by Gerry Spence
But no.
Sewell would simply see him as old and feeble.
But no, it wasn’t time to give up. The judge still had some fight left in him.
CHAPTER 26
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the judge arrived at his chambers at 9:00 A.M. sharp. And, as usual, Jenny Winkley handed him a copy of the Jackson Hole Press. “Take a read at this,” his secretary said. He fell into his chair and grabbed the paper with both hands, as if to choke it.
PROSECUTOR CHARGES JUDGE, JUDGE JAILS PROSECUTOR
Yesterday district judge John Murray ordered that Haskins Sewell, the Teton County district attorney, be incarcerated in the county jail until he purged himself of contempt. Judge Murray was not available for comment.
Prosecutor Haskins Sewell said in an interview conducted in the county jail that Judge Murray had been “personally and improperly engaged” with Mrs. Horace Adams III, the accused in the murder case before the judge. The prosecutor refused to elaborate but said he had asked the judge to step down.
Sewell said that the judge had failed to issue lawful rulings, which had prevented the prosecutor from fairly presenting the state’s case to the jury, and when Sewell called the judge’s attention to the judge’s past relationship with the defendant, Mrs. Adams, the judge ordered Sewell thrown in jail for contempt.
Prosecutor Sewell said, “I will take such steps as may be necessary to bring about justice in the people’s case even if it requires that I be indefinitely jailed by the judge.”
Timothy Coker, the well-known criminal defense attorney who is defending Mrs. Adams, had no comment. However, he did say the Wyoming attorney general has the authority to appoint another prosecutor when the district attorney is unable to proceed.
An accompanying editorial by Harvey Bushnell, of the Jackson Hole Press, stirred up embers where old fires had burned.
SHOULD JUDGE MURRAY BE IMPEACHED?
Nowhere is impartiality and unbiased judgment more demanded than in a case as critical to justice as a murder trial. Justice cannot prevail when the judge is compromised by improper conduct with the accused. If Judge Murray, who to this moment has maintained a spotless reputation as a good and fair judge, is guilty of any impropriety, he should immediately step down. Indeed, he should resign his position of trust.
On the other hand, we must exercise patience and caution and remain careful of first opinions based solely on the charges of the prosecutor. Hopefully, proof will be made in accordance with the American system of justice, and the presumption of innocence must be granted to Judge Murray, as he has enforced it on behalf of every citizen charged with a crime who has come before him. And if charges are brought against him, they must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt.
The judge crumpled the paper with a vengeance and threw it in his wastebasket. He felt as helpless as the pitiful miscreants who over the years had stood before him, waiting to be devoured by the hungry mouth of the monster called “the law.”
“Precedent is the law stumbling over itself, century after century, and never finding the truth,” he’d often proclaimed. And verdicts were too often the products of jurors lying to themselves and to one another and finally, by their verdicts, lying to the court. Justice was the bastard progeny of lies. All too frequently the law itself was a lie in truth’s clothing.
Sewell had laid that rotten lie on the press. The judge had never been “personally engaged” with Lillian Adams as Sewell meant those words to imply.
“Everybody is lying!” the judge hollered.
Jenny Winkley invaded his solitude with a pile of orders for him to sign. “How dare Sewell claim that an old coot like you would be messing around with a woman young enough to be your daughter. Who’s going to believe that?”
“Probably everybody,” the judge said.
“Well, did you?” she demanded.
“Jesus Christ sakes, Jenny, why would you ask that?” He was hollering again.
“I know plenty of dirty old men who’d like nothing better than to”—she fumbled for the word—“you know what.”
“You know me better than that,” he said.
He felt sick. He wished she would disappear. He wished he could.
Jenny waited until he looked up from his desk. “Lillian called here for you.”
“What!” He sprang forward from his chair and grabbed at the pain in his back. “Jesus H. Christ, Jenny, what do you mean she called?”
“She calls all the time. Usually calls just after the jury’s been excused for the day.”
“Doesn’t she know better than to call the judge who’s trying her case?”
