Rogue Lawyer

by John Grisham

  “What about some other time? Strike that. Nothing further.” I glance at the judge and he’s frustrated. But things brighten up considerably when the next witness takes the stand. It’s Naomi Tarrant, Starcher’s teacher, and she’s wearing a tight dress and stilettos. By the time she promises to tell the truth, old Judge Leef is wide awake. So am I.

  Schoolteachers hate to get dragged into custody and visitation battles. Naomi is no exception, though she knows how to handle this situation. We’ve been swapping e-mails for a month now. She still won’t agree to dinner, but I’m making progress. She testifies that Starcher had never shown any violent tendencies until a few days after his first trip to the cage fights. She describes the playground incident without referring to it as a fight or a brawl. Just a couple of boys who had a misunderstanding.

  Judith calls her as a witness not to help in her search for the truth but to show Naomi, as well as everyone else, that she has the power to drag them into court and bully them.

  On cross, I get Naomi to admit that, sooner or later, almost every normal boy she has ever taught has been involved in some type of scuffle on the playground. She’s on and off the witness stand in fifteen minutes, and when Judge Leef dismisses her he looks a bit disappointed.

  In closing, Judith repeats what’s already been said and makes a strident plea to terminate all visitation rights.

  Judge Leef stops her cold with “But the father is getting only thirty-six hours a month. That’s not very much.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “That’s enough,” Judith scolds me.

  “Sorry.”

  The judge looks at me and asks, “Mr. Rudd, will you agree to keep the child away from cage fighting, as well as boxing and wrestling matches?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “And will you also agree to teach the child that fighting is a bad way to settle disputes?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  He glares at Judith and says, “Your petition is denied. Anything else?”

  Judith hesitates for a second, then says, “Well, I’ll just have to appeal.”

  “You have that right,” he says as he taps his gavel. “This hearing is over.”

  18.

  The criminal trial of Doug Renfro begins on a Monday morning, and the courtroom is packed with potential jurors. As they are processed and seated by the courtroom bailiffs, the lawyers meet in the chambers of the Honorable Ryan Ponder, a ten-year veteran of our circuit courts and one of our better presiding judges. As always on the first day of a significant trial, the mood is tense; everyone is on edge. The lawyers look as though they haven’t slept all weekend.

  We sit around a large table and cover some preliminary matters. As we wrap things up, Judge Ponder looks at me and says, “I want to get this straight, Mr. Rudd. The State is offering a deal whereby your client pleads guilty to a lesser charge, a ramped-up misdemeanor, and gets no jail time. He walks. And in return, he agrees to drop his civil suit against the City and all of the other defendants. Correct?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “And he is saying no to this deal?”

  “Correct.”

  “Let’s get this on the record.”

  Doug Renfro is retrieved from a witness room and led into the judge’s chambers. He is wearing a dark wool suit, white shirt, dark tie, and is dressed better than anyone in the room, with the possible exception of me. He stands tall, erect, and proud, an old soldier itching for a fight. It has been ten months since his home was invaded by the police, and though he has aged considerably, his wounds have healed and he carries himself with confidence.

  Judge Ponder swears him to tell the truth. He says, “Now, Mr. Renfro, the State is offering you a deal, a plea agreement. It is in writing. Have you read it and discussed it with your lawyer?”

  “I have, yes, sir.”

  “And you realize that if you take this plea agreement you will avoid this trial, walk out of here a free man, and never worry about going to prison?”

  “Yes, I understand that. But I will not plead guilty to anything. The police broke into my home and killed my wife. They will not be charged and that is wrong. I’ll take my chances with the jury.” He glares at the prosecutor, gives him a look of disgust, and returns his gaze to Judge Ponder.

  The prosecutor, a veteran named Chuck Finney, hides his face behind some paperwork. Finney is not a bad guy and does not want to be where he is now sitting. His problem is simple and obvious—an eager-beaver cop got wounded in a botched raid, and the law, in black and white, says the guy who shot him is guilty. It’s a bad law written by clueless people, and now Finney is compelled to enforce it. He cannot simply drop the charges. The police union is breathing down his neck.

