by John Grisham
“I have another deal for you, and it’s even more complicated than the last one.”
“That’s what you said. I almost hung up, Rudd, until you mentioned the Kemp girl. Let’s have it.”
“Swanger tracked me down again. We met. He claims to know where she is, that she went full term with the pregnancy, the baby got sold by some traffickers who feed her heroin in exchange for all manner of sexual activities.”
“Swanger is a proven liar.”
“He certainly is but some of what he says is true.”
“Why did he contact you?”
“He says he needs help and, not surprisingly, he needs money. There’s a chance he’ll contact me again, and if he does I can possibly put the police on his trail. That trail might lead to Jiliana Kemp, or not. There’s no way to know, but right now the police have nothing else.”
“So you’re sacrificing your client again.”
“He’s not my client. I made that clear to him. He may think of me as his lawyer, but it’s a waste of time to analyze what Arch Swanger might be thinking.”
A loud buzzer goes off and eight boys plunge into the water. Instantly, the parents start yelling, as if the kids can hear them. Other than “Swim faster!” what can you scream at a splashing kid in the heat of a race? We watch them until they make the turn. Moss says, “And what do you want from us?”
“I go to trial Monday with my cage fighter. I want a better deal. I want a five-year plea bargain with a guarantee that he serves his time in the county penal farm. It’s a softer place. There’s a nice gym. The kid can stay in shape, serve about eighteen months, get paroled when he’s, say, twenty-four, and still have a future in the ring. Otherwise, he’ll serve fifteen and come out a hardened street thug with only one thing on his mind—more crime.”
He’s already rolling his eyes. He exhales in disbelief, as if everything I’ve just said is a complete joke. He shakes his head; I must be an idiot.
Finally, with great effort, he manages to say, “We have no control over the prosecutor. You know that.”
“Mancini was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council, same as you. Our interim police chief was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council. Same for Roy Kemp, who’s still on leave. Can’t we find a way to work together here?”
“Mancini won’t listen to Woody. He hates him.”
“Everybody hates Woody, and he hates everybody right back. Somehow he’s survived three terms. Here’s how you sell it to Woody. Are you listening?”
He has yet to look at me, but now he turns and glares. He looks back at the pool and crosses his arms over his chest, my signal to spill it.
“Okay, play along, Moss, help me walk through this. Let’s assume I can lead the cops to Swanger, assume further that Swanger can lead the cops to Jiliana Kemp. Somewhere in west-central Chicago, by the way. Assume they rescue the girl, and guess what? Our beloved mayor, the Honorable L. Woodrow Sullivan III, gets to hold the first press conference. Imagine that scene, Moss. You know how Woody loves a press conference. It will be his finest moment. Woody in a dark suit, all smiles, a row of cops behind him, all grim-faced but happy because the girl has been saved. Woody makes the announcement as if he personally found her and pulled off the miracle. An hour later we get our first glimpse of the happy Kemp family reunited, with Woody, of course, wedging himself into the photo as only he can do. What a moment!”
Moss softens a bit as he absorbs this visual. It rattles around his brain. He wants to dismiss it and tell me to go to hell, but it’s simply too rich. Creativity fails him, as usual, so he simply says, “You’re crazy, Rudd.”
No surprise. I press on with “Since we’re grasping for the truth here, and making bold assumptions, let’s say that Swanger is not lying. If so, Jiliana is one of many girls snatched from their families and sold into bondage. Almost all are white American girls. If their ring is busted and the traffickers are caught, then the story echoes from coast to coast. Woody gets more than his share of the credit; certainly enough to shine in this town.”
“Mancini will never go along.”
“Then fire Mancini. On the spot. Call him on the carpet and force his resignation. The mayor has that power under our version of democracy. Replace him with one of those little ass-kissing bureaucrats. There are only a hundred of them.”
“I think there are fifteen,” he says.
“Sorry. So out of fifteen assistant city prosecutors, I’m sure you and Woody can find one with a bit of ambition, one who’ll do what you tell him or her to do in exchange for the big office. Come on, Moss, this is not that complicated.”
He leans forward, deep in thought, elbows on knees. The noise fades. The crowd goes quiet as one race ends and the next one starts to get organized. Thankfully, I’ve never been to a swim meet, but it appears as if this ordeal goes on for hours. I thank Starcher’s mothers and their fear of chlorine.
He needs some help, so I prod on. “Woody has the power, Moss. He can make this happen.”
“Why does it have to be a deal? Why can’t you just do the right thing and cooperate with the police? If you believe Swanger, and if he’s really not your client, then help out the cops here. Hell, you’re talking about an innocent young woman.”
“Because I don’t work that way,” I say, though I’ve lost sleep trying to answer his question. “I have a client to represent, one who’s guilty, as most are, and I’m desperate for ways to help him. I don’t get clients who have the potential to make a lot of money, legally, but this kid is different. He could lift himself and his rather large and growing family out of the ghetto.”
“A ghetto here is better than where they came from,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn’t said it.
Wisely, and uncharacteristically, I let it pass.
We watch a group of taller boys limber up and stretch nervously at the start. I say, “There’s something else.”
