He’s hammering the nail on the head, but I can’t admit this. I say, “I don’t work for free, Mr. Swanger, regardless of the publicity. I have too many other clients.”
“Of course you do. Big lawyer like you. I didn’t call no rookie in here to save my ass. They’re talking death penalty, man, and they mean it. I’ll get the money, one way or the other. The question is, will you take my case?”
Usually, by this point in the first meeting, the accused has already denied the charges. I make a mental note that Swanger has not done so, has not ventured anywhere near the issue of his guilt or innocence. In fact, he seems to be welcoming an indictment, with a big trial to follow. I say, “Yes, I’ll represent you, assuming we can come to terms on the money and assuming they actually indict you. I think they have a ways to go. In the meantime, don’t say a word to the cops, any cop. Understood?”
“Got it, man. Can you get them to back off, stop the harassment?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” We shake hands again and I leave the room. Detective Reardon has not moved. He’s watched our little meeting, and he’s probably listened to it too, though that would be illegal. Standing next to him, in casual clothes, is Roy Kemp, father of the missing girl. He glares at me with unbridled hatred, as if the few minutes I just spent with their first and rather weak suspect is clear proof that I’m involved in his daughter’s disappearance.
I have sympathy for the man and his family, but right now he wants to put a bullet in the back of my head.
Outside the building, more reporters have gathered. When they see me they start hopping and shoving. I brush by them with “No comment, no comment, no comment,” as they lob their idiotic questions. One actually yells, “Mr. Rudd, did your client abduct Jiliana Kemp?” I want to stop, walk over to this clown, and ask him if he might possibly come up with a dumber question. But instead I push by them and hop in the van with Partner.
At six o’clock, the anchormen scream the news that the police have a suspect in the Kemp case. They show footage of Arch Swanger being mobbed by reporters as he tries to leave Central not long after I did. According to sources, unnamed of course but undoubtedly from within the building, he’s been interrogated by the police and will soon be arrested and charged with kidnapping and murder. To prove his guilt, he’s hired Sebastian Rudd to defend him! They show me scowling at the cameras.
Finally, the City can breathe easier. The police have the killer. To relieve the enormous pressure on them, and to begin the process of poisoning public opinion, and to establish the presumption of guilt, they are manipulating the press, as always. A leak here and there and cameras show up to capture the face that everyone has been desperate to see. The “journalists” chase their tails, and Arch Swanger is as good as convicted.
Why bother with a trial?
If the cops can’t convict with evidence, they use the media to convict with suspicion.
I spend a lot of time in a building officially and affectionately known as the Old Courthouse. It’s a grand old structure, built around the turn of the century, with soaring Gothic columns and high ceilings, wide marble hallways lined with busts and portraits of dead judges, winding staircases, and four levels of courtrooms and offices. It’s usually crawling with people—lawyers doing their business, litigants searching for the right courtroom, families of criminal defendants wandering fearfully about, potential jurors clutching their summonses, and cops waiting to testify. There are five thousand lawyers in this city, and at times it seems as though every one of us is hustling around the Old Courthouse.
As I leave a hearing one morning, a man who looks vaguely familiar falls in beside me and says, “Hey, Rudd, got a minute?”
I don’t like his looks, his tone, or his rudeness. What about “Mr. Rudd” to start with? I keep walking; so does he. “Have we met?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter. We have something to discuss.”
I glance at him as we walk. Bad suit, maroon shirt, hideous tie, a couple of small scars on his face, the kind left behind by fists and beer bottles. “Oh really,” I say as rudely as possible.
“Need to talk about Link.”
My brain tells me to keep walking but my feet simply stop moving. My stomach does a long, nauseous flip as my heart races away. I stare at the thug and say, “Well, well, where is Link these days?”
It’s been two months since his dramatic escape from death row and I haven’t heard a word. Not that I would; however, I’m not completely surprised. Frightened, maybe, but not shocked. We move to the edge of the hallway for privacy. The thug says his name is Fango, and there’s a 10 percent chance Fango is the name on his birth certificate.
