Sasha considered her response. Braeburn was letting her know the local attorneys—and there couldn’t be many of them—rolled over for one another at these hearings. She could see how that kind of back-scratching might take hold in a community with a small bar.
Pittsburgh, in contrast, had a large and active bar. In fact, Allegheny County had one of the highest concentrations of attorneys per capita in the nation; the bar approached ten thousand practicing attorneys. Mainly, because Pittsburgh was the kind of city newcomers moved into gladly but natives had to be dragged kicking and screaming to leave. She was a case in point.
No lawyer in Pittsburgh would dare do what Braeburn was proposing, unless he or she was a fool. Even if a lawyer was inclined to do it, the competition for clients was so fierce and the risk that another lawyer would get wind of the situation and make a bar complaint was too great.
Braeburn may not have known it, but Judge Paulson had to have realized that Sasha wouldn’t be inclined to play ball when he appointed her. Yes, she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, Sasha was certain a call from the county’s only judge would have sent any one of the local lawyers flying over to the courthouse to take Jed’s case. She had to believe the judge had appointed her counsel precisely because she was an outsider.
Braeburn stared at her, waiting.
Sasha sighed. In the end, it didn’t matter what Judge Paulson knew or thought he knew about her when he ordered her to represent the angry old man storming his courtroom. She was who she was. She hadn’t changed that for one of the largest, most prestigious law firms in Pittsburgh and she sure wasn’t about to change it for some part-time county solicitor.
“If, in fact, it is in Mr. Craybill’s best interests to have a guardian appointed, then I’m sure you’ll have no problem meeting the burden of proof on that issue. If the experts at the Department of Aging Services can satisfy the court that Jed Craybill is incapacitated, it won’t much matter if I oppose your petition, now will it?” she said.
“But . . . you aren’t going to consent?” Braeburn’s voice cracked.
“No, Mr. Braeburn,” she said as evenly as she could manage, “you’re going to have to make your case.”
She stepped past him and walked back into the courtroom.
The sleepy-eyed deputy had resumed his post alongside the flag, so she knew Judge Paulson would be making his entrance soon.
She hurried to the table and gave Jed’s arm a reassuring squeeze as she took her seat. Once she was settled, she leaned over and whispered, “He wanted us to consent to the appointment of a guardian so they wouldn’t have to present their case. Either there are a lot of backroom deals around here or he’s worried he can’t meet his burden.”
Jed nodded. “Probably both.”
The door from the hallway swung open and Braeburn trotted down the aisle. Sasha was delighted to notice that his cheeks were flushed with either anger or embarrassment. She hoped both.
Braeburn looked over at her. She could tell he was weighing whether to force the issue and make her switch tables. She half hoped he’d do it, but he stood there for a minute and then dropped his files on the defendant’s table. He took his seat just in time to pop out of it when the door from chambers opened and Judge Paulson swept into his courtroom.
“All rise. The Honorable Harrison W. Paulson presiding.”
Usually, a courtroom became a stage after the deputy opened court. In most courtrooms, in most cases, the judge and the attorneys were actors. Everyone knew both their lines and everybody else’s lines, and there were no surprises. Unless someone deviated from the script. Even then, though—say, a witness got rattled and started babbling something other than the answers the attorney had rehearsed with her or an expert suddenly backed away from his opinion right there in open court—a decent lawyer could do damage control. Ask a gentle leading question to get the witness back on track or introduce a document to shore up the opinion. Whatever. This hearing, however, was going to be more like a night of improv than a well-rehearsed show.
Braeburn wasted no time derailing the proceedings. As soon as the judge read the caption into the record, before he could even ask Braeburn to present his case, the county attorney leaned forward, his hand holding his tie flat against his chest, and cleared his throat.
“If I may, your honor? The Department of Aging Services has just learned that Mr. Craybill is not going to consent. In light of this eleventh-hour ambush. . . .” He paused here to shoot Sasha a look, then he continued, “The County respectfully requests a continuance to prepare its case.”
The judge frowned down at Braeburn. He turned to Sasha but kept the frown in place.
