Probable Cause g-2
Probable Cause
( Gideon - 2 )
Grif Stockley
Grif Stockley
Probable Cause
1
Chapman? Wearily, I rub my forehead as if I’m hoping his name will come off in my hand. Not even a glimmer. I put down my pen, wishing the brief in the Davis case would go away. How do appellate judges stay awake? I flip through the Rolodex on my desk, on the off chance his name will show up. Why would a jail doctor be calling me? I haven’t had a criminal case since I left the Blackwell County Public Defender’s Office over a year ago. Personal injury law pays more, but it isn’t as much fun. Especially if you’re an associate cranking out research and the crap cases the senior partners throw like dog scraps to us once they realize the cases aren’t turning into pots of gold as they had hoped. What the hell-maybe this doc’ll be in a car wreck someday.
“This is Gideon Page,” I say, glad for any excuse to take a break.
Brief writing isn’t my long suit anyway. A decision was handed down by the Arkansas Supreme Court two weeks ago with my name on it (I did most of the work, though a senior partner’s name went first) in which the court reversed a million-plus judgment for our client on the jury instructions.
The second big case this month down the tubes for Mays amp; Burton. We’re on a roll-unfortunately it seems straight downhill.
“Mr. Page,” a deep, rich voice reverberates in my ear, “my name is Dr. Andrew Chapman. I’ve just been charged with manslaughter. Can you come talk to me?”
As if I’d gulped pure caffeine, I feel instantly alert. Mays amp; Burton stays away from criminal cases, but this guy could be loaded. I look at my watch. In seven minutes, at precisely two o’clock (Oscar Mays likes his associates to walk in right on the dot-he’s usually on the phone, but that’s okay), I have a command performance with Oscar, presumably to go over my research on the Davis case. As fast as we’re losing cases, we could stand some cash flow. Maybe Oscar’ll go for it.
“I’ll be down to see you in less than an hour.” If Oscar passes on it, I’ll refer the guy after I break my boss’s neck.
“Thank you,” Dr. Chapman says politely and hangs up.
Elated, I put down the phone and write his name down on a yellow pad. Who is he? God, lawyers are horrible. Bad news makes me feel almost as good as sex. I grab up the Davis file, but instead of heading for Oscar’s office, I swing by the John. Sometimes, I think the best thing about being an attorney is being able to go to the bathroom whenever I want. If I worked in a factory, I’d need a catheter attached to my thigh.
In the head, I join Daryl Worley, who is at the next urinal.
He doesn’t look so hot. Charcoal-colored pouches under his already dark eyes make him look as if he has survived a physical beating instead of an emotional and financial one.
He was the lawyer on the Stoddard case a week ago in which the judge snatched from us on a judgment notwithstanding the verdict after a jury had awarded our client two million dollars.
“How’s it going, Darryl?” I say, unzipping my pants. Daryl, ten years younger, made partner last year. He has become a friend in the last few months, and we’ve started playing some tennis this summer.
He smiles sadly as he shakes off, but instead of a mournful acknowledgment, he recites, “You can beat it on the wall;
you can throw it on the rocks; but it’s always in your pants you get that last little drop.”
Damn! If people knew what some of us were really like.
The guy is smooth as mercury in front of a jury, but as soon as he steps outside the courtroom he regresses into an adolescent. I laugh dutifully while he washes his hands, not having heard that ditty since high school.
“Women have it worse,” I say, keeping the conversation off law. If given a chance to talk about the case, Darryl will start in on Curtis Hadley, the trial judge in the Stoddard case, and I haven’t got the time. I’m a little surprised he hasn’t been to my office to talk to me today about it.
Darryl begins to hum the Marine Hymn as he pushes the hot-air machine button. He rubs his hands together briskly, pretending to read the instructions. ‘“Him on. Rub hands together. Then wipe hands on pants.”
Junior associate that I am, I grin. I’ve seen that cartoon, too. What the hell? There’s nothing new under the sun. And, according to my tenth-grade Sunday school teacher, that saying comes from the book of Ecclesiastes. Perhaps Darryl is whistling in the graveyard: truly, with his raccoon eyes, he has a sickly look about him.
