They were convinced they had me by the balls. What foolishness. Nailing me with some bogus improper contact charge will not help their case and cause at this point. It’s overkill, and it’s not unusual. They have Gardy all but convicted and sentenced to die, and for fun they thought it would be cute to take a bite out of me.
“Smells like improper contact to me, Judge,” Huver says, trying to be dramatic.
“It would,” I say.
“Let’s deal with it later,” Kaufman says. “The jury is waiting.”
I say, “I guess you guys are deaf. I’m not proceeding until I get a hearing. I insist on getting this into the record.”
Kaufman looks at Huver and both seem to lose air. They know I’m crazy enough to go on strike, refuse to participate in the trial, and when that happens they are staring at a mistrial. The judge glares at me and says, “I hold you in contempt.”
“Put me in jail,” I say, mocking, taunting. The court reporter is getting every word. “Put me in jail.”
But he can’t do it right now. He has to make a decision, and a wrong one could jeopardize everything. If I go to jail over this, the entire trial is hijacked and there’s really no way to save it. Somewhere down the road, an appellate court, most likely a federal one, will review Kaufman’s exact movements right here and call a foul. Gardy has to have a lawyer, a real one, and they simply cannot proceed with me in jail. They’ve handed me a gift.
A few seconds pass and tempers cool. Helpfully, almost sweetly, I say, “Look, Judge, you can’t deny me a hearing on this. To do so is to hand me some heavy ammo for the appeal.”
“What kind of hearing?” he says, cracking.
“I want this woman, this Marlo Wilfang, on the witness stand in a closed hearing. You guys are hell-bent on nailing me with improper contact, so let’s get to the bottom of it. I have the right to defend myself. Send the jury home for the day and let’s have us a brawl.”
“I’m not sending the jury home,” he says as he falls into his chair, defeated.
“Fine. Keep ’em locked up all day. I don’t care. This gal has lied to you, and in doing so she’s stuck her nose into the middle of this trial. There’s no way her mother can stay on the jury. It’s grounds for a mistrial now, and it’s damned sure grounds for a reversal five years from now. Pick your poison.”
They are listening because they are suddenly frightened and woefully inexperienced. I’ve gotten the mistrials. I’ve gotten the reversals. I’ve been here many times, in the center of the arena where death is on the line and one mistake can ruin a case. They are novices. Kaufman has presided over two capital murder trials in the seven years he’s been on the bench. Huver has sent only one man to death row, an embarrassment for any prosecutor around here. Two years ago he bungled a death case so badly the judge (not Kaufman) was forced to declare a mistrial. The charges were later dismissed. They are in over their heads and they have just blundered badly.
“Who prepared the affidavit?” I ask.
No response.
I say, “Look, the language used here definitely came from a lawyer. No layperson speaks like this. Did your office prepare it, Huver?”
Huver, trying to remain cool but now far beyond desperate, says something that not even Kaufman can believe: “Judge, we can continue with Trots while Mr. Rudd sits over in the jail.”
I burst out laughing as Kaufman looks like he’s been slapped.
“Oh, go right ahead,” I say, taunting. “You’ve managed to botch this case from the first day, just go ahead and award Gardy with a reversal.”
Kaufman says, “No. Mr. Trots has said nothing so far and it would be wise if that boy just continues sitting there with that stupid look on his face.” While this is funny, I look hard at His Honor and then hard at the court reporter, who’s capturing it all.
“Strike that,” Kaufman barks at her as he catches himself. What a moron. A trial often resembles a bad circus as various acts spin out of control. What began as a fun-and-games attempt to humiliate me now looks like a terrible idea, at least for them.
I don’t want Huver coming up with any good ideas—not that I have much to worry about—and so to keep him off balance I throw some gas on the fire by saying, “Of all the stupid things you’ve said so far in this trial, that has got to be the winner. Bennie Trots. What a joke. You would want him in the first chair.”
“What’s your position, Mr. Rudd?” Kaufman demands.
“I’m not walking back into that courtroom until we have a hearing on improper contact with juror number eight, the lovely Mrs. Glynna Roston. If I’m really in contempt, then throw me in jail. Right now I’d rather have a mistrial than a triple orgasm.”
“No need to be crude, Mr. Rudd.”
Huver begins fidgeting and stammering. “Well, uh, Judge, uh, I suppose we could deal with the improper contact and the contempt later, you know, after the trial or something. Me, I’d just rather get on with the testimony. This, uh, just seems so unnecessary at this point.”
