Probable Cause g-2 Page 5

  The lead story on Channel 4 is Chapman’s arrest. I sit in the living room in my underwear with Woogie on the couch beside me and listen as Don Roberts, who is reported to be on his way to a bigger market, reports Chapman’s arrest.

  “Chapman, who has obtained former Blackwell County public defender Gideon Page to represent him, remains in jail tonight and will be arraigned tomorrow morning in municipal court. Efforts to contact Chapman’s attorney today have been unsuccessful,” Roberts says in the unctuous way of newscasters. Yawning, I walk over to the TV and snap it off. If the media can make you look bad, they will, I think irritably. Yet the only numbers they could have called are Mays amp; Burton and my home phone, and I didn’t walk in the door until after eight. I get in bed thinking I should be relieved Roberts didn’t report I was fired and will be sued by my former firm. As I turn off the light, Woogie, who has been on the floor, leaps onto the foot of the bed. Usually, he sleeps with Sarah. What is the old saying? I don’t care what they say as long as they spell my name right.

  That’s bullshit. Mays amp; Burton will see that I don’t come out of this smelling like a rose. The publicity will cut both ways. But even if some of the new business that it generates crawls out from beneath a rock, I’m going to need all I can get.

  5

  Historically, in blackwell County municipal judges have not attracted much attention. Traffic court, misdemeanors, civil claims under a certain dollar amount, felony probable cause hearings, plea and arraignment, and bond hearings do not generate a lot in the way of legal firepower, yet this court is the venue where much of the public receives its direct exposure to the legal system, and ideally, it calls for a certain degree of decorum and dignity. Unfortunately, in Blackwell County, since these positions don’t generate much excitement, some of the judges who have occupied these positions have had a way of manufacturing their own.

  If you’re a practicing lawyer in Blackwell County, it is painful to think of Thomas Bruton as a judge. It profits the bar more to realize that Bruton is like a tinhorn dictator in a small republic whose territory blocks access by other countries to the sea. Yet, thanks to the media, he is adored. Reporters and their bosses love judges who stick it to lawyers;

  instead of exposing his contempt for the law and those who serve it, the journalism community finds him colorful, if a bit eccentric. So what if he stops a trial to tell the visiting schoolchildren to his court a funny story about the stupidity of lawyers? Bruton is good press; the law itself is boring and complex. A good whiff of scandal, however, and the media would turn on him faster than pimples surface on a tenth-grader just before his first date. But Bruton, independently wealthy because of a father who was truly a fine lawyer, has no need to enrich himself financially. Like a snake too lazy and fat to venture far from beneath his rock, he is content to feed his ego with the occasional publicity that comes his way.

  This morning, Bruton is plainly delighted with the attention the Chapman case is bringing him. There is no point in pretending he has a problem with setting a low bond for Andrew Chapman, but Bruton is treating my client as though he were a surly slave who would try to hook up with the Underground Railroad as soon as he was returned to the plantation. “In setting a bond, I am troubled by the fact your client doesn’t have any family in Blackwell County, Mr. Page,” Bruton drawls pretentiously, peering down from the bench over his trifocals. “He doesn’t have any real ties to the community here.”

  Unlike the Blackwell County Courthouse, the inside of the building where the municipal courtrooms are housed is with out character. Functional, without ornamentation, it has the feel and look of a clean Trailways bus station. The furniture is sturdy and solid but nothing you’d want to put on a post card. Standing beside the buff-colored defense table that looks as if it had been put together in high school shop class, I fold my arms across my chest and hide my hands under my biceps to keep Bruton from seeing how tightly I have my fists clenched. If he can see he is getting to a lawyer, he will pour it on. I want to tell him that he wouldn’t be satisfied with Chapman’s community ties if he had just been elected president of the Pinetree Country Club. Since there are no blacks at Pinetree except kitchen help, waiters, and caddies, this isn’t likely.

  “As the court is aware,” I say louder than I need to, “the defendant is employed by the state of Arkansas and works as a professional in this county. He lives here; the crime he is charged with makes him a threat to no one, and he would welcome a speedy disposition in this matter in order to protect his professional reputation.”

