I stood and cleared my throat. “As I recall, just as we were finishing up our final preparation at the jail yesterday evening, Mr. Lattimore first threatened to stomp my ass into the floor. I believe I told him that probably wouldn’t go well for him because I’d spent some time in prison and know how to defend myself. After that, he spit in my face. Then he said when he escaped he was going to look me up late at night. I took that as a threat on my life, and I told him I’d be waiting with a pistol. So yes, I suppose you could say I threatened to kill him. I think it’s fair to say emotions were running high. He’s about to go on trial for his life, and he doesn’t think I’ve done enough to help him.”
The judge looked at me openmouthed as I waited for the inevitable public humiliation I was about to receive. “So Mr. Lattimore, who is accused of murdering two people, first threatened to physically assault you, then spit in your face, then threatened to escape and come to your home late at night? And you told him you’d be waiting with a gun? Is that correct, Mr. Street?”
“Yes, Your Honor. That’s pretty much what transpired.”
“Well, I don’t see how you can represent him under these circumstances. You’re relieved, Mr. Street. The trial is postponed. I’ll find another lawyer and set another date and notify everyone. Mr. Lattimore, I’m going to appoint another lawyer for you, but let me warn you, if you pull this kind of stunt again, you’ll be representing yourself. That’s it. Court is adjourned. Everyone can go home.”
And with that, we all left. I went through the back to avoid the media and went to my office to fill out the paperwork to bill the state for the 250 hours I’d spent preparing to try Rupert’s case. When I was finished, I went to a bar in the Old City and drank too much, which was something I rarely did. I didn’t really know why. Maybe it was the PTSD Laura Benton had mentioned, but when I walked out of the courtroom, my chest felt tight and I kept grinding my teeth that afternoon. I guess I just needed to unwind. I called Grace around eight o’clock that night, and she came and picked me up.
“What brought this on?” she said when I got into her car.
“Not sure. I think the Rupert Lattimores of the world may be getting to me.”
“You could always do what Laura suggested and find another profession.”
“When hell freezes over,” I said. “I’m not letting Rupert or any other scumbag run me out of my chosen profession.”
“It’s your life,” Grace said. “I just want you to live it well. Hanging out in bars isn’t exactly your style.”
“Can we talk about my mental and emotional frailty tomorrow?” I said. “I just don’t feel like hearing it right now.”
“Fine,” Grace said. I looked at her and saw her mouth had drawn into a tight line. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you talk with your mother about it, because that’s where I’m taking you. You smell like a brewery. I don’t think I want you in my bed tonight.”
CHAPTER 4
It was pure coincidence that at the same time Rupert Lattimore’s case was supposed to be tried in state court, a man named Ben Clancy was going on trial for murder in federal court. Clancy was a former prosecutor, a fire-and-brimstone type who built his reputation on convicting murderers and sending them to prison for life or to their deaths. He’d convicted my Uncle Tommy of murdering my Aunt Linda by falsifying and hiding evidence, but when I got old enough to start practicing law, I vowed to get Tommy out of prison. I did it, too, with the help of a brilliant lawyer and former friend named Richie Fels. Once Tommy was out, I went after Clancy in the next election for district attorney and helped a man named Steve Morris beat him.
Clancy found a way to get me back. After being hired by the United States Attorney, he framed me and convicted me for a murder I hadn’t committed. Ben Clancy was the primary reason I spent two years in prison. But when I was exonerated, he was arrested, and now he was standing trial for what he’d done to me.
Since I’d been planning on trying Rupert Lattimore’s case during the entire week, my schedule was clear, and I could have taken in some of Clancy’s trial. I decided against it because I didn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions the media would ask me. I also couldn’t bear the thought of looking at Clancy’s face. I’d seen him on the television news a couple of times. He looked older and frailer, and he’d lost quite a bit of weight in jail. The thought of seeing him in person, however, nauseated me. I stayed at the office, caught up on paperwork, studied appellate opinions that had come down recently that might impact some of my clients, met with a few new prospects, and agreed to take two cases—a vehicular homicide that had some legitimate issues, and an arson case that appeared so circumstantial I didn’t think the client would ever be convicted.
The Clancy trial was moving quickly, and on Wednesday, it appeared to blow up in the prosecution’s face. My former friend, Richie Fels, was representing Clancy, which meant Clancy had put up at least $200,000 for Richie’s fee. On Wednesday, James Tipton, who had lied through his teeth during my trial but had been coerced and threatened by Clancy to do so, took the stand against Clancy. From everything the television news and the papers said, Richie crushed him on cross-examination. Richie was able to make him admit that nearly every word out of his mouth during my trial was a lie. Once a liar, always a liar, Richie inferred to the jury. If he was willing to lie then, why should anyone believe him now? Richie was also able to make James admit that he’d been a drug dealer for a long time. James said he’d quit, but juries don’t like liars and they like drug dealers even less. Richie took the federal government’s case and flipped it on its ear. The case started on Monday, went to the jury on Friday afternoon, and within two hours, the jury was back with a verdict.
Clancy was acquitted. He was free.
As soon as the news broke, I got a call from my mom. “Are you all right, Darren? I just heard about Ben Clancy.”
“I’m fine. I expected it.”
“It just isn’t fair,” she said. “What is wrong with this system? It sends my brother to prison for almost twenty years for something he didn’t do, and it sends my son to prison for something he didn’t do. And now Clancy walks away free, and he’s guilty as sin.”
“It isn’t perfect,” I said.
“Perfect? It isn’t even adequate. There has to be some reform.”
“It’d be impossible to change the American judicial system much, especially the criminal justice system. There’s just too much money involved now, too many special interests. Policy makers are bought by lobbyists, and the next thing you know, more and more people are going to jail, and more and more jails are being built. The parole and probation systems are huge rackets, the court costs and fees are out of control. It’s a mess.”
“I think you should get out,” she said. “I agree with that psychiatrist you talked to. Go back to school and become a doctor or pharmacist or an engineer. You’re smart. You can do anything you want, and I’ll help you every way I can.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mom, but I think I’ll stick it out a little while longer. Somebody has to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves.”
“Where do you think this hero complex came from?” she asked.
“Probably from having to deal with the man you married a long time ago.”
She was quiet for a few seconds. “You’re probably right about that. Biggest mistake of my life, but if I hadn’t married him, I wouldn’t have you. So you take the bad with the good, right?”