Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

by Randy Singer

  He held it together as he hugged his mother and older sister. They didn’t say anything, mindful that the cameras would capture every word. Kerri waited in line, just as she had waited for two years, true to her word, enduring the scorn of most of her old friends. On her hip was the little girl Landon knew would grow into the same kind of strong-willed, independent, beautiful woman her mom was. Maddie had been born after Landon started serving his term. He had never held her outside the prison walls.

  Landon and Kerri had scripted this moment. There would be a brief hug; then Landon would say a few words to the press about how much he appreciated Kerri’s loyalty. He would answer a few questions. They would keep it low-key. The emotional dam would burst later.

  But when Kerri stepped forward to hug him, the script no longer mattered. She started crying, though they had agreed she wouldn’t cry and neither would he. Unbidden, tears rolled down his face as well. Kerri buried her head on his shoulder, and they held each other for much longer than they had planned, with little Maddie right there between them, an arm around each of their necks. For the old Landon, the hotshot quarterback of three years ago, this public display of emotion would have been embarrassing. But the new Landon was beyond all that. Once you’ve been humiliated in the national press, crying in public is no big deal.

  The questions started even before the little family disengaged. Kerri handed Maddie to Landon, and when he turned to face the reporters, his little girl turned her back to them, hiding her face in Landon’s chest, holding on for her life. It was all overwhelming for an almost-two-year-old.

  “What’re your plans now?”

  “Are you going to play football again?”

  “What do you have to say to your teammates and coaches?”

  He took them one at a time. “I’m pretty sure my football career is over.” Who would want me? “I’m grateful for everyone who stood with me during these last two years.” He put his free arm around Kerri’s shoulder. He nodded toward his mother and sister, standing on the other side of him. His mom, always a slender woman, looked wiry and gaunt, with tears streaking her face. Prison had aged her even more than him.

  “I’m sorry that I let my teammates and coaches and fans down. I know I can never undo the damage I’ve done to Southeastern University or my own reputation.”

  Kerri held her head high, as if she were standing next to a prince. His mom and sister kept their chins up as well.

  “I’m incredibly grateful to Kerri for waiting for me these past two years. I certainly wouldn’t have blamed her if she had moved on to someone else. In terms of what I’m going to do, one of the first things will be tying the knot.”

  Kerri had her arm around his waist and gave him a little squeeze. The questions kept coming and he patiently addressed each one. Reporters were a cynical lot. Marriage, yeah, yeah—that’s quaint. But what about a comeback on the gridiron?

  “Are you saying you haven’t been contacted by any NFL teams?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Are you planning on attending any tryouts?”

  It was Billy Thurston who decided enough was enough. He stepped between Landon and the microphones and made a little announcement. “Let’s respect this family’s privacy and let Mr. Reed go about rebuilding his life,” he said. And then, as he had done so many times in the past, he cleared a path for his quarterback to follow.

  The reporters took this as a cue to ask the same questions louder, shouting at Landon and the others as they worked their way toward the parking lot. Landon, no stranger to the spotlight, knew the drill. Once you’ve decided the press conference is over, keep your head down, ignore whatever they say, and just keep moving.

  They had almost completed the gauntlet when Landon spotted Bobby Woolridge, an older reporter from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution who had always been more than fair. Bobby believed in redemption and had written a piece a few months ago about Landon’s jailhouse conversion. Unlike the others, Bobby didn’t assume it was just part of a sophisticated PR campaign.

  “You going into the ministry?” Bobby asked.

  Landon grinned a little and kept walking. “No, Bobby. I hardly think I’m qualified.”

  “How are you gonna feed your family?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Landon said. He was tempted to tell Bobby. Sooner or later, it would all come out anyway. But he and Kerri had talked about this. They would keep their plans private until this new wave of publicity had washed over. He had finished his undergrad degree in prison. Now they would start a new life miles away from Atlanta, in a town with lots of history but few SEC football fanatics.

  “Good luck,” Bobby said.

  Billy had double-parked his Land Rover, and they all hopped in, leaving the media behind to snap a few final pictures. As they pulled away, Landon could feel the pressure in his chest begin to loosen. He was a free man again. He could do whatever he wanted.

  “Where to?” Billy asked. “Pizza? Burgers? The Varsity?” For Billy, it was always about food.

  But Landon had a commitment to keep. “Trinity Church,” he said. “We’ve got our best man and flower girl in the car. No sense giving the bride a chance to change her mind.”

  Kerri was sitting in the back with Maddie. She leaned forward and placed a hand on Landon’s shoulder. “She’s had two years to think it over,” Kerri said. “She’s not getting cold feet now.”

  They had been planning this day for six months, and Landon couldn’t believe it was finally here. It wasn’t exactly a dream wedding, but Kerri didn’t seem to care. Even her parents’ refusal to attend hadn’t fazed her. They would have each other, she had said. What else did they need?

  That afternoon, the minister at the small church Kerri had been attending made it official. Kerri Anderson became Kerri Reed. And when they made their vows, pledging to stick with each other for better or for worse, the minister actually paused for a moment and turned to Kerri.

