Rogue Lawyer

by John Grisham

  rules, no thoughts of fighting fair.”

  “Do you want custody of Starcher?”

  “No. I’m not a good enough father. But I do want to remain relevant in his life. Who knows? One day he and I might be friends.”

  We spend the night at her place and sleep late Saturday morning. We’re both exhausted. We awake to the sounds of heavy rain and decide to fix omelets and eat in bed.

  29.

  The last witness for the defense is the defendant himself. Before he is called on Monday morning, I hand the judge and the prosecutor a letter I’ve written to Tadeo Zapate. Its purpose is to inform him in writing that he is testifying against the advice of his attorney. I grilled him for two hours the day before, and he thinks he’s ready.

  He swears to tell the truth, smiles nervously at the jury, and immediately learns the frightful lesson that the view from the witness stand is quite intimidating. Everyone is gawking and waiting to hear what he might possibly say in his defense. A court reporter will record every word. The judge is scowling down, as if she’s ready for a quick reprimand. The prosecutor is eager to pounce. His mother far away in the back row looks terribly worried. He takes a deep breath.

  I walk him through his background—family, education, employment, lack of criminal record, boxing career, and his success in mixed martial arts. The jury, along with everyone else in the courtroom, is sick of the video, so I won’t show it. Sticking to our script, we talk about the fight and he does an adequate job of describing what it was like getting hit so many times. He and I know that Crush did not land many serious blows, but no one on the jury understands this. He tells the jury he doesn’t remember the end of the fight, but can recollect a fuzzy image of his opponent raising his arms in a victory that he didn’t deserve. Yes, he snapped, though he can’t really recall everything. He was overwhelmed by a sense of injustice. His career was gone, stolen. He vaguely remembers the referee raising Crush’s arm, then everything went black. The next thing he remembered, he was in the dressing room, and two cops were watching him. He asked the cops who won the fight, and one of them said, “Which fight?” They put handcuffs on him and explained he was under arrest for aggravated assault. He was baffled by this, couldn’t believe what was happening. At the jail, another cop told him Sean King was in critical condition. He, Tadeo, began crying.

  Even today, he still can’t believe it. His voice cracks a bit and he wipes something from his left eye. He’s not a very good actor.

  As I sit down, Mancini bounces to his feet and calls out the first question: “So, Mr. Zapate, how many times have you gone insane?” It’s a brilliant opening, a great line delivered with just enough sarcasm.

  He proceeds to make a fool out of Tadeo. When was the first time you went insane? How long did it last? Anybody get hurt the first time? Do you always black out when you go insane? Have you seen a doctor for your insanity? No! Why not! Since you attacked Sean King, have you been evaluated by a doctor, one not connected to this trial? Does insanity run in your family?

  After thirty minutes of this assault, the word “insanity” means nothing. It’s a joke.

  Tadeo works hard to stay cool, but he can’t help himself. Mancini is practically laughing at him. The jurors seem amused.

  Max asks about his record as an amateur boxer. Twenty-four wins, seven losses. Max says, “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but five years ago when you were seventeen and fighting in the Golden Gloves district tournament, you lost a split decision to a man named Corliss Beane. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very tough fight, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you upset by the decision?”

  “I didn’t like it, thought it was wrong, thought I won the fight.”

  “Did you go insane?”

  “No.”

  “Did you black out?”

  “No.”

  “Did you in any way voice your frustration with the decision?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, do you remember it or did you lose your memory again?”

  “I remember it.”

  “While you were still in the ring, did you hit anybody?”

  Tadeo shoots me a guilty look that betrays him, but says, “No.”

  Mancini takes a deep breath, shakes his head as if he hates to do what he’s about to do, and says, “Your Honor, I have another bit of video that I think might help us here. It’s the end of the fight five years ago with Corliss Beane.”

  I stand and say, “Your Honor, I know nothing about this. It was not disclosed to me.”

  Max is ready because he’s been planning this ambush for weeks. He says, with great confidence, “Your Honor, it wasn’t disclosed because that was not required. The State is not offering the video as proof of this defendant’s guilt; therefore, under our Rule 92F, there’s no disclosure. Rather, the State is offering the video to challenge the credibility of this witness.”

  “Could I at least see it first before the jury sees it?” I ask, slowly.

