Rogue Lawyer

by John Grisham

  Whitly has a ringside seat.

  Zapate versus Crush is the main event, which is fantastic, of course, right where we want to be, but it requires a long wait through the undercard. Tonight there are five warm-ups, so the evening will move painfully slowly.

  I check in with Team Zapate and everyone is in good spirits. Subdued, as always, but quite confident. Tadeo is still in street clothes, lying on a table with his headphones on. His brother Miguel says he’s ready. Oscar whispers that it will be a first-round knockout. I hang around for a few minutes but can’t stand the tension. I leave and walk through a tunnel to a lower level where my little gang of criminals is waiting in a supply room. Slide, the convicted murderer, has been losing lately and has cut back on his wagers. Nino, the meth dealer, has, as always, a pocketful of cash and is splashing it around. Denardo, the Mafia wannabe, doesn’t like any of the fights. Johnny is absent. Frankie, the old guy and our scorekeeper, is nursing a double scotch, probably not his first. We work through the undercard and place our bets. As usual, no one will bet against my man. I chide them, taunt them, curse them, but they don’t budge. I offer $10,000 for a first-round knockout but get no takers. Frustrated, I leave with only $5,000 on the table, a grand for each bout on the undercard.

  I pay eight bucks for a watered-down beer and climb to the nosebleed section, which is packed. A sellout, standing room only. Tadeo is becoming a big draw in his hometown, and I hammered the promoter for a guaranteed purse. Eight thousand dollars—win, lose, or draw. I lean on a steel beam above the top row and watch the first fight. I can barely see my kid in the crowd, way down there.

  I lose my bets on the first four fights, win the fifth, then hustle to the dressing room. Team Zapate crowds around its hero, who also wears bright yellow. We look like a sack of organic lemons. We walk him through the tunnel and into the lights, and the crowd goes wild. I wave at Starcher and he waves back with a huge smile on his face.

  Round 1. Three minutes of boredom as Crush, to our surprise, does not charge across the ring like a mad dog. Instead, he plays defense and escapes serious damage. Using a left jab that at times is hard to see, Tadeo opens a cut over Crush’s right eye. Late in the round, Crush returns the favor with a nasty gash across Tadeo’s forehead. Oscar manages to close it between rounds. Cuts are not that critical in cage fighting because the fights are so short. In boxing, a first-round cut is terrifying because it becomes a target for the next half hour.

  Round 2. They hit the deck and grapple for the first half of the round. Crush has a strong upper body and Tadeo is unable to pin him. Boos can be heard. Back on their feet, they spar and kick with neither scoring much. Just before the bell, Tadeo lands a hard right to the jaw that would have flattened any of the last dozen or so men he’s faced, but Crush stays on his feet. As Tadeo goes in for the kill, Crush manages to grab his waist and hang on until the bell. Suddenly I don’t like this fight. Tadeo is clearly ahead on points, but I don’t trust judges.

  Perhaps it’s the nature of my profession.

  I like knockouts, not decisions.

  Round 3. Having paced himself, Crush figures he’s got some gas in the tank. He charges across the ring and surprises everyone with a wild flurry that ignites the crowd. It’s certainly exciting, but not damaging. Tadeo covers well, then lands a couple of hard jabs that draw more blood. Crush charges again, and again. Tadeo, the boxer, picks his openings and shoots jabs that land beautifully. I’m screaming, the crowd is screaming, the floor seems to be shaking. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and Crush is still out there, charging and charging, his face a bloody mess. He lands a wild right and Tadeo goes down, but only for a second. Crush leaps on top of him and they kick and claw and finally manage to untangle. Tadeo has not gone this late in a fight in a long time, and he begins to press. Crush charges again, and for the final minute they go toe-to-toe in the center of the ring, just two mad dogs beating the crap out of each other.