“Catch you later,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, not looking me in the eye. Losing is a serious business. The firm spent over thirty thousand of its own money in experts and exhibits.
Martha Birford, who shares with me here an employment anniversary date, arrives outside Oscar Mays’s office at the same time, and we go in together. She has a piece of the Davis case, too. We both like Oscar better than Chip Burton.
It is no secret that Oscar was responsible for hiring us, for one thing, but also he is genuinely a nice man. He is in his sixties and seems ready to retire, but for some reason he won’t or can’t. If his office is any indication, he can afford it. He has a fireplace, an antique walnut desk I’d like to steal if I could figure out a way to get it through the door, and works of unknown (to me) Southern artists, who, according to Martha (incongruously, an art history major in college), for the moment are quite popular.
“Have a seat,” he says affably, standing until Martha is seated, always the old Southern gentleman. It hits me that Martha and I are getting a raise. I want to tell him that I have brought the firm a decent client but have learned that Oscar likes to speak first, whatever the situation. Age before beauty, I suppose.
Age has its compensations. Oscar’s suit, a dapper, baby blue summer Brooks Brothers, in the $750 range, looks tailored and nicely hides his sizable paunch. After all these months, I’ve only seen the man not wearing his suit coat in the bathroom.
“Martha and Gideon,” he begins kindly, “I’ve got some bad news. Our profits, as you know, are way down, and we are letting you both go. Your work is fine. It’s merely a question of finances. I’m really very sorry.”
I remain perfectly still, trying to maintain my composure.
My spine is so straight and rigid a bone in my lower back pops in protest. Surely this can’t be happening. I’ve worked my butt off for this place. This time next year I had hoped to have paid off enough of my debts to be able to incur some more in order to send my daughter to college. I am gripping the sides of the leather chair and trying to relax.
Martha, who could have paid off a sizable chunk of the savings and loan bailout with what she spent for her recent wedding, begins to cry just as she did two weeks ago this past Sunday at the front of the Pine Bluff First Baptist Church.
Pleasant, but with a headful of gray hair (the firm apparently likes the mature look), Martha was thrilled when her recently unemployed boyfriend of five years caved in and accepted her last ultimatum.
As if he is consoling a newly rich widow, Oscar stands and pushes a box of tissues from his desk at Martha. She snuffs loudly. I feel like joining her. Oscar, his voice registering disapproval, as if this won’t do, says ruefully, “In retrospect, we should have waited to take on some new people, and of course, you’re aware of the setbacks we’ve had recently.”
The man has a nice gift for understatement. Since the place has been like a tomb the last couple of weeks and a copy of the most recent court reversal is sitting on my desk, I feel like saying that we’ve had an inkling that year-end bonuses might be down this time around. Yet, there is no point in leaving on a bad note: we’ll still be here for a while, and I’ll need a reference.
“S
o when is our last day?” I ask, keeping my voice light and if not managing a smile, at least a nice grimace.
Oscar sits back down. Tears, he decides, he can handle.
“We’re going to give you two weeks’ pay, but the majority of the partners voted that we don’t want either of you even going back to your office. A couple of years ago we had an associate who was discharged take some clients with him. It caused us a major problem. I’ll need your keys right now.”
The bastards! Martha gasps. My heart begins to race, and I feel my mouth go so dry I can hardly swallow. We are being treated like employees caught stealing. I am furious. After paying bills last night, I have maybe a hundred dollars in my bank account. My hands shake as I pull apart my key ring and hand it to him. God, I hope Andrew Chapman isn’t a figment of my imagination. Solo practice, here I come.
“I’m obligated to remind you,” Oscar says, placing my key in a plain white envelope and then looking at me, “that taking any clients you have dealt with here is a violation of your employment contracts.”
Automatically, I shake my head up and down, wondering what kind of specialty Chapman has. If I’m going to be treated as if I’m incapable of loyalty, I feel few qualms about displaying any. Am I a thief? It depends on the definition.
