Contempt: A Legal Thriller Page 10

  “My client pleaded with me to represent him,” Thane said. “I did my best to dissuade him, but he’s insisting.”

  “A capital murder case is not real estate law, Mr. Banning. A man’s freedom is at stake. Most likely his very life. That is not a small matter.”

  “Do you think there’s anyone in this room who understands that better than me?” Reynolds’s nostrils flared, and Thane quickly added, “Please understand I will not embarrass the court in any way.”

  The judge leaned forward, his low voice sounding as though it was pushing its way through a throat full of gravel. “And you understand you won’t be given a gnat’s pecker of leeway in my courtroom. You find yourself in over your sorry little head, do not look to me for pity. And don’t you even think about trying to back out once we begin. You take this case, then you’re damn sure going to be seeing it through to the end.”

  “I understand.”

  Reynolds continued studying Thane for a moment, then cleared his throat a couple of times before turning his attention toward Stone and leaning back in his chair. “Putting aside the obvious fact I have no legal right to remove Mr. Banning from this case, it would also be wrong, given the defendant’s wishes, injudicious though they may be.”

  Stone walked around to the front of his chair and stood at attention in front of the desk. “Your Honor, the TV reporters and cameramen will turn this trial into a farce.”

  “If the District Attorney is concerned about the presence of the media,” Thane said, “I would be open to barring press from the courtroom. I would also obey any gag order not to speak with the press about this case, if Mr. Stone were also to agree.”

  Thane watched Stone’s face out of the corner of his eye, knowing full well that the prosecutor wouldn’t take the bait. Stone was a publicity hound on the best of days, and this was an election year. One side of Judge Reynolds’s lips turned upward slightly at this, suggesting he was thinking the exact same thing.

  “I believe the people have a right to an open trial,” Stone said, “especially one involving the death of a former police detective.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Mr. Stone,” the judge said. “Given the defendant’s wishes and your desire to have an open trial, I have no choice but to once again deny your request for a change in counsel.”

  “But Your Honor—”

  “Mr. Stone, I’m confident you’re not thinking of saying anything other than ‘Yes, sir’. Am I correct?”

  Stone instead said nothing, then reached down and picked up his briefcase.

  “Thank you for your time, Your Honor,” he said at last.

  He then turned and stalked out of the judge’s chambers. Thane waited until Stone was down the hall, then rose from his chair as well. As he turned to leave, Reynolds stopped him.

  “Mr. Banning, I seriously suggest you look deep in your heart before going any further with this. Do not take this case for the wrong reason. Not this case.”

  Thane looked back at him and could see the man was trying to offer sincere advice. “I know what I’m doing, Your Honor.”

  The judge leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “That’s not the same as saying you’re doing this for the right reason.”

  It wasn’t a question as much as a statement of fact. Thane paused, then turned and exited the office.

  The low murmur of small talk was lost in the huge courtroom. Only three rows of seats in the gallery were in use, hosting people from all walks of life, bound only by their legal duty to appear that day as potential jurors. When Judge Reynolds entered the courtroom, most of those summoned looked up in deference, although a couple of people—a businessman in a trendy three-piece suit and a sullen college student—scowled.

  Judge Reynolds addressed the potential jurors, expressing his gratitude at their participation in this honored system, as if they had a choice. To get out of being considered for jury duty, he said they either had to have served within the past twenty-four months or have a compelling reason for not serving. A very compelling reason. The sullen businessman stood and explained that his company needed him if it was to be successful in today’s competitive marketplace. The judge stared him down, then said he was confident the man’s business could survive without him, unless he was so managerially inept he didn’t have empowered employees to carry the ball, in which case it was probably best the man find a different profession. No one else raised their hand.

  At that point, the prosecution team entered the courtroom. Stone entered the room first, followed by his right-hand men Wallace Winston and Simon Keaton. All three men were immaculately dressed, and Stone’s presence caused a ripple of murmurs from the potential jurors who recognized him, as if his presence sent a signal that if the District Attorney himself was going to try the case, maybe they weren’t wasting their time after all.

  The low-key buzzing that Stone elicited, however, shifted into overdrive when Thane and his team appeared. Several in the gallery pointed at him, as if it wasn’t already abundantly clear that most everyone had already made the connection. And the few who apparently didn’t keep up with the news were quickly brought up-to-speed by the person sitting next to them.

  Thane and Kristin were both dressed appropriately for the venue, but Gideon wore dark blue Dockers and a collared shirt, both purchased by Thane. The big man refused to wear a tie, but kept tugging at his collar anyway. As they walked toward their table, Kristin stayed close to Thane, trying to distance herself from being associated with her disinterested-looking colleague. When Thane sat at one end of the table, she quickly staked her claim for the chair next to him, as if music had just stopped. Gideon pulled out the chair at the far end and slumped down, looking as though he was waiting to be sentenced. Kristin looked at him with a stern eye, which Gideon ignored.

  Interviewing the first four prospective jurors was uneventful. The first was immediately dismissed upon revealing she had helped canvass her neighborhood in support of the District Attorney during his first campaign. Stone tossed her the smile of a politician and thanked her for her support, but said that that precluded her from serving on the jury.

