by A. W. Gray
Roger Tiddle was doing a lot of prancing around on the prosecution side. Which wasn’t all that unusual; a prosecutor arriving early in court was a dead giveaway that the case he was handling was high profile. In a situation which had received the TV and newspaper coverage that Rusty’s had, the state’s lawyer generally liked to see how much of the limelight he could hog. Bino turned around. The media section was jam-packed. As he started to face the front once more, the rear courtroom door opened with a swish of air. Marvin Goldman came in.
Jesus Christ, Bino thought.
Goldman wore a light tan summer-weight suit, and his goatee was disheveled as if he hadn’t had time for his morning primping. A second man followed Goldman in—an FBI agent, of course, Bino thought, with sandy hair cut in a burr— and the two took seats in the very last row alongside a black teenager who was wearing a Simpsons T-shirt. Just as Goldman prepared to sit, he spotted Bino.
For just an instant, Goldman froze. He glanced at the exit as if considering making a run for it, then relaxed. Bino practically heard the wheels turning inside Goldman’s head. He hadn’t expected to run into his nemesis—in fact, Bino Phillips was probably the last person Goldman would expect to be representing Rusty Benson in a Houston courtroom— but now that Bino had spotted Goldman, the federal prosecutor was likely thinking, So what? As he sat, Goldman favored Bino with a shit-eating grin, lifted a hand to ear level, and waggled his fingers. He said something to the FBI agent, who looked at Bino and smirked. Warmth creeping up the side of his neck, Bino faced the front.
Judge Anson Griggs cleared his throat and said in a high pennywhistle voice, “The court calls Gase No. 1190876, the State of Texas versus Russell Norman Benson.” He peered around expectantly. Griggs had a thin face and sharp features, and Bino placed the jurist at forty-five, give or take a couple of years. Griggs displayed a thick shock of wavy red hair. “Are the parties present?” Griggs said.
Roger Tiddle shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box and said loudly, “State’s here and ready, Your Honor.”
Bino climbed slowly up and folded his hands at the hem of his coat. “I’m Bino Phillips, Your Honor, down here from Dallas.” He offered what he hoped was his most disarming grin.
Griggs favored Bino with a stoic blink. “So?”
Bino swallowed hard. “So ... so, I’m here, Your Honor.”
“I can see that,” Griggs said. “Are you a lawyer? Or possibly a boxer?”
Tiny pimples of embarrassment stood out on Bino’s neck as he touched his swollen lip. There was a muffled giggle behind him which Bino was certain came from either Goldman or the FBI agent. One of the bastards. “Sure, Your Honor, yessir,” Bino said. “I’m a lawyer. Representing the defendant, Russell Benson.” Bino wondered fleetingly whether Rusty could hear what was going on from his place back in the holding cell. If he could, Rusty was probably deciding about now that his attorney was a blithering moron.
“Well, I’m glad to get that much out of you,” Griggs said. “Bailiff, bring the defendant in.” Then, as the deputy exited out the door behind the bench, Griggs said, “Mr. … Phillips, you say?”
“Yessir, that’s me,” Bino said.
“Well, I don’t know how they do it up in Dallas, Mr. Phillips,” Griggs said with a glance at the prosecutor that was practically a broad wink, “but down here in the bayou, counsel generally sits with his client at the defense table. That okay with you?”
“Well, sure, Judge, that’s … the way it’s done where I come from.” Bino went through the gate and stood behind the defense table. Boy, was this sawed-off pipsqueak of a judge having himself a good time. Bino poured himself a glass of water from a carafe which sat on the table, and gulped down the liquid in two big swallows. “I’ll sure do my best to comply, Your Honor,” Bino said. At that moment the deputy brought Rusty Benson in.
Bino just couldn’t shake the feeling that Rusty was playing a role, that Rusty was in fact the star while the rest of those assembled—the deputy escorting Rusty in, the judge, the prosecutor, and, yes, Bino himself—were nothing but bit players. Even in his jail garb, Rusty seemed at ease. He strolled into the courtroom, hands swinging at his sides, and moved around behind the defense table while the deputy stood guard near the rail. Rusty whispered to Bino, “How’s it looking?” His calm brown-eyed gaze rested on Tiddle, and then shifted from the prosecutor to the judge.
