When I finally get to the office at 2:00 p.m., Angie greets me, then hands me the Monday editions of Philly’s two papers: the Daily News and the Inquirer. “The Inquirer is the worse of the two,” she says.
I scan the front-page articles of both papers as I walk down the hall to my office. The Daily News article, headlined “Millionaire Murderer?,” sits above a full-color picture of David Hanson. The article recounts the details of the death of Jennifer Yamura, then gets right to the meat: David’s wealth. According to the article, David earns more than $1 million a year as general counsel at Hanson World Industries. His stock holdings in the company, most of which he inherited when his father died, are estimated to exceed $90 million. The article lists various properties owned by David, including his estate on the Main Line, a beachfront shore house in Stone Harbor, New Jersey, valued at $5 million, and another house in Costa Rica.
“Just wonderful,” I say out loud to no one. This is the kind of reporting that makes it so difficult to select a fair jury.
The Inquirer article is indeed worse, though for different reasons. Written by Patti Cassidy, its headline is “The Millionaire’s Mouthpiece.” It isn’t as much about David as it is about David and me. It explains that David and I were classmates at Penn Law, that we lived together in an apartment with two other law students during our second and third years, that we were moot-court partners, that we both interned at the district attorney’s office, and that I was a groomsman at David’s wedding. The story carries over to page two, where our law-school “pig book” photos are displayed side by side. Reporter Cassidy concludes the article by mentioning that my firm represented one of David’s uncles in an insider-trading case, and that I’d handled a drunk-driving matter for David’s nephew. Patti calls me the Hanson family’s “go-to guy” for criminal matters.
The most damning thing about the article isn’t the factual history but the unwritten insinuation that David and I are somehow tied together in the crime itself. This type of accusation could irreparably poison potential jurors and ruin any chance of David’s getting a fair trial. One thing I’ve learned in my career is that, whatever the jurors may think about a client, it is imperative that they see his lawyer as acting in good faith; that is, that the attorney believes in his client and his client’s case. When that happens, the attorney wins a lot of goodwill from the jury, and that goodwill can, in a close case, carry the day. On the other hand, any hint that an attorney is knowingly working a con in the courtroom will cause jurors to despise him and his client both.
I toss the paper into the trash and call Tommy again. David Hanson is due in at three o’clock. I’d wanted Tommy to sit in on the meeting, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Tommy, I really need you in the office,” I tell his voice mail. “This is the fifth time I’ve called. What’s going on?”
David arrives fifteen minutes later. I meet him in the lobby and shake his hand. His grip is tentative, and he releases his hand quickly. His face is drawn, his mouth downturned. His weekend with Marcie must have been hell.
I lead him to the conference room, where I introduce him to Susan and Vaughn Coburn, our associate. Angie has been kind enough to bring in a coffee platter. The silver tray, porcelain cups, and pastries sit in the center of the table. No one reaches for any of it.
“So, do you have any idea who you want to handle the case from this point forward?” I ask, getting ahead of Susan. “I can draw you up a list of names, though I expect you already know the defense bar’s biggest players.” My offer is an insincere one. I could never admit it to anyone, but I would do anything to keep David’s case.
David stares at me. “You’re the one I called, Mick. I want you.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and prepare to move on. But Susan jumps in.
“That’s not a good idea,” Susan says. “If you read the Inquirer this morning, you already got a taste for what the press is going to do. And it’s never a good idea to let a close friend handle a case this important.”
“I’ve known Mick a long time,” David says. “I know I can count on him.”
My gut twists, but I say nothing, just nod my head. David and I study each other for another long moment. “All right, then, let’s get to it.”
I open my leather portfolio and pull out the yellow legal pad inside. Then I remove the Montblanc pen from my shirt pocket and lay it on the table. “Before I begin writing anything down,” I start, looking directly at David, “I want to say something very important. If you committed the crime—”
“I didn’t!” David interrupts.
“Please let me finish. If you did do it, and if you have any intention of going to trial rather than accepting a plea, you must not tell me or any member of the firm that you did it. Under the code of ethics, a defense counsel’s ability to question his client at trial is severely circumscribed when the lawyer knows the client is guilty.”
David leans forward. “I went to law school, too. I know the rules. But, please, will you just listen to me? I. Didn’t. Do. It.”
I nod. “I’m glad to hear that. It makes our job easier. All we have to do is tell the truth. Which means, at this point, that it is imperative that you do tell the truth to me and Susan and Vaughn. The truth about everything even remotely connected to the crime. What you were doing at the time of the murder. Your relationship with the victim.”
“Why you were in the victim’s house at 11:30 at night, trying to sterilize the place,” Susan adds.
“Everything,” I say. “Understand?”
“I get it,” David says.
I nod again, pick up my pen. “Okay, then. Tell us what happened.”
David looks around the room, at me, then Susan and Vaughn. He takes a deep breath. “Well, you know about Marcie,” he says to me. “Her illness.” David looks at Susan and Vaughn, sees that they don’t know. “My wife, Marcie, was diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago. The doctors said all she needed was a lumpectomy and some radiation. So she had the procedure and the radiation, and that was supposed to be the end of it. Marcie plowed through it and seemed to have recovered. Her first-year exam was clear, and we breathed a sigh of relief. But at the two-year mark, the cancer was back, and the doctors told her she had to have a mastectomy. They gave her genetic testing and discovered she was at high risk for developing cancer in her reproductive system as well, so she had her uterus and ovaries removed, too. She lost her breasts, her uterus, her hair. She was sick as a dog again, from the chemo. Then she started on a drug called Tamoxifen, and it threw her into menopause. That was last September—eight months ago—and she hasn’t been the same since. She was depressed all the time. She didn’t sleep. Constantly snapped at the children, at me. I dreaded coming home at the end of the day. I know it sounds terrible, but it’s true. It’s . . . awful.”