  Jurors two and three were dismissed for other reasons, and juror four was found to be acceptable by Stone. Thane also concurred, although he was awkward while questioning the jurors. Stone had a way of immediately establishing a bond of trust and confidence with each person he questioned. Jury selection was not something Thane had done before as a real estate attorney, and he couldn’t afford any of those obscenely priced consultants who turned it into a so-called science. Kristin jotted down some relevant questions for him to ask, which was helpful, but for the most part he simply floundered.

  The fifth person questioned was a broad-chested man in his mid-fifties named Frank Ferguson, looking like a staunch conservative who proudly flew the American Flag from his porch, weather permitting. He had a quarter-inch crew cut that resembled gray Astroturf, and his ruddy cheeks accented the polyester red tie he wore, the tip of which landed a couple of inches above his belly button. His sports coat appeared too small, most likely not having made its way out of the closet the past few years.

  Ferguson was an auto mechanic and was very respectful addressing Stone’s questions, firmly attaching a ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’ at the end of each response, as if they were brethren in the fight against crime. His body language shifted dramatically, however, when Thane rose and approached the witness box. One side of his mouth curled up and his eyebrows furrowed, as if the attorney for the defense was sporting a swastika. Instead of sitting up straight as he did for Stone, Ferguson leaned forward, as if itching for a confrontation.

  After a couple of preliminary questions which were met with terse answers, absent any sign of respect, Thane paused and watched the scowling man awaiting the next question, then offered up the one Ferguson was probably hoping to be asked.

  �
�Mr. Ferguson, can you think of any reason why you might not be impartial in this case?”

  “How about because I think the defendant’s lawyer got away with murder?”

  The other potential jurors appeared charged by this response, several of them nodding immediately in agreement, with one of them even muttering a bit too loud “you got that right.” Reynolds lightly tapped his gavel.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a group participation process. I must ask that you keep your comments to yourself.” The judge then turned to Ferguson. “And sir, while you may think I am going to admonish you, I actually appreciate your candor. I think it’s important that everyone be upfront with any possible reasons why they should not serve on this jury. But don’t, however, confuse this latitude with an opportunity to be anything other than responsive to Mr. Banning’s questions.”

  Ferguson nodded. Thane glanced back at the Defense table where Kristin was already crossing a line through Ferguson’ name and Gideon just shrugged. Thane also noted Stone sharing a smile with his Associates. He turned back to the man being questioned.

  “So you think I got away with murder, and that makes you mad.”

  “Yeah, it pretty much pisses me the hell off.” Ferguson again turned to the judge. “With all due respect.”

  “So if you were on this jury,” Thane continued, “you’d want to make sure we convicted the guilty man, and not just whoever was served up to you?”

  “Damn straight. People need to take responsibility for their actions.”

  “And you believe in justice, regardless of the status or position of the man responsible?”

  Ferguson crossed his arms and nodded once for emphasis. “Regardless of the status or position. You do the crime, then you do the time. I don’t care who the hell it is.”

  Thane smiled at the man. “I hope you hold on to that commitment.” He then turned to Judge Reynolds. “Defense accepts this juror, Your Honor.”

  Kristin squeaked out a reaction of disbelief, but managed to refrain from crying out. Gideon chuckled.

  “You do?” the judge asked. “Well, OK then, I guess. Mr. Stone?”

  Stone’s smile had been whisked from his face. He leaned over and whispered something to Winston, who then glanced over at Keaton, as if all three were trying to figure out if they were missing something. Unable to figure out what it was, Stone turned back to the judge. “We most certainly accept.”

  “Yes, I kind of thought you might. Juror number five has been accepted by both parties.”

  Ferguson eyed Thane with suspicion as he rose and started back toward the gallery, then looked toward Stone for some sort of reaction, but the District Attorney had already moved on to the next name on the list.

  Thane returned to his chair and started reading the short summary of facts for the middle-aged woman being escorted to the witness box, then glanced over at Kristin, whose stare of disbelief had not abated. He gave her a half-smile.

  “Safe to say you think we should have dismissed him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Guess it depends on whether or not you want to win this case.”

  “Look, there probably aren’t more than a couple of people here today who aren’t thinking the same thing that guy was. At least he’s upfront about it, so I know where I stand.”

  “Yeah, but where you’re standing is in a big ole pile of shit.”

  Thane smiled as he nodded. “Maybe so, but with his rabid need for justice, he could become one of our best friends.”

  “Or you could just bite.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Gideon sprawled out on his apartment sofa, as hard and lumpy as anything he’d ever slept on at Forsman, though at least the beds in prison got their sheets bleached. Nothing had been clean inside his decrepit apartment at any point during the past forty years. Dirt had worked its way into everything to the point that it was as much a part of the apartment as the wood of the floor and the bricks in the walls. He hadn’t expected anything better. For all practical purposes, it was no different from where he’d landed the other times he’d made parole. But he could walk out of this dump anytime he wanted, and that more than made up for the filth.

