Rogue Lawyer, Page 31

  The players assemble in the courtroom as if nothing happened yesterday, or at least nothing that would in any way affect the trial. A few of us know—me, the prosecutor, the judge, Partner—but no one else knows, nor should they. I whisper to Tadeo. He has not changed his mind; he can win this trial.

  We retire to the judge’s chambers for our early morning update. To cover my ass, I inform her and Max that I want to put my client on the record, so there will be no doubt in the years to come about his refusal to take a plea. A bailiff brings him in, no cuffs, no restraints. He’s smiling and being very polite. He’s put under oath and says he has a clear mind and knows what’s going on. Fabineau asks Mancini to recite the terms of the plea agreement: five years for a guilty plea to manslaughter. Her Honor says that she cannot promise any particular prison facility, but is of the opinion that Mr. Zapate would do quite well just down the road at the county penal farm. Only six miles away; his mother can visit frequently. Furthermore, she does not control parole, but as the sentencing judge she has the authority to recommend an early release.

  Does he understand all of this? He says he does, and goes on to say that he ain’t pleading guilty to anything.

  I state that I have advised him to take the deal. He says yes, he understands my advice, but he’s not taking it. We go off the record and the court reporter shuts down. Judge Fabineau folds her fingers together like a veteran kindergarten teacher, and in a painfully deliberate manner tells Tadeo that she has never seen such a good deal for any defendant charged with the death of another person. In other words, boy, you’re a fool to refuse this deal.

  He doesn’t budge.

  Next, Max explains that he, as a career prosecutor, has never offered a plea deal as lenient as this one. It’s extraordinary, really. Eighteen months or so in the pen, full access to the weight room, and there are excellent facilities at the penal farm, and you’ll be back in the cage before you know it.

  Tadeo just shakes his head.

  22.

  The jurors file in and glance around expectantly, nervously. There is an air of excitement in the courtroom as this drama is about to unfold, but I feel nothing but the usual thick knot in my stomach. The first day is always the hardest. As the hours pass, we’ll settle into a routine and the butterflies will slowly dissipate. At the moment, though, I’d like to go vomit. An old trial lawyer once told me that if the day came when I walked into a courtroom and faced a jury without fear, then it was time to quit.

  Max rises purposefully and walks to a spot in front of the jury box. He offers his standard welcoming smile and says good morning. Sorry about the delay yesterday. Again, his name is Max Mancini, chief prosecutor for the City.

  This is a grave matter because it involves the loss of life. Sean King was a fine man with a loving family, a hardworking guy trying to earn a few bucks on the side as a referee. There is no dispute as to the cause of death, or who killed him. The defendant, sitting right over there, will try and confuse you, try and convince you that the law makes exceptions for people who temporarily, or permanently, lose their minds.

  Baloney. He rambles on a bit without notes, and I’ve known for some time that Max gets in trouble when he goes off script. The more skilled courtroom advocates convey the impression that they are speaking extemporaneously, while in truth they have spent hours memorizing and rehearsing. Max is not one of those, but he’s not as bad as most prosecutors. He does a very smart thing by promising the jurors that they will soon see the now famous video. He makes them wait. He could, even at this initial stage of the trial, show the video. Go Slow has already said so. But he teases them with it. Nice move.

  His opening statement is not long because his case is ironclad. Impulsively, I stand and tell Her Honor that I will reserve my opening statement until the beginning of our defense, an option under our rules. Max bounces forth and calls as his first witness the widow, Mrs. Beverly King. She’s a nice-looking lady, dressed for church, and terrified of the witness chair. Max walks her through the standard sympathy ritual and within minutes she’s in tears. Though such testimony has nothing at all to do with guilt or innocence, it is always allowed to hammer home the fact that the deceased is indeed dead and that he or she left behind loved ones. Sean was a faithful partner, devoted father, hard worker, breadwinner, loving son to his dear mother. Between sobs we get the picture, and, as always, it is dramatic. The jurors swallow it whole and a few glare at Tadeo. I’ve yelled at him not to look at the jurors, but instead sit attentively at the table and scribble nonstop on a legal pad. Do not shake your head. Do not show any reaction or emotion. At any given time, at least two members of the jury are looking at you.