“Ms. McCandless, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Sasha blinked. Was this guy for real?
The judge moved his chin, just the barest bob, motioning toward the court reporter, as if to say, come on, now, play along for the record.
She searched her brain for a non-sarcastic response.
“Well, your honor, it’s true that Mr. Craybill does not consent to having a guardian appointed. As for counsel’s dramatic claims of ambush, I don’t know what to say. It’s his petition. He shouldn’t have filed it until he was ready to have it heard.”
She decided not to mention that she had been representing her client for all of one morning, as the court well knew, and couldn’t have provided notice any sooner. Judges tended not to like it when you sullied the record with facts that made them look bad.
Judge Paulson looked at her with no expression. “Anything else?”
Sasha thought.
And then it hit her. “Actually, yes, your honor. Even if Mr. Craybill were to consent, which, again, to be clear, he does not—but if he did, that consent could not be valid. If he is incompetent in the eyes of the law, then, without question, he’s not competent to consent.”
The judge smiled and said, “That’s an interesting point, Ms. McCandless. I have to agree. It makes one pause and wonder what the attorneys who ask their clients to consent to a finding of incompetence are thinking, doesn’t it, Mr. Braeburn?”
Braeburn’s face tensed. Sasha watched his pulse throb in his neck. Judge Paulson’s eyebrows crept up his forehead as he waited.
Braeburn smoothed his tie. Picked up his pen. Put down his pen. Finally, he said, “Your honor, I am not aware of any case law holding that a consented-to guardianship is prima facie invalid.”
Weak sauce, Sasha thought. Judging by the snort Jed let out and the expression on the judge’s face, she was not alone.
Judge Paulson shook his head. “That’s not particularly responsive, Mr. Braeburn; nor is it particularly persuasive. Regardless, your request is denied. Let’s get started, shall we?”
Braeburn looked around the courtroom but found no help in the empty gallery. He squared his shoulders and said, “Respectfully, your honor, the Department of Aging Services believes its petition sets out the grounds for declaring Mr. Craybill incapacitated and appointing a guardian.”
Braeburn looked up at the judge, expectant and eager. The judge looked back at him for a long moment.
“And?”
“Your honor?” Braeburn asked, blinking.
Judge Paulson sighed. “Marty, obviously the county thinks Mr. Craybill needs to have a guardian appointed. How about telling me the basis for that opinion?”
Braeburn stammered. “Respectfully, judge, the petition . . . well, it speaks for itself.”
Sasha rolled her eyes. Lawyers loved to say that documents spoke for themselves. It was a meaningless, nonsensical statement. What they meant was a written document was the best evidence of its own contents, but that, too, was a pretty meaningless point to make.
Judge Paulson’s brows came together in an angry vee. “Counselor, are you telling me you aren’t prepared to introduce anything into evidence? You want to rely solely on the contents of your petition to make your case? No witnesses?”
Braeburn failed to keep his own ir
ritation out of his voice in his response. “Your honor, you know the folks over at the Department of Aging Services are really busy these days. I couldn’t in good conscience ask a social worker to burn an afternoon sitting in court when it is so patently clear that Mr. Craybill needs to have a guardian appointed.”
Jed started to rise from his seat. Sasha pushed him down firmly with one hand and stood herself.
“Your honor, Mr. Craybill requests that this petition be denied with prejudice. This is an outrage. This court cannot grant the petition without giving Mr. Craybill the opportunity to question a representative of the county agency. And where is the proposed guardian?” Sasha checked her papers for the name. “Was Dr. Spangler also too busy to waste her time in court?”
“Good question, counselor,” said the judge, nodding. “Mr. Braeburn?”
Braeburn stammered. “Your honor, please. We anticipated that Mr. Craybill would consent . . .”
Judge Paulson chuckled. “Come now, Marty. If you really believed that old Jed here would consent to this, we need to have a guardian appointed for you.”
His smile faded, and he leaned forward to catch the court reporter’s eye. He didn’t need to say anything; she nodded to let him know she’d edit the remark out of the record.
