“You know I’ll do everything possible.”
“Will I serve some time?”
You’re serving it now; get used to it. I’ve already played with the numbers. If Sean King dies, I’m thinking twenty years for second-degree murder, maybe fifteen for manslaughter. If he lives, three to five for aggravated assault. Since I’m not ready to share these thoughts, I punt by saying, “Let’s worry about that later.”
“Probably so, right?”
“Probably so.”
There is a gap in the conversation as we hear doors clanging in the background. A jailer yells an obscenity. A tear emerges through Tadeo’s swollen left eye and runs down his bruised cheek. “I can’t believe it, man. I just can’t believe it.” His voice is soft and pained.
If you can’t believe it, think about that poor ref and his family. “I need to run, Tadeo. I’ll see you in the morning, in court.”
“I gotta wear this in court?” he asks, tugging at his orange jumpsuit.
“Afraid so. It’s just a first appearance.”
At 9:00 on Monday morning, I’m in a busy courtroom with a bunch of other defense lawyers and prosecutors. In one corner there is a collection of shady-looking men in orange jumpsuits, all handcuffed together and watched by armed bailiffs. These are the new arrestees, and this is their second stop on the judicial assembly line. The first stop being the jail. One by one their names are called, and after being uncuffed they saunter over to a spot in front of the bench, upon which sits a judge, one of twenty in our system who handles the preliminary matters. The judge asks them some questions, the most important being “Do you have a lawyer?” Very few of them do, and the judge then assigns them to the public defender’s office. A rookie will pop up, stand beside his new client, and tell him not to say anything else. Dates will be set for return visits.
Tadeo Zapate, though, has a lawyer. They call his name and we meet in front of the bench. His face looks even worse. Most of the hushed conversations stop when the crowd realizes this is the guy everyone is talking about, the promising mixed martial arts fighter who is now the YouTube star.
“Are you Tadeo Zapate?” the judge asks with interest, the first time this morning he’s seemed engaged.
“Yes, sir.”
“And I assume Mr. Sebastian Rudd is your lawyer.”
“Yes, sir.”
An assistant prosecutor eases behind him.
The judge continues, “You are charged, at this point, with aggravated assault. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Rudd, have you explained to your client that the charges might change to something more serious?”
“Yes, sir, he understands.”
“By the way, what is the latest on the referee?” he asks the assistant prosecutor, as if the guy were the treating physician.
“Last I heard, Mr. King’s condition is still critical.”
“Very well,” His Honor says. “Let’s meet back here in a week and see where things stand. Until then, Mr. Rudd, we won’t discuss the matter of bail.”
“Sure, Judge,” I say.
We are dismissed. As Tadeo walks away, I whisper, “I’ll see you at the jail tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” he says, then looks at the spectators and nods at his mother, who’s sitting with an entire pack of crying relatives. She emigrated from El Salvador twenty-five years ago, has her green card, works a late shift in a cafeteria, and is raising a flock of children, grandchildren, and other assorted relatives. Tadeo and his cage skills were her ticket to a better life. Miguel holds her hand and whispers in Spanish. He’s been chewed up by our judicial system a few times and knows the score.
I speak to them briefly, assure them I’m doing whatever can be done, then walk with them out of the courtroom and into a hallway where some reporters are waiting, two with cameras. This is what I live for.
Quite the busy morning. While I’m in court with Tadeo, Judith does exactly as she promised and files a nasty motion to terminate all of my visitation rights, even the three hours I get on Christmas Eve and the two hours on my son’s birthday. She claims I’m an unfit parent, a danger to his physical safety, and a “horrible influence” on the child’s life. She demands an expedited hearing. Such theatrics. As if the kid were in danger.
Harry & Harry prepare a vicious response, and I file it Monday afternoon. Once again, we square off in her ongoing crusade to teach me valuable lessons. No judge will grant her demands, and she knows it. But she’s doing it because she’s angry and she thinks that if she drags me through the meat grinder once more I’ll finally surrender and get out of their lives. I’m almost looking forward to the hearing.
First, though, we have another problem. On Wednesday, she calls my cell around noon and announces rudely, “We have a meeting at school this afternoon.”
Oh really? This is maybe the second time I’ve been asked to show up at the school and act like a parent. Until now, Judith has done a fine job of keeping me out of our son’s business.
I ask, “Okay, what’s up?”
“Starcher is in trouble. He got in a fight at school, punched another kid.”
