“Absolutely. And in addition to the due-process argument, my position is that if the court forces an attorney—an attorney who has taken an oath to preserve the confidences of his client—to violate that oath and disclose the whereabouts of his client when his client has instructed him not to, that’s the same as if the client was ‘compelled’ to incriminate herself.”
“Alright. Let’s go to the other prong of the Fifth Amendment test. Even if there is ‘compulsion’ against a client, how is the disclosure of her whereabouts ‘incriminating’ against her? How does it create a reasonable apprehension that she could be found guilty of a criminal offense?”
“I think we’ve met that test as well, Len,” Will responded.
He pressed on with his argument. “Suppose the client says to the attorney, ‘Well, here I am, in a grass hut on such-and-such a beach in Puerto Rico.’ And she further verifies that she has the child with her in violation of the existing court order that she turn the child over to the Department of Social Services. And the lawyer divulges this to the court. That information sets her up for possible contempt-of-court citation. The court could conclude that she willfully violated the court order—and could impose a jail term upon her for her violation.”
“Was that the ex parte order that you told me about? No notice to you or the parents?”
“Yes,” Will said, “the court entertained that secret hearing without notice, on the grounds that there was an emergency in regard to the child’s welfare.”
“Amazing,” Redgrove remarked. “But local judges have a tremendous amount of discretion in determining whether emergency circumstances warrant an ex parte hearing. My experience with that mostly involves injunctions, where one party is alleging there’s going to be an imminent disaster to its rights if an immediate injunction is not issued. You know, a typical temporary restraining order for twenty-four hours or so.”
“But Len, here we have Mary Sue Fellows’ rights as a parent. You can’t get more fundamental or more important that that. Her rights are being trampled by a judge based entirely on circumstantial evidence, with no notice to either parent. Besides, Social Services had access to the medical records before—why didn’t they intervene sooner if it was such an emergency?”
“Look, Will,” Redgrove said, “that’s the advocate in you talking. I can respect that. You had the heart and mind of a trial lawyer when you were in my Constitutional Law class all those years ago. But one thing about being a law professor—it’s like being a judge. You have the luxury—if you can call it that—of being more objective.
“Let’s assume you have a father who has been beating up a child—or you suspect it. And each time the child goes into the hospital he has more and more bruises. Finally one day the child shows up with an unexplained fracture. And you also have some evidence that the father has threatened, ‘If this kid spills his milk one more time I’m going to take a baseball bat to him and finish him off.’ Now, what do you do as a judge? Do you say, ‘Let’s wait for more evidence’? Or do you err on the other side—in other words, save the child and worry about legal niceties later?”
“I’m not saying it would have been an easy call,” Will continued, his voice rising in passion. “But what I am saying is this—I find it uncomfortably convenient for the court to have ended up on the side of issuing an order at the request of a local prosecutor based on flimsy circumstantial evidence without notice to the opposing party or her attorney. Doing the right thing in court becomes the most important when doing the right thing is the hardest. People need justice the most when the decisions are the toughest—not when they are the easiest.”
“I love to see that fire in your belly for justice,” Redgrove responded warmly. “Our legal system is a fragile thing. In a way it’s like a fine instrument that has been properly calibrated so it can be operated adequately only by the hands of a skilled and conscientious artisan. The clumsy, the dishonest, the politically minded, or the tyrannical—once they lay their hands on the levers of justice, they can do a great deal of damage. That’s the challenge you have, Will. Firmly but respectfully reminding the judge that the levers of this great machinery don’t belong to him personally. They belong to everyone—including Mary Sue Fellows and little Joshua.”
“Thanks, Len,” Will said.
“Now, on a personal note, let me tell you this—you are in one tough spot. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences. You know what I’m talking about.”
“I do,” Will affirmed. “I could end up doing jail time on a contempt-of-court citation.”
Both men paused, and then Redgrove spoke up again.