Bino hadn’t forgotten the holding cell incident, and couldn’t resist a little dig. He whispered to Rusty, “Marvin Goldman’s sitting at the back. You got any idea why?”
Rusty’s brow furrowed as he looked to the rear. His look was one of—anger? concern? Bino wasn’t sure. Whatever emotion was flowing in Rusty at the moment, he sure as hell didn’t seem surprised to see Goldman. Rusty said softly, “The sons of bitches.” Bino didn’t answer.
Papers rattled at the bench as Judge Griggs looked through his file. Griggs cleared his throat before saying, “The matter at hand, for the record”—the court reporter, a young black woman wearing a mini and displaying the loveliest pair of legs Bino had seen in a courtroom in a long, long time, rattled the keys on her shorthand machine—”is a probable cause hearing to determine whether the defendant is entitled to release on bail. Just a minute. Lucy, shut that thing off and come up here.”
The court reporter walked primly around her table and approached the bench. Griggs leaned over and said something to her. She laughed prettily. The judge said something else and she nodded. Then she returned to her place, picked up a small stack of papers, and exited at the rear of the courtroom.
After she’d gone, Griggs folded his hands. “As I was saying, this hearing’s to determine whether the defendant’s entitled to bond. The state ready?”
Tiddle’s heels clicked like a Nazi corporal’s. “We’ve already announced ready, Your Honor.”
“Yeah,” Griggs said. “Yeah, you have. What about the defense?”
Bino thought he’d seen everything, but the exchange which had just gone on between the judge and the court reporter was a new one on him. He cleared his throat. “We are, Your Honor, but … Well, what about the court reporter? Aren’t we making a record of this?” Jesus Christ, how was anybody going to appeal anything if there wasn’t any record to send to the higher court? Come to think about it, an appeal without a record would be damn near impossible.
Griggs laughed and exchanged yet another knowing glance with Tiddle. Bino had been exposed to a lot of hometown referees in his time, both on the basketball court and in the courtroom, but the buddy-buddy looks between Tiddle and Griggs bordered on the ridiculous. Griggs said, “Oh, Lucy? She’s been needing some time off, and for a little hearing like this I thought I’d give it to her. We may not be as formal down here as you folks up in Dallas, but we get things done.”
Yeah, thought Bino, I’ll just bet you do. “If the court please,” he said, “we’d just as soon have a record of these proceedings.”
Grigg’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Phillips. The court doesn’t please, how about that? There are a lot of people waiting on us, so let’s get this show on the road.”
Bino straightened his posture. “Very well, Your Honor. Let the record reflect defense’s objection, please.”
Griggs smirked in the direction of the vacant court reporter’s chair. “Oh? What record is that?”
Bino glanced at his client. Rusty looked detached, and even a little bit amused. What the hell could Rusty think was so funny about all this? “Just call it a slip of the tongue, Judge,” Bino said.
“I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Phillips,” Griggs said. “Too many slips of the tongue in this court can buy you a contempt citation, and I wouldn’t be forgetting that. Now let’s quit fooling around. Mr. Tiddle, present your case.”
As the prosecutor goose-stepped around his table and headed center stage, Bino mentally kicked himself.
He’d been so caught up in the rigamarole with the court reporter that he hadn’t even considered what evidence the state might present. Now he did. Probably there’d be testimony from Fuller, the Harris County cop, and maybe Jimmy Lankford’s client, the diver who’d found Rhonda’s body. Those witnesses’ testimony wouldn’t matter, Bino thought, because nothing they said could possibly place Rusty in Houston in the past week or so. So what could the state put on as evidence that Rusty should be denied bail? Goldman, maybe? Jesus, what could Goldman possibly have to say?
Tiddle stood in front of the bench and showed the judge a small stack of legal-size paper. “Our evidence is quite brief, Your Honor.” He turned to the clerk, a mousy-looking woman in a dark brown dress, and handed her one sheet from the top of the stack. “Please mark this as Prosecution’s Exhibit One,” Tiddle said. While the clerk wrote something down in her log, then affixed an evidence sticker to the paper, Tiddle walked over and handed another sheet to Bino. “I didn’t forget you,” Tiddle said. “Copy for the defense.” Then he went back and stood with folded hands, waiting for the clerk to finish.
