I have a collection of brown suits and I carefully select one for opening day. I wear brown not because I like the color but because no one else does. Lawyers, as well as bankers and executives and politicians, all believe that dress suits should be either navy or dark gray. Shirts are either white or light blue; ties, some variety of red. I never wear those colors. Instead of black shoes, today I’ll wear ostrich-skin cowboy boots. They don’t really match my brown suit but who cares? With my ensemble laid out on the bed, I take a long shower. In my bathrobe, I pace around the den, delivering at low volume another version of my opening statement. I break another rack, miss the first three shots, and lay down my cue stick.
The courtroom is packed by 9:00 a.m., the appointed hour for all two hundred potential jurors to show up and get processed. And, since capacity is only two hundred, there is gridlock when a horde of spectators and a few dozen reporters also show up and jockey for position.
Max Mancini struts about in his finest navy suit and sparkling black wingtips, flashing smiles at the clerks and assistants. With all these people watching, he’s even nice to me. We huddle and chat importantly as the bailiffs deal with the throng.
“Still fifteen years?” I ask.
“You got it,” he says, smiling and looking at the audience. Obviously, between Moss and Spurio, the word has not yet made its way to Max’s ears. Or maybe it has. Maybe Max was told to cut a deal and get a plea, and maybe Max did what I would expect him to do: told Woody and Moss and Kemp and everybody else to go to hell. This is his show, a big moment in his career. Just look at all those folks out there admiring him. And all those reporters!
Presiding this week is the Honorable Janet Fabineau, quietly known among the lawyers as Go Slow Fabineau. She’s a young judge, still a bit on the green side, but maturing nicely on the bench. She’s afraid to make mistakes, so she’s very deliberate. And slow. She talks slow, thinks slow, rules slow, and she insists that the lawyers and witnesses speak clearly at all times. She pretends this is for the benefit of the court reporter who must take down every word, but we suspect it’s really because Her Honor also absorbs things…real slow.
Her clerk appears and says the judge wants to see the lawyers in chambers. We file in and take seats around an old worktable, me on one side, Mancini and his flunky on the other. Janet sits at one end, eating slices of apple from a plastic bowl. They say she’s always fussing over her latest diet and her latest trainer, but I’ve noticed no progress on the reduction front. Mercifully, she does not offer us any of her food.
“Any more pretrial motions?” she asks as she looks at me. Chomp, chomp.
Mancini shakes his head no. I do the same and add, for reasons that are solely antagonistic, “Wouldn’t do any good.” I’ve filed dozens and they’ve all been overruled.
She absorbs this cheap shot, swallows hard, takes a sip of what looks like early morning urine, and says, “Any chance of a plea bargain?”
Mancini says, “We’re still offering fifteen years on a second degree.”
I say, “And my client still says no. Sorry.”
“Not a bad offer,” she says, slinging a cheap shot back at me. “What would the defendant take?”
“I don’t know, Your Honor. At this point, I’m not sure he’s willing to plead guilty to anything. Things might change after a day or two of trial, but right now he’s looking forward to his day in court.”
“Very well. We can certainly accommodate him.”
We talk about this and that and kill time while the bailiffs process the jurors and get things organized. Finally, at 10:30, the clerk says the courtroom is ready. The lawyers leave and take their places. I sit next to Tadeo, who looks a bit awkward all dressed up. We whisper and I assure him things are going swell, just as I expected, so far anyway. Behind us, the prospective jurors stare at the back of his head and wonder what awful crime he has committed.
When instructed, we all rise in deference to the court, as Judge Fabineau enters, her bulky figure nicely camouflaged by the long black robe. Because so much of their dreary work is done without an audience, judges love crowded courtrooms. They are the supreme rulers over everything in sight and they like to be appreciated. Some tend to grandstand, and I’m curious to see how Janet conducts herself with so many watching. She welcomes everyone to the proceedings, explains why we’re all here, rambles on a bit too long, and finally asks Tadeo to stand and face the crowd. He does so, smiles as I instructed him to do, then sits down. Janet introduces Mancini and me. I simply stand and nod. He stands and grins and sort of opens his arms as if welcoming the people into his domain. His phoniness is hard to stomach.
