John Grisham: Partners

Just for the hell of it, Sebastian filed a formal motion that he labeled “Motion to Prevent the Police and the Prosecutor from Employing the Use of Jailhouse Snitches to Attempt to Elicit Fabricated Testimony from the Defendant.” The motion was deemed out of order and overruled, but the point was made.

Two weeks before the trial, Rufus was pulled over for allegedly driving through a stop sign without making a complete stop. He argued with the officer, who called for backup. Two other patrol cars arrived and Rufus was handcuffed. In his rear floorboard, a policeman found a shipping carton with a pound of crack.

Rufus swore he’d never seen it before, swore it was planted by the cops.

Sebastian visited him in jail and told him he was lucky he hadn’t been shot. He wasn’t sure if Rufus would now be useful at trial. Sebastian would make a decision in a day or so. Meanwhile, he would speak with Bradley, the financier, and try to arrange bail. Rufus asked if he would be safer in jail than out. Sebastian wasn’t sure.

As he was leaving the jail and crossing the street back to his office, a young man in a rumpled suit caught up to him and said, “You’re Sebastian Rudd, right?”

“I am.”

“I’m Walter Branch, a new lawyer in town. Just down the street.”

Sebastian stopped, smiled, offered a hand, and said, “Yes, I think I’ve seen you around.”

“A pleasure. Look, we need to talk, and soon. Like right now. Preferably in a room with complete privacy.”

“My office is right here.”

“How about the coffee shop around the corner.”

“And this is urgent?”

“Trust me.”

Branch paid for two espressos and they huddled in a corner, as far away from the other three customers as possible. As Branch spooned in some sugar, he glanced around, and in a low voice began, “I have this client, kid’s a real mess. Twenty years old, part-time college student, full-time crackhead. He’s been through every rehab clinic this side of Betty Ford. Nothing sticks. They lock him up for two months, he stays clean for a week, then back on the crack. Very sad. Pathetic really. Family has a ton of money, so they keep shucking out big bucks, hoping some clinic somewhere can find the magic cure. Not likely to happen. Anyway, the kid knows what happened when the cop got shot.”

Sebastian stared out the front window and watched the pedestrians hurry by. “And how does he know this?”

“He was there. In a parked car with a buddy, both stoned to hell and back. In fact his friend, still unnamed, had passed out in the driver’s seat. My client was on the passenger’s side, the sidewalk right beside him. He says he saw the black guy, Mr. Cardell, walk by him, headed west, and the cop came out of nowhere, yelling and then firing. Says your guy hit his knees, threw up his hands, and the cop kept shooting. Finally, your guy got hit, sort of rolled to one side, and whipped out a gun. A helluva shot.”

Sebastian sipped his espresso. “That’s identical to Cardell’s version.”

“Right. And there was no second cop on the scene until the shooting was over. My client even thought for a moment that the second cop was gonna shoot Cardell. He didn’t, though, because he was freaking out over his buddy. My client slid lower in his seat, afraid he might be seen, and he eventually slipped out of the car and got away without being noticed.”

“So why can’t he testify?”

“That’s where it gets complicated. This is a prominent family. The kid’s parents are divorced. Everybody’s been through rehab. Calling the family dysfunctional would be giving it a compliment. The money was made by the grandfather, who still controls it all. A real prick. Tightfisted, arrogant, hard-nosed, domineering, really rough on his family because the family is so screwed up. He’s spent a fortune trying to get this kid clean and sober. Good money down the drain. Now he’s fed up. The kid turns twenty-one next year, and when that happens some trust funds kick in, courtesy of Gramps. Gramps, however, retained the right to revoke the trusts, and he’s been threatening to do so. About a year ago, he gave the kid an ultimatum-get clean or forget about the money. So the kid’s been kissing Granddaddy’s ass and telling him that all is well, no drugs, lots of studying in college, loves being sober, and so on. He manages to stay clean when he’s around the old man, but when he’s not he’s back to his old habits. He can’t help it. Frankly, the last thing this kid needs is a load of cash, but the trust funds are there and he sees easy street.” Branch paused for a sip. “Don’t have to tell you this is a big trial. If the kid comes forward and tells the jury that he was smoking crack in a parked car in the middle of Little Angola at ten o’clock at night, then Granddaddy will be humiliated.”

“Does the kid know we’re talking?”

“Sure. I couldn’t say a word otherwise. He wants to help, to tell the truth, because he knows what’s at stake for your client. He actually has a brain and a conscience and a real soft spot on racial matters. Most of his friends are black, including the driver who’d passed out. He’s in a rock band that’s mostly black. I caught ’em one night in a club. Pretty bad stuff but they were all hitting the pipe.”

“If he was stoned, how does he know what he really saw?”

“Obvious question, right? He says he was high as a kite, but when you witness something that dramatic it makes an impression. And he wasn’t as bad off as his buddy. I believe the kid. He’s got the facts right, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he has no way of knowing Cardell’s version because Cardell has said nothing except it was self-defense, right?”

“Correct. When did your client tell you this?”

“Last week. He’s really struggled with it and, being an addict, blames it for his current slide into la-la land. He wants to help but the consequences are just too steep. Plus, he’s afraid of the cops.”

“Smart boy.”

Another sip and the cup was empty. Branch said, “That’s all I have, Sebastian. I’m sworn to secrecy. Is there a way to get the kid’s testimony before the jury while protecting his identity?”

“Maybe. If I can promise that, will he come forward?”

“I think so, but keep in mind we’re talking about a person who’s not exactly stable.”

“Got it.”

A week before the trial, Sebastian arrived at his office early one morning and was shocked to find a spray of bullet holes across the front. Windows were blown out; a door was shattered. He called the police, who reluctantly showed up and took notes. When the stores opened, he bought two pistols and applied for the proper permits. Back in his office, he called a client who knew a security consultant. For the first time in his budding career, Sebastian Rudd had a bodyguard, a part-timer named Hiram.

The things they don’t teach you in law school.

As he had done half a dozen times already, Bradley called and said they needed to talk. By now this meant a clandestine meeting in a secluded place, usually somewhere on the fringes of Little Angola. Today it was a car wash, one owned by Bradley, whose real name was Murray Waller, and, as Sebastian had eventually learned, Mr. Waller had made a lot of money in the murky world of loan-sharking. He instructed Sebastian to park his BMW in line with all the other dirty cars and the wash-and-polish job would be on the house. Sebastian did so. He and Hiram entered the car wash and were told that the boss was waiting upstairs. Hiram stayed by the vending machines as Sebastian climbed the stairs.

The hooker was just a kid, a young girl in a woman’s body, with long brown legs that were on full display. Without the layers of makeup and a cheap wig, she was actually a pretty girl with lost, sad eyes. With the door locked, she told her story again for the benefit of the lawyer. Bradley had heard it several times. In fact, Bradley had first heard it as a rumor not long after Buck Lester was killed.