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.
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.”
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?”