  My heart is pounding, my stomach is rolling, and I’m just the water boy. We assure Tadeo he’s won again as we wait and wait. Finally, the referee walks the fighters to the center of the ring. The announcer proclaims a split decision, with Crush winning by a point. A thunderous wave of booing and screaming rocks the auditorium. Tadeo is stunned, shocked, his mouth wide open, his swollen eyes filled with hate. The fans are throwing things at the cage and we’re on the verge of a riot.

  The next fifteen seconds will change Tadeo’s life forever.

  He suddenly whirls and throws a hard right into the left side of Crush’s face. It’s a sucker punch, a vicious one that Crush never saw coming. He crumples to the mat, out cold. Instantly, Tadeo attacks the referee, who’s also black, and pummels him with a flurry. The ref stumbles and lands against the cage, half sitting up, and Tadeo pounces on him with a furious barrage of punches. For a few seconds, everyone is too stunned to react. They are, after all, in a cage, and it takes time to mount a rescue. By the time Norberto tackles Tadeo, the poor ref is unconscious.

  The auditorium erupts as fights break out everywhere. Tadeo’s fans, most of them Hispanic, and Crush’s fans, most of whom are black and heavily outnumbered, attack each other like gangs in the street. Cups of beer and cartons of popcorn rain down like confetti. A security guard nearby gets hit over the head with a folding chair. It’s total chaos and no one is safe. I forget about the carnage inside the cage and sprint for my son. He’s not in his seat, but through the melee I see the hulking figure of Partner as they make their escape. I go after them, and within seconds we are safe. As we duck out of the auditorium, we pass panicked police running toward the action. In the van, I clutch Starcher in the front seat as Partner takes the side streets. I say, “Are you okay, bud?”

  He says, “Let’s do it again.”

  Minutes later, we enter my apartment and take a deep breath. I get drinks—beers for Partner and me and a soda for Starcher—and we turn on the local news. The story is still unfolding and the reporters are frantic. The kid is excited and talks enough to let me know he’s not traumatized. I try in vain to explain what happened.

  Partner sleeps on the sofa. I wake him at 4:00 a.m. to talk strategy. He leaves for the city jail, to try and find Tadeo, and for the hospital, to dig for information about the referee. I can’t shake the image of Tadeo pounding the guy’s face. He was knocked cold from the first punch and there were dozens afterward, all delivered by a man completely out of his mind. I try not to think about what’s next for my fighter.

  I grind beans, and while the coffee is brewing I go online to check the news. Fortunately, no one has died yet, but at least twenty people are in the hospital. Rescue personnel are still on the scene. And the blame is being heaped upon one Tadeo Zapate, age twenty-two, an up-and-coming cage fighter who’s now locked away in the city jail.

  Judith calls at 6:30 to check on her son. She’s hours away and knows nothing about the riot we survived. I ask about her college roommate. She is surviving but things look bad. Judith will be home tomorrow, Sunday, and I assure her the kid will be just fine. All is well.

  With some luck, she’ll never know.

  Luck, though, is not going my way. A few minutes after our brief chat, I check the Chronicle online. The late edition managed to catch the breaking story down at the old auditorium, and on the front page is a rather large color photo of two people racing toward an exit. One is Partner, and he’s holding a kid. Starcher seems to be staring at the photographer, as if posing for the shot. Their names are not given; there was no time to ask. But to those who know him, his identity is indisputable.

  How long before one of Judith’s friends sees the photo and gives her a call? How long before she opens her laptop and sees for herself? While I wait, I turn on the television and go to SportsCenter. The story is irresistible because it’s all right there, on video, blow by blow by blow. I get sick watching it again and again.

  Partner calls from the hospital with the news that the referee, a guy named Sean King, is still in surgery. It’s
no surprise that Partner is not the only person sniffing around the corridors waiting for any bit of news. He’s heard of “massive head wounds,” but has no details. He’s already been to the jail, where a contact confirmed that Mr. Zapate is safely locked away and not receiving visitors.