  “I think you’ve already got this part down,” he said.

  Kerri was beaming, as was Landon. And they didn’t stop smiling until long after the minister pronounced them man and wife.

  Later that day, Kerri said it was the most romantic wedding she could ever have imagined. With just the seven of them in the small sanctuary, it somehow felt more private and intimate. She had been smiling, she said, because it felt so surreal she almost had to pinch herself. The three of them were officially becoming a family. She was Mrs. Landon Reed. Maddie would have her daddy home.

  Landon didn’t tell her the reason he had been smiling. Like Kerri, the whole experience had felt like a dream. The entire two years behind bars, he kept thinking that any day Kerri might come to her senses, find somebody else, and bolt. She was beautiful and smart with a larger-than-life personality. But she kept coming back. And now, Landon was married to her.

  That was enough to make any man smile. But there was also one other thing.

  The honeymoon would start that night.

  2

  THE CHARACTER AND FITNESS COMMITTEE of the Virginia Board of Bar Examiners is made up of five lawyers with the unenviable task of determining whether law school graduates who have passed the bar exam have also demonstrated, by clear and convincing evidence, that they possess the character and fitness required to practice law. In lawyer-speak, the members of the committee are looking for men and women “of such good moral character as to be entitled to the high regard and confidence of the public.” As a practical matter, it is the committee’s job to stare down would-be lawyers who have demonstrated a propensity to lie, cheat, or steal—or in rare cases, commit more violent crimes. The committee hears the evidence and makes a recommendation to the Virginia Board of Bar Examiners—a thumbs-up or down—for the aspiring young lawyers with checkered pasts.

  The committee meets in a large courtroom on the second floor of the State Corporation Commission in Richmond. The members set up shop behind a table in the well of the courtroom, and the lawyer g
etting grilled sits just below the judge’s dais in a single chair facing the committee. There is no table or witness rail to hide behind; the young lawyer is totally exposed. Some of these young men and women bring their own attorneys. Others who cannot afford lawyers take their future into their own hands, representing themselves. For those who lose, it will be the only case they ever try.

  Landon Reed had talked to several lawyers, but none would take his case. Three years after his release from prison, he sat in front of the committee wearing the better of the two suits he owned, his six-foot-three-inch frame draped over the chair. He felt more vulnerable than he had at any time since his sentencing five years earlier.

  It was the job of the committee’s lawyer to summarize the areas of concern. His name was Jeffery Henderson. He was a studious-looking man in his early forties with a calm demeanor, and he had been fair to Landon throughout the process. He read from some prepared notes while the committee members stared. Landon recrossed his legs and folded his hands together, his heart beating against his suit coat like it might pop out of his chest at any moment.

  During his two and a half years at William and Mary Law School, Landon had rolled out of bed every morning with the knowledge that it would one day come to this. The student loans, the all-nighters before exams, the summer courses so he could graduate six months early, and the stress on his marriage would all be for naught if three of the five lawyers seated before him decided he didn’t have the purity of character necessary to be a lawyer.

  A lawyer! As if there weren’t thousands already unleashed on the public who would make Landon look like a patron saint.

  “The committee has received your letters of recommendation and your written submission,” Henderson said calmly, his formal words accentuating the gravity of the moment. “The purpose of today’s hearing is to inquire about your conviction on two counts of conspiracy to commit sports bribery. The underlying acts involve alleged point shaving while you were the quarterback for the Southeastern University Knights and specifically involve two games against SEC opponents Kentucky and Vanderbilt during your junior year at the university. You pleaded guilty to those counts and served two years prior to starting law school at William and Mary. In addition, you had five traffic infractions during the time you were at Southeastern.”

  Landon had always gotten a kick out of the traffic infractions. Like most college athletes, he had a lead foot and had racked up more than his share of tickets. But that wasn’t why they were here today. Landon had been the central figure in one of the biggest point-shaving scandals in college football history. He had admitted to intentionally shaving points against two SEC schools in games his team had dominated. But the real controversy had swirled around the SEC Championship Game, a game that Southeastern lost to Alabama—a game in which Landon had thrown three interceptions.

  He had steadfastly maintained his innocence on that one. And the prosecutors could never prove anything different.

  The first question from the panel came from the one person Landon had pegged as a possible ally. His name was Harry McNaughten, an ornery old criminal-defense lawyer who reportedly suffered from cirrhosis but kept outliving everyone’s expectations. He was thin and somewhat jaundiced with leathery skin and receding gray hair that swept back over his ears. His high forehead, elongated face, and Roman nose reminded Landon of the statue of George Wythe, one of Virginia’s founding fathers, that dominated the sidewalk at the entrance to William and Mary Law School.

  McNaughten was on the committee because criminal-defense lawyers had revolted after years of not having one of their own sitting on the panel. It was widely believed that he brought a liberal and lenient voice to the proceedings, and Landon was banking on his vote.