  With a look on his face that is intended to convey slyness but merely makes him look silly, Bruton, who only minutes ago accepted Chapman’s not-guilty plea, asks, “Are you waiving a probable cause hearing then? If you are, we’ll have this case bound over to circuit court right now.”

  I look down at Chapman, and then back at the judge. It is tempting to advise my client to commit suicide on the spot just to get out of Bruton’s court. Actually, Bruton would be disappointed if I did, since he would be out of the spotlight.

  The reason to go through with the probable cause hearing is to get a look at Jill Marymount’s case in advance, even though the result of a probable cause hearing with Bruton presiding is foreordained. Jurisdiction, or the power of a particular court to hear a case, is a royal pain in the ass in Arkansas.

  Last year, for example, when I defended the murderer of a state senator, the case was filed directly by the prosecuting attorney in circuit court. Jill Marymount could have chosen to do the same here but elected to have the case originally filed in municipal court though it will doubtless end up in circuit for the full trial.

  “No, Your Honor,” I say, “Dr.

  Chapman is not waiving a probable cause hearing.”

  Bruton’s mouth, as discolored as an overripe persimmon, turns downward in a frown. “Your client’s not a doctor.”

  I don’t believe this. I whisper to Chapman, “Don’t you have a Ph.D. in psychology?”

  Andy nods.

  “Prom Fayetteville.”

  I look up and try to keep my voice even.

  “Dr. Chapman received his doctorate in psychology from the University of Arkansas at Payetteville. Would the court like him to bring in his diploma?”

  Looking over my head at his audience, swollen today by the media and a few curious lawyers, Bruton counters with his own sarcasm.

  “Mr. Page, my degree from that same institution probably says that I am a doctor of jurisprudence, and presumably, you are, too. But we do not call ourselves ‘doctors,” now, do we? That would be putting on airs, wouldn’t it?”

  The petty little bastard. I say slowly, as if to a child, “My understanding of the law, Your Honor, is that a person is entitled to call himself anything he likes so long as it’s not for an illegal purpose.”

  “No, we don’t,” Bruton says, ignoring me and answering his own question.

  “And the policy in this court is that only physicians and dentists may refer to themselves as doctors.”

  I look down at Andy and then back at the judge.

  “Would the court feel more comfortable if I address the defendant by his first name?”

  It takes Bruton a few moments to catch on. He squints at me as if his patience has run out.

  “What are you insinuating, Mr. Page?”

  That you are a racist asshole tyrant.

  “Nothing, Your Honor,” I say blandly, “I’m just trying to find out how the court wants me to address the defendant.” Baiting him is not a smart thing to do: judges can always get back at you if through no other way than by dumping on your client. Still, there is a fine line that I haven’t crossed. Like a student who knows how far he can push a teacher, I keep my tone of voice flat and my face solemn.

  At this point Bruton would rather play to the crowd than take the trouble to figure out if he can get away with holding me in contempt. A triumphant sneer comes to the old man’s lips.

  “I don’t care what
you call him just as long as it’s not ‘doctor’!” he thunders, looking around to see the expression on the faces of his audience.

  I follow his gaze. There are a few snotty grins, but mostly the faces in the courtroom are frozen into embarrassed half-smiles that tell me they find this colloquy something short of a brilliant legal debate. Still, Andy shouldn’t have to put up with such blatant racism.

  “Your Honor, I move that this court recuse itself. By the court’s failure to permit the defendant to use the title of ‘doctor,” the court exhibits an appearance of racial bias.”

  Chapman shoots me a look of total dismay. If Bruton disqualifies himself, he might have to spend another night in jail because of the delay. Pat chance. There is no conceivable possibility that Bruton will not hear this case. The last thing a bigot like Bruton will do is admit to prejudice. What I’m worried about is how high I’ve sent Chapman’s bond by raising this issue. If I were black, I’d have more credibility.

  White lawyers often deal with this issue by trying to work around it-pretending racism no longer exists and then using valuable peremptory jury challenges to weed out suspect jurors.