“I told her you couldn’t talk to her, but she says she has to talk to you, that it’s important. I asked her what it was about, and she said she couldn’t talk to me about it.”
“Why haven’t you told me about her calls before?”
“I try not to disturb you.” She looked at the judge from the corner of her eye. “Since this trial started, you’ve changed.”
“For Christ sakes, Jenny, how have I changed?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s like something’s missing in the judgment department—you getting yourself into a mess like this, for example.”
She’s never been a comfort to me, he thought. She’d been single for the last twenty years, divorced from a man she never mentioned. She saw life as a colorless, involuntary endurance test. He’d kept her in his employ these many years mostly out of sympathy. Who else but he would tolerate her interminable pessimism and her unalterable distrust of the species?
Finally, Jenny left.
He picked up the phone and ordered a big bouquet of red roses for her. She deserved them.
“How do you want the card to read?” the woman at the flower shop asked over the phone.
“‘To Jenny, for putting up with me these many years.’”
* * *
When he walked into the sheriff’s office, there sat Sewell, happily visiting with Sheriff Howard Lowe, a steaming coffee cup in his hand, and his feet propped up on the sheriff’s desk. At the moment Sewell saw the judge, perfect scorn blossomed on Sewell’s face.
“What’s going on here, Sheriff?” the judge demanded.
“What do you mean, ‘What’s going on’?” Then the sheriff laughed. “You mean why is the DA here and not over there in the padded cell? Well, Judge, I got me some trustees. Now there is old Whitey and Jake, who are in here for vagrancy and shoplifting, but they ain’t going no place, and there’s Henry Yellow Feather, the Indian, who’s in for drunk—again—and he ain’t goin’ no place neither. I got them mopping up the jail.” The sheriff arose from his chair, gave a slight bow to the judge, and, with a sweep of his hand toward Sewell, proclaimed, “And this is my latest trustee, Mr. Haskins Sewell. He is giving me legal advice on a number of important issues.”
The sheriff’s potbelly was covered by his brown sheriff’s shirt with the badge over the heart—to stop a bullet, he liked to say. His eyes were hidden behind large shades, his nose was fat with old pockmarks, and his jowls sagged and quivered when he talked.
“I ordered this man in jail until he purged himself of contempt,” the judge said. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Oh, yes, you have. Definitely,” the sheriff replied. “Should we also put him on a bread and water diet?” The judge stared at the sheriff for a moment, then turned and walked out. He heard their muffled laughter in the background.
He found no comfort at his desk; the coffee was cold, the room sepulchral. An array of framed certificates stared down from the walls, honors he’d received from the bar association, from the judicial college, and a commendation from the Chamber of Commerce for meritorious service to the community.
Were people everywhere laughing at him? There stood Death, grinning and exercising its jaws with its never-ending joke that no one appreciated—born, struggle, get old, die and take your “eternity leave,” as he’d grown to call the dreaded departure. Death, the ceaseless
jokester, never tired of the same joke. I’m too bound up in myself, the judge thought. Others depended on him—Betsy, for one, and Lillian. He tried not to admit his concern for her. His paternal feelings for her pounded at the door of guilt. He knew he should disqualify himself this minute.
The bailiff was knocking. “What do ya want me to do with the jury, Your Honor?” The sound of the bailiff’s words lacked their usual lilt of esteem and deference.
He didn’t answer the bailiff.
“Your Honor?” the bailiff insisted.
“Tell them to go to hell,” the judge said.
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor?”
“I asked where Mr. Coker is.”
“He’s sitting at his table in the courtroom, waiting, Your Honor.”
“Go tell the sheriff to bring Mr. Sewell here immediately. And tell Mr. Coker and Mrs. Adams to come in.” He would play the cards dealt to him from the stacked deck. But one thing for sure—he would not, no, not, step down from the case.
Jenny Winkley stuck her head in the door. “Harvey Bushnell, from the Jackson Hole Press, is out here. He wants an interview,” she said.
“He knows better than to interfere in the judicial process.”