“One thing you and I haven’t talked about. One option. You’ve probably thought about it. Your representation of Mary Sue Fellows—”
Will shot his response back immediately. “I’m not going to withdraw from representing her. I’m not walking away from this. That would do nothing except help preserve my own hide. I’m not throwing Mary Sue and her family to the wolves.”
“No,” Redgrove noted with a little resignation in his voice. “I didn’t think you would. What time is your hearing tomorrow?”
“Nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Does Fiona know about all of this?”
“No…she and I have been playing phone tag for a while. She’s in Nashville at a recording studio, working on her new CD. We’ve been missing each other, leaving messages. It’s probably just as well. We’re still making some adjustments.”
“Will,” Len Redgrove said in closing, “I am honored as usual that you wanted my advice on an issue. I wish I had some snappy, all-purpose answers. Some quick bright-line legal test you could argue. But the fact is, you’ve got one foot on firm ground and the other in quicksand. The next move you make is going to be critical.”
After Will hung up the phone, he pondered Redgrove’s tone of voice. He knew it when he heard it. Real concern. It was the concern not just of an ex–law professor—or even a professional and spiritual mentor—but of a friend who cared deeply for Will.
In law school, Len Redgrove had recognized Will’s potential as a trial advocate. He’d worked with him on law review, personally assigning complex issues for his research. He had coached Will on the moot-court team that went to the national finals.
Yet Will often thought back to one class in particular that Redgrove had taught. In his class on jurisprudence, the professor had laid out the variety of legal philosophies that could serve as a basis for the idea of justice. But he was most eloquent when he discussed the Judeo–Christian roots of law—in the identity of a personal Lawgiver whose combined attributes of mercy and moral perfection created the only credible foundation for a consistent philosophy of law.
Will had kept in touch with Redgrove over the years of his practice. And he’d often spoken to him on a personal level. When Will’s wife, Audra, had been murdered, aside from his uncle Bull Chambers—a retired North Carolina judge—Len Redgrove had been the only other person to whom Will had confided the terrible details of that day.
After Audra’s death, Will’s contact with Redgrove began to wane. But when Will had undergone his recent spiritual awakening, he’d rekindled his relationship with the law professor. Now they would discuss the Bible together, both theological issues and very personal ones as well.
Will walked into the tiny houseboat bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and looked into the mirror. He didn’t know what it was that bothered him the most about the impending court hearing before Judge Mason. Was it his own unyielding, often unreasonable, drive for legal perfection? If so, then it might be merely arrogance or pride that ignited his anger at the thought of being cited for contempt in the Delphi courtroom.
Or perhaps it was something else. The ghost of something long past—deeply buried. The need to prove something—to someone, somewhere.
But Will also knew there could be a simpler explanation. He knew the way he was built. He had always found it intolerable to see the weak vic
timized by the strong. Whenever he saw the great, toothed gears of the law grinding up the innocent and the powerless, Will knew that his task was obvious—he needed to grab hold of the gears and stop the mangling and the maiming.
Perhaps that’s all he was—all he would ever be—as a lawyer. A brake in the wheels of the justice system when it threatened to crush the quiet people—the ordinary folks—the meek and the decent. And that was all right by Will. Unless, of course, it was his flesh that was getting fed into the big machine.
21
THE AIR WAS COOL THAT MORNING, and there was a haze on Eden Lake as Will carried his files from the houseboat to his car. He loaded them into his trunk, closed it, and was about to climb in behind the steering wheel when he remembered something.
He went back in and made his way into the bedroom, snatching the pocket New Testament off the nightstand and sliding it into the side pocket of his suit coat. He glanced into the bathroom, found his toothbrush and travel-size tube of toothpaste, and put them into the other pocket.
In approximately an hour, Judge Mason would be ruling on whether Will would be in contempt of court, depending on whether or not he decided to disclose what he knew about Mary Sue’s whereabouts.