  By raising this issue, I have committed a major faux pas. Officially, we are all reconstructed. Privately, nothing could be further from the truth; but, in the South, cowardice is considered good manners. Under no circumstances will we insult each other’s so-called honor.

  Color creeps up Bruton’s neck. I have pissed him royally.

  He knows he is vulnerable. There are too many stories the media has suppressed in the past.

  “That’s ridiculous-motion denied!” he spits.

  I clear my throat, waiting for inspiration to strike, when I am saved by an unlikely source. Fingering red suspenders that make him look about eight years old instead of like a young sophisticated professional on the make, Bobba Stewart pipes up, “Judge, we don’t have any objection to a bond of say, five thousand dollars. We don’t think this defendant is a major threat to attempt to flee the court’s jurisdiction.”

  I look gratefully at Bobba, who nervously adjusts his turquoise bow tie. If he had disclosed this when I first asked him this morning what he thought would be reasonable (I had suggested that Andy be released on his own recognizance), I wouldn’t have sweat pouring down my sides now;

  but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Bruton is on the spot. If the prosecutor isn’t worried, why should he be? It’s not as if Chapman has been charged with an intentional act or is likely to get drunk and run out and shock another child. Shaking his bald head in disbelief, Bruton folds quietly.

  “If you’re willing to live with that recommendation, it’s fine with me. Let’s set this for a hearing so we can move on.”

  I nod at Bobba, who is surely following direct orders from Jill Marymount. Is this a sop to the black community or what? I suppose this is Jill’s way of saying to blacks that this charge is nothing personal. Obviously, she hasn’t done her self any favors politically by charging a black male with a Ph.D. Blacks constitute about twenty percent of the population in Blackwell County, and it’s not as if there is an assembly line somewhere in Arkansas turning out minority doctoral candidates.

  “Your Honor, “Bobba says, how about Monday morning?”

  Bruton goes through the pretense of consulting his docket.

  He can bump traffic cases any time. He looks at me but does not condescend to speak after our most recent exchange. He won’t permit me to believe, nor should I, that I have had anything to do with the outcome of this hearing. He has acquiesced in a low bond in spite of, not because of, my representation.

  “What time?” I ask, more to force him to speak to me than needing to know the time. Bruton will make it the first order of business so Bobba can get back to misdemeanor court.

  “Nine o’clock Monday. Court’s in recess for ten minutes,” he rasps indistinctly. We are like children who have to have the last word. He rises, and still without looking at me, departs for his chambers.

  As soon as Bruton shuts the door behind him, Andy shakes his head at me and says quietly, “Gideon, don’t ever raise the issue of race again while you’re defending me.”

  This instruction seems a little dramatic. I assume he is pissed because of my motion that Bruton recuse himself. I do not want to admit that it was done on the spur of the moment and out of spite. I sit down next to him so I can whisper.

  “You have to keep a bastard like Bruton honest or he’ll run over you the entire time.”

  Andy picks a piece of dirt from his jumpsuit. He is not fooled.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he says calmly.

  “The prosecutor saved me some money.”

  Instead of having to use a bail bondsman, my client saves himself five hundred dollars by putting up a cash bond. Where is he getting his money? If Bruton had jailed me for contempt, I’d be there until Labor Day; in contrast, Andy has forked over more money than I’ve made all summer. While we were waiting for his hearing to begin, he agreed to pay me a $5,000 retainer and $100 an hour. With any other client charged with causing someone’s death, I’d be suspicious as hell. The criminal defendants I’ve represented don’t seem the type to join the Christmas savings club at their place of employment. As I wait down in the jail for Andy to change, I wonder about his instructions not to raise the racial issue in his case. Where does this guy think he is? Throughout the proceeding, he sat as erect and proud as a king, even a bit detached from it all. Arrogance won’t do at all in front of a mostly white jury in this case. The girl was white. I don’t want him to beg for forgiveness; but he will have to warm up, or they won’t give a damn.