“Shall I tell him he knows better?”
“What’s wrong with you, Jenny?”
“It’s not me,” she said. “And Lillian called again.” She turned toward the door, taking her squeezed-up little steps as if a full-gaited walk were vulgar.
“My God! What did you tell her?” he called after her.
“I told her if it was official business, she couldn’t talk to you here. If it wasn’t, she should call you at home.”
“She shouldn’t be calling me anywhere about anything,” the judge shouted.
“Well, I’ll tell you something, Judge.” She turned back. “This is heating up a lot of courthouse gossip.”
He flopped down in his chair. “Jenny, did you give her my new phone number at home?” He felt his panic return.
“Betsy must have given it to her. I know for a fact that she and Betsy talk almost every day. And it’s better for her to call you at home than here.”
By then, the sheriff and Haskins Sewell had entered his chambers. They stood at his desk looking down at him like amused schoolboys. Sewell was wearing a newly pressed suit, a clean, starched white shirt, and his usual gray tie.
Timothy Coker, in his old tweed jacket, appeared with Lillian Adams, who wore a face of pained endurance and the same black dress. “Sit down, everyone,” he said. They took chairs.
The judge’s anger seemed to clear his head for the moment. “This trial has to continue, Mr. Sewell. I can hold this jury in abeyance for only so long. And I again remind you: If I have to dismiss the case, double jeopardy may well attach, and you may not be able to retry Mrs. Adams. Are you prepared to deal with this, Mr. Sewell?”
“Yes, of course I am, Your Honor,” Sewell said.
“And are you prepared to take the ordinary steps required to purge yourself of contempt, Mr. Sewell?”
“If I insulted Your Honor, I am sorry,” Sewell said. “But, sir, I have not only the right but the duty to tell the truth, even if the words offend Your Honor.”
“Yes, Mr. Sewell, you have the duty to tell the truth.” The calm of the judge’s own voice surprised him. “You have accused me of personal misconduct with the defendant, who is charged with murder in my court. You have undertaken a witch hunt to prove a false…”
He stumbled for the word. A simple word. Both lawyers and Lillian Adams were watching him, waiting. He finally came up with it. “… a false … accusation.
“This is a witch hunt!” the judge suddenly hollered. “You lied about me to the media. That is defamation of the worst order.”
“I believe what I’ve said is true,” Sewell said.
“In that case, I make the following additional orders.” The judge nodded to the court reporter. “Be sure to get this right.” He spoke slowly. “I find that your contempt is ongoing. I find that you have refused, given the opportunity, to purge yourself of your contempt. I find that your accusations against this court are false and malicious and with the obvious purpose of attempting to disqualify this judge from this case, and I will make an appropriate report to the bar. However, under these circumstances I have no alternative but to order you to continue in the prosecution of this case, but under the direction and supervision of this court.”
The judge turned to the sheriff. “Let the record show that Sheriff Howard Lowe is present in my chambers. Sheriff Lowe, I hereby order you to keep Mr. Haskins Sewell, the district attorney, in custody whenever court is out of session. He is to be lodged in the county jail until further order of this court. Do you understand, Sheriff Lowe?”
“Yes, of course, Your Honor.”
“That doesn’t mean that he is to be allowed to lounge around in your office like a playmate, drinking coffee, but that he be confined in a cell until my further order. Is that clear?”
“Oh, yes, very clear,” the sheriff parroted.
“Just a minute, please,” said Timothy Coker. “The strategy of the prosecutor is too frigging obvious. He’s attempting to force the court to dismiss this case for his own political gain. He’ll argue that you ought to be thrown out of office because you turned a vicious murderer loose without a trial. Simply put, Your Honor, he is using this case to get your job.”
“Where’s your evidence?” Sewell shouted.
“You must remember, Mr. Coker, who your client is,” the judge said. “I’m not your client. Are you going to move that this case against Lillian Adams be dismissed?”
“No,” Coker said. “If you dismissed the case, Mrs. Adams would go through life with people saying she got away with murder. We both want a jury to hear her case, and if a reasonable jury in a fair trial hears her case, she will be acquitted.”
