She says, “Okay, we’re off the record here. Now that I’ve seen the evidence, I’m leaning toward a longer sentence, something like twenty years. I didn’t buy the insanity stuff, neither did the jury. It was a vicious attack and he knew exactly what he was doing. I think twenty years is appropriate.”
“May I pass this along to my client? Off the record, of course?”
“Please do.” She drowns some celery in table salt, looks at Mancini, and asks, “What’s next?”
Max says, “I have just one more witness, Dr. Levondowski, but I’m not sure we need him. What do you think, Judge?”
Go Slow bites the end of a stalk. “Your call, but I think the jury is ready.” Chomp, chomp. “Mr. Rudd?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Oh why not?” Max says. “Put yourself in my shoes and make the call.”
“Well, Levondowski is just going to repeat what Wafer said. I’ve crossed him before and he’s okay, but I think Wafer is a far better witness. I’d leave it at that.”
Max says, “I think you’re right. We’ll rest.”
United, a real team.
During Max’s closing argument, I keep glancing at Esteban Suarez, who seems to be thoroughly captivated by his feet. He’s withdrawn into a cocoon and appears to hear nothing. Something has changed with this guy, and for a second I wonder if Miguel has managed to get to him. If not with cash, then with threats, intimidation. Maybe he’s promised a few pounds of cocaine.
Max does a nice job of recapping the case. Mercifully, he does not show that damned video again. He drives home the undeniable point that Tadeo might not have planned his deadly assault on Sean King, but he clearly intended to inflict severe physical injury. He didn’t intend to kill the referee, but in fact he did. He could have thrown one punch, or two, and stopped. Guilty of assault but no major crime. But no! Twenty-two vicious shots to the head of a man who could not defend himself. Twenty-two blows delivered by a highly trained fighter whose admitted goal was to see every opponent leave the ring on a stretcher. Well, he achieved his goal. Sean King left on a stretcher and never woke up.
Max fights off the natural prosecutorial tendency to beat the drum too long. He’s got the jury and he can sense it. I think everybody senses it, perhaps with the exception of my client.
I begin by saying that Tadeo Zapate is not a murderer. He’s lived on the streets, seen his share of violence, even lost a brother to senseless gang wars. He’s seen it all and wants no part of it. That’s why his record is spotless: no history of violence outside the ring. I pace back and forth in front of the jury box, looking at each juror, trying to connect. Suarez looks like he wants to crawl into a hole.
I play for sympathy and touch slightly on the issue of insanity. I ask the jury for a not-guilty verdict, or, in the alternative, manslaughter. When I return to the defense table, Tadeo has moved his chair as far away from mine as possible.
Judge Fabineau instructs the jurors, and they retire at 3:00 p.m.
The waiting begins. I ask a bailiff if Tadeo can visit with his family in the courtroom while the jury is out. He confers with his colleagues and then reluctantly agrees. Tadeo steps through the bar and takes a seat on the front bench. His mother, a sister, and some nieces and nephews gather around him and everybody has a good cry. Mrs. Zapate has not physically touched her son in many months and she can’t keep her hands off him.
I leave the courtroom, find Partner, and head for a coffee bar down the street.
At 5:15, the jurors file back into the courtroom, and there is not a single smile among them. The foreman hands the verdict to a bailiff, who hands it to the judge. She reads it, very slowly, and asks the defendant to please stand. I stand with him. She clears her throat and reads, “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Sean King.”
Tadeo utters a soft groan and drops his head. Someone in the Zapate clan gasps from the back row. We sit down as the judge polls the jurors. One by one, all guilty, unanimous. She congratulates them on a fine job, tells them their checks for jury duty will be in the mail, and dismisses them. When they’re gone, she sets deadlines for posttrial motions and such, and gives a date a month from now for sentencing. I scribble this down and ignore my client. He ignores me right back as he wipes his eyes. Bailiffs surround him and slap on handcuffs. He leaves without a word.
As the courtroom thins out, the Zapate family makes a slow exit. Miguel has his arm around his mother, who is distraught. Once they’re outside in the hallway, and within clear view of some reporters and TV cameras, three cops in suits grab Miguel and tell him he’s under arrest.
Obstruction of justice, bribery, and jury tampering. Suarez was indeed wearing a wire.
