Scott Pratt - In good faith

“Goddamned cigarettes are going to kill me,” he said in a deep, raspy voice, with just a hint of a Southern accent. “The wife’s been nagging me to quit for years, but I don’t pay any attention to her. I like to smoke. Son of a bitch, it’s hot in here! Don’t you people have any goddamned air-conditioning?”

“Feels fine to me,” I said.

“You must be descended from the goddamned Nordics. You must have a layer of blubber on you that keeps you warm all the time.”

I smiled at him, wondering how this blob of vulgarity had managed to build such a fine reputation and to get himself elected to two of the highest state and national offices in the field of criminal defense.

“What brings you all the way up here this morning, Mr. Snodgrass?”

He glared at me with his little eyes and kept dabbing his forehead with the handkerchief.

“You know goddamned good and well what brings me up here,” he said. “We’ve got a trial in two weeks, and both of us know that you don’t have a fucking leg to stand on, legal or otherwise. So let’s cut the bullshit and dispose of the matter this morning. It’ll save the state some money and save you and your office some much-deserved embarrassment.”

His tone was belligerent, his demeanor that of a wolverine rousted from sleep, and an air of superiority surrounded him along with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. I kept the smile fixed to my face and leaned forward on my elbows.

“I’ll bet you scare the hell out of the young guys, don’t you?” I said.

“You only have three witnesses on your list,” he said. “Two of them are tramps and the other is Barney Fife. Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to them on the witness stand, Dillard? I’ll filet them like halibut. You don’t have a speck of physical evidence to corroborate anything they say. And my client had an impeccable reputation until your wonder boy with a badge ruined it. I’m thinking seriously of filing a civil suit against him and his department as soon as my client is acquitted.”

“Your client is a perverted sociopath,” I said. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Snodgrass said. “Surely you don’t plan to continue with this masquerade. The jig is up, Dillard, the fat lady is singing, the show is over. I hear you’re a good trial lawyer, and word is you’ve won a lot of cases, but you’re not Houdini. There’s no way you’ll get out of the box I’m going to put you in if you insist on trying this case.”

I leaned back in the chair and laced my fingers behind my head. He was right about my case, but I had a plan to salvage it. And judging from the way he was conducting himself, I knew his ego would lead him down a path at trial that he’d later regret. But I wanted to be sure.

“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Snodgrass? Do you really think these girls made up a story just to ruin your client’s reputation? I’m sure you’ve seen the statements from the other girls who are now refusing to testify. They corroborated everything Miss Dickson and Miss Harbin said.”

“What I think doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “What matters is what you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt, and you can’t prove that my client spit on the goddamned sidewalk, let alone convict him of all of these absurd sexual offenses.”

“So he’s going to deny having any sexual contact whatsoever with either of these girls.”

“You’re goddamned right he’s going to deny it!” Small beads of spit flew from his lips as his voice grew louder. “And do you know why he’s going to deny it? Because he didn’t do it! Do you really think he’d stick his cock in either one of those nasty little skanks?”

I was sure the vulgarity and the tone were designed to see what kind of reaction he’d get from me. If I lost my composure and started battling with him or suddenly became self-righteously indignant, he’d be sure to bait me at trial. I kept my face relaxed and my voice pleasant. He didn’t know it, but he’d just confirmed my strategy.

“You have your opinion; I have mine,” I said. “Now, I doubt if you came all the way up here just to argue with me and insult my witnesses. What is it you want?”

He shifted in the chair and rolled his head. When his chin dropped, it disappeared completely into the rolls of fat.

“I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he said. “I want to give you an easy out, an opportunity to save face. I’m offering you a gift.”

“I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath and straightened his tie.

“In exchange for the dismissal of all of the felony charges, my client is generously offering to plead guilty to one count of misdemeanor assault,” he said dramatically. “He’s also willing to pay a fifty-dollar fine plus the court costs on three conditions. One, he doesn’t have to register as a sex offender. Two, you agree to unsupervised probation, and three, you agree that the charge will be expunged from his record after one year. Those are our terms. They’re not negotiable.”

I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. The offer was ridiculous, but it was the way he delivered it that amused me. It made me think of a huge, animated purple blow-fish, pompously spouting his vastly superior intellectual theories to all the little shrimps around him.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to stop laughing. His face was darkening, and even through all the layers of fat, I could see he was becoming angry. “I can’t do that, Mr. Snodgrass. It’s out of the question.”

“Then rather than sitting there doing your impression of a hyena, perhaps you’d care to make some kind of reasonable counteroffer.”

“I thought you said your terms were nonnegotiable.”

“I might be willing to negotiate on the amount of the fine,” he said.

I could see the conversation was pointless, so I decided to end it. Besides, he was beginning to get on my nerves. I leaned back and rubbed my face, as though I were giving his suggestion due consideration. Finally, I rested my chin on my fingertips and looked him directly in the eye.

“All right, Mr. Snodgrass. I’ll make you a reasonable counteroffer. If your client will agree to undergo a simple procedure, I’ll dismiss the charges. He can walk away clean.”

“Procedure? What do you mean?”

“A medical procedure. I believe it’s called castration. If he’ll let a doctor remove his balls so I’m sure he won’t do this to any more young girls, I’ll dismiss the case. Those are my terms, and they’re nonnegotiable.”

I noticed his hands tighten on the arms of the chair and his face went another shade darker. Slowly, he began to hoist himself to his feet.

“I’ll be speaking to your superior about this matter,” he said. “I’m sure he would want to be aware of your cavalier attitude, especially after I grind you into the dust. You might want to think about seeking alternative employment.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Snodgrass,” I said without bothering to get up. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, provided you’re still with us.”

He glared at me one last time and slammed the door.

Sunday, October 5

I knew I’d be spending most of Monday at the hospital with Caroline, so I called Tom Short and asked him if he’d meet me at my office in Jonesborough on Sunday afternoon. Tom was a forensic psychiatrist I’d known for years and whom I’d used as an expert witness in several cases I’d defended. He had an uncanny ability to diagnose personality disorders, but more important, he could analyze a set of facts or circumstances and make reliable predictions about future behavior. I wanted to show him the file and see what he had to say about the killers we were looking for.