Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

Baker’s face flushed the slightest bit. He stood up.

“This is a serious case, your honor. I’m merely here to ensure that all goes well.”

“And to get yourself a little free publicity in an election year, I trust.” Baker thought Judge Green was soft on sentencing sex offenders and wasn’t shy about saying it to the local media. Baker had also openly and actively supported the judge’s opponent in the last election. He was fond of telling people he wouldn’t piss on Judge Green if the judge were on fire. Green, on the other hand, took obvious pleasure in harassing and humiliating Baker every chance he got. I’d seen them nearly come to blows on several occasions. They truly hated each other.

“I didn’t invite the press,” Baker said. “I believe their presence here has something to do with the first amendment.”

“You may not have invited them, but you’ve certainly had plenty to say about this case over the past week. You’ve been on television more than Law amp; Order reruns.”

Baker plunked back down into his chair, either unwilling or unable to spar with the judge, and Judge Green turned to me.

“What are you doing at the defense table, Mr. Dillard?”

“Representing the defendant, judge.” I knew he preferred “your honor.”

“Has she hired you?”

It was a stupid question, but I resisted the urge to say something pithy.

“She has.”

Judge Green raised his eyebrows at me as if to say, “How much did she pay you?” He turned toward the deputy nearest the door that led to the holding cell and barked, “Bring in the defendant.”

The deputy disappeared into the hallway. He returned in less than a minute with Angel beside him. The shackles on her ankles forced her to shuffle. Every camera was suddenly pointed in her direction. The courtroom went dead silent. Just behind the deputy and Angel were two more deputies and K.D. Downs, the sheriff of Washington County. Everybody was getting in on the show.

The bailiff gingerly escorted Angel to the podium in front of the jury box, directly to the judge’s right. I noticed that he patted her on the shoulder before he stepped back. Angel looked tired, scared, confused, and gorgeous. I walked over and stood by her at the podium.

Green turned to Tammy Lewis. “Let me see the indictment.”

She handed the document to the judge. He studied it for a few seconds, then offered it to Wilkie Baines.

“Give this to Mr. Dillard, and let the record show that the defendant’s counsel has been provided a copy of the indictment. Mr. Dillard, your client has been charged with one count of first-degree murder and one count of abuse of a corpse. Do you waive the formal reading of the indictment?”

“We do.”

“How does your client plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Very well.” The judge looked at Deacon Baker. “I assume you’ve filed your death notice, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes. I filed it this morning, your Honor.”

With the number of stab wounds, the case was probably second-degree murder at best. It certainly appeared to be a crime of passion. But Baker handed out death notices like grocery stores hand out coupons. It seemed that every murder defendant got one. He did it because it gave him an effective bargaining chip — Baker was notorious for offering to take the death penalty off of the table in exchange for a guilty plea just before trial, no matter how heinous the murder.

“What about scheduling?” the judge said.

“We’d like a speedy trial,” I said. “Miss Christian is incarcerated without bond. Since she’s charged with a capital offense and since she’s not from this community and really has no ties here, I’d be wasting my breath to ask you to set a bond. But she maintains her innocence and wants a trial as soon as possible. I think I can be ready to go in three months.”

Baker stood up. “There is no way the state could be ready in less than nine months, your honor. This is a death- ”

I cut him off. “I didn’t want to get into this, judge, but since Mr. Baker is going to resist a speedy trial there are some things I think you should know about. As you know, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve never had a case quite like this one. The police and the district attorney have let everyone know that the victim in this case is a preacher. What they haven’t told anyone is that he spent his last night on earth getting drunk at a strip club. Nobody knows where he went between the time he left the club and the time he was killed. This isn’t one of those cases where the police have the killer dead to rights. My client swears she didn’t see the victim after he left the club. She swears she didn’t kill him, and she shouldn’t have to wait almost a year before a jury hears this case.”

“I object to this!” Baker yelled. “Mr. Dillard is taking this opportunity to sensationalize this case and poison the potential jury pool.”

That’s exactly what I was doing, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“All I’m doing,” I said, “is asking you to set this case for trial as quickly as possible so an innocent young girl doesn’t have to sit in jail any longer than necessary.”

Judge Green ruminated for a few minutes, then looked down at Baker.

“God created heaven and earth in six days, Mr. Baker. Surely you can be ready for trial in ninety. If you weren’t ready to prosecute her, you shouldn’t have indicted her. How long is it going to take to try the case?”

“A week, maybe less,” I said.

“I have an opening on July twenty-fourth. That’s just under three months from now. Mr. Dillard, since you’re the one who asked for a speedy trial, I won’t expect to see you back in here asking for a continuance. I’ll send you a scheduling order that will deal with pre-trial conferences, expert disclosures and deadlines, motion deadlines and plea deadlines. Anything else?”

“No, judge, not from us,” I said. It was the same week that we were planning to go to the Braves game, but I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference. It was also only ten days before the August 3rd election. It had to be Judge Green’s not-so-subtle method of applying pressure to Deacon.

“Miss Christian,” the judge said, “they’ll bring you over from the jail on July twenty-fourth and you’ll get a fair trial. It will be your responsibility to see to it that you have civilian clothing, and I won’t allow the jury to see that you’re restrained in any fashion. I’ll see you then unless there are motions or unless you decide to change your plea.”

The bailiff took Angel by the arm and led her toward the door. I followed. Just before we reached the door, I noticed a man walking quickly toward the bar that separated the attorneys from the gallery. He was about six feet tall, wearing a blue polyester suit. I’d seen pictures of John Paul Tester in the newspaper. This guy looked like a younger version. The hair was shorter and darker, but he was working on the pot belly and he had the same mutton-chop sideburns. He was pointing at Angel.

“ A fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell!” he yelled. Everyone froze at the power of his deep voice. I stepped between him and Angel, more fascinated than frightened. “And shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains! They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction. I will send the teeth of beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust. You have taken my father’s life, Jezebel, and I swear revenge upon you!”

I took a couple of steps backward as the bailiffs began to converge. They were tentative, apparently frightened. Tester’s eyes were as blue as robin’s eggs and fiercely intense.