  At 8:00 a.m., our blundering chief of police decides the world should hear from him. He arranges a press conference, one of those little muscle pageants in which a thick wall of uniformed white men line up behind the chief and scowl at the reporters while acting as though they really don’t want to be seen. For thirty minutes the chief talks and answers questions and reveals not a single fact that wasn’t posted online two hours earlier. He’s obviously enjoying the moment because nothing can be blamed on him or his men. Just as I’m getting bored, Judith calls.

  The conversation is predictable—tense, bitchy, and accusatory. She’s seen the front-page photo of her son escaping the melee and she wants answers, and now, dammit. I assure her our son is sleeping soundly and probably dreaming of a fine day with his father. She says she’s catching an early flight and will be in the City by 5:00 p.m., which is the precise moment I’m supposed to meet her in the park and hand him over. She’ll file papers first thing Monday morning to terminate all visitation rights. File away, I say, because it won’t work. No judge in town will totally exclude me from seeing my son once a month. And, who knows, maybe the judge we draw is a fan of cage fighting. She curses and I curse back and we finally get off the phone.

  Looks like we’ve just begun to fight.

  11.

  The Sunday papers rage against cage fighting, with knee-jerk condemnations coming from all directions. The Internet burns with the story. A YouTube video of the attack on the referee has four million hits before noon, and Tadeo has instantly become the most famous cage fighter in the world, though he will never fight again. Slowly, the wounded are released from hospitals, and, fortunately, there were no serious injuries to the fans. Just a bunch of drunks throwing punches and launching chairs. Sean King remains in a coma, in serious condition. Crush is resting comfortably with a badly fractured jaw and a concussion.

  Late in the afternoon, I am allowed to visit my client in one of the jail’s attorney rooms. He’s sitting on the other side of a thick metal screen when I walk in and take a seat. His face is cut and badly swollen from the fight, but that’s the least of his problems. He is so subdued I wonder if he’s been drugged. We chat for a moment.

  “When can I get outta here?” he asks.

  You’d better get used to it, I want to say. “Your first appearance is in the morning, in court. I’ll be there. Nothing much will happen. They’ll wait to see what happens with the referee. If he dies, then you’re really up shit creek. If he recovers, they’ll charge you with a bunch of stuff but it won’t be murder. Maybe in a week or so we’ll go back to court and request a reasonable bond. I can’t guess what the judge will do. So, to answer your question, there’s a chance you might bond out in a few days. There’s an even better chance you’ll stay in jail until a trial.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hard to say. Six months at the earliest; probably more like a year. The trial itself won’t last very long because there won’t be many witnesses. They’ll just roll the video.”

  He looks down, as if he wants to cry. I love this kid but there’s not much I can do for him, now or in six months. “Do you remember it?” I ask.

  Slowly, he begins to nod. He says, “I just snapped. They cheated me out of a clear win. The ref made me fight his way, not mine. The ref kept getting in the way, you know, man, I just couldn’t fight my fight. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt the ref, but I just snapped. I was so angry, so destroyed when he raised that guy’s hand. I kicked his ass, didn’t I?”

  “Crush or the referee?”

  “Come on, man. Crush. I kicked his ass, right?”

  “No, you did not. But you won the fight.” I saw every second of the fight and I never felt as though the ref was in the way. As far as legal defenses go, I don’t think much of this one: The ref held me back, cost me the match, so I caved in his face. It was justified.

  “They took it away from me,” he says.

  “The referee is not a judge, Tadeo. The three judges did the scoring. You went after the wrong guy.”

  He picks at the stitches in his forehead and says, “I know, I know. I did wrong, Sebastian, but you gotta do something, okay?”

  “You know I’ll do everything possible.”

  “Will I serve some time?”

  You’re serving it now; get used to it. I’ve already played with the numbers. If Sean King dies, I’m thinking twenty years for second-degree murder, maybe fifteen for manslaughter. If he lives, three to five for aggravated assault. Since I’m not ready to share these thoughts, I punt by saying, “Let’s worry about that later.”

  “Probably so, right?”

  “Probably so.”