Will believed in being prepared. In this case, he was trying to think of anything else he might need for a possible stay in the county jail.
As he pulled away from the pier where the boathouse was moored, he realized he’d misplaced the directions back to Delphi. He studied the landmarks along the road and tried to remember a few that would lead him into town.
He recognized the sign that led him away from the marina area and soon found himself on the county highway, feeling confident that he was heading in the right direction. Will glanced around for a sign that he’d noticed on his last drive out to the boathouse. It marked a turnoff onto the main highway that led to Delphi.
After a few minutes, he saw the sign situated next to a pole that was flying a red windsock. It read,
TEX—THE FLYING COWBOY
Crop Dusting
Aerial Photography
Stunt Flying
Private Charters
He made the turn onto the main highway, and after five minutes or so he noticed the sign that read,
Welcome to Delphi!
We’re Glad You’re Here!
Trying to give himself a mental reprieve for a few moments, he turned on the car radio and punched the buttons until he located the national news. The announcer went through the usual litany of events. Hostilities in the Middle East. Oil prices. Some hopeful signs in the unemployment rate. A possible nationwide strike of airline pilots. And the final story about the Justice Department’s seeking to extradite American billionaire Warren Mullburn from Switzerland as a material witness in an ongoing investigation into international bribery, political corruption, the suicide of a former Undersecretary of State, and the murder of Mullburn’s bodyguard.
That final item held a particular interest for Will. Mullburn had surfaced as a shadowy presence in a case Will had taken to trial the preceding year. Through an extraordinary series of events, Will had actually met the billionaire face-to-face at his mega-mansion in the Nevada desert while Will was representing Reverend Angus MacCameron, Fiona’s father. That case was what had brought him and Fiona together.
Musing on the recent course of their relationship, Will soon saw the buildings of downtown Delphi. He parked two blocks down from the courthouse, but still in full view of the activities outside. There was an INN television truck with a tall satellite antenna parked across from the courthouse. Behind it was a remote-broadcasting truck for the Atlanta stations. A handful of TV reporters were milling around the trucks, and a group was forming on the front lawn of the courthouse. He could spot Harry Putnam talking to a reporter with a notebook. Next to him, Harriet Bender was occasionally gesturing broadly and adding comments.
As Will sat for a moment, a green Jaguar pulled over to the curb about a hundred feet in front of him. He saw the driver grabbing furiously around the inside of the car for something. Then the door swung open, and Stanley Kennelworth got out. He had a thin file in his hand and began walking quickly across the street without looking. An oncoming car screeched on its brakes, narrowly missing him, and he raised a quick hand of thanks and then scurried across the street to the courthouse lawn, taking his position on the other side of Putnam. After the reporter left, Putnam, Bender, and Kennelworth huddled quickly.
Joe Fellows’ case was not scheduled to be heard this morning. The only order of business that Will was aware of was the Mary Sue Fellows prosecution. Judge Mason was going to demand information on the whereabouts of Mary Sue Fellows from Will. But as far as Will knew, no other motions were scheduled in either case.
He climbed out of his car with his briefcase and began striding towards the courthouse. He glanced at the Jaguar and noticed it had temporary plates. He looked at the date. Kennelworth had obtained the car within the last ten days. On the back of the new car he also noticed a small dealership nameplate for “Continental Motors.”
As Will neared the courthouse, the group on the front lawn was beginning to break apart and file into the courthouse, with one notable exception. Crystal Banes was hurrying directly toward Will.
“So, counselor,” Banes said, “truth or consequences?”
“Are those my only two options?” Will asked. “How about truth or justice?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“No, I haven’t.” Then Will added, “But you will get the answer inside this courthouse in a matter of minutes.”
“So you don’t know what you’re going to do? You’re walking into this courtroom with no idea what you are going to say?” Banes asked sharply.
