A deputy leads us into the courtroom, which is again packed with people and heavy with a layer of tense apprehension. This is the tenth day of testimony, and I now believe there is absolutely nothing else happening in this backwater town. We are the entertainment! The courtroom is packed from gavel to gavel and they’re lined up against the walls. Thank God the weather is cool or we’d all be soaked with sweat.
Every capital murder trial requires the presence of at least two lawyers for the defense. My co-counsel, or “second chair,” is Trots, a thick, dull boy who ought to burn his law license and curse the day he ever dreamed of showing his face in a courtroom. He’s from a small town twenty miles away, far enough, he thought, to shield him from the unpleasantness of getting caught up in Gardy’s nightmare. Trots volunteered to handle the preliminary matters, intending to jump ship if a trial became a reality. His plans have not worked out to suit him. He screwed up the preliminaries as only a rookie can, then tried to extricate himself. No go, said the judge. Trots then thought it might be an acceptable idea to sit in the second chair, gain some experience, feel the pressure of a real trial, and so on, but after several death threats he stopped trying. Death threats are just part of the daily grind for me, like the morning coffee and lying cops.
I’ve filed three motions to remove Trots from the second chair. All denied, of course, so Gardy and I are stuck with a moron at our table who’s more of a hindrance than an assistant. Trots sits as far away as possible, though given Gardy’s current state of hygiene I can’t really blame him.
Gardy told me months ago that when he was first interviewed by Trots at the county jail the lawyer was shocked when Gardy claimed he was innocent. They even argued about it. How’s that for a vigorous defender?
So Trots sits at the end of the table, his head buried in useless note taking, his eyes seeing nothing, his ears hearing nothing, but he feels the stares of all those sitting behind us who hate us and want to string us up with our client. Trots figures this too shall pass and he’ll get on with his life and career the moment the trial is over. He is wrong. As soon as possible, I’ll file an ethics complaint with the state bar association alleging Trots provided “ineffective assistance of counsel” before and during the trial. I’ve done this before and I know how to make it stick. I’m fighting my own battles with the bar and I understand the game. After I get finished with Trots, he’ll want to surrender his license and get a job at a used-car lot.
Gardy takes his seat in the middle of our table. Trots does not look at his client, nor does he speak.
Huver, the prosecutor, walks over and hands me a sheet of paper. There are no good mornings or hellos. We are so far beyond even the most benign pleasantries that a civilized grunt from either of us would be a surprise. I loathe this man the way he loathes me, but I have an advantage in the hating game. Almost monthly I deal with self-righteous prosecutors who lie, cheat, stonewall, cover up, ignore ethics, and do whatever it takes to get a conviction, even when they know the truth and the truth tells them they are wrong. So I know the breed, the ilk, the subclass of lawyer who’s above the law because he is the law. Huver, on the other hand, rarely deals with a rogue like me because, sadly for him, he doesn’t see many sensational cases, and almost none in which a defendant shows up with a pit bull for a protector. If he dealt with rabid defense lawyers more regularly, he might be more adept at hating us. For me, it’s a way of life.
I take the sheet of paper and say, “So who’s your liar of the day?”
He says nothing and walks a few feet back to his table, where his little gang of assistants huddle importantly in their dark suits and ham it up for the home crowd. They are on display in this, the biggest show of their miserable backwater careers, and I often get the impression that everyone from the DA’s office who can walk, talk, wear a cheap suit, and carry a new briefcase is packed around the table to insure justice.
The bailiff barks, I stand, Judge Kaufman enters, then we sit. Gardy refuses to stand in homage to the great man. Initially, this really pissed off His Honor. On the first day of trial—it now seems like months ago—he snapped at me, “Mr. Rudd, would you please ask your client to stand?”
I did, and he refused. This embarrassed the judge and we discussed it later in his chambers. He threatened to hold my client in contempt and keep him in jail all day long during the trial. I tried to encourage this but let it slip that such an overreaction would be mentioned repeatedly on appeal.
