“That’s between you and the Constitution. He’ll take this one. The standard fee?”
“Yep. But what if he says no and bounces it down the line?”
“I’ll have to take that chance.” I hand him an envelope with $3,000 in cash. His standard fee. He quickly shoves it into a pocket without even a thank-you, then turns his attention to the girls.
At nine the following morning, I walk into the clerk’s office and file a $50 million lawsuit against the City, the police department, the police chief, and the eight SWAT boys who attacked the Renfros’ home six days earlier. Somewhere in the murky depths of the office, Okie does his magic and the case is “randomly and automatically” assigned to Judge Arnold Samson. I e-mail a copy of the lawsuit to my friend at the
I also file a request for a temporary restraining order to prevent the prosecutor from freezing Doug Renfro’s assets. This is a favorite strong-arm tactic used by the government to harass criminal defendants. The original idea was to tie up assets supposedly accumulated in whatever criminal activity the defendant was engaged in, primarily drug trafficking. Seize the ill-gotten gains and make things tough for the cartels. And like so many laws, it didn’t take the prosecutors long to get creative and expand its use. In Doug’s case, the government was prepared to argue that his assets—home, cars, bank and retirement accounts—were accumulated, in part, with dirty money he earned while peddling Ecstasy.
Say what? By the time we have the emergency hearing on the temporary restraining order, the city prosecutors are backing down and looking for a way out. Judge Samson, as feisty as ever, scolds them and even threatens them with contempt. We win round 1.
Round 2 is a bail hearing in state court, where the attempted murder charge is pending. With his assets free, I’m able to argue that Doug Renfro poses absolutely no flight risk and will show up in court whenever he’s supposed to. His home is worth $400,000 with no mortgage, and I offer to post the deed as security. To my surprise, the judge agrees, and I walk my client out of court. We win round 2, but these are the easy ones.
Eight days after getting shot and losing his wife and both dogs, Doug Renfro returns home, where his three children, seven grandchildren, and some friends are waiting. It will be a subdued homecoming. They graciously ask me to join them, but I decline.
I fight tooth and nail for my clients and will break most laws to protect them, but I never get too close.
At ten on a perfect Saturday morning, I’m sitting on a bench at a playground, waiting. It’s a few blocks from my apartment, our usual meeting place. On the sidewalk, a beautiful woman approaches with a seven-year-old boy. He is my son. She is my ex-wife. The court order allows me to see him once a month for thirty-six hours. As he gets older, I will be entitled to more lenient visitation, but for now things are restricted. There are reasons for this but I’d rather not discuss them now.
Starcher does not smile when they get to the bench. I stand and peck Judith on the cheek, more for the kid’s benefit than hers. She prefers not to touch.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, rubbing his head.
“Hey,” he says, then walks over to a swing and climbs onto it. Judith sits beside me on the bench and we watch him kick and begin swaying.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Fine. His teachers are happy.” A long pause. “I see you’ve been quite busy.”
“Indeed. And you?”
“The usual grind.”
“How’s Ava?” I ask about her partner.
“She’s great. What are your plans for the day?”
Judith does not like leaving our son with me. Once again, I’ve managed to offend the police and this worries her. Worries me too but I would never admit it.
I say, “I figure we’ll do lunch. Then there’s a soccer game at the university this afternoon.”
She thinks a soccer game is safe enough. She says, “I’d like to have him back tonight, if that’s okay.”
“I get thirty-six hours once a month and that’s too much?”
“No, Sebastian, it’s not too much. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
Our fighting days are almost over, I hope. Take two lawyers with sharp elbows and even sharper tongues, give them an unwanted pregnancy, a nasty divorce with brutal aftershocks, and you have two people who can inflict serious damage. We’re still scarred, so we don’t fight, much.
“Fine,” I say, in full retreat. Truthfully, there’s nothing appealing about my apartment and Starcher doesn’t really like staying there, not yet anyway. He’s too short to shoot pool on my vintage table and I don’t own any video games. Maybe when he’s older.
He is being raised by two women who freak out if another kid shoves him at school. I’m not sure I can toughen him up by popping into his life once a month, but I’m trying. Down the road, I suspect he’ll get tired of living with a couple of edgy, intense women and want more time with his old man. My challenge is to remain relevant enough in his life to offer him that option.
“What time shall we meet?” she asks.