Sasha had lost count of how many times she’d ordered a transcript in state court only to find that the official record of the proceedings bore nothing more than a passing resemblance to what had actually transpired.
Braeburn straightened his sagging shoulders and tried one more angle. “The county calls Jed Craybill.”
Sasha shot out of her seat. “Objection. The county can’t compel my client to testify.”
The judge raised one eyebrow as if he was asking her if she was sure. Of course, she wasn’t sure. She had no earthly idea what she was doing. But, she did know she wasn’t going to put her client on the stand to be questioned by opposing counsel. Especially not this client. She had no idea what on earth Jed would say, other than it would contain a lot of profanity. There was just no way she could allow it.
As she gathered her thoughts, Braeburn pressed on. “Your honor,” he said, “that’s a baseless objection. This isn’t a criminal matter. Mr. Craybill has no Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination here.”
The judge nodded.
Sasha saw her opening and seized it, imaging she had Braeburn’s neck in her bunny mouth and was shaking him back and forth like a ragdoll.
“First of all, Mr. Craybill hasn’t invoked the Fifth Amendment. But, I note that he likely could. There is ample Pennsylvania precedent for invoking in a civil case when the witness is facing criminal charges. For example, in McManion’s Gemtique v. Diamond Dealers, Inc., a jewelry wholesaler was sued by a retailer for selling counterfeit rubies. An employee of the wholesaler who had participated in the criminal conspiracy invoked his Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination in a civil suit brought by the jewelry store.”
Even now, four years later, it burned Sasha that the court had agreed the dirty employee did not have to testify, which had made her client, the jewelry store, accept a lowball settlement offer, because the owner was afraid he wouldn’t be able to prove his case without the testimony. But, the rights of the accused had trumped the right of a small business owner to be compensated for the hundreds of thousands of dollars he’d spent on red paste rubies.
Braeburn shot back.
“That is both true and irrelevant, your honor. Mr. Craybill is not—at least to my knowledge—facing criminal charges. Is there something Ms. McCandless would like to share with us?”
Braeburn glanced over at her and smirked.
“No, your honor, as far as I know, Mr. Craybill is not facing criminal charges. He is facing something much worse. Here we have an upstanding, law-abiding citizen who has worked hard his whole life. And now, simply because he is older, the county is threatening to take away his freedom for the crime of what exactly? Aging?”
Judge Paulson gave a half-nod. Sasha imagined he was thinking that Jed Craybill had, at best, five or so years on him.
Braeburn opened his mouth, but Sasha rolled right over him.
“And,” she continued, “if I don’t call Mr. Craybill, which I do not intend to do, the county has no right to cross-examine him. They need to be able to make their case without him. If they can’t, the court should dismiss the petition.”
Braeburn’s mouth flew open again.
This time, the judge silenced him with his palm.
“I am inclined to agree with Ms. McCandless. However, before ruling, I would like to see briefs on the issue, as well as on the issue of whether an allegedly incapacitated person could be deemed competent to consent to the appointment of a guardian.”
The judge produced an iPhone from a pocket in his robe and swiped the screen.
“Let’s see. We’ll want to get this resolved before trout season is in full swing, eh, Mr. Craybill?” He glanced at Sasha’s client with the hint of a smile. “So, let’s have the briefs contemporaneously in two weeks. No replies. Argument one month from today at 10:00 a.m. Mr. Braeburn, you’re on notice that you need to show up prepared to present your case.”
“Yes, judge,” Braeburn said, his head down while he scribbled the dates in his datebook.
Sasha pulled out her Blackberry and thumbed in the deadlines. Then she wrote them on her legal pad. Her belt and suspenders calendaring system gave both her and her malpractice carrier a degree of comfort.
The judge stood. “On your way out, Ms. McCandless, stop by the court administrator’s office on the first floor. You’ll want to the get the paperwork so you can bill the county for your time. Twenty dollars an hour, by the way. Don’t spend it all in one place.” He chuckled and swept out of the courtroom.
Sasha packed up her bag while Jed yammered at her.
