Rogue Lawyer

None of my warnings register with Tadeo. He tasted enough glory in the cage to know what’s out there. Money, fame, adulation, women, a big house for his mother and family. It will all be his soon enough.

6.

It’s impossible to sleep the night before a jury trial opens. My brain is in a state of hyped-up overdrive as I struggle to remember and organize details, facts, things to do. My stomach roils with anxiety and my nerves are frayed and popping. I know it’s important to rest and appear fresh and relaxed before the jury, but the truth is I’ll look the same as always—tired, stressed, eyes bloodshot. I sip coffee just before dawn and, as usual, ask myself why I do this. Why do I subject myself to such unpleasantness? I have a distant cousin who’s a great neurosurgeon in Boston, and I often think about him at moments like this. I suppose his world is quite tense as he cuts into the brain, with so much at stake. How does he handle it physically? The nerves, the butterflies, yes even diarrhea and nausea? We rarely speak, so I’ve never inquired. I remind myself that he does his job without an audience, and if he makes a mistake he simply buries it. I try not to remind myself that he makes a million bucks a year.

In many ways, a trial lawyer is like an actor onstage. His lines are not always scripted, and that makes his job harder. He has to react, to be quick on his feet and with his tongue, to know when to attack and when to shut up, when to lead and when to follow, when to flash anger and when to be cool. Through it all, he has to convince and persuade because nothing matters but the jury’s final vote.

I eventually forget about sleep and go to the pool table. I rack the balls and break them gently. I run the table and drop the 8 ball into a side pocket.

I have a collection of brown suits and I carefully select one for opening day. I wear brown not because I like the color but because no one else does. Lawyers, as well as bankers and executives and politicians, all believe that dress suits should be either navy or dark gray. Shirts are either white or light blue; ties, some variety of red. I never wear those colors. Instead of black shoes, today I’ll wear ostrich-skin cowboy boots. They don’t really match my brown suit but who cares? With my ensemble laid out on the bed, I take a long shower. In my bathrobe, I pace around the den, delivering at low volume another version of my opening statement. I break another rack, miss the first three shots, and lay down my cue stick.

7.

The courtroom is packed by 9:00 a.m., the appointed hour for all two hundred potential jurors to show up and get processed. And, since capacity is only two hundred, there is gridlock when a horde of spectators and a few dozen reporters also show up and jockey for position.

Max Mancini struts about in his finest navy suit and sparkling black wingtips, flashing smiles at the clerks and assistants. With all these people watching, he’s even nice to me. We huddle and chat importantly as the bailiffs deal with the throng.

“Still fifteen years?” I ask.

“You got it,” he says, smiling and looking at the audience. Obviously, between Moss and Spurio, the word has not yet made its way to Max’s ears. Or maybe it has. Maybe Max was told to cut a deal and get a plea, and maybe Max did what I would expect him to do: told Woody and Moss and Kemp and everybody else to go to hell. This is his show, a big moment in his career. Just look at all those folks out there admiring him. And all those reporters!

Presiding this week is the Honorable Janet Fabineau, quietly known among the lawyers as Go Slow Fabineau. She’s a young judge, still a bit on the green side, but maturing nicely on the bench. She’s afraid to make mistakes, so she’s very deliberate. And slow. She talks slow, thinks slow, rules slow, and she insists that the lawyers and witnesses speak clearly at all times. She pretends this is for the benefit of the court reporter who must take down every word, but we suspect it’s really because Her Honor also absorbs things…real slow.

Her clerk appears and says the judge wants to see the lawyers in chambers. We file in and take seats around an old worktable, me on one side, Mancini and his flunky on the other. Janet sits at one end, eating slices of apple from a plastic bowl. They say she’s always fussing over her latest diet and her latest trainer, but I’ve noticed no progress on the reduction front. Mercifully, she does not offer us any of her food.

“Any more pretrial motions?” she asks as she looks at me. Chomp, chomp.

Mancini shakes his head no. I do the same and add, for reasons that are solely antagonistic, “Wouldn’t do any good.” I’ve filed dozens and they’ve all been overruled.

She absorbs this cheap shot, swallows hard, takes a sip of what looks like early morning urine, and says, “Any chance of a plea bargain?”

Mancini says, “We’re still offering fifteen years on a second degree.”

I say, “And my client still says no. Sorry.”

“Not a bad offer,” she says, slinging a cheap shot back at me. “What would the defendant take?”

“I don’t know, Your Honor. At this point, I’m not sure he’s willing to plead guilty to anything. Things might change after a day or two of trial, but right now he’s looking forward to his day in court.”

“Very well. We can certainly accommodate him.”

We talk about this and that and kill time while the bailiffs process the jurors and get things organized. Finally, at 10:30, the clerk says the courtroom is ready. The lawyers leave and take their places. I sit next to Tadeo, who looks a bit awkward all dressed up. We whisper and I assure him things are going swell, just as I expected, so far anyway. Behind us, the prospective jurors stare at the back of his head and wonder what awful crime he has committed.

When instructed, we all rise in deference to the court, as Judge Fabineau enters, her bulky figure nicely camouflaged by the long black robe. Because so much of their dreary work is done without an audience, judges love crowded courtrooms. They are the supreme rulers over everything in sight and they like to be appreciated. Some tend to grandstand, and I’m curious to see how Janet conducts herself with so many watching. She welcomes everyone to the proceedings, explains why we’re all here, rambles on a bit too long, and finally asks Tadeo to stand and face the crowd. He does so, smiles as I instructed him to do, then sits down. Janet introduces Mancini and me. I simply stand and nod. He stands and grins and sort of opens his arms as if welcoming the people into his domain. His phoniness is hard to stomach.

The jurors have now been numbered and Fabineau asks those holding 101 through 198 to leave the courtroom and take a break. Call the clerk at 1:00 p.m. and see if you’re needed. Half of them file out, some in a hurry, some actually smiling at their luck. On one side of the courtroom, the bailiffs place the remaining prospects in rows of ten, and we get our first look at the likely jurors. This drags on for an hour and Tadeo whispers that he’s bored. I ask him if he prefers staying in jail. No, he does not.

The pool is purged of those over the age of sixty-five and those with doctors’ excuses. The ninety-two we are now staring at are ready to be examined. Fabineau breaks for lunch and we’re told to be back at 2:00 p.m. Tadeo asks if there’s any chance of a proper lunch in a nice restaurant. I smile and say no. He’s headed back to the jail.