Bino looked the paper over. What the hell was this? He was holding a copy of the indictment. The indictment was on a printed form, showing the date of the grand jury return along with some legal mumbo jumbo having to do with the crime being “against the Peace and Dignity of the State of Texas,” whatever that peace and dignity happened to be. Inserted in the body of the form were two typed-in lines stating that the grand jury charged that Rusty had intentionally caused Rhonda’s death, and that he’d done it during the commission of still another felony. Bino was dead certain that the indictment wouldn’t hold up because it failed to identify the other felony, and that the capital murder charge against Rusty was a lot of whistling in the wind. He showed Rusty the copy. Rusty frowned.
Tiddle took the marked copy from the clerk and handed it to the judge. “The state offers Exhibit One, Your Honor,” he said. Then he stepped back and waited expectantly.
Bino came around the defense table in a hurry. “Hold on. Excuse me, I mean, objection. Your Honor, that’s nothing but a copy of the indictment. It’s already a part of the written record in this case, and it’s only the state’s allegation. By legal definition, the indictment isn’t evidence.”
Griggs held the paper off to one side and squinted. “Thanks for the lecture, Dallas counsel. We-all down here in the bayou did go to law school, thanks. And you’re out of order. The defense is going to get a chance to object. You mind if I look this over first?”
Bino resisted the impulse to say, Well, fuck you, then, and said instead, “Certainly, Your Honor.”
Griggs made a big show of reading the indictment while Bino nervously scratched the back of his hand. Griggs had already seen the frigging indictment, Bino knew, a copy of the thing was right there in the judge’s file. Finally Griggs looked up and said, “Okay, I’ve read this. Does the defense have any objection to the admission of this piece of paper into evidence?”
“As we stated, Your Honor, we do,” Bino said. “That’s a copy of the indictment, and by legal definition it isn’t evidence.”
“Legal definitions from defense counsel aside,” Griggs said in a bored tone of voice, “objection overruled. I’m admitting this.”
“Jesus … ” Bino said, then caught himself and said, “Your Honor … ”
“Overruled, counsel.” Griggs pointed a finger. “And I’m warning you for the last time.”
Bino expelled air from his lungs and studied the carpet. Seen from the corner of his eye, Roger Tiddle had the look of a man about to ejaculate. Jesus, Bino thought, no wonder. With judges like this one, prosecutors in Harris County didn’t have anything to do but jerk off, anyway.
To Tiddle, the judge said, “Anything else?”
Tiddle stood at attention. “The state rests, Your Honor.”
Bino couldn’t hold back any longer. “The state rests? Your Honor, all this guy is going to do is put a copy of the indictment into evidence and then sit down?”
“That’s what he said, Mr. Phillips,” Griggs said. “Now since you think so little of the state’s evidence, let’s see yours. What’s the defense got to say before I rule on the state’s motion to deny bond?”
Bino glanced at Rusty. The burden in a probable cause hearing was on the state, and if the state couldn’t put on any evidence to show that Rusty was likely guilty, the court was required to grant bond. Any second-year law student knew that much. Rusty quickly shook his head. Bino nodded and turned back to the judge. “In view of the state’s evidence,” he said, “then I don’t suppose we do have anything. The defense rests, Your Honor.”
Griggs smiled. “Hey, short and sweet, just the way I like these hearings. Okay.” He raised his gavel and brought it down with a pop. “The state’s motion for denial of bond is granted. Bailiff, take this guy out of here and let’s get on with the next matter.”
The deputy left the rail, took Rusty by the arm and started to lead him back to the holding cell. All of the confidence Rusty had shown disappeared; his face had a disbelieving look and his complexion was ashen through his tan. His broad shoulders slumped.
Bino took a step toward the bench. “Wait a minute. Did I understand you to say you’re holding this defendant without bail?”
Griggs shrugged, obviously enjoying himself. “Well, I said the motion was granted, didn’t I? Or isn’t that the way they do things up in Big D?”
Bino had had all he could take. “Well, then,” he said, “I’ve got something to say. Yes, sir, that’s the way they do it up in Big D, and that’s the way they do it everyplace else, too. Only in Big D and everywhere else I ever heard of, the judge knows something about what’s going on. This is the damnedest … ”
Roger Tiddle showed a broad grin. Judge Griggs had an amused look as well, and his head was tilted slightly to one side. He raised his gavel once more.