  I do not cross-examine Mrs. King. She is excused and returns to her seat next to her three children in the front row. It’s a lovely family, on display for everyone, but especially the jurors.

  The next witness is the medical examiner, a forensic pathologist named Dr. Glover, a veteran of these battles. Because my career has involved a number of grisly murder cases, Dr. Glover and I have tangled before in front of juries. Indeed, in this very courtroom. He conducted an autopsy on Sean King the day after he died and has photos to prove it. A month ago Mancini and I almost came to blows over the autopsy photos. Normally, they are not admitted because their gruesomeness is so prejudicial. However, Max convinced Go Slow that three of the milder ones are probative. The first is of Sean lying on the slab, naked but for a white towel over his midsection. The second is a close-up of his face with the camera directly above him. The third is of his shaved head, turned to the right to reveal considerable swelling from several incisions. The twenty or so photos wisely excluded by Go Slow are so graphic that no sane trial judge would allow the jury to see them: sawing off the top of the skull; tight photos of the damaged brain; and the last one of the brain sitting alone on a lab table.

  The ones deemed admissible are projected on a tall, wide screen. Mancini walks the doctor through each one. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma inflicted by repeated blows to the upper face. How many blows? Well, we have the video to show us. This is another smart move by Max—to introduce the footage with the medical expert on the stand. The lights go dim, and on the large screen we get to relive the tragedy: the two fighters in the center of the ring, both confident of victory; Sean King raises the right hand of Crush, who seems surprised; Tadeo’s shoulders slump in disbelief, then suddenly he hits Crush from the side, a real sucker punch; before Sean King can react, Tadeo lands a hard right to his nose, then a left; Sean King falls back and lands against the wire cage, where he sits, slumped over, defenseless, out cold; and Tadeo springs on him like an animal, pounding away.

  “Twenty-two blows to the head,” Dr. Glover tells the jurors, who are mesmerized by the violence. They’re watching a perfectly healthy man get beaten to death.

  And my idiot client thinks he’ll walk.

  The video ends when Norberto rushes into the ring and grabs Tadeo. At that point, Sean King’s chin is on his chest and his face is nothing but blood. Crush is out cold. Chaos ensues as others scramble into the picture. As the riot breaks out, the screen goes black.

  Doctors tried everything to relieve the intense swelling of Sean King’s brain, but nothing worked. He died five days later without regaining consciousness. An image of a CT scan takes the place of the video, and Dr. Glover talks about cerebral contusions. Another image, and he talks about hemorrhaging within the hemispheres. Another reveals a large subdural hematoma. The witness has been discussing autopsies and causes of death with juries for many years, and he knows how to testify. He takes his time, explains things, and tries to avoid esoteric words and phrases. This must be one of his easier cases because of the video. The victim was perfectly healthy when he walked into the cage. He left on a stretcher and the world knows why.

  Arguing with a true expert in front of a jury is always tricky business. More often than not, the lawyer loses both the fight and his credibility. Because of the facts in this case
, I have very little credibility to begin with. I’m not willing to lose any more. I stand and politely say, “No questions.”

  When I sit down, Tadeo hisses at me, “What’re you doing, man? You gotta go after these dudes.”

  “Knock it off, okay?” I say through gritted teeth. I’m really tired of his arrogance and he’s obviously distrustful of me. I doubt if things will improve.

  23.

  As we break for an afternoon recess, I get a text message from Miguel Zapate. I’ve seen him in the courtroom throughout the morning, one of several relatives and friends clustered in the back row, watching intently but from as far away as possible. We meet in the hallway and stroll outside. Norberto, the former manager of Team Zapate, joins us. Partner follows at a distance. I make sure they understand that Tadeo is refusing a very good plea bargain. He could be out in eighteen months and fighting again.

