Rogue Lawyer

I’ve filed three motions to remove Trots from the second chair. All denied, of course, so Gardy and I are stuck with a moron at our table who’s more of a hindrance than an assistant. Trots sits as far away as possible, though given Gardy’s current state of hygiene I can’t really blame him.

Gardy told me months ago that when he was first interviewed by Trots at the county jail the lawyer was shocked when Gardy claimed he was i

So Trots sits at the end of the table, his head buried in useless note taking, his eyes seeing nothing, his ears hearing nothing, but he feels the stares of all those sitting behind us who hate us and want to string us up with our client. Trots figures this too shall pass and he’ll get on with his life and career the moment the trial is over. He is wrong. As soon as possible, I’ll file an ethics complaint with the state bar association alleging Trots provided “ineffective assistance of counsel” before and during the trial. I’ve done this before and I know how to make it stick. I’m fighting my own battles with the bar and I understand the game. After I get finished with Trots, he’ll want to surrender his license and get a job at a used-car lot.

Gardy takes his seat in the middle of our table. Trots does not look at his client, nor does he speak.

Huver, the prosecutor, walks over and hands me a sheet of paper. There are no good mornings or hellos. We are so far beyond even the most benign pleasantries that a civilized grunt from either of us would be a surprise. I loathe this man the way he loathes me, but I have an advantage in the hating game. Almost monthly I deal with self-righteous prosecutors who lie, cheat, stonewall, cover up, ignore ethics, and do whatever it takes to get a conviction, even when they know the truth and the truth tells them they are wrong. So I know the breed, the ilk, the subclass of lawyer who’s above the law because he is the law. Huver, on the other hand, rarely deals with a rogue like me because, sadly for him, he doesn’t see many sensational cases, and almost none in which a defendant shows up with a pit bull for a protector. If he dealt with rabid defense lawyers more regularly, he might be more adept at hating us. For me, it’s a way of life.

I take the sheet of paper and say, “So who’s your liar of the day?”

He says nothing and walks a few feet back to his table, where his little gang of assistants huddle importantly in their dark suits and ham it up for the home crowd. They are on display in this, the biggest show of their miserable backwater careers, and I often get the impression that everyone from the DA’s office who can walk, talk, wear a cheap suit, and carry a new briefcase is packed around the table to insure justice.

The bailiff barks, I stand, Judge Kaufman enters, then we sit. Gardy refuses to stand in homage to the great man. Initially, this really pissed off His Honor. On the first day of trial—it now seems like months ago—he snapped at me, “Mr. Rudd, would you please ask your client to stand?”

I did, and he refused. This embarrassed the judge and we discussed it later in his chambers. He threatened to hold my client in contempt and keep him in jail all day long during the trial. I tried to encourage this but let it slip that such an overreaction would be mentioned repeatedly on appeal.

Gardy wisely observed, “What can they do to me that they haven’t already done?” So each morning Judge Kaufman begins the ceremonies with a long, nasty scowl at my client, who’s usually slouched in his chair either picking at his nose ring or nodding with his eyes closed. It’s impossible to tell which one of us, lawyer or client, Kaufman despises the most. Like the rest of Milo, he’s been convinced for a long time that Gardy is guilty. And, like everybody else in the courtroom, he has loathed me from day one.

Doesn’t matter. In this line of work you rarely have allies and you quickly make enemies.

Since he’s up for reelection next year, as is Huver, Kaufman slaps on his phony politician’s smile and welcomes everyone to his courtroom for another interesting day in the pursuit of the truth. Based on the calculations I made one day during lunch when the courtroom was empty, there are about 310 people sitting behind me. Except for Gardy’s mother and sister, everyone is fervently praying for a conviction, with a quick execution to follow. It’s up to Judge Kaufman to deliver. This is the judge who has so far allowed every word of bogus testimony offered by the State. At times it seems as though he’s afraid he might lose a vote or two if he sustains one of my objections.

When everyone is in place, they bring in the jury. There are fourteen people crammed in the box—the chosen twelve plus a couple of alternates in case someone gets sick or does something wrong. They are not sequestered (though I requested this), so they are free to go home at night and trash Gardy and me over di

Still sappy, Kaufman welcomes them back, thanks them for their civic service, asks gravely whether anyone tried to contact them in an effort to gain influence. This usually prompts a few looks in my direction, as if I have the time, energy, and stupidity to slink around the streets of Milo at night stalking these same jurors so I can (1) bribe them, (2) intimidate them, or (3) plead with them. It’s now gospel that I’m the only crook in the room, in spite of the torrent of sins committed by the other side.

The truth is, if I had the money, the time, and the perso

However, if a defense lawyer is caught cheating, he or she gets nailed with sanctions by the court, reprimanded by the state bar association, maybe even indicted. If a prosecutor gets caught cheating, he either gets reelected or elevated to the bench. Our system never holds a bad prosecutor accountable.

The jurors assure His Honor that all is well. “Mr. Huver,” he a

Gardy says he’s never been near the church. Further, Gardy claims he’s never seen the inside of any church in all of his eighteen years. His mother confirms this. As they say out here in the country, Gardy’s family is severely “unchurched.”