However, I doubt that this is a story I’ll brag about to my grandchildren some day.
“Personally I think this is ridiculous,” Oscar says, more to Martha than to me, his wild white eyebrows wagging up and down in a show of concern. He says, “I’m sure everyone here will give y’all a good reference.”
I glance over at Martha, who is finally getting herself under control. She is inspecting the damage in her compact mirror (now I know why she carries her purse everywhere).
If Oscar has to say he is certain, that means she had better be careful whom she asks. I won’t be needing any references.
I slide the Davis file over to him. Too late I realize it has my yellow pad with Chapman’s name on it. Perhaps he won’t notice it.
Oscar talks about the secretaries being available to update our resumes, but I tune him out. All I want is my check and out of here. My mind goes back to the document that Martha and I signed when we started: any client that we saw is a client of the firm’s. Well, I haven’t seen Chapman yet. Some body must have clipped them pretty good. I can’t wait to get to the jail.
Finally, Oscar takes two checks from his desk and slips them to us like he’s ashamed of them. I look at mine. He should be. It’ll cover the mortgage and utility bills. I wonder if I qualify for food stamps. I was beginning to have my doubts about the firm even before the cases were reversed.
Still, it was a living and held out the hope of something better down the line. Now I know I should have checked them out better. Yet, at the time I was under some pressure to get out of the PD’s Office. “If you want to drop by later this afternoon,” Oscar mumbles ‘we’ll have your personal items from your office boxed up at the front desk.”
I’ve had it.
“You run a class act, Oscar,” I say, letting Martha precede me out his door. I give him a look of pure hatred. I hadn’t realized until now how much I have sucked up to the partners. It feels good not to have to smile anymore.
Oscar’s face turns the color of a bruised peach, but he doesn’t have the nerve to respond, and I don’t blame him.
Thirty seconds later, unemployed for the first time in my life, and beginning to realize it, I am standing on the side walk in front of the Blair Building, as stunned as a witness to a bomb blast. I look up at the eighth-story windows, wondering if this is a bad dream. Martha is inside, presumably still crying in the bathroom, where she fled after leaving Oscar’s office. At least she has a husband. Where am I going after I leave the jail? I don’t have an office anymore. Dr.
Chapman, whoever the hell he is, will be impressed with his new lawyer. Well, Doctor, actually I’m practicing out of my car these days. Those bastards at Mays amp; Burton! American capitalism at its best.
As I cross the street at Chase and Fry, heat radiates from the pavement as though someone had poured on gasoline and ignited it. Central Arkansas in the summer is a twenty-four-hour steam bath. By the time I walk the four blocks to the municipal courts building and to the jail housed beneath it, my nicest shirt, an Egyptian broadcloth with burgundy stripes, is clinging to me through my undershirt like wet toilet paper. Fortunately, I didn’t see a single person I knew on the streets, since everybody with an IQ over 7 is standing over a vent in their offices, wondering why I’ve chosen to stagger around outside in the middle of the afternoon in 101-degree heat.
At the window inside the municipal courts building (which has all the charm of a bus station, someone has spilled a bag of popcorn on the scuffed marble floor), I write down my home address, obtain a red attorney’s pass, and clip it to the lapel of my sports coat. As I wind around the maze of offices toward the stairs that lead to the jail, I try to compose myself for my first interview in solo practice, but my mind is still in Oscar’s office, as I tell him what I think of such shabby treatment after over a year of busting my balls for him and his firm. The fuckers-I hope they never win another case.
At the rate they’re going, it’s not an idle thought.
It is only when I enter the secured part of the jail that my mind snaps back to the present. Instantly, I have my old feeling of claustrophobia as I approach the window. As a former Blackwell County public defender for a couple of years, I am no stranger to this facility, which, unlike other detention facilities in the county, has always given me the creeps. It is like being confined in a small pen full of attack dogs: too many angry people (cops, prisoners, detainees, drunks, persons with mental illness, and lawyers) compete in too small a space simply for a place to exchange information.
