort of motion, Mr. Ellis?”
“I don’t have anything in writing, Judge. I got a call from the jail this morning that my client, Mr. Harrison, wanted to see me ASAP, that it was very important. I just got back from visiting him. He says he has money, and he’s hiring a private attorney. I was surprised at what he told me. I can’t get into details, but I made a couple of quick calls and verified that he does have money for a private attorney and one is on the way to Savannah now. He’s flying in on Delta, arriving at 12:35 p.m. This was a total surprise to me, and I believe it was to Mr. Harrison, too.”
“How could it have been a ‘total surprise’ to the defendant? He either knew he had the money or he didn’t. Explain that, Mr. Ellis.”
“I wish I could, Judge, and I hope you understand that what was told to me this morning was not only news to me but also was a conversation subject to attorney-client privilege. The money to hire the attorney is available, so he’s not entitled to a public defender. I will be preparing a written request to withdraw. Could we postpone any further proceedings until tomorrow? By then, I am confident, it will be clear why this matter came up so late and why it is so important that we don’t proceed with the trial today. We aren’t stalling, Judge. I’m ready to go to trial, and I’m sure Mr. Wilder is also. But this is an unexpected turn of events that could not be anticipated by anyone. As soon as the new attorney arrives, it will be clear that it was unavoidable.”
“You better make sure of that, Mr. Ellis. We have a large jury pool already assembling for this case. We have witnesses... well, the DA has witnesses... who have been subpoenaed. Delays are costly. And, frankly, it’s beyond me how this sudden availability of money could not have been foreseen. Apparently, you want me to believe he just won the lottery?”
“Of course not, Judge. But I do want you to believe that as an officer of the court, I’m not trying to mislead you. This was sudden and unexpected. I had no knowledge of it until this morning.”
“I’ll give you until 3 p.m. You and that new attorney be in my courtroom then. You can try to convince me you should be off the case. You put in a request for a speedy trial. Are you withdrawing that request?”
“I need to speak with my client about that, Judge.”
“Don’t bother. I’m going to give him a speedy trial whether he wants one or not. You say you are ready. The DA says they are ready. And I’m ready. This case has been on my docket long enough. I will see you at 3 p.m. Sharp.” Judge Desano stood, the signal for counsel to depart.
Once outside, Grady asked Sidney if he could shed any more light on the matter. Sidney said he could not, but he was sure it would all be cleared up at the three o’clock hearing. Then Grady asked, “Sidney, do you know the name of the new attorney?”
“I do,” said Sidney. “But that is also information that I learned from my conversation with my client. This privileged stuff sometimes is difficult to sort out, and I prefer to play it safe. You obviously are going to find out this afternoon, but still, I prefer not to say right now. I can tell you, he is someone you have heard of and he’s from out of state. I’ve got to get back to the office and prepare my motion to withdraw. I’ll see you at three.” Sidney headed for the elevator.
• • •
Scott and Grady returned to Courtroom K at 2:45 p.m. Sidney, his client, and his client’s new attorney, were seated at the defense table. Grady recognized the new attorney immediately. Indeed, the defendant must have won the lottery, thought Grady. Grady and Scott walked over to introduce themselves. The new defense attorney stood and gave Grady and Scott each a vigorous handshake.
“Max Gordon,” he said. “Better known as ‘Sneak’ Gordon. That’s what my friends—both of them—call me.” He grinned and gave a chuckle at his joke.
Gordon was a rotund man in his fifties, about five feet, seven inches tall with sharp features accentuated by his small, pointed nose. His thin, brown hair was balding in the back, and what remained in front was parted evenly in the middle and held in place with the help of a heavy hair spray. He was dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit with the pretentious wide, peaked lapels fostered on style-conscious yuppies by fashion ads in some men’s magazines. It made no difference to Gordon that he was no longer—and perhaps, never was—a
yuppie. He wore the trial-mandated gold Rolex on his left wrist and gold and jeweled rings on two fingers of his right hand. As if that were not enough to set him apart from the local attorneys, he was wearing his signature pink handkerchief, hanging loosely from his front breast pocket, and profoundly clashing with his yellow power tie. He appeared completely out of place in Courtroom K of the Chatham County Courthouse on this hot September afternoon. Had he been carrying an umbrella, anyone seeing him would have been sure that the Penguin had come to Gotham City.
Of course, Scott had heard of Max Gordon, one of the most successful trial lawyers in the country. In fact, he had one of his books, Max Gordon’s Secrets of Cross-Examination, a book light on secrets but heavy on self-laudatory stories of his trials. But Scott had never heard the name “Sneak” Gordon.
When they returned to the prosecution table to await Judge Desano, Scott asked, “Did he introduce himself as Sneak Gordon?”
“Yes,” said Grady. “He’s proud of that nickname. And I assure you, it is appropriate. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Judge Desano entered the courtroom promptly at three. After three quick raps on the floor with the wooden staff by the bailiff, the court was called to order. Judge Desano turned to Sidney.
“Do you have a motion, Mr. Ellis?”
“Yes, Your Honor, a motion to withdraw as counsel.” Sidney walked to the bench and handed Judge Desano his motion and added, “I have only briefly outlined the reasons for this motion, but I have discussed it in detail with both my client and his new counsel and would like to explain in more detail, if I may, Your Honor.”
“Please do, Mr. Ellis. I’m all ears.”
“Judge, the accused in this case, John Harrison, is the estranged son of former U.S. Senator David J. Harrison. The two have not seen each other in....”
Sidney was interrupted by Judge Desano. “Are you referring to David Harrison, ex-senator and now candidate for governor?” As he spoke, Judge Desano wrinkled his brow into a surprised and concerned look.
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