Rogue Lawyer

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 i

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. Fi

I get a sense the entire courtroom is waiting for me to a

As I walk around the courtroom, I glance at Doug. His face is in his hands as he relives the nightmare. I glance at the jurors; some are in disbelief.

“You say it was dark, Officer. But you were outfitted with night-vision glasses, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” He’s been well coached and keeps his answers as short as possible.

“And these are designed to allow officers to see in the dark, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then why couldn’t you see in the dark?”

The answer is obvious; he squirms a bit, but he’s a tough one. He tries to evade with “Well, again, it all happened so fast. Before I could focus, shots were fired and we just responded.”

“And you couldn’t see Kitty Renfro at the end of the hallway, thirty feet away, in her white pajamas?”

“I didn’t see her, no.”

I badger him relentlessly on what he saw or should have seen. When I’ve scored every point possible on this, I jump back to the issue of police procedure. Who authorized the SWAT mission? Who was in the room when the decision was made? Did he or anyone else have the common sense to say perhaps such a mission was not necessary? Why did you wait until three in the morning to go in, when it was dark? What led you to believe Doug Renfro was such a dangerous man? He starts to crack, to lose his cool. He looks to Fi

I grind away and expose the idiocy of their procedures. We talk about their training and their equipment. I even manage to bring the tank into the proceedings, and Judge Ponder allows me to show the jury an enlarged photo of it.

The real fun begins when I’m allowed to explore other botched raids. Sumerall has been suspended on two prior occasions for excessive force, and I walk him through those episodes. At times his face gets red. At other times he’s sweating. Finally, at 6:00 p.m., after Sumerall has spent four grueling hours on the stand, Judge Ponder asks me if I’m almost finished.

“No, sir, just getting started,” I say, real chipper, glaring at Sumerall. I’m so pumped I could go until midnight.

“Very well, then, we’ll stand in recess until nine in the morning.”

21.

At nine sharp on Friday morning, the jurors are led in and welcomed by Judge Ponder. Officer Sumerall is called and takes the stand again. Some of his cockiness is gone, but not all of it.

“Please continue your cross-examination, Mr. Rudd,” Ponder says. With the assistance of a clerk, I unfold and mount a large diagram of the Renfro home, both first and second floors. I ask Sumerall, as the leader of this team, to enlighten us about how the eight men were selected. Why were they divided into two teams, one for the front door, one for the back? What was each man’s role? What weapons did each cop have? Who made the decision not to ring the doorbell, but instead just go crashing in? How were the doors opened? Who opened them? Who were the first cops in? Who shot Spike, and why?

Sumerall ca

I resist the urge to hound Sumerall for the entire day, something I do more often than I should. There is an art to cross-examination, and quitting while you’re ahead is part of the skill. I haven’t learned it yet because my instinct is to kick a brute like Sumerall repeatedly when he’s already down.

Doug says, wisely, “I think you’ve done enough with this witness.”

He’s right, so I tell the judge I’m finished with Sumerall. The next witness is Scott Keestler, the cop who got shot, apparently by Doug Renfro. Fi

When we’re back in the courtroom, Fi

“Mr. Rudd.”

At full volume, I pounce on Keestler with “Officer, did you murder Kitty Renfro?”

Talk about sucking the air out of a room. Fi

“We’re talking about murder here, Judge, aren’t we? Kitty Renfro was unarmed when someone shot and killed her in her own home. That’s murder.”

Fi

“Maybe not liable,” I interrupt. “But it’s still murder.” I wave my arms at the jury and demand, “What else do you call it?” Three or four actually nod affirmatively.

Judge Ponder says, “Please refrain from using the word ‘murder,’ Mr. Rudd.”

I take a deep breath; so does everyone else. Keestler looks like a man facing a firing squad. I return to the podium, stare at him, and say politely, “Peace Officer Keestler, on the night of this SWAT raid, what were you wearing?”