  “That sounds reasonable,” Go Slow responds. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

  In chambers, we watch the video: Tadeo and Corliss Beane in the center of the ring with the ref, who raises Beane’s right hand in victory; Tadeo yanks away from the ref, walks to his corner, yelling something in an angry fit; he stomps around the ring, becoming more unhinged with each second; he walks to the ropes, screams at the judges, and inadvertently bumps into Corliss Beane, who’s minding his own business and savoring the win; others are in the ring and someone starts pushing; the ref steps between the two fighters and Tadeo shoves him; the ref, a big guy, shoves back; for a second it looks as though the ring is on the verge of chaos, but someone grabs Tadeo and pulls him away, kicking and screaming.

  Again, the camera doesn’t lie. Tadeo looks like a sore loser, a hothead, a brat, a dangerous man who doesn’t care if he starts a brawl.

  Go Slow says, “Looks relevant to me.”

  30.

  I watch the jurors as they watch the video. Several shake their heads. When it’s over, the lights come up, and Max gleefully returns to the mock-insanity crap and hammers away. Tadeo’s credibility is thoroughly trashed. I cannot resurrect him on redirect.

  The defense rests. Mancini calls his first rebuttal witness, a shrink named Wafer. He works for the state mental health department and has credentials that cannot be questioned. He went to colleges in this state and has our accent. He is not the brilliant expert from afar like Taslman, but he’s quite effective. He’s watched the videos, all of them, and he’s spent six hours with the defendant, more time than Taslman.

  I haggle with Wafer until noon but score little. As we are breaking for lunch, Mancini grabs me and asks, “Can I talk to your client?”

  “About what?”

  “The deal, man.”

  “Sure.”

  We step to the defense table where Tadeo is sitting. Max leans down and says in a low voice, “Look, dude, I’m still offering five years, which means eighteen months. Manslaughter. If you say no, you really are insane because you’re about to get twenty years.”

  Tadeo seems to ignore him. He just smiles, shakes his head no.

  He’s even more confident now because Miguel has found the cash and delivered the envelope to Suarez. This, I will learn only after it’s too late.

  31.

  After lunch we meet in chambers, where Go Slow has on display a plastic plate covered with sliced carrots and celery, as if we’re interrupting her meal. I suspect it’s all for show. She asks, “Mr. Rudd, what about the plea bargain? I understand the deal is still on the table.”

  I shrug and say, “Yes, Judge, I have discussed it with my client, as has Mr. Mancini. The kid won’t budge.”

  She says, “Okay, we’re off the record here. Now that I’ve seen the evidence, I’m leaning toward a longer sentence, something like twenty years. I didn’t buy the insanity stuff, neither did the jury. It was a vicious at
tack and he knew exactly what he was doing. I think twenty years is appropriate.”

  “May I pass this along to my client? Off the record, of course?”

  “Please do.” She drowns some celery in table salt, looks at Mancini, and asks, “What’s next?”

  Max says, “I have just one more witness, Dr. Levondowski, but I’m not sure we need him. What do you think, Judge?”

  Go Slow bites the end of a stalk. “Your call, but I think the jury is ready.” Chomp, chomp. “Mr. Rudd?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Oh why not?” Max says. “Put yourself in my shoes and make the call.”

  “Well, Levondowski is just going to repeat what Wafer said. I’ve crossed him before and he’s okay, but I think Wafer is a far better witness. I’d leave it at that.”

  Max says, “I think you’re right. We’ll rest.”

  United, a real team.

  During Max’s closing argument, I keep glancing at Esteban Suarez, who seems to be thoroughly captivated by his feet. He’s withdrawn into a cocoon and appears to hear nothing. Something has changed with this guy, and for a second I wonder if Miguel has managed to get to him. If not with cash, then with threats, intimidation. Maybe he’s promised a few pounds of cocaine.

  Max does a nice job of recapping the case. Mercifully, he does not show that damned video again. He drives home the undeniable point that Tadeo might not have planned his deadly assault on Sean King, but he clearly intended to inflict severe physical injury. He didn’t intend to kill the referee, but in fact he did. He could have thrown one punch, or two, and stopped. Guilty of assault but no major crime. But no! Twenty-two vicious shots to the head of a man who could not defend himself. Twenty-two blows delivered by a highly trained fighter whose admitted goal was to see every opponent leave the ring on a stretcher. Well, he achieved his goal. Sean King left on a stretcher and never woke up.

  Max fights off the natural prosecutorial tendency to beat the drum too long. He’s got the jury and he can sense it. I think everybody senses it, perhaps with the exception of my client.