  But they have a better deal. Juror number ten is Esteban Suarez, age thirty-eight, a truck driver for a food supply company. Fifteen years ago he emigrated legally from Mexico. Miguel says he has a friend who knows him.

  I hide my surprise as we wade into treacherous waters. We turn down a narrow one-way street with all sunlight blocked by tall buildings. “How does your friend know him?” I ask.

  Miguel is a street punk, a low-end drug runner for a gang that is heavily involved with cocaine smuggling but not heavily involved with its profits. In the murky chain of distribution, Miguel and his boys are stuck in the middle with no room to grow. This is where Tadeo was when we met less than two years ago.

  Miguel shrugs and says, “My friend knows lots of people.”

  “I’m sure he does. And when did your friend meet Mr. Suarez? Within the past twenty-four hours?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that we can deal with Suarez, and he’s not that expensive.”

  “Bribing a juror can land you in the same pen with Tadeo.”

  “Senor, please. For ten grand Suarez hangs the jury, maybe even gets an acquittal.”

  I stop walking and stare at this small-time thug. What does he know about acquittals? “If you think that jury is going to let your brother walk, then you’re crazy, Miguel. Ain’t going to happen.”

  “Okay, then we hang it. You said yourself that if they hang once, then hang twice, then the prosecutor will dismiss everything.”

  I start walking again, slowly because I’m not sure where we’re headed. Partner trails fifty yards behind. I say, “Fine, go bribe a juror, but I’m not getting involved.”

  “Okay, senor, give me the cash and I’ll get it done.”

  “Oh, I see. You need the money.”

  “Yes, senor. We don’t have that kind of cash.”

  “I don’t either, especially not after representing your brother. I’ve forked over thirty grand for a jury consultant and twenty for a shrink, plus twenty more for other expenses. Keep in mind, Miguel, in my business I’m supposed to get paid by the client, cash fees for representation. And the client also covers all expenses. It’s not the other way around.”

  “Is that why you’re not fighting?”

  I stop again and glare at him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Miguel. I’m doing the best I can with the facts I have. You guys are under some misguided notion that I can fit your brother into a big, mysterious loophole in the law and walk him out of there a free man. Guess what? It ain’t going to happen, Miguel. Tell that to your hardheaded brother.”

  “We need ten thousand, Rudd. And now.”

  “Too bad. I don’t have it.”

  “We want a new lawyer.”

  “Too late.”

  24.

  D is for donut. After another sleepless night I meet Nate Spurio at a bakery near the university. For breakfast he’s having two honey-glazed filled with jelly, and black coffee. I’m not hungry, so I choke down the coffee. After a few minutes of small talk, I say, “Look, Nate, I’m pretty busy these days. What’s on your mind?”

  “The trial, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hear you’re getting hammered.”

  “It’s pretty ugly in there. You called. What’s up?”

  “Not much. I’ve been asked to pass along some kind words from Roy Kemp and family. They took the girl off to rehab someplace. She’s a mess, obviously, but at least she’s safe and with her family. I mean, look, Rudd, these people thought she was dead. Now they got her back. They’ll do whatever it takes to make her whole again. And, they might have a lead on the baby. This thing is still unfolding all over the country. More arrests last night, more girls taken into custody. They got a tip related to the baby-selling angle and they’re all over it.”

  I nod, take a sip, say, “That’s good.”

  “Yes it is. And Roy Kemp wants you to know that he and his family are very grateful to you for getting the girl back and making all this happen.”

  “He kidnapped my child.”

  “Come on, Rudd.”

  “His daughter was kidnapped, so he must know how it feels. I don’t care how grateful he is. He’s lucky I called off the FBI or he might be sitting in jail.”

  “Come on, Rudd. Let it go. There’s a happy ending here, thanks to you.”