  A word here about Max Mancini. Max is the City’s chief prosecutor, appointed by the mayor and approved by the city council. He’s loud, flamboyant, ambitious, a driven man who’s going places, though it’s not clear exactly where. He loves cameras as much as I do and will knock folks out of the way to get in front of one. He’s crafty in the courtroom and boasts of a 99 percent conviction rate, same as every other prosecutor in America. Because he’s the boss, he gets to manipulate the numbers, so he has real proof that his 99 percent is legitimate.

  Normally, in a case as big as Doug Renfro’s, with front-page coverage guaranteed and live-action shots morning, noon, and night, Max would be dressed in his finest and hogging the spotlight. However, this case is dangerous and Max knows it. Everybody knows it. The cops were wrong. The Renfros are victims. A guilty verdict seems unlikely, and if there’s one thing Max Mancini cannot risk it’s the wrong verdict.

  So, he’s hiding. Not a peep out of our chief prosecutor. I’m sure he’s lurking around somewhere in the shadows, gawking at all the cameras and dying inside, but Max will not be seen during this trial. Instead, he dumped it on Chuck Finney.

  19.

  It takes three days to pick a jury, and it’s clear that all twelve know a lot about the case. I have wrestled with the strategy of requesting a change of venue, but decided against it. There are a couple of reasons for this, one legitimate and the other based on pure ego. The first is that many people in this city are fed up with the cops and their brutal tactics. The second is that there are reporters and cameras everywhere, and this is my turf. Most important, though, my client prefers to be tried by a jury of his fellow citizens.

  In a crowded courtroom, Judge Ponder says, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will now begin this trial with the opening statements. First, the State’s attorney, Mr. Finney, then the defense, Mr. Rudd. I caution you that nothing you’re about to hear is actually evidence. The evidence comes from only one source, and that’s this witness chair right here. Mr. Finney.”

  The prosecutor rises solemnly from his seat at the table, a table filled with deputy prosecutors and useless assistants. It’s a show of legal muscle, an attempt to impress the jury with the gravity of the case against Mr. Renfro. I have a different strategy. Doug and I sit alone, just the two of us. Two little guys facing the depthless resources of the government. The defense table seems almost deserted when compared to the army across the aisle. I live for this David versus Goliath image.

  Chuck Finney is fiercely dull, and he begins with a grave “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a tragic case.” No kidding, Chuck. Is that the best you can do?

  Finney may not have his heart in this case, but he’s not about to roll over. There are too many people watching, too much at stake. Now that the opening bell has sounded, the game is on. And the game is not about justice; from this point forward it’s all about winning. He does a fair job of describing the dangers of police work, especially in this day and age of assault weapons, sophisticated criminals, drug gangs, and terrorists. Today’s policemen are often targets, victims of extremely violent thugs who have no respect for authority. There’s a war out there, a war on drugs, a war on terror, a war on pretty much everything, and our brave law enforcement officers
have every right to arm themselves to the hilt. That’s why the smart people we elect to make our laws decided six years ago to make it a crime for a person, yes even a homeowner, to fire upon our police when they are simply doing their jobs. That’s why Doug Renfro is guilty as a matter of law. He fired upon our police, and he wounded Officer Scott Keestler, a veteran who was just doing his job.

  Finney is striking the right chords and scoring some points here. A couple of the jurors glance disapprovingly at my client. After all, he did shoot a cop. But Finney is careful. The facts are not in his favor, regardless of what the law says. He is concise, to the point, and sits down after only ten minutes. A record for a prosecutor.

  Judge Ponder says, “Mr. Rudd, for the defense.”

  As a criminal defense lawyer, I rarely have the facts in my favor. But when I do, I find it impossible to be subtle. Hit ’em fast and hard, and watch them scramble. I have believed since day one that I can win this case with the opening statement. I toss my legal pad on the podium and look at the jurors. Eye contact with every one of them.