“You may as well finish, Mr. Phillips,” Griggs said. “Go on, buddy. You’ve already said a mouthful.”
13
THE BARREL-CHESTED BLACK GUY, WHO CLAIMED TO HAVE THE best pussy for sale in Fifth Ward, and who insisted that he’d be back on the streets as soon as his girls could get together the money to pay the bondsman, offered his biscuit in exchange for a scoop of powdered scrambled eggs. “That biscuit good,” he said, grinning.
The tall, skinny black guy put in his two cents worth, claiming, “Man, that ain’t shit, one biscuit. Tell you what, you take my biscuit plus I gonna give you a pack of Nestlé’s hot chocklit a kitchen dude gimme. That chocklit hard to come by.” He claimed that he didn’t know from nothing about the twenty-five-dollar paper of toot which had been in his pocket when the Houston PD had hassled him out on Montrose Boulevard. He looked satisfied, as if he thought he was offering a pretty good deal.
“Don’t listen to this mothafuckah,” the Fifth Ward pimp said. “He get that chocklit from one of them homosectual dudes up in Tank 5C3 he’s lettin’ polish his knob. Man, that chocklit liable to have AIDS all over it.”
Bino eyed the runny scoop of egg in his tray as he considered his options. “Fellas, I’m not that crazy about chocolate to begin with,” he finally said. “But one of you guys got a cigarette?” It had been a month since he’d sworn off the three or four filtered Camels a day he’d smoked for years. A night in the county had weakened his resolve.
The Fifth Ward pimp grinned ear to ear, got up, and headed for his bunk. “Sho, man, I got some Bugler rollin’ tobacco a dude left when he went to the streets. Don’t have no gummed papers, though. Toilet paper work pretty good, you don’t let it burn too fast.” He lifted his mattress, dug underneath, and came up with a pouch of Bugler and a roll of toilet paper which had been mashed into the shape of a parabola.
The thin guy stroked his mustache as he sat across the table from Bino and continued to watch the powdered eggs. “Don’t listen to that du
de knockin’ my chocklit, man. That Bugler? He got it from a crazy dude, dude used to stand over in the corner and piss on that tobacco so’s nobody’d be hittin’ on him for no cigarettes.” He licked his lips. “Man, them eggs sho looks good.”
Bino lifted his rump from the metal stool and adjusted his jumpsuit. The suit was a couple of sizes too small, and Bino’s shoulders and arms felt as if they were bound by cable. “Hey, guys,” he said, “I been trying to quit smoking anyhow. How ’bout if you two split the eggs?” He used a plastic spoon to divide the runny mess in half, shoveled one portion onto the pimp’s tray, and gave the rest to the skinny guy. The pimp came over and polished his egg off in one swallow while the skinny guy picked up his portion with his hands and took small bites. Bino’s stomach churned.
A uniformed deputy came down the corridor to stand outside the cell and peer in between the bars. He carried a clipboard. “Phillips,” he yelled, and the sound echoed from bare concrete floors, ceilings, and walls. “Hey, Wendell A. Phillips. A.T.W.”
“Hey, that’s me,” Bino said. He leaned over and said quietly, “What’s this A.T.W.? What am I, in trouble?”
The two black guys exchanged astonished glances. Then the pimp said, “Man, you got to be kidding. A.T.W. stand for ‘all the way.’ You getting out, man, to the streets. Yo gulls must have come wid the bond money, huh?”
Bino showed a relieved grin as he climbed to his feet. “Yeah, they must have. You need to work the airport hotels more, pal. The pickings are better out there.”
The pimp thoughtfully scratched his nose. “Ain’t no bad idea,” he said.
Carla wore baggy khaki shorts with suspender straps, along with a brown Esprit T-shirt and snow-white canvas Keds sneakers. The men who passed by on the sidewalk in front of the Harris County Jail did double takes as they glanced down at her legs. She said, “Dondi says you haven’t really been in jail. He thinks you’ve been down here conferring with your contact man, giving him all these tapes where you’ve been recording everybody.”