  “I deserve nothing and I want no part of it. Tell Mr. Kemp to kiss my ass.”

  “Will do. They got a lead on Swanger. Last night, a tip from a bartender in Racine, Wisconsin.”

  “Great. Can we meet in a week or so and have a beer? I’m rather preoccupied right now.”

  “Sure.”

  25.

  I huddle with Partner and Cliff in the hallway before the trial resumes Friday morning. At this point Cliff’s job is to sit in various places among the spectators and watch the jurors. His reaction to yesterday is not surprising: The jurors have no sympathy for Tadeo and they’ve made up their minds. Grab the plea deal if it’s still on the table, he keeps saying. I tell him about my conversation with Miguel the day before. Cliff’s response: “Well, if you can bribe one you’d better do it quick.”

  As the jury files in, I steal a look at Esteban Suarez. I planned to just glance at him quickly, as I normally do during trials. However, he’s gawking at me as if he expects me to hand over an envelope. What a goofball. There is little doubt, though, that someone has made contact with him. There’s also little doubt that he can’t be trusted. Is he already counting his money?

  Judge Fabineau says good morning and welcomes everyone back to her courtroom. She goes through the standard routine of quizzing the jurors about any unauthorized contact with sinister people hoping to sway them. I glance back at Suarez. He’s staring at me. I’m sure others are noticing this.

  Mr. Mancini stands and announces, “Your Honor, the State rests. We may have additional witnesses for rebuttal, but for now we’ll rest.”

  This is not surprising because Max gave me a heads-up. He’s called only two witnesses because that’s all he needs. Again, the video says it all, and Max is wise to let it speak for itself. He’s clearly established the cause of death and he’s certainly nailed the perpetrator.

  I walk to the jury box, look at everyone but Suarez, and begin by stating the obvious. My client killed Sean King. There was no premeditation, no planning. He hit him twenty-two times. And Tadeo doesn’t remember it. In the fifteen or so minutes before he attacked Sean King, Tadeo Zapate was struck in the face and head a total of thirty-seven times by Crush, also known as Bo Fraley. Thirty-seven times. He wasn’t knocked out, but he was mentally impaired. He remembers little past the second round, when Crush landed a knee to his jaw. We will show you, the jury, the entire fight, count the thirty-seven blows to the head, and prove to you that Tadeo did not know what he was doing when he attacked the referee.

  I am brief because there’s just not much I can say. I thank them and leave the podium.

  My first witness is Oscar Moreno, Tadeo’s trainer and the man who first saw his potential as a sixteen-year-old boxer. Oscar is about my age, older than Ta
deo’s gang, and he’s been around the block. He hangs out in a gym for Hispanic kids and offers to train the more talented ones. He also happens to have a clean record, a real asset when calling witnesses to the stand. Past criminal convictions always come back to bite you. Juries are tough on felons under oath.

  With Oscar, I lay the groundwork for the events leading up to the fight. It’s an effort to appeal to the jury’s sense of compassion. Tadeo is a poor kid from a poor family whose only real chance in life so far has been inside the cage. We finally get around to the fight and the courtroom lights go down. The first time through, we watch the fight without interruption. In the semidarkness, I watch the jurors. The women are turned off by the sport’s brutality. The men are thoroughly engrossed. During the rerun, I stop the tape each time Tadeo takes a shot in the face. The truth is that most of these were not that damaging and Crush scored only minor points with them. But to jurors who don’t know any better, a punch to the face, especially one blown out of proportion by Oscar and me, becomes a near-lethal blow. Slowly, methodically, I count them. When they are displayed in such exaggerated manner, one can easily ask how in the world Tadeo stayed on his feet. With 1:20 to go in the second round, Crush is able to yank Tadeo’s head down and bang it into his right knee. It’s a nasty shot all right, but one that hardly fazed Tadeo. Now, though, Oscar and I make it look like the cause of permanent brain damage.

  I stop the video after the end of the second round, and through