Nate has the emotional range of a monk but he can’t hide his excitement. When we leave the bar he says he’s headed to Truitt’s house. There, they’ll talk off the record, and he expects Truitt to immediately inform Roy Kemp that a possible deal is brewing. It’s a long shot, but when it’s your daughter you’ll try anything. I urge him to hustle up; the trial starts tomorrow.
Late Sunday night, Partner and I go to the city jail for the last pretrial meeting with our client. After half an hour of sniping with the jailers, I’m finally allowed to see Tadeo.
The kid frightens me. During his time in jail, he has absorbed a lot of free advice from his new pals, and he’s also convinced himself that he’s famous. Because of the video, he gets a lot of mail, almost all of it from admirers. He thinks he’s about to walk away from the trial a free man, beloved by many and ready to continue his brilliant career. I’ve tried to bring him back to reality and convince him that the people writing him letters are not necessarily the same type of people who’ll be sitting in the jury box. The letter writers are from the fringe; several have even proposed marriage. The jurors will be registered voters from our community, few of whom have any fondness for cage fighting.
As always, I pass along the latest plea offer of fifteen years for second-degree murder. He laughs with a cocky smirk, same as before. He doesn’t ask for my advice and I don’t offer it. He’s turned down fifteen years so many times it’s not worth discussing. Wisely, he has followed my advice and shaved and trimmed his hair. I’ve brought along a secondhand navy suit, with a white shirt and tie, an outfit his mother found at Goodwill. On his neck below his left ear is a tattoo of some baffling origin, and it will be partially visible above his collar. Since most of my clients have tattoos I deal with this issue all the time. It’s best to keep them away from the jurors. In Tadeo’s case, though, our jurors will be treated to his astonishing display of ink when they see the video.
Evidently, when a guy makes the decision to become a cage fighter, his first stop on the way to the gym is the tattoo parlor.
There’s a gap between us that’s been growing for some time. He thinks he’ll walk. I think he’ll go to prison. He sees my doubts of a successful outcome as not only a lack of confidence in him but also in my own ability in the courtroom. What’s really bothersome is his insistence on testifying. He truly believes he can take the stand and con the jury into believing (1) the fight was stolen from him by Sean King, and (2) he snapped, attacked, blacked out, and went temporarily insane, and (3) now feels real bad about it. After he explains everything to the jury, he wants to make a dramatic, emotional apology to the King family. Then all will be well and the jury will rush back with the proper verdict.
I have attempted to describe the rough treatment he’ll get when I turn him over to Max Mancini for a bit of cross-examination. But, as usual, he has no appreciation for what happens in the heat of a trial. Hell, I’m not always sure what’s about to happen.
None of my warnings register with Tadeo. He tasted enough glory in the cage to know what’s out there. Money, fame, adulation, women, a big house for his mother and family. It will all be his soon enough.
It’s impossible to sleep the night before a jury trial opens. My brain is in a state of hyped-up overdrive as I struggle to remember and organize details, facts, things to do. My stomach roils with anxiety and my nerves are frayed and popping. I know it’s important to rest and appear fresh and relaxed before the jury, but the truth is I’ll look the same as always—tired, stressed, eyes bloodshot. I sip coffee just before dawn and, as usual, ask myself why I do this. Why do I subject myself to such unpleasantness? I have a distant cousin who’s a great neurosurgeon in Boston, and I often think about him at moments like this. I suppose his world is quite tense as he cuts into the brain, with so much at stake. How does he handle it physically? The nerves, the butterflies, yes even diarrhea and nausea? We rarely speak, so I’ve never inquired. I remind myself that he does his job without an audience, and if he makes a mistake he simply buries it. I try not to remind myself that he makes a million bucks a year.
In many ways, a trial lawyer is like an actor onstage. His lines are not always scripted, and that makes his job harder. He has to react, to be quick on his feet and with his tongue, to know when to attack and when to shut up, when to lead and when to follow, when to flash anger and when to be cool. Through it all, he has to convince and persuade because nothing matters but the jury’s final vote.
I eventually forget about sleep and go to the pool table. I rack the balls and break them gently. I run the table and drop the 8 ball into a side pocket.