  He swore under his breath at the fifteen-inch black and white TV sitting on an apple crate across the room. He was trying to watch basketball, but the picture was so poor that there was twice the regulation number of players on the court, and the audio sounded like it was coming through a can on a string.

  He got up and took another stab at fixing the picture. He jiggled some knobs, whacked the side of the set a couple of times, then picked the whole thing up and shook it, trying to mix up the ingredients inside, all to no avail. He finally gave up, setting the TV back on the box with a low throaty grumble.

  “Next time,” he told it. “Next time, I’m gonna lose my temper, and then it’s over for you.”

  He ground his cigarette into the coffee table, then scanned the dim room:

  He didn’t need much, and not much is what he got.

  “Fuck this.”

  He walked back to his bedroom, which was only big enough for a twin bed. Normally it would be impossible for a man Gideon’s size to sleep comfortably on something that small, but it had been years since he’d experienced anything larger, so it wasn’t a big deal to him. He also didn’t want to get used to anything bigger.

  He got down on his knees next to the bed, as if getting ready to pray, then with one hand lifted the mattress as easily as if it were a pillow. The other hand slipped underneath and grabbed a dirty, forest green cloth bag cinched with a string. He rooted around inside the bag, then pulled out something shiny and metallic and stuck it in his pocket. Returning the bag to its hiding place, he rose and walked out of his apartment, not bothering to lock it.

  He trudged down the sidewalk; even in this violent part of the city, people veered a step or two to the side when approaching him. White people especially gave him plenty of room, if not the entire sidewalk. It didn’t bother him anymore. Of course they saw an angry black man: he was an angry black man. Everybody was smart to cross the street when he was in that kind of space.

  The night air always smelled like freedom. Forsman inmates never got to go outside after four in the afternoon, which was one reason he loved walking the streets after dark. Anything could happen once the sun set, and even though a lot of times what happened was trouble, that was okay: it beat the hell out of boredom.

  He thought back to the first time he felt the peculiar magic of night air. He’d been young, just out of his first stint in prison: three years for stealing cars. He was out on the street, strutting, listening while Mick Jagger hollered “Sympathy for the Devil” out of a boom box the size of a microwave, all the smells of a good time wafting along the cool evening breeze. He had a lot of living to catch up on and planned to pack as much as he could into that first night. He ended it in the back of a patrol car after cutting a bartender who refused to sell alcohol to an eighteen-year-old. Given that he had only been on the street for less than twenty-four hours, they packed him off upstate to serve two years for aggravated assault.

  Upon his next release, he was determined to stay out for a while. He found work loading boxes into refrigerated semi-trailers, which required a coat and gloves even during the hottest summer days. His boss paid him three dollars an hour less than the minimum wage, telling the parolee that if he thought he could get a better deal elsewhere then he was free to take it. Three weeks into the job, he started stealing tools, figuring if his boss was going to be a thief, he would do the same. Unfortunately, his crime was easier to prove and prosecute, and he was sent away for another two-year stint.

  The stakes got raised the next time when he killed a man in a street brawl. He had been minding his own business when a drug dealer sitting on a stoop started dogging him, apparently under the impression that everyone in the
neighborhood knew and feared him; but Gideon didn’t know anybody, and he especially didn’t fear anyone. After one insult too many, Gideon flew up the steps and flung the heroin dealer down to the street. When the man unsheathed a knife, that was all it took: Gideon ripped a three-foot long flower box off the building and brought it down over the man’s head, bending the metal fixture in half. Two days later, the tough guy died in the hospital, upping the charges against Gideon from assault to manslaughter.

  That was his first trip to Forsman.

  During his last bout of freedom, he felt like he was going through the motions until they put him away again. He made it three months—a personal best—before an attempted robbery and assault with a deadly weapon did him in. It was the fifth time he’d been arrested, but only the second after the three-strikes rule had gone into effect. That’s when the big clock started ticking for convicts everywhere. And every night after he got out again, he wrestled with the notion that it was probably his last chance to go straight. He didn’t want to blow it by doing something stupid—but at the same time, he hated the thought of wasting time pretending to be something he wasn’t.

  On rare occasions, he wondered if working for Thane would change things for him this time, although he knew in his gut it couldn’t be true. Thane couldn’t afford to pay him for long, and he wasn’t looking for handouts, so unless he could figure out how he was helping the case, he’d quit. The best he could do was hope for a longer taste of freedom this time around, and maybe more fun while it lasted, but that would take money.

  He stopped in front of a pawn shop and peered through the barred window: there was no one inside except for the rotund clerk sitting behind the front counter, safely ensconced in a Plexiglas fortress. Gideon entered the store, stopping next to a row of TVs, a quarter of which were probably hot but at least offered a clear picture. Several of the sets were showing the basketball game he had been trying to watch earlier.

  He walked up to the counter and thrust his hand into his pants pocket, a move not lost on the clerk, and brought out a silver pocket watch. He dangled it at the clerk’s eye level, then placed it in the small pass-through burrowed under the Plexiglas. The clerk used his Metallica T-shirt to wipe the chicken grease from his fingers before retrieving the watch and examining it, looking unfazed.“It’s sterling,” Gideon said.