  Andy’s clothes, now that he is out of his jumpsuit, should be badly wrinkled, but he manages to look as if he has stepped out of an ad for L. L. Bean, as fresh as a sprig of mint. He is wearing a tailored olive-green suit over a Hathaway canary-yellow shirt and a gold-and-green tie. As we walk upstairs from the jail, I notice for the first time an attractive white woman waiting for us by the door that leads back into the courtroom. I need no introduction. Olivia Le Master, as poised as a high-fashion model, looks just like her real estate ads. She is a tall, lithe woman with permed black hair that reaches the collar of a white blouse. A green peasant skirt comes to her ankles. On her feet arc a pair of white Birkenstocks. Though she is too flat-chested for my taste, I think I could make an exception.

  Her gray eyes, framed by dark eyebrows, seem puzzled.

  She asks Andy, “I missed it, didn’t I?”

  His eyes are on the reporters who are waiting at the other end of the hall for him to come out the front door. I have already advised him to make no comment. He says softly, not looking at her, “Just barely. Why don’t we talk later?”

  Following his gaze down the hall she nods and steps inside the courtroom before the media sees her. I find it extraordinary she is anywhere within ten miles of this courthouse.

  The nightmare it must bring back to her! Yet why shouldn’t she be supportive? Andy was willing to try to help her child-perhaps the only professional willing to try something out of the ordinary. If I can persuade her to testify for him, she can be his ticket to an acquittal.

  “That was the child’s mother,” Andy says coolly, adjusting his tie as we begin to walk toward the front door.

  “I’ll introduce you later.”

  Almost immediately, we are engulfed by the media. My favorite. Channel 11’s Kim Keogh, is here this morning. I have never seen her in person before, but she is even more gorgeous than on camera. All the other women reporters on television look as if they can barely hold up their heads because of all their makeup, but this woman looks as natural and friendly as a three-month-old cocker spaniel. Rainey, who watches the news more than I do, insists that Kim Keogh wears plenty of makeup but that it is so skillfully applied you can’t tell. I hope she is the last one to interview me. I’d like to get to know her. As I expected, I get questions about my motion that Judge Bruton disqualify himself; bu
t I refuse to be baited into divulging anything that will get me into further trouble, saying only that it is the appearance of bias that I alleged. If I had any guts, I’d tell them that Judge Bruton has been swapping racist jokes back in his chambers for years.

  Instead, I defuse the issue as best I can. With one client to my name, I don’t need to have the reputation among the judges that I’ve become a troublemaker, even though it is common knowledge in the bar that Bruton is an ignorant fool who has no business on the bench.

  I get my wish. Kim Keogh is the last television reporter to approach and asks if she can have a brief interview with me. The others, women and men alike, have come on in their questions as though Sam Donaldson had just dropped by their studios for a pep talk, but Kim is almost laid back despite being dressed to the teeth. She is wearing a hunter-green suede jacket over a fall-length burgundy skirt. Her white blouse is one of those rayon jobs with the buttons at the back of the neck. Her dry-cleaning bill alone for this outfit probably cost more than my J. C. Penney suit. While her camera man is fiddling with her equipment, she asks me if I am the attorney who defended the man who shot Senator Anderson. Flattered beyond all reason to be remembered by her, I tell her that was my fifteen minutes of fame. Even her questions while the camera is on are more about me than the case, and I manage to get in that I have just gone into solo practice. I notice she is wearing no rings on the fingers that are holding the microphone in front of my face and wonder if I have the nerve to call her. It probably will depend on what she says about me.

  After the interview, breathing her perfume (she smells faintly of magnolia blossoms), I ask, “How’d I do?”

  She gives me a dazzling smile and says under her breath, “If this gets on the air and brings you any business, you ought to buy me lunch.”

  I need no farther encouragement.

  “It’s a deal,” I say, wondering if she has noticed my bald spot yet. If she was in the courtroom, she couldn’t miss it. The back of my head is beginning to look like a giant sand trap. She can’t be more than thirty, but maybe she likes the mature type. After Rosa died, I decided that I wouldn’t embarrass myself by asking out a woman more than a decade my junior. Like most of my good intentions, that didn’t last long.