Rogue Lawyer

“Who prepared the affidavit?” I ask.

No response.

I say, “Look, the language used here definitely came from a lawyer. No layperson speaks like this. Did your office prepare it, Huver?”

Huver, trying to remain cool but now far beyond desperate, says something that not even Kaufman can believe: “Judge, we can continue with Trots while Mr. Rudd sits over in the jail.”

I burst out laughing as Kaufman looks like he’s been slapped.

“Oh, go right ahead,” I say, taunting. “You’ve managed to botch this case from the first day, just go ahead and award Gardy with a reversal.”

Kaufman says, “No. Mr. Trots has said nothing so far and it would be wise if that boy just continues sitting there with that stupid look on his face.” While this is fu

“Strike that,” Kaufman barks at her as he catches himself. What a moron. A trial often resembles a bad circus as various acts spin out of control. What began as a fun-and-games attempt to humiliate me now looks like a terrible idea, at least for them.

I don’t want Huver coming up with any good ideas—not that I have much to worry about—and so to keep him off balance I throw some gas on the fire by saying, “Of all the stupid things you’ve said so far in this trial, that has got to be the wi

“What’s your position, Mr. Rudd?” Kaufman demands.

“I’m not walking back into that courtroom until we have a hearing on improper contact with juror number eight, the lovely Mrs. Gly

“No need to be crude, Mr. Rudd.”

Huver begins fidgeting and stammering. “Well, uh, Judge, uh, I suppose we could deal with the improper contact and the contempt later, you know, after the trial or something. Me, I’d just rather get on with the testimony. This, uh, just seems so u

“Then why’d you start it, Huver?” I say. “Why did you clowns get all excited about improper contact when you knew damned well this Wilfang woman is lying?”

“Don’t call me a clown,” Judge Kaufman sneers.

“Sorry, Judge, I wasn’t referring to you. I was referring to all the clowns in the prosecutor’s office, including the district attorney himself.”

“If we could elevate the level of discourse here,” Kaufman says.

“My apologies,” I say, about as sarcastically as humanly possible.

Huver retreats to the window, where he stares onto the rows of shabby buildings that comprise the Main Street of Milo. Kaufman retreats to a bookcase behind his desk where he stares at books he’s never touched. The air is strained and tense. A weighty decision must be made, and quickly, and if His Honor gets it wrong the aftershocks will ripple for years.

He finally turns around and says, “I guess we’d better question juror number eight, but we’re not doing it out there. We’ll conduct the inquiry here.”

What follows is one of those episodes in a trial that frustrate litigants, jurors, and observers. We spend the rest of the day in Judge Kaufman’s less than spacious chambers haggling and often yelling over the ins and outs of my improper contact with a juror. Gly

Thank you, Judge. That would be the great question.

As her story goes, she came home from the fights late on Friday. When she finally woke up on Saturday, she called her mother, who immediately called Mr. Dan Huver, who knew exactly what to do. They met in his office on Sunday afternoon, worked out the language for the affidavit, and, presto! Huver was in business.

I call Huver as a witness. He objects. We argue, but Kaufman has no choice. I question Huver for an hour, and two bobcats trapped in the same burlap sack would be much more civilized. One of his assistants wrote every word of the affidavit. One of his secretaries typed it. Another secretary notarized it.

He then questions me and the squabbling continues. Throughout this tedious ordeal, the jurors wait in the deliberation room, no doubt briefed by Gly

Ms. Mazy is no replacement to get excited about; in fact, she’s no better than the last old gal who occupied her chair. No one in Milo would be better. You could select twelve from a pool of a thousand and every jury would look and vote the same. So why did I burn so much clock today? To hold them accountable. To scare the hell out of them with the scenario that they—prosecutor and judge, duly elected by the locals—could screw up the most sensational case this backwater hick town has ever seen. To collect ammunition for the appeal. And, to make them respect me.

I demand that Marlo Wilfang be prosecuted for perjury, but the prosecutor is tired. I demand she be held in contempt. Instead, Judge Kaufman reminds me that I’m in contempt. He sends for a bailiff, one with handcuffs.

I say, “I’m sorry, Judge, but I’ve forgotten why you found me in contempt. It was so long ago.”

“Because you refused to continue the trial this morning, and because we’ve wasted an entire day back here fighting over a juror. Plus, you insulted me.”

There are so many ways to respond to this nonsense, but I decide to let it pass. Tossing me in jail over a contempt charge will only complicate matters for them, for the authorities, and it will give me even more ammo for Gardy’s appeal. A large deputy comes in and Kaufman says, “Take him to jail.”

Huver is at the window, his back to it all.

I don’t want to go to jail, but I can’t wait to get out of this room. It’s begi

“You will.”

To frighten them even more, I add, “The last time I was tossed in jail in the middle of a trial the conviction was reversed by the state supreme court. Nine to zero. You clowns should read your cases.”

Another large deputy joins our little parade. They take me through the back doors and down the rear hallway I use every day. For some reason we pause on a landing as the deputies mumble into their radios. When we finally step outside, I get the impression that word was leaked. A cheer goes up by my haters when they see me frog-marched out, handcuffed. For no apparent reason, the cops stall as they try to decide which patrol car to use. I stand by one, exposed, smiling at my little mob. I see Partner and yell that I’ll call him later. He is stu