It is the constant noise that puts me on edge. I’ve never heard anyone speak in a normal tone.
Though I haven’t been gone from criminal practice that long, I recognize none of the jailers on this shift. Jailers don’t exactly get to be a defense lawyer’s best friends, but there is no sense in alienating them unnecessarily. I know some lawyers who spend hours waiting for their clients. I doubt if it is by accident.
“You’ll have to talk to him on that bench,” a pudgy black guy who comes to my armpit tells me, pointing with his chin to a gray wooden structure in front of us. He must be one of the civilian jailers. Why hire a rookie, spend all the money and time to train him, and stick him down in the jail to dispense medications and serve food? It only took us a couple of millennia to figure out the economics of it. “We’re out of space again.”
The new jail is under construction, but it isn’t the sort of job there’ll be a lot of overtime on to get completed. Not a real sympathetic constituency, as a friend at the PD’s Office used to say. I don’t argue, even though a federal case could probably be made of it. If this guy’s a doctor, I should have him out on bond this afternoon. I sit down on the bench and wait, feeling absurdly pleased. I have forgotten how much I missed criminal law.
In two minutes Dr. Andrew Chapman appears before me in a bright orange jumpsuit, and I almost keel over in amazement he is black. I didn’t have a clue from his voice, a wonderful, deep baritone. One thing is for sure: Chapman is not from the eastern part of the state, the Delta, where I grew up.
“I’m Andrew Chapman,” he says, holding out his right hand, which swallows mine, though we’re the same height at just under six feet.
“Sorry about the bench,” I tell him needlessly, sitting down. Some guys look rumpled in a brand-new tailored thousand-dollar suit: Chapman, on the other hand, is the type who can look good in a prison outfit. In his early thirties, I estimate, a decade younger than myself. Chapman has a lean, muscular body with no stomach (he’ll have one when he’s my age), a neat, carefully trimmed goatee, and reading glasses pushed down low on the end of his nose, all of which combine to make him look like a young Ed Bradley from “60 Minutes.” The resemblance ends there. My
potential client has none of the world-weariness of Ed, who is beginning to look as if he has crossed too many time zones. De spite his apparent youth, and despite this setting. Chapman has the dignity of a much older man. Sitting erect next to me on the bench, he says quietly, “Aren’t you the lawyer who over a year ago got off with a light sentence the man who murdered the state senator?”
I watch the cell bars in the window across from us as a pair of black hands grips them. From here I cannot see a face, but the fingers wrapped around the metal look feminine. In front of our bench the place is a zoo, with prisoners and their keepers passing back and forth, making it hard to hear.
“Yeah, that was mine when I was at the public defender’s,” I whisper, pleased that the Anderson case still has some mileage. It was a famous case at the time, getting me my job at Mays amp; Burton. Hart Anderson was perhaps on his way to becoming governor of Arkansas when he was shot down in his own home by a man who was being treated for mental illness by Andersen’s wife. The plea bargain I worked out for my client, a delivery man for a food-catering service, was, under the circumstances, almost a case of blackmail, but this is not the time to be modest.
“Tell me briefly what happened, so I can get a bond hearing and get you out of here.”
Chapman, also watching the same pair of hands, says softly against my ear, “It’s pretty complicated. Did you read about the girl at the Human Development Center who was electrocuted a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yes,” I say instantly. I can’t let go of the contrast to my daughter: Sarah, whose Colombian mother, now dead, was a product of a sublime mix of Indian, Spanish, and Negro blood, is stunningly beautiful, with curly coal-colored hair.
My daughter, an almost spooky replica of her mother, is Rosa’s exact height, five feet four, and has the same lush figure. The child at the Blackwell County Human Development Center, severely retarded (I can only imagine what she looked like), had mutilated herself by constantly hitting her face. My recollection of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette article was that her death involved an attempt to stop the self-mutilation. I am not particularly religious (although I was raised a Catholic and got through a Catholic boarding school), but I remember offering up a prayer of gratitude for my daughter’s wholeness.