  “I think the question on everyone’s mind,” Harry said, his voice raspy, “was why you did this. Heck, I know a lot of lawyers who would have given their left arm to play quarterback in the SEC. And you sell your team down the river for a few thousand bucks.” Harry leaned back in his chair and eyed Landon down his long nose. “It just seems incomprehensible to most of us.”

  Landon swallowed hard before responding. He wanted to argue the point. Technically, he hadn’t sold out his team—he had only shaved points in games he knew they would still win. But it was wrong, and everybody knew it. Unless he fell completely on his sword, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Nothing I’m about to say should be construed as an excuse for what I did,” Landon began. His voice was shaky, and it made him more self-conscious. “I take full responsibility for my actions. As an athlete, I can think of nothing more detestable than working against your own teammates—even in games I knew we could win. But at the time, in my twenty-year-old mind, I was more focused on myself than on my teammates. I had just found out that my girlfriend was pregnant, and we didn’t want her parents to know. We didn’t know if we were going to keep the baby. Neither of us had enough money for her to see a doctor unless she went on her parents’ insurance, and I thought that maybe . . .”

  Landon’s voice caught and he swallowed hard. He looked to the front row, where Kerri was staring at him, her head high as it had been throughout the entire ordeal, a look of dignity and pride accentuating the beautiful almond eyes. She wanted this for him perhaps more than he wanted it for himself. He couldn’t afford to choke up now. The committee members would think he was just putting on a show.

  “The point is, I was desperate for cash, and this was the only way I knew to get some. I thought I was good enough to be able to shave a few points but not cost my team the game. None of that makes it right, and I’m ashamed of what I did. I brought disgrace not only on me but on the team and on Kerri as well. The reason I get emotional about it is because I let down the people who cared about me most.”

  “What kind of lawyer do you want to be?” McNaughten asked. The others seemed content to let Harry take the lead.

  “I’ve thought about that a lot,” Landon replied. The shakiness in his voice was gone, and he tried to keep his tone soft and humble. “I would love to be a criminal-defense lawyer but probably not for the reasons you might expect. One thing I learned behind bars is that most men serving time have given up hope. You can see it in their eyes, their posture, their outlook on life. I know this might sound a bit Pollyanna-ish, but I think I could give my clients a small infusion of hope.

  “I know what it’s like to have the full weight of the law come down on you and to feel like everybody’s turned against you. But I also know that our system is set up to give men and women a chance at redemption. I would tell my clients that if they take complete responsibility for what they did, they can change. That someday they can actually make something of their lives. And if they see me representing them in court, they’ll know it’s not just a pep talk.”

  There was so much more Landon wanted to say, but he knew this was not the time. This group of lawyers had heard it all before. Like so many other felons, Landon’s story was one of spiritual redemption. At the lowest point in his life, he had started attending a prison Bible study led by an ex-felon turned law school professor named Mason James. Mace, as the inmates called him, shared biblical stories of men who had served time in prison and had become heroes of the faith. Joseph in the Old Testament; Paul in the New. Moses had been a murderer. David was an adulterer. “There’s hope for men like you,” Mace had said. But it required confession and repentance and faith in Christ.

  Landon had stiff-armed the message for six months but was eventually convinced by the man’s lifestyle. Mace never missed a week of Bible study, never tired of coming back, and spent his time defending men who couldn’t afford a lawyer. It inspired Landon to one day do the same.

  The story that finally got through to Landon was the one about Zacchaeus, a tax collector. Like Landon, he had cheated a lot of people, but this didn’t keep Jesus away. Zacchaeus welcomed Jesus into his home, paid back everyone he had cheated—four times over—and Jesus assured him that salvation had come to his
house. When Jesus was criticized for hanging out with a tax collector, his explanation seemed as much for Landon as for Zacchaeus: “The Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

  Motivated by that message, Landon had written a letter to every one of his former teammates and coaches asking for their forgiveness. Some had ignored him. Others had responded with harsh words. But most, including Landon’s former head coach, had responded graciously. In fact, Landon had included a letter from his coach in his submission to the Character and Fitness Committee.

  The youngest lawyer on the committee was a blonde litigator who had graduated from the University of Virginia and was working for one of the big Richmond firms. She had been riffling through some papers while Landon was speaking about his desire to be a defense attorney.

  “One of the things that this committee looks for is whether the applicant has paid his or her full debt to society,” she said, looking up at Landon. “I know that plea agreements often involve concessions from both sides and that the defendant pleads guilty to less than the full scope of his wrongdoing. So my question to you, Mr. Reed, is whether there were any other games where you attempted to affect the outcome for which you did not plead guilty?”

  Landon knew the question was coming. Every fan in the SEC suspected he had thrown the championship game.

  “Those are the only two games. I gave my best effort in every other game and, for that matter, in every other practice.”

  “Some of us have a hard time believing that,” Harry McNaughten interjected. “A lot of folks betting on Southeastern lost money on the championship game that year. It wasn’t your best day.”

  “It was probably my worst game,” Landon admitted. “But I tried to win.”

  “How many interceptions did you have your entire junior season?”