“I’ll take the stand. I’m not afraid of Marty Braeburn. He’s a pencil-necked twerp if I ever saw one. I have the right to tell . . .”
Sasha shushed him as the pencil-necked lawyer approached. “We’ll talk about it later, Mr. Craybill.”
Braeburn looked down at her with a frown. “What a waste of resources you’ve caused, Ms. McCandless. Perhaps you’ll take this time to reconsider.”
Jed started to push himself out of his seat. Sasha put a hand on his arm.
“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t count on it.” She gave the county’s attorney her sunniest smile to let him know his scolding had no effect on her and went back to packing up her bag until he took the hint and walked off.
* * * * * * * * * *
Harry stood at his window and watched the feisty little attorney from Pittsburgh cross the square. She was moving at a good clip, he thought. Probably wanted to make it back to the city before the rush hour traffic started to clog up the roads.
He congratulated himself on his cleverness as he shed his black judicial robe, shook the wrinkles out, and hung it on the coat tree in the corner of his chambers. He loved it when a plan came together.
And this one had gone off without a hitch. As soon as the motion to compel discovery had crossed his desk, Harry had sprung into action. He’d called and checked out Sasha with some judges and lawyers he knew in Allegheny County and had gotten a unanimous report: she was a straight shooter and sharp, too. He told himself she’d be able to piece the thing together and would do the right thing.
Then, it had just been a matter of scheduling the discovery motion for the same day as old Jed’s competency hearing and praying that Showalter’s moronic client didn’t do the right thing and turn over the e-mails before the hearing date.
Jed showing up, foaming at the mouth, had been a stroke of luck. It had saved Harry the trouble of calling Sasha in to chambers and concocting an excuse to appoint her as Jed’s counsel after the discovery motion had been heard.
Her back disappeared around the corner.
She must’ve followed the signs to the municipal parking lot when she’d come into town,
Harry thought. The municipal parking lot, with its two-dollar a day parking seemed like a bargain to out-of-towners. In reality, it was just a money grab. A relic from the past, from before Springport had realized its rivers ran with gold. The city council had erected the parking lot in an effort to bleed some money out of strangers who didn’t realize there was ample free parking day and night in the center of the small town.
When the lot had been erected, it had seemed to epitomize cynicism and greed to Harry. Now it seemed downright quaint and innocent, given the changes in town.
The changes. Thinking about the changes in town made Harry’s stomach roil. Or he was just hungry.
He took his fedora from the hat rack and shrugged into his tweed jacket. He’d step out and have a slice of pecan pie at the diner, homemade by Bob’s wife. He might as well enjoy it while he could. He reflected that the money-hungry leeches who had backed Bob up against the wall and then bought him out of the diner would likely replace the pie with salted caramel gelato or some such nonsense.
He turned off his desk lamp and passed through the door to his secretary’s office. Gloria looked up from her crossword puzzle.
“Judge,” she nodded.
“I’m going over to Bob’s,” he told her. “Can I bring you back a slice of pie? Or a gob?” Gloria’s sweet tooth was an open secret.
Her eyes widened, but she resisted. “No, thanks, your honor. Oh, um . . . he called again.”
Harry watched as visions of sugar plum, or more accurately two chocolate cakes with vanilla filling, faded from her mind, replaced by ugly worry.
He patted her arm. “Now, don’t you worry about them, Gloria. I’ve got it covered.”
She murmured something encouraging, but he could feel her eyes, uncertain and anxious, following him as he headed out for his pie.
CHAPTER 4
Sasha hurried to her car, fueled by equal parts frustration and anxiety.
Frustrated because she’d burned the better part of the day representing a cranky old man. And instead of it being a one-time appointment, it now appeared she had an ongoing relationship with her newest client. She’d given Jed a business card and tried to get a telephone number in return. He’d claimed not to have a phone. No land line, no cell phone, no e-mail address for old Jed. So, not only would she have to come back for yet another hearing, she’d have to drive back up here to meet with Jed if she wanted to do any kind of preparation.
Sasha McCandless 02 - Inadvertent Disclosure Page 3
