Robert Tanenbaum - Absolute rage

He came in dressed and clean-shaven, if red-eyed, smelling of Listerine and some old-fashioned lilac cologne. He looked around the kitchen suspiciously. His glance drifted to the cabinet above the stove.

Observing this, she said, "It's in the coffee. That's all you get until after court."

He sat down. He took a long swallow of the spiked coffee, closed his eyes, sighed. "Would you mind telling me why you're doing this?"

"I need you. Isn't it nice to be needed? I'm converting you temporarily from a dysfunctional drunk to a functional one, like half the people in the country. After this business is resolved, I'm out of here, and you can finish converting your liver into Silly Putty and die. It's nothing personal. Eat some toast while it's warm."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat some anyway. Your body needs calories and carbs. You should take some B vitamins, too."

He took a piece, nibbled it. Finishing one, he took another, and another. She sipped coffee and watched him. "See? Advice from one who knows."

He regarded her balefully over his cup. "A functional drunk?"

"Extremely. Why do you drink, by the way?"

"Why do you?"

"To quell my rage and my sympathies," she said. "I see cruel, malevolent people getting away with murder all around me and I want to stop them. Not to put too fine a point on it, I want to kill them, and I'm good at it. My options are being either a sober and happy murderess or a slightly stoned mom and businesswoman. I raise and train dogs, and I have three lovely children and a husband. I wish to retain them and their affection, which I can't do if I'm my real self. Now you."

After a silence he said, "I killed my wife."

"On purpose?"

He stared at her, his mouth a little open. "Of course not! It was a car accident. We were driving home from a Christmas party in Charleston. The roads were slick and it was foggy. I ran right into the rear of a truck carrying pipe. The pipe came through the window and hit Sheila. She was decapitated. I didn't have a scratch. She was six months pregnant and happy as a horse in clover. It was a really great and loving marriage. That sad enough for you?"

"Yup, that's pretty sad."

"Can I have another drink?"

"Not until after court, counselor. It's not that sad."

"Tell me something," he said after his eyes dropped. "How did you get to be such a colossal bitch? Was it heredity, or did you work on it over the years?"

"It took a lot of work. When I started out, butter wouldn't melt in my mouth," she replied without rancor. "You finished with that? Excellent! Let's go." This was good, she thought. If he hated her, it might move his mind off its dead center. He might even get mad enough to kick some butt in a courtroom.

It was wide and high, paneled dark and painted white. Its Georgianglass windows were open to catch any breeze, and through them, besides an actual grassy breeze, there came the sounds of light traffic, a lawn mower, and farther off, someone practicing scales on a trombone. Small town, thought Marlene, this is what it would be like practicing law in a small town. The only discordant note was a television crew-a cameraman, a sound technician, and a reporter with spray-fixed hair and tan blazer. Every seat in the courtroom was occupied, in the main by the sort of people who occupy seats in courtrooms the world over-retirees and idlers of a certain stripe-but there was also a contingent of hard-looking younger men in one of the back rows. Unlike the people in New York courtrooms, she observed, all of these were white. Moses Welch was there, at the defense table, blinking amiably, his moon face untroubled by complex thought or obvious fear. At the prosecution table was a burly man in his late twenties wearing a blond crew cut and a cheap blue suit. On his face was the overly serious expression of a young man who wishes thereby to acquire gravitas. This was, Poole informed Marlene, the state's attorney, Stanley Hawes. Marlene nodded politely to him. He seemed surprised at this, but, after an awkward pause, nodded back. The judge entered. As she rose with the others, Marlene had to stifle a giggle. Judge Bill Y. Murdoch was practically a caricature of a corrupt judge; he could have walked out of a Daumier, lacking only the little round cap that French judges wear. He was pink, plump, beautifully barbered, with a boar's snout, a carnivorous slash of a mouth, and small avid eyes set off by dark eyebrows pointed like chevrons.

The judge spent a few moments speaking with some court officials and a very fat man in a tan uniform, pointed out to Marlene as J. J. Swett, the county sheriff. Murdoch kept looking up at the TV crew. He did not look pleased to see them. After the sheriff and the others had dispersed, Murdoch stared down at Poole and rattled some papers in his hand.

"Ernie, you mind telling me what this is all about."

"They're motions, Judge," said Poole, getting to his feet.

"I know they're motions, Ernie. I can read. I mean why are they being filed at this date? I thought we had agreed to a disposition of this case. And you're changing your plea to not guilty?"

"Yes, Judge. What's happened is the defendant has a new counsel, a co-counsel, actually, who has a different idea as to how the defense should proceed."

Murdoch inspected the papers again. "That's this Kee-ampi fella?"

Marlene rose. "That's Ciampi, Your Honor. That's me and I'm not a fella."

A rustle of titters in the courtroom. Murdoch banged his gavel and glared them down and glared particularly at the cameraman, who had switched on his lights.

Murdoch turned his glare onto Marlene. "And what exactly are you doing here, Miss Ciampi?"

"I'm representing the defendant, Your Honor."

"He already has counsel."

"Yes, and he decided to retain additional counsel."

The dark eyebrows compressed in a scowl. The judge made a summoning motion. Poole, Marlene, and Hawes approached the bench.

The judge said, "All right, what's going on here? Ernie, you know Mose Welch can't hardly decide which flavor of ice cream he likes. How the hell can he opt for new counsel?"

"You declared him competent to stand trial, Your Honor," said Poole. "He can aid in his own defense, and choice of counsel runs along with that competence."

Murdoch's color rose. "Ernie, damnit, whose side…" He stopped short; no, he couldn't really say that. He turned his attention to Marlene. "And what's your interest in this case? A do-gooder, are you?"

"Not at all, Judge. I am an attorney licensed in the state of New York, and I was a friend of one of the victims, Rose Heeney. Her sons called me and asked me to defend Moses Welch."

"The victim's sons called you? They're paying for this?"

"No pay is involved, Your Honor, but, yes."

"Would you mind telling me why the victims want to get the murderer off?"

"Because he's not the murderer," said Marlene.

"He confessed to it," said Hawes.

"Yes," said Marlene, giving the prosecutor a mild look, such as elementary-school teachers give pupils who are trying very hard. "And as you see, we're moving to suppress the confession. My client was kept incommunicado for fourteen hours, his family was kept from him, and he was coerced into signing a document he could not read by the promise of ice cream. He now repudiates his confession."

"There was no coercion," said Hawes, "and I resent the implication that the confession was obtained through force of any kind."

"Force isn't necessary," said Marlene. "We're not arguing from Brown. We would argue from Spano that the offer of any substantive good desired by the person in custody, whether food, or reading materials, clothing, or any ordinary or extraordinary privilege, as a quid pro quo for confession, is coercive per se, especially after an all-night interrogation, as was the case here. Also, given the defendant's mental abilities, his waiver of his right to counsel is highly suspect under Tague."