“Oh, a multipart deal. What a surprise.”
“About a month ago, the cops found a couple of bodies at the landfill. Two thugs who worked for Link Scanlon. For some reason, I’m a suspect. Don’t know how serious things are, but I’d rather not deal with it.”
“I thought Link was your client.”
“He was, but let’s say that when he vanished he was less than pleased with my services. He sent the two thugs to squeeze some money out of me.”
“Who whacked them?”
“I don’t know but it wasn’t me. Seriously, you think I’d run the risk?”
“Probably.”
I snort a cheap laugh. “No way. These guys are career goons with lots of enemies. Whoever whacked them comes from a long list of folks who wanted to.”
“So, let me get this straight. First, you want the mayor to force Mancini to lighten up on your cage fighter so he can plead to a sweet deal and protect his career. Second, you want the mayor to lean on the police department to look elsewhere for whoever rubbed out Link’s boys. And, third, what was third?”
“The best part. Swanger.”
“Oh right. And in return for the mayor putting his neck on the block, you might be able to help the police find Swanger, who just might be telling the truth and who just might be able to lead them to the girl. That right, Rudd?”
“That covers it.”
“What a crock of shit.”
I watch him as he walks down the aisle in the bleachers and circles around the far end of the pool. On the other side, he walks up four rows and returns to his seat beside his wife. From far away, I stare at him for a long time, and he never casts even the slightest glance in my direction.
4.
C, for Catfish Cave. It’s a few miles east of town in a dingy suburb, a bedroom community of tract houses built sixty years ago with materials designed to last fifty years. The restaurant offers bargain buffets of fish and vegetables, all now battered and fried to hell and back but previously frozen for months, even years. For only ten bucks, the customers can
graze and gorge for hours without limits. They heap their platters as if they’re starving, and wash it all down with gallons of sugary tea. For some reason alcohol is served but people do not come here for the booze. Tucked away in a dark, neglected corner is an empty bar, and it is here that I occasionally meet Nate Spurio.
The last time we met it was B for a bagel shop. The time before it was A, for an Arby’s roast beef joint in another suburb. Nate’s career hit a dead end a decade ago. He can’t be fired, and, evidently, he can’t be promoted. But if by some chance he was spotted having an off-duty drink with me, he would find himself directing traffic in front of an elementary school. He’s too honest for police work in this town.
His boss is a Captain Truitt, a decent guy who’s very close to Roy Kemp. If I want to deliver a message to Kemp, the path begins here over a couple of drinks. I lay it all on the table. Nate is surprised that I hold even the faintest hope that Jiliana Kemp is still alive. I assure him that I don’t know what to believe and believing anything Swanger says is probably a mistake. But, what is there to lose? He certainly knows something, which is a lot more than our investigators can say. The more we talk and drink, the more Nate is convinced that the police department and its union can pressure both the mayor and Max Mancini. Our former chief of police was an idiot who allowed our force to become what it is, but Roy Kemp is still held in high regard by his brothers. Saving his daughter is worth a reduced plea bargain for every defendant now sitting in jail.
I repeatedly caution Nate that finding her is against the odds. First, I’m not sure I can find Swanger, or that he’ll want to see me again. The last time we met I almost shot him. I have the prepaid cell phone but haven’t used it since our last meeting. If it doesn’t work, or if he doesn’t answer it, then we’re out of luck. And if I meet him and the police are able to follow him, what are the odds that he’ll lead them to the strip club in west-central Chicago? Pretty slim, I think.
Nate has the emotional range of a monk but he can’t hide his excitement. When we leave the bar he says he’s headed to Truitt’s house. There, they’ll talk off the record, and he expects Truitt to immediately inform Roy Kemp that a possible deal is brewing. It’s a long shot, but when it’s your daughter you’ll try anything. I urge him to hustle up; the trial starts tomorrow.
5.
Late Sunday night, Partner and I go to the city jail for the last pretrial meeting with our client. After half an hour of sniping with the jailers, I’m finally allowed to see Tadeo.
The kid frightens me. During his time in jail, he has absorbed a lot of free advice from his new pals, and he’s also convinced himself that he’s famous. Because of the video, he gets a lot of mail, almost all of it from admirers. He thinks he’s about to walk away from the trial a free man, beloved by many and ready to continue his brilliant career. I’ve tried to bring him back to reality and convince him that the people writing him letters are not necessarily the same type of people who’ll be sitting in the jury box. The letter writers are from the fringe; several have even proposed marriage. The jurors will be registered voters from our community, few of whom have any fondness for cage fighting.
As always, I pass along the latest plea offer of fifteen years for second-degree murder. He laughs with a cocky smirk, same as before. He doesn’t ask for my advice and I don’t offer it. He’s turned down fifteen years so many times it’s not worth discussing. Wisely, he has followed my advice and shaved and trimmed his hair. I’ve brought along a secondhand navy suit, with a white shirt and tie, an outfit his mother found at Goodwill. On his neck below his left ear is a tattoo of some baffling origin, and it will be partially visible above his collar. Since most of my clients have tattoos I deal with this issue all the time. It’s best to keep them away from the jurors. In Tadeo’s case, though, our jurors will be treated to his astonishing display of ink when they see the video.
