Partner and I spend most of Saturday in the basement of the law offices of Harry & Harry, poring over juror questionnaires and ponderous reports put together by Cliff, a jury consultant, who, so far, has billed me $30,000. The tally for Tadeo’s defense is just under $70,000, all from my pocket of course, and it will continue to climb. He and I have not discussed the payment of fees because it’s a waste of time. He’s broke, and Miguel and the rest of the drug gang have little interest in my compensation. They figure I made enough money from Tadeo’s brief career. I assume they also think that in the rules of the streets the removal of Tubby and Razor is worth a bundle. Tit for tat. We’re all even.
Cliff is of the opinion that the defense of Tadeo Zapate has quite a mountain to climb. He and his firm have done their usual work of (1) polling a thousand registered voters in this metropolitan area and asking hypothetical questions; (2) hurriedly researching the backgrounds of all two hundred prospective jurors; and (3) reviewing every news report that mentions the ugly incident in which Sean King was beaten. From the poll, an astonishing 31 percent of those questioned know a little or a lot about the case, and the vast majority of these favor conviction. Eighteen percent have seen the video. In the garden-variety murder case, regardless of how sensational, finding 10 percent who are aware of it is unusual.
Unlike most consultants, Cliff is known for his bluntness. That’s why I use him. His bottom line: “Chances of an acquittal are slim. Chances of a conviction are high. Cut a deal; negotiate a plea bargain. Run for the hills.”
When I first read his report, I called him immediately and said, “Come on, Cliff, I’m paying you all this money and your best advice is to run for the hills?”
He’s a real smart-ass and his reply was “No, actually, I’d sprint for the hills. Your client is toast and the jury will throw the book at him.”
Cliff will be in the courtroom Monday watching and taking notes. As much as I love the cameras and the attention, I’m not looking forward to it.
At 4:00 p.m., Partner and I climb into my sparkling-new customized Ford cargo van, complete with all the usual finery I need for such a splendid mobile office, and head for the university. At Partner’s suggestion, I agreed to tone it down, to move away from conspicuous black to more of a soft bronze exterior color. Painted on both sides, in small block letters, are the words “Smith Contractors,” another nice touch Partner really wanted. He’s convinced that we will now blend in with the world and be harder to spot by the police, Link, my own clients, and all the other bad guys, real and potential, lurking out there.
He drops me off in front of the university’s aquatic center and leaves in search of a suitable parking place. I drift inside, hear the echoing voices, find the pool, and send a text message to Moss Korgan. Swarms of small, skinny kids are heavily involved in a swim meet. The bleachers are half-packed with noisy parents. A breaststroke race is under way and little girls splash and kick in all eight lanes of the fifty-meter pool.
Moss replies, “Right side, third section, top row.”
I look and see no one, but I’m sure he’s watching. I’m wearing a leather jacket with my long hair under the collar, along with jeans and a blue-and-orange Mets cap. This is really not my crowd and I don’t expect to be recognized, but I rarely take chances. Just last week Partner and I were having a sandwich in a café when a jerk walked over and informed me that, in his opinion, my little cage fighter should rot in jail for the rest of his life. I thanked him and asked him to please leave us alone. He called me a crook. Partner stood and the guy got lost.
As I climb the steps I get a nose full of the smell of chlorine. Starcher once mentioned swimming, but one of his mothers told him the sport was too dangerous because of all the chemicals they put in the water. I’m surprised they don’t keep the kid in a bubble.
I sit alone for a moment, far away from anyone else, and watch the action in the pool. The parents yell and the noise gets louder and louder until it suddenly stops and the race is over. The kids pull themselves out of the water as their mothers wait with towels and advice. From here, they appear to be about ten years old.
Moss rises from a group of parents across the pool and slowly walks around it. He climbs the bleachers in front of me and eventually takes a seat, about three feet away. His body language says it all—he hates where he is and would rather be talking to a serial killer. “This better be good, Rudd,” he says without looking at me.
“And hello to you too, Moss. Which one is your kid?” Stupid question; there are about a thousand of them down there crawling around the pool.
“That one,” he says with a slight nod. What a smart-ass, but then I asked for it. “She’s a twelve-year-old freestyler. Won’t get wet for another thirty minutes. Can we get on with this?”