Scowling at the judge, Sewell said, “You wouldn’t dare dismiss this case. I am advising you on the record that I can produce evidence in this court that your relationship with Lillian Adams is much more than casual.”
The judge thought that if he weren’t the judge, he’d take a swing at Sewell himself.
“Gentlemen,” the judge said at last, “we’ll proceed with the case. Mr. Sewell, be prepared to call your next witness first thing tomorrow morning.”
Yes, the judge thought, Sewell has checkmated me. If he petitioned the attorney general to appoint a new prosecutor from another county, it might take the lawyer a couple of weeks to familiarize himself with the facts and law of the case, and the judge probably couldn’t hold the jurors that long. If he ordered Sewell removed, the bastard would probably take an emergency writ to the Wyoming Supreme Court, and who could predict how those old judges up there might view matters through the lens of their high-and-mighty but provincial myopia.
If he dismissed the case, he could never defend himself against the prosecutor’s accusations that he’d been guilty of improper conduct. If he let the case go forward, Sewell would try to poison the case with perjured testimony or smother justice with unethical strategies that could turn the jury against Lillian. Her life was a stake. He had no choice but to continue with the case and see that Lillian got a fair trial. Sewell could take care of himself.
He left the courthouse and, as usual, dropped by Hardy Tillman’s for an early beer. Hardy was changing the fan belt on a 1951 Studebaker two-door sedan. Hardy saw him coming, wiped his greasy hands on a rag, and marched into his back office with a wide, naked smile for the judge, exposing an empty upper left gum—all three molars missing.
“This must be Old Codger’s Day,” Hardy said, his eyes brightening at the sight of the judge.
“What do you mean, ‘Old Codger’s Day’?”
Hardy gave him a spongy laugh. “Well, I got up this morning and took a close look at myself in the mirror and decided that looking at myself was cruel and unusual punishment. As a guy gets older, everything on him grows—his ears gets b
igger, and his feet grows a couple of sizes, and his nose gets longer, an’ his belly pops out. The only thing that don’t get bigger is his peter.”
He laughed and popped a couple of beers. “I keep thinking about how I’d like to catch me one of them sweet young things with that real fine duck fuzz on her skin, and then I realized that I ain’t about to catch me one of them, and anything I could catch, I wouldn’t want. That there is an old codger’s kind a day.”
“You got that right,” the judge said.
“Then my friend here gets himself mixed up with Jolly Girl,” Hardy said. “Now there’s one that’s got an ass on her like—”
“I’m not mixed up with Lillian,” the judge said. “You know that.”
“I wouldn’t blame you none. Every man is entitled to something like that at least once in his lifetime.”
“You know me better than that, Hardy. She’s like a daughter to Betsy and me.”
“Trouble with you is you’re too damned straight. Ain’t no room in a civilized society for honest men. They just get pushed around. Why, them politicians would screw their own mother out of her Social Security check. And don’t get me started on the bankers. This here country is founded on what I call the ‘three C’s.’” The judge had heard it a hundred times. “Crime, cheats, and chiselers.”
“I ought to give it all up and go home and watch the birds,” the judge said.
“Jesus save us. You’re just feelin’ sorry for yourself again. You want me to go kick the shit out of Sewell? I always wanted to kick the shit out of one of them retarded dipshit monkeys that ought to be made extinct.”
“No, Hardy. Save him for me,” the judge said.
* * *
The judge arrived at the cabin in his old truck. The plows had piled up three feet of snow on the side of the driveway, and the house was cold. He let old Horatio out, emptied the ashes from the wood burner, put in a little pitch-wood kindling, added larger pieces of new wood, and lit the stove. He poured a new supply of seeds and a chunk of suet in the bird feeder. The chickadees got what was left after the magpies, and the magpies got what was left after the ravens. And the defendant in a criminal case got what was left after the prosecutor, the defense attorney, the judge, and, at last, the jurors each got what was required to satisfy their respective agendas.