Evidently, when a guy makes the decision to become a cage fighter, his first stop on the way to the gym is the tattoo parlor.
There’s a gap between us that’s been growing for some time. He thinks he’ll walk. I think he’ll go to prison. He sees my doubts of a successful outcome as not only a lack of confidence in him but also in my own ability in the courtroom. What’s really bothersome is his insistence on testifying. He truly believes he can take the stand and con the jury into believing (1) the fight was stolen from him by Sean King, and (2) he snapped, attacked, blacked out, and went temporarily insane, and (3) now feels real bad about it. After he explains everything to the jury, he wants to make a dramatic, emotional apology to the King family. Then all will be well and the jury will rush back with the proper verdict.
I have attempted to describe the rough treatment he’ll get when I turn him over to Max Mancini for a bit of cross-examination. But, as usual, he has no appreciation for what happens in the heat of a trial. Hell, I’m not always sure what’s about to happen.
None of my warnings register with Tadeo. He tasted enough glory in the cage to know what’s out there. Money, fame, adulation, women, a big house for his mother and family. It will all be his soon enough.
6.
It’s impossible to sleep the night before a jury trial opens. My brain is in a state of hyped-up overdrive as I struggle to remember and organize details, facts, things to do. My stomach roils with anxiety and my nerves are frayed and popping. I know it’s important to rest and appear fresh and relaxed before the jury, but the truth is I’ll look the same as always—tired, stressed, eyes bloodshot. I sip coffee just before dawn and, as usual, ask myself why I do this. Why do I subject myself to such unpleasantness? I have a distant cousin who’s a great neurosurgeon in Boston, and I often think about him at moments like this. I suppose his world is quite tense as he cuts into the brain, with so much at stake. How does he handle it physically? The nerves, the butterflies, yes even diarrhea and nausea? We rarely speak, so I’ve never inquired. I remind myself that he does his job without an audience, and if he makes a mistake he simply buries it. I try not to remind myself that he makes a million bucks a year.
In many ways, a trial lawyer is like an actor onstage. His lines are not always scripted, and that makes his job harder. He has to react, to be quick on his feet and with his tongue, to know when to attack and when to shut up, when to lead and when to follow, when to flash anger and when to be cool. Through it all, he has to convince and persuade because nothing matters but the jury’s final vote.
I eventually forget about sleep and go to the pool table. I rack the balls and break them gently. I run the table and drop the 8 ball into a side pocket.
I have a collection of brown suits and I carefully select one for opening day. I wear brown not because I like the color but because no one else does. Lawyers, as well as bankers and executives and politicians, all believe that dress suits should be either navy or dark gray. Shirts are either white or light blue; ties, some variety of red. I never wear those colors. Instead of black shoes, today I’ll wear ostrich-skin cowboy boots. They don’t really match my brown suit but who cares? With my ensemble laid out on the bed, I take a long shower. In my bathrobe, I pace around the den, delivering at low volume another version of my opening statement. I break another rack, miss the first three shots, and lay down my cue stick.
7.
The courtroom is packed by 9:00 a.m., the appointed hour for all two hundred potential jurors to show up and get processed. And, since capacity is only two hundred, there is gridlock when a horde of spectators and a few dozen reporters also show up and jockey for position.
Max Mancini struts about in his finest navy suit and sparkling black wingtips, flashing smiles at the clerks and assistants. With all these people watching, he’s even nice to me. We huddle and chat importantly as the bailiffs deal with the throng.
“Still fifteen years?” I ask.
“You got it,” he says, smiling and looking at the audience. Obviously, between Moss and Spurio, the word has not yet made its way to Max’s ears. Or maybe it has.
Maybe Max was told to cut a deal and get a plea, and maybe Max did what I would expect him to do: told Woody and Moss and Kemp and everybody else to go to hell. This is his show, a big moment in his career. Just look at all those folks out there admiring him. And all those reporters!
Presiding this week is the Honorable Janet Fabineau, quietly known among the lawyers as Go Slow Fabineau. She’s a young judge, still a bit on the green side, but maturing nicely on the bench. She’s afraid to make mistakes, so she’s very deliberate. And slow. She talks slow, thinks slow, rules slow, and she insists that the lawyers and witnesses speak clearly at all times. She pretends this is for the benefit of the court reporter who must take down every word, but we suspect it’s really because Her Honor also absorbs things…real slow.
Her clerk appears and says the judge wants to see the lawyers in chambers. We file in and take seats around an old worktable, me on one side, Mancini and his flunky on the other. Janet sits at one end, eating slices of apple from a plastic bowl. They say she’s always fussing over her latest diet and her latest trainer, but I’ve noticed no progress on the reduction front. Mercifully, she does not offer us any of her food.
“Any more pretrial motions?” she asks as she looks at me. Chomp, chomp.
Mancini shakes his head no. I do the same and add, for reasons that are solely antagonistic, “Wouldn’t do any good.” I’ve filed dozens and they’ve all been overruled.
She absorbs this cheap shot, swallows hard, takes a sip of what looks like early morning urine, and says, “Any chance of a plea bargain?”