  I begin, “First they shot his dog Spike, a twelve-year-old yellow Lab who was fast asleep on his bed in the kitchen. What did Spike do to deserve getting killed? Nothing, he was just in the right place at the wrong time. Why would they kill Spike? They will attempt to answer this question with one of their standard lies. They will tell you that Spike threatened them, same as every other dog they kill when they invade private homes in the middle of the night. In the last five years, ladies and gentlemen, our gallant SWAT boys have killed at least thirty innocent dogs in this city, from old mutts to young puppies, all of whom were just minding their own business.”

  Behind me, Chuck Finney stands and says, “Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy. Not sure why the other SWAT maneuvers are relevant to this case.”

  I turn to the judge, and before he can rule I say, “Oh, it’s relevant, Your Honor. Let’s allow the jury to hear exactly how these raids go down. We will prove that these cops are trigger-happy and ready to shoot anything that moves.”

  Judge Ponder raises a hand and says, “That’s enough, Mr. Rudd. I’ll overrule the objection. It’s just an opening statement and not evidence.”

  True, but the jurors have already heard me. I return to them and say, “Spike didn’t have a chance. The SWAT team kicked in the front and back doors simultaneously, and eight heavily armed warrior cops raced into the Renfro home. By the time Spike could get to his feet and bark he was dead, blown away by three bullets from a semiautomatic handgun, the same kind used by Army Rangers. And the killing had just begun.”

  I pause and look at the jurors, some of whom are no doubt more distressed over the dead dog than anything else that happened that night.

  “Eight cops, eight SWAT team members, all equipped with more gear and armor than any American soldier who fought in Vietnam or World War II. Bulletproof vests, night-vision goggles, highly sophisticated weapons, even black face paint to add a little drama. But why? Why were they there?” I’m pacing now, back and forth in front of the jury box. I glance at the spectators, the place is packed, and I see the chief of police in the front row, hating me. Their usual routine in any case involving the police is to line up about two dozen uniformed cops on the front rows, where they sit with folded arms and glare at the jurors. Judge Ponder, though, would have none of it. I filed a motion to keep cops in uniforms out of the courtroom, and he agreed. The eight SWAT boys are being kept in witness rooms and missing the fun.

  “This disaster began with the boy next door, a troubled kid named Lance, nineteen years old and going nowhere. Lance was rightfully unemployed but not altogether unproductive. He made good money selling illegal narcotics, primarily the drug Ecstasy. He was too smart to work the streets, so Lance used the Internet. But not the Internet we know. Lance lived in the murky and forbidden world of the Dark Web, a place where Google and Yahoo and the other great search engines do not go. Lance had been buying and selling drugs on the Dark Web for two years when he realized the Renfros had an unsecured wireless router. For a clever boy like Lance it was easy to piggyback. For a year Lance bought and sold Ecstasy, using the Renfros’ wireless system, and of course they didn’t have a clue. This case, though, is not about drug trafficking, so don’t be deceived. It’s about a gargantuan screwup by our police department. The state investigators were rounding up online drug dealers and came across the Renfros’ IP address. With no other evidence, and no real investigation, they launched a sting. They got two warrants: an arrest warrant for Doug Renfro, and a search warrant for his home.”

  I pause here and get a drink of water. I have never felt such stillness in a courtroom. All eyes are on me. All ears are listening. I return to the jury box and lean on the podium, as if I’m having a friendly chat with my grandfather. “Now, back in the old days and not too long ago, back when police work was done by cops who knew their beat and knew how to handle criminals, back when the police knew they were police and not Navy SEALs, back then, ladies and gentlemen, an arrest warrant would be served by a couple of officers who would drive over to Mr. Renfro’s home, at a decent hour, ring his doorbell, step inside his house, and tell him he was under arrest. They would handcuff him and take him away, and do so with a great deal of professionalism. Another pair of officers would show up with the search warrant and get Mr. Renfro’s computer. Within a couple of hours, the police would realize their mistake. They would apologize profusely to Mr. Renfro and take him home. Then they would solve their crime. Compare then with now. Now, at least in this city with its current leadership, the police launch surprise attacks on unsuspecting and law-abiding citizens in the middle of the night. And they shoot them, and their dogs, and when they realize they have the wrong house, they lie and cover up.” Another long pause as I step behind the podium, glance at some notes I don’t need, and return my gaze to the jurors. If any of them are breathing, I can’t tell it. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a bad law in this state that says that a homeowner, one like Doug Renfro, who fires upon an officer of the law, even if the cop is at the wrong house, is automatically guilty. So why bother with this trial? Why doesn’t someone simply read the statute and tell Mr. Renfro to go to prison for the next forty years? Well, because there is no such thing as automatic guilt. That’s why we have juries, and your job will be to decide if Doug Renfro knew what he was doing. Did he know the police were in his house? When he scrambled into the hallway and saw figures moving in the darkness, what was he thinking? I’ll tell you. He was terrified. He was convinced some dangerous criminals had broken in and began shooting. And, most important, he did not know they were police officers. If he didn’t know, then he cannot be found guilty. They couldn’t be police officers, could they? Why would the cops come to his house when he’d done nothing wrong? Why would they show up at three in the morning, when everyone was sound asleep? Why didn’t they knock on the door or ring the bell? Why did they kick in the front door, and the back? Why, why, why? Policemen don’t behave in such an outrageous manner. Or do they?”