“No,” Will said, “I didn’t say that. I have a battle plan, but just like any other incursion into hostile territory, the battlefield here is a fluid environment. Besides,” Will noted, “this may be an important skirmish, but it isn’t the war.”
Banes tilted her head, studied Will for an instant, and then turned and hurried ahead of him into the courthouse.
22
WILL WALKED QUICKLY into the courthouse and headed directly to Judge Mason’s courtroom. Suddenly—and for no apparent reason—Will became aware of his surroundings. He noticed a glass display case in one of the walls dedicated to community safety. And how his shoes were making echoing click-clack sounds off the marble floor. He laid his hands on the dull brass handles of the courtroom, pulling the tall, chipped, and imperfectly varnished oak doors open.
As he opened the doors, he saw a courtroom that was full. Most of the audience was news reporters, but there was a handful of what Will presumed must be community onlookers and perennial courthouse hangers-on.
Putnam was already situated at the counsel table, and next to him, Harriet Bender. Behind both of them, social worker Liz Luden presided with her file on her lap. In the bench behind her, Stanley Kennelworth was seated, staring off into space.
Will glanced around quickly for any member of Mary Sue’s family, but saw none of them. As he walked through the small wooden gate that separated the audience from the counsel tables and the bench, he concluded that this legal struggle—at least today—would be witnessed only by the hostile forces of the prosecution team, a few curious onlookers, a few curious court watchers, and the professionally curious members of the press.
There was no rooting section, no cheerleaders, and no home-team banners to cheer on Will’s defense of a family torn asunder by the brute force of the state. This legal battle—and Will’s fate—were about to be decided in this miniature coliseum packed with unfriendly faces.
Unpacking his briefcase and setting out his file, Will glanced over at the opposing table. Putnam looked away. Guardian ad litem Bender was staring straight ahead.
At the front of the courtroom a bailiff with a holstered revolver shifted his weight as he stood at semi-attention with his hands behind his back. In a moment the
stenographer hurried into the courtroom with her steno machine, put it in place, and took her seat with her fingers ready on the keys.
Right after the court clerk brought the court file out, dropped it on the bench, and took her seat at the clerk’s desk, Judge Mason strolled into the courtroom. His black robe had been unzipped down to the beltline, revealing a white shirt and a cowboy string tie. He took a casual look around the courtroom with his hands in his pockets and smiled. The clerk bent over and whispered something into his ear, and the judge zipped his robe up to the neck, brushed himself off a bit, and then mounted the stairs to the bench.
“Good morning, all,” he said cheerily. “We are here on case number 05-65667—Juda County Department of Social Services versus Mary Sue Fellows. Are counsel ready?”
Harry Putnam stood up quickly.
“Herodius Putnam for the County.”
“Guardian ad litem Harriet Bender for the minor child Joshua Fellows,” Bender snapped out and then resumed her seat.
“Will Chambers for the defense.”
Will was still standing when the judge began addressing him. “I see, Mr. Chambers, that you are sitting alone at counsel table. That is quite unfortunate. That’s a real shame. I want to know where your client is. Let’s start talking.”
“I filed our written arguments with the court yesterday and provided copies to opposing counsel.”
Before Will could elaborate, Judge Mason cut him off. “Right. I have read your arguments. Counsel has read your arguments. Let’s go. Where is Ms. Fellows—where’s Joshua—what do you have to tell me today, Mr. Chambers?”
“Your Honor,” Will began, “this court—in its order—has thrust my client’s defense onto a bed of needle-sharp nails. No matter which way we turn, the defense will suffer irreparable harm—constitutionally, ethically, and legally.”
“Well, Mr. Chambers, maybe someone should have told you in law school that the practice of law out here in the real world can get mighty tough. Sometimes when you take a position of arrogance and defiance toward a court, you’ve got to pay the piper. You’re going to get a split lip once in a while. Is that what you’re here for? To complain about the split lip you’re going to get from this court? If you don’t produce the information that you have been ordered to turn over regarding your client—”
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