Joel Goldman: Chasing The Dead

It was a cool evening, and Alex gathered her light jacket around her as she made her way to the barn, the smell of manure hitting her in waves the closer she got. The barn door was open, a string of low-wattage lightbulbs casting weak light down the center of the barn. She stood at the door for a moment, watching the judge shoveling straw and manure from one of the stalls and dumping it into a wheelbarrow, his knee-high rubber boots caked in mud and muck.

“Come on in, or are you afraid of stepping in some shit?” he asked.

Alex glanced at her scuffed Danner boots and laughed. “It’s nothing that won’t wash off.”

West smiled. “Then grab that pitchfork,” he said, pointing to one hung on the wall to the right of the door, “and lend me a hand.”

Alex didn’t mind the work, though he’d never asked her to do it on any of her prior visits, welcoming it after a long day, glad for the chance to loosen her muscles and keep her mind off what she had to tell the judge. She quickly churned up a sweat, removing her jacket and getting into a rhythm as the judge cleaned out the stalls and she layered in fresh straw and bedding. An hour later they were finished and sitting on a wooden bench, each holding a cold bottle of beer.

“After a while,” West said, “you don’t even notice the smell.”

“I’ll take your word for it because I’m not there yet.”

“Well, don’t worry,” he said, patting her knee. “Given enough time, you can get used to just about anything.”

Alex flinched at his touch, pulling away as she set her bottle on the bench. “Why do I think you’re not talking about horseshit?”

“Horseshit or bullshit, it all stinks, and somebody’s got to clean it up. That’s what you and I are doing. These stalls are no different than the people you defend, though my horses are a hell of a lot smarter. Your clients go through life crapping on everyone and everything, and, hell, half the time they get community service or probation. And the ones that go to prison don’t stay there long enough because the fucking prosecutor gave them a sweetheart deal or because the prison is overcrowded. And you know what they do when they get out? They rape, rob, or murder someone else. Over half of them are back behind bars three years after they get out. You know what Missouri’s recidivism rate is? It’s fifty-four point goddamn four percent, third highest in the entire goddamn country.”

Alex had heard the judge’s speech enough times to know it by heart. For him, the statistics were personal insults.

“I know,” Alex said as she stood and faced the judge.

He squinted at her, his head turned slightly to one side as if to get a better view of her.

“You look like someone who’s got more to say, and I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

“All right. I’ll clean the stalls on my own from now on.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Kalena Greene offered John Atwell a deal for fifteen years. He told me to take it and I did.”

“You know that I was going to deny your motion.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“And what would have happened after that?”

Alex stiffened and stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, resenting that he was treating her like a schoolgirl. “Kalena would have withdrawn her offer and my client would have been convicted.”

“That’s right. And I would have sentenced him to life on the robbery and a hundred years on the armed criminal action and he would have been off the street forever. You do understand that.”

Alex bristled. “Of course I do.”

The judge rose, his face reddening. “That day you came in my chambers crying about what a bad man Dwayne Reed was, you told me that you’d do whatever it took to get rid of him and all the others like him. So what happened? Did you stay up late last night reading a John Grisham fairy tale and get all excited about the majesty of the law?”

Alex planted her hands on her hips, not backing down. They weren’t in the courtroom, where she had to feign respect.

“Something like that. Anyway, I’m done. From now on, I’m playing all my cases straight. You and I can’t meet like this anymore.”

“For Christ’s sake, Alex! You had the balls to shoot Dwayne Reed to death and now you’re telling me that because you had a conscience fart you’re gonna let John Atwell get off with fifteen years, which isn’t even fifteen because he’ll be eligible for parole in three fucking years!”

They stared at each other, Alex refusing to blink. “Kalena made the offer, I conveyed it, and my client accepted it. End of story. You and I are done.”

“I don’t think so. Wait here,” Judge West said. He lumbered toward his house, went inside, and returned a few minutes later, handing Alex a large manila envelope. “Take a look.”

She slipped her finger under the seal and pulled out a grainy eight-by-ten-inch photograph of her kneeling next to Dwayne Reed’s body. In the photograph, she was holding his raised arm, the gun in his hand aimed at the ceiling, his finger on the trigger. Her hand was wrapped around his, her trigger finger on top of his.

Alex’s skin burned, her gut twisting, as she glared at the judge.

“Where did you get this?”

“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this photograph corroborates the prosecution’s claim that you shot Dwayne Reed in cold blood and then fired his gun to make it look like self-defense. Now, the good news for you is that I acquitted you on the murder charge and double jeopardy prevents you being charged again, in state court, anyway. However, the U.S. attorney might take an interest in charging you with depriving your client of his civil rights. The Justice Department takes that sort of thing so seriously they’re still trying to solve murders of black people in Mississippi back in the 1960s. What do you think they’ll do with a murder of a black man by his white lawyer from last year?”

Alex’s head was buzzing with questions. Where had the photo come from? How had the judge gotten his hands on it? Who could have taken it? There were no answers that made any sense. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile in her throat back into her stomach. If the photo was real, she was dead. If it wasn’t, she was just as dead unless she could prove it was phony. Since she couldn’t accept that it was real, she counterattacked.

“Nothing, because the photo is a fake,” she said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who Photoshopped it or where you got it or how, but it’s a fake.”

“Are you saying that’s not the way it happened?”

“I’m saying it’s a fake and we both know it.”

She slipped the photograph back into the envelope and threw it on the floor. Judge West bent down and picked it up, grunting with the effort.

“Well, now, that’ll be for the jury to decide if it comes to that. And I don’t know any lawyer whose career can survive two trials for killing the same man, even if she’s acquitted both times.”

Neither did Alex, though she wouldn’t admit it. One of the lessons she’d learned in courtroom combat was to counterpunch when the prosecution thought they had the upper hand. It was the same lesson her mother had taught her when she was a little girl-never let them see you sweat, even if you’re about to pee your pants.

“And I don’t know of any judge who could explain how he tried to sucker the U.S. attorney into a bogus prosecution with a bullshit piece of evidence like this. I thought you were too smart for that, but if you’re not, be my guest. I won’t be bullied and I won’t be blackmailed.”

West grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Alex. You’re always ready for a fight, even if it’s the wrong one, and that’s enough to get most people to back off. But I’m not most people. If and when this photograph lands on the U.S. attorney’s desk, my fingerprints won’t be on it, but yours will be.”