  20.

  The first witness is a big shot from the state police. Ruskin is his name, and he is put on the stand to begin the impossible task of justifying what the police were doing the night they raided the Renfros’ home. With Finney serving up direct questions that have been so overly rehearsed they have no spontaneity, they plow through the “insidious” rise of drug trafficking on the Internet, the “distressing” rise in the number of teenagers who buy and sell there, and so on. I’m on my feet constantly with “Your Honor, I object on the grounds of relevancy. What does this testimony have to do with Doug Renfro?”

  After Judge Ponder overrules me three times, he begins to get frustrated. Finney senses this and moves on. They walk through a tedious narrative in an attempt to explain how the state police set up an Internet scam to catch drug dealers. All in all, it was fairly successful. They caught about forty people in our state. Aren’t they smart cops?

  “Did you kill anybody e
lse?” is my first question, fired from my seat as I jump into what will be a contentious cross-examination.

  I ask Ruskin about the other arrests. Were SWAT teams used to serve warrants? Were there home invasions at three in the morning? Did anyone else lose a dog? Did you send in the tanks? Halfway through my cross-examination, I force him to admit what the world has known for months: They got the wrong house. His reluctance to admit it, though, damages his credibility.

  In two hours I reduce Ruskin to a babbling fool, one who can’t wait to get off the witness stand.

  I am often a sanctimonious asshole when my clients are dead guilty. Give me an innocent man, though, and I reek of arrogance and superiority. I realize this and struggle mightily to give the impression, to the jury anyway, that I am actually likeable. I don’t really care if they hate me, as long as they don’t hate my client. But when representing a saint like Doug Renfro, it’s imperative that I come across as zealous, but not offensive. Incredulous at the injustice, but also trustworthy.

  Their next witness is Chip Sumerall, the leader of the invasion, a lieutenant on the force. He’s brought in from a witness room and sworn to tell the truth. As always, he’s wearing his uniform with as many patches and medals as possible. Full uniform and regalia and finery, but minus his service revolver and handcuffs. He’s a cocky ass with a strut, thick arms, and a crew cut. We had words during his deposition and I glare at him as if he’s already lying. Finney walks him through their narrative. They dwell on his extensive training and experience, his glorious record. They walk methodically through the time line of the Renfro episode. He passes the buck as best he can, saying more than once that he was just following orders.

  I get a sense the entire courtroom is waiting for me to annihilate him on cross, and I struggle to control myself. I begin by commenting on his uniform, how nice and professional it is. How often does he wear it? What do some of the medals signify? Then I ask him to describe the uniform he was wearing the night he kicked in the door of the Renfro home. Layer by layer, article by article, weapon by weapon, from his steel-toed jackboots to his panzer-style combat helmet, we go through every bit of it. I ask him about his submachine gun, a Heckler & Koch MP5, designed for close combat and the finest in the world, he says proudly. I ask him if he used it that night and he says he did. I grill him on whether he fired the shots that killed Kitty Renfro, and he claims he doesn’t know. It was dark and things happened fast. Bullets were flying; the police were “taking fire.”

  As I walk around the courtroom, I glance at Doug. His face is