  There is a gap in the conversation as we hear doors clanging in the background. A jailer yells an obscenity. A tear emerges through Tadeo’s swollen left eye and runs down his bruised cheek. “I can’t believe it, man. I just can’t believe it.” His voice is soft and pained.

  If you can’t believe it, think about that poor ref and his family. “I need to run, Tadeo. I’ll see you in the morning, in court.”

  “I gotta wear this in court?” he asks, tugging at his orange jumpsuit.

  “Afraid so. It’s just a first appearance.”

  12.

  At 9:00 on Monday morning, I’m in a busy courtroom with a bunch of other defense lawyers and prosecutors. In one corner there is a collection of shady-looking men in orange jumpsuits, all handcuffed together and watched by armed bailiffs. These are the new arrestees, and this is their second stop on the judicial assembly line. The first stop being the jail. One by one their names are called, and after being uncuffed they saunter over to a spot in front of the bench, upon which sits a judge, one of twenty in our system who handles the preliminary matters. The judge asks them some questions, the most important being “Do you have a lawyer?” Very few of them do, and the judge then assigns them to the public defender’s office. A rookie will pop up, stand beside his new client, and tell him not to say anything else. Dates will be set for return visits.

  Tadeo Zapate, though, has a lawyer. They call his name and we meet in front of the bench. His face looks even worse. Most of the hushed conversations stop when the crowd realizes this is the guy everyone is talking about, the promising mixed martial arts fighter who is now the YouTube star.

  “Are you Tadeo Zapate?” the judge asks with interest, the first time this morning he’s seemed engaged.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I assume Mr. Sebastian Rudd is your lawyer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  An assistant prosecutor eases behind him.

  The judge continues, “You are charged, at this point, with aggravated assault. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Rudd, have you explained to your client that the charges might change to something more serious?”

  “Yes, sir, he understands.”

  “By the way, what is the latest on the referee?” he asks the assistant prosecutor, as if the guy were the treating physician.

  “Last I heard, Mr. King’s condition is still critical.”

  “Very well,” His Honor says. “Let’s meet back here in a week and see where things stand. Until then, Mr. Rudd, we won’t discuss the matter of bail.”

  “Sure, Judge,” I say.

  We are dismissed. As Tadeo walks away, I whisper, “I’ll see you at the jail tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” he says, then looks at the spectators and nods at his mother, who’s sitting with an entire pack of crying relatives. She emigrated from El Salvador twenty-five years ago, has her green card, works a late shift in a cafeteria, and is raising a flock of children, grandchil
dren, and other assorted relatives. Tadeo and his cage skills were her ticket to a better life. Miguel holds her hand and whispers in Spanish. He’s been chewed up by our judicial system a few times and knows the score.

  I speak to them briefly, assure them I’m doing whatever can be done, then walk with them out of the courtroom and into a hallway where some reporters are waiting, two with cameras. This is what I live for.

  13.

  Quite the busy morning. While I’m in court with Tadeo, Judith does exactly as she promised and files a nasty motion to terminate all of my visitation rights, even the three hours I get on Christmas Eve and the two hours on my son’s birthday. She claims I’m an unfit parent, a danger to his physical safety, and a “horrible influence” on the child’s life. She demands an expedited hearing. Such theatrics. As if the kid were in danger.

  Harry & Harry prepare a vicious response, and I file it Monday afternoon. Once again, we square off in her ongoing crusade to teach me valuable lessons. No judge will grant her demands, and she knows it. But she’s doing it because she’s angry and she thinks that if she drags me through the meat grinder once more I’ll finally surrender and get out of their lives. I’m almost looking forward to the hearing.

  First, though, we have another problem. On Wednesday, she calls my cell around noon and announces rudely, “We have a meeting at school this afternoon.”

  Oh really? This is maybe the second time I’ve been asked to show up at the school and act like a parent. Until now, Judith has done a fine job of keeping me out of our son’s business.

  I ask, “Okay, what’s up?”