by Randy Singer
“Tina was a parasite,” Bella snapped. “She’d come in late, take two-hour lunches, and be gone by five. Should have fired her a year ago. I’d rather do her work myself.”
“She wasn’t even with us a year ago,” Brad protested. “And now you will be doing her work yourself.”
He waited for Bella to respond, but she just puffed in silence.
“Put in the usual classified ads. Make sure you hit the legal periodicals,” Brad said. He really needed some caffeine to clear his head. “And this time, Bella, I want the paralegal reporting directly to me. I hire them, and only I fire them.”
He looked at Bella again and waited for confirmation. She ignored him and pulled some more files out of her briefcase. It was no use getting mad at her now. He would deal with her attitude later. At least she was here, first thing on a Saturday morning. And they had more important things to talk about than office management.
He switched gears. “We’ve got to get a brief and petition for a writ of mandamus hand-delivered to Judge Baker-Kline and a Fourth Circuit judge by the end of the day to have any chance for a hearing on Monday. We’ll have to write it ourselves. I’ll need you to help with the research. I’ll sign it and argue it in front of the Fourth Circuit.”
In response, Bella took another long draw on her Camel, then tossed a manila folder and an extra pair of reading glasses onto the table in front of Brad. He put on the glasses, opened the folder, and was not entirely surprised to find a twenty-two-page brief and accompanying petition. Bella couldn’t suppress a grin. Her bloodshot eyes twinkled.
“I stayed up all night drafting this baby,” she said proudly. “I had a little help.”
Brad sat down and started reading, ignoring the smoke that came in waves across the table. Ichabod sounded like the Ayatollah. The brief was fat with applicable case law—precedents where more egregious conduct by other lawyers was found insufficient to justify contempt. By page eleven, Brad was ready to sign.
“That won’t be necessary,” Bella said. “You know what they say. A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.”
“Somebody’s got to sign it.”
“Why don’t you check the last page before you go startin’ another argument you can’t win.”
Brad looked and his jaw dropped.
The signature belonged to Jay Sekulow, renowned constitutional law expert and lead counsel for the American Center for Law and Justice. Sekulow had the personal reputation and legal firepower to get the attention of the Fourth Circuit judges. The smell of victory began to replace the stale fumes of Bella’s cigarettes.
“I didn’t even have to beg,” Bella said curtly. “Turns out he’s been following the case closely. His group is big on religious liberty cases. All I had to do in return—” her voice lowered as she mumbled the rest—“was to promise you’d appear on Jay Sekulow Live when you get out.”
“You what?” Brad cocked his head sideways, as if eyeing Bella at a new and skeptical angle would change this news. “Just what I needed. A nationally syndicated radio show. Brad Carson, the new lapdog for the Christian Right.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table.
Then he hunched forward, narrowed his eyes, and locked in on Bella to make his point.
“Whatever,” she said with a wry smile.
* * *
By midafternoon Brad was sitting in the regal chambers of the Honorable Cynthia Baker-Kline. It was a surreal scene and a humiliating one. The judge sat behind her large oak desk, dressed in a black pin-striped suit. Assistant district attorney Angela Bennett sat next to Brad and also sported a power suit, even though it was Saturday afternoon. Brad wore his orange jail jumpsuit, his feet adorned by the standard-issue jail flip-flops.
Brad knew the fix he was in when he got to Ichabod’s office on time and discovered that the judge and the ADA were already meeting. Such ex parte meetings were technically improper—a judge should never discuss a case with only one lawyer present—but when Brad entered the office, the two women started chatting aimlessly about everything but the law. The message was clear: we were not discussing the case, so don’t even bother complaining.
Ichabod pretended not to notice his jumpsuit. But Brad sensed a perpetual smirk on the lips of Bennett, who seemed to be enjoying herself way too much.
“How’s it going?” she asked snidely.
“Better if I’d remembered to bring my toothbrush with me to court on Friday.”
Ichabod did not smile. She began laying out a proposal that Brad was sure she had already discussed with ADA Bennett. It was damage control and face-saving time for Ichabod. She clearly did not want this case appealed. Now that she had calmed down, read Brad’s brief, and seen the name of Jay Sekulow, she was apparently willing to do everything within her power to keep the appeals court in Richmond from considering the case and evaluating her conduct.
“This is a no-win situation,” Ichabod was saying, her elbows on her desk, fingertips tented together. She was looking back and forth at Brad and Angela Bennett. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. Mr. Carson’s ill-advised actions have escalated the emotional nature of this highly charged case and created a difficult situation for everyone.”
Brad suddenly noticed there was no court reporter present to record their conversation.
“I have every right, and half a mind, to keep you in jail for as long as you stubbornly refuse to apologize for your childish conduct,” she continued, giving Brad her holier-than-thou look.
Brad spread his palms—bring it on.
“But I won’t,” Ichabod announced, “because I refuse to let counsel drag me down to his level.”
Bennett’s smirk widened.
“Instead, I want to propose an agreement that could turn this into a win-win situation.” Ichabod shuffled her papers and began reading from some notes.