  I begin by saying that Tadeo Zapate is not a murderer. He’s lived on the streets, seen his share of violence, even lost a brother to senseless gang wars. He’s seen it all and wants no part of it. That’s why his record is spotless: no history of violence outside the ring. I pace back and forth in front of the jury box, looking at each juror, trying to connect. Suarez looks like he wants to crawl into a hole.

  I play for sympathy and touch slightly on the issue of insanity. I ask the jury for a not-guilty verdict, or, in the alternative, manslaughter. When I return to the defense table, Tadeo has moved his chair as far away from mine as possible.

  Judge Fabineau instructs the jurors, and they retire at 3:00 p.m.

  The waiting begins. I ask a bailiff if Tadeo can visit with his family in the courtroom while the jury is out. He confers with his colleagues and then reluctantly agrees. Tadeo steps through the bar and takes a seat on the front bench. His mother, a sister, and some nieces and nephews gather around him and everybody has a good cry. Mrs. Zapate has not physically touched her son in many months and she can’t keep her hands off him.

  I leave the courtroom, find Partner, and head for a coffee bar down the street.

  32.

  At 5:15, the jurors file back into the courtroom, and there is not a single smile among them. The foreman hands the verdict to a bailiff, who hands it to the judge. She reads it, very slowly, and asks the defendant to please stand. I stand with him. She clears her throat and reads, “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Sean King.”

  Tadeo utters a soft groan and drops his head. Someone in the Zapate clan gasps from the back row. We sit down as the judge polls the jurors. One by one, all guilty, unanimous. She congratulates them on a fine job, tells them their checks for jury duty will be in the mail, and dismisses them. When they’re gone, she sets deadlines for posttrial motions and such, and gives a date a month from now for sentencing. I scribble this down and ignore my client. He ignores me right back as he wipes his eyes. Bailiffs surround him and slap on handcuffs. He leaves without a word.

  As the courtroom thins out, the Zapate family makes a slow exit. Miguel has his arm around his mother, who is distraught. Once they’re outside in the hallway, and within clear view of some reporters and TV cameras, three cops in suits grab Miguel and tell him he’s under arrest.

  Obstruction of justice, bribery, and jury tampering. Suarez was indeed wearing a wire.

  33.

  Since I lost, I avoid the reporters. My phone is buzzing, so I turn it off. Partner and I go to a dark bar to lick our wounds. I knock back almost an entire pint of ale before either of us speaks. He starts with “Say, Boss, how close did you come to bribing Suarez?”

  “I thought about it.”

  “I know you did. I could tell.”

  “But something wasn’t right. Plus, Mancini was playing it straight, not cheating. When the good guys start cheating, then I have no choice. But Mancini didn’t have to. We tried a clean case, which is unusual.”

  I finish the pint and order another. Partner has had two sips of his. Miss Luella frowns on drinking and will say something if she smells it.

  “What happens to Miguel?” he asks.

  “Looks like he’ll be spending time with his brother.”

  “You gonna defend him?”

  “Hell no. I’m sick of the Zapate boys.”

  “You think he’ll sing about Link’s thugs?”

  “I doubt it. He’s in enough trouble as it is. A couple of murders won’t help him much.”

  We order a basket of fries and call it dinner.

  After we leave the bar, I keep the van and drop Partner off at his apartment. It’s Monday and Naomi is busy grading tests. “Make sure Starcher gets an A,” I tell her. “Always,” she says. I need to be loved but she can’t play tonight. I finally go home, and the place feels cold and lonely. I change into jeans and walk down to The Rack, where I drink beer, smoke a cigar, and shoot eight ball for two hours, all alone. At ten I check my phone. Every Zapate in town is looking for me: mother, an aunt, a sister, and Tadeo and Miguel from jail. Seems they need me now. I’m fed up with these people, but I know they’re not going away.

  Two reporters are calling. Mancini wants to have a drink. Why, I have no idea.

  And there is a voice mail from Arch Swanger. Condolences on the big loss. How in hell?

  I need to leave town. At midnight, I load the van with some clothes, the golf clubs, and half a case of small-batch bourbon. I flip a coin, head north, and last for two hours before I almost fall asleep. I stop at a budget motel and pay forty bucks for one night. I’ll be on a golf course, somewhere, by noon, all alone.

  This time I’m not sure I’m going back.