“I strongly suggest that counsel consider a plea bargain in this case, and I have given some thought to the types of terms I would accept. Let me be frank with you, Mr. Carson. Your client has no chance of being found innocent.”
She said it and paused, as if it were some shocking pronouncement. In truth, Brad knew this from the moment he drew Ichabod to hear the case. Years earlier, when she first ascended to the bench, some pro-life senators had delayed her confirmation hearings for more than eighteen months, digging for dirt they never found. It was common knowledge around the courthouse that Ichabod had a long memory and painted those responsible with a broad brush.
Brad had spent a long time kicking himself for suggesting to his client that they waive their right to a jury trial and take their chances with a judge.
“I assume the Reverend Bailey’s conscience would not allow him to plead guilty to this charge, so I would be willing to accept a plea of ‘no contest.’ It would have the same effect, of course, except he wouldn’t have to admit guilt. You will withdraw any defense and any rights to appeal, and I will find the reverend guilty. I will sentence him to serve only four days in jail, to be done on four consecutive Saturdays. No overnight stays. I will also sentence him to a total of six months in jail but will suspend that part of his sentence conditioned on good behavior for the next year, including no more protests or prayer meetings within one hundred feet of any abortion clinic.”
Ichabod quit reading and looked at Brad. He sat absolutely stone-faced, determined not to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. It was a good deal. And he knew it was motivated by Ichabod’s desire to avoid looking bad in front of the appellate judges in Richmond. But he didn’t want to look too anxious to jump on it. Better to make the judge sweat a little.
“I’ll have to discuss it with my client,” Brad said, thoughtfully rubbing his unshaven face.
“Judge, I don’t know if I can agree to this,” Bennett blurted out. “It’s very lenient. But this case is getting out of hand, and I would love to put this matter behind us.” She paused for effect.
All part of a carefully choreographed show—with
me as the audience, Brad thought. He was flattered.
“I’ll agree to it,” Bennett finally said, trying to sound reluctant, “but only if we can wrap it up by 5 p.m. I’m not willing to spend all weekend wondering about what we’re going to do. I’ve got a closing argument to prepare for this trial . . . assuming, that is, that Mr. Carson will find the good sense to apologize.”
“Oh, that’s another thing,” Ichabod said, looking back at her notes like she just remembered something. “If we can all agree to this plea bargain, I will release Mr. Carson from custody on Monday morning.”
What a surprise.
“So, Mr. Carson, what’s it going to be?”
He was tempted to say “whatever” again. He was tempted to tell Ichabod how much he liked jail, and how much the marshals liked him because he had stood up to her. Instead, he just stared down at his flip-flops. It really was a good deal for his client, and he didn’t want to say anything to jeopardize it.
“My client is a man of strong convictions,” Brad said solemnly. “And I’m not sure he’ll go for it. But I’ll talk to him, and I’ll recommend it. And I’ll let you know by five o’clock.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carson,” Ichabod said, sounding both sincere and smug at the same time. Then she looked at Bennett. “I’d like a moment alone with Mr. Carson, please.”
The government lawyer quickly excused herself. Brad studied his flip-flops some more, knowing what was coming. No court reporter, no witnesses. Ichabod was going to lower the boom.
“Mr. Carson,” she began, her voice low and even as she measured each syllable, “you may think that you are clever. And, I will admit, you have done well for your client by your little stunt in this case. But the most important thing any lawyer brings into my courtroom is his or her own credibility. And once you lose it, you can never, ever, reclaim it. You have lost every ounce of your credibility with this judge, Mr. Carson. In my courtroom, you are a marked man. And I have a very long memory.”
Brad felt a deep breath leave his body, and with it went some of the pride of his cunning achievement. He had indeed done well for his client, but at what cost to his own career? Did he really want to be known as a lawyer who couldn’t be trusted, even by someone as petty as Ichabod?
He began to carefully choose the words for his response, but Ichabod didn’t give him a chance. She simply pushed a button under her desk, and a marshal appeared at the back door.
“Clarence,” she said, “give Mr. Carson a half-hour leave from his contempt sentence so that he can go buy a toothbrush.”
Brad stood and flashed Ichabod a puzzled smile. He waited for her to look up so he could offer to shake hands. No hard feelings?
But Ichabod began reading some more papers, not bothering to stand or extend her hand or even look at him.
“Good day, Mr. Carson,” she said without taking her eyes from the page in front of her.
* * *
“What did he say?” Bella asked.
She was sitting in the muggy, dank jailhouse conference room with Brad. He had recounted the plea bargain offered by Ichabod, then called the Reverend Bailey on a cell phone that Clarence allowed Bella to bring into the conference room.
“He said if I recommend it, he’ll take it.”
“The man is clearly a poor judge of character,” Bella offered.
Brad ignored her sarcasm and pensively stared at the floor. He was pretty sure he had won this case. He just didn’t think winning would feel this bad.
* * *
Sarah Reed tried to open her eyes, encountered blinding lights, and closed them again. Her head was throbbing, and she could not seem to get out of the haze. She heard voices in the distance but couldn’t make out the words. She tried to speak, tried to scream and tell someone about the pain, but the noises just tumbled out of her throat, making no sense.
She tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. Her mind swung in and out of consciousness, while nightmares blurred the lines between reality and dreams. She tried to reach out and grab something real, to get her bearings, but her arms would not respond. Where am I? Where is Charles? Then the haze became darker, and she floated away, voices mocking her in the distance.
“Sarah?”
A disembodied voice cut through the thick fog engulfing her. A touch on the arm, an insistent shaking, then the same kind voice.
“Sarah, do you hear me?”
It was a man’s voice. Maybe Charles?
She reached out for him, finding comfort in the soft and understanding tone. He moved closer, bringing a peace and order to her thoughts. Without even knowing why, she took comfort in his presence, pictured his face. She couldn’t remember what had happened, but she had a feeling of great danger and great loss. And then . . . he changed. The face hardened before her eyes, transforming into the leathery image of the Muttawa leader, the eyes turning rabid. Sarah heard his heinous laugh . . . She recoiled, fear wracking her.
“Sarah.”
Another gentle touch. This time she opened her eyes, then squinted to protect them from the lights’ harsh glare. She could make out the silhouette of a figure standing over her.
“Sarah, my name is Dr. Rydell,” the soft voice said. “Do you know where you are?”
Sarah nodded her head ever so subtly. At least she tried to. She didn’t know if she actually succeeded. She tried to focus. She could feel the sleep coming back and somehow knew she didn’t have long to get an answer about Charles.
“You’re in a naval base hospital outside of Riyadh. You took a pretty nasty blow to the head, but you’re going to be all right. You’re going to need some rest.”
Even as the haze started closing in, Sarah felt the images cascading around her. The Muttawa. Charles. Blood dripping from his face. The men coming at her. She closed her eyes and felt a stream of tears running down her face and toward her pillow.
She had to know.
She struggled to form the words, to fight off the fog for one last critical moment, but her tongue was thick and uncooperative. Still she managed to mouth a single word, inquiring with her eyes and lips.
“Charles?”
The doctor reached out and touched her arm again, bending forward and nearly whispering. “I’m afraid we weren’t able to save him,” the man said. “We tried everything we could, but he passed away a few hours ago from massive heart failure.” He paused for a beat as the awful news penetrated the fog and pierced her heart. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”
No! she wanted to scream. Bring him back! It can’t end like this! Not for those who love God and are called according to His purpose . . .
More images flashed into her mind—unheeded—of their last struggling moments together. She remembered now. Vividly. The way Charles courageously refused to give up the names of other pastors. The brutal reaction of the Muttawa. The pain and the blood.
She needed to hold her husband one more time . . . say her good-byes . . . tell him how much she loved him . . . how hard it would be without him . . . how much he had taught her about the love of Christ.
But Charles was not there, and even in her drug-induced state she understood with awful certainty that he would never return. She found herself clutching the arm of this doctor, her lips forming one final haunting question as she slipped back into the darkness.
“Why, God? Why?”
5
Six months later
LESLIE CONNORS LOOKED DOWN at her watch and could hardly believe it was already 11:30. The law library would close in thirty minutes. As usual, she had run out of time before she ran out of work.
She leaned back in her chair and stole a quick look around. Not surprisingly, she was the only one left on the basement floor. Most students avoided the loneliness and despair that seemed to linger in these parts of the catacombs. No windows, no noise, no socializers, no distractions. Just the way Leslie liked it.
She put in her time at this same carrel night after night, grinding away and chasing her dream. She owned this carrel, no
t in a legal sense, but through the personal effects she had scattered around the small cubicle and her chastisement of any intruders. After all, she was a second-year law student and already a bit of a legend. She was on track to graduate second in her class. That feat alone would take her one step closer to her goal of becoming one of the top international law practitioners in the country. The world was shrinking, and the global village was becoming a reality. Leslie loved the thought of the travel, the prestige, the intellectual challenge, and yes, the money. For a girl who grew up in a double-wide trailer, a career representing multinational corporations seemed like the perfect ticket to a better life.
There was no sacrifice she was not willing to make.
Her carrel was lined with law books across the back. Pictures, yellow Post-it notes, and to-do lists filled the sides. One of the faded color photos reflected the happier times in her life. It was a picture of Leslie and Bill, her late husband, with their arms around each other, standing on the steps of the U.S. Supreme Court.
At the age of thirty-three, Bill had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer that had already metastasized. In the bittersweet nine months that followed, a nostalgic Bill made Leslie promise to pursue the legal career that she had sacrificed in the real-life compromises made by a young couple trying to make ends meet. And so, at the age of twenty-eight, and without Bill for the first time in eight years, Leslie enrolled at William and Mary Law School. She had been tearing the place up ever since.
“Ready for Friday?”
Leslie jumped and turned quickly around. Her friend Carli was smiling. “Little edgy tonight, aren’t we?”
Leslie shook her head and returned the smile. “Didn’t know you were sneaking up on me.”
“Just stopping by to see if maybe you had died down here or needed a sleeping bag or something.”
“Very funny.”
Carli surveyed the casebooks and legal briefs scattered around the carrel. “So . . . you ready?”
