David Ellis - The Wrong Man

“Maybe,” I said.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “Well, how about this, Counsel: This case has received several continuances, and I don’t want another. Mr. Childress has undoubtedly prepared this case for trial, and the parties are prepared to try this matter on the scheduled date. If your entry into this matter requires a continuance, keeping in mind that Mr. Childress is perfectly capable of staying on as lead counsel, I will have to think very hard about your motion. Now,” he said, leaning forward, “does that change your answer?”

“No,” I said.

The judge blinked. He didn’t like my response. A defendant’s right to counsel of his choice is sacred in the law. It transcends virtually all other rights. It is not without limits, but a judge runs very close to that word he dreads the most- reversal, an appeals court overturning his ruling-when he tells a criminal defendant he can’t have his chosen lawyer.

The judge had been trying to box me in, and I’d called his bluff.

After a moment, a twinkle appeared in his eye and one side of his mouth moved. Judge Nash loved the artistry of the courtroom. He respected someone who was willing to play the chess game.

“I’d like to hear from the defendant,” said the judge.

Tom Stoller was seated in the holding pen to our right, staring at the corner of the courtroom, seemingly oblivious to all of us. A guard had to walk over and get him to stand up. He was wearing a canary-yellow jumpsuit befitting an inmate in solitary lockup pending trial.

“Mr. Stoller, do you understand that the purpose of the proceeding today is that Mr. Kolarich is seeking to become your lawyer instead of Mr. Childress?”

Tom wouldn’t look at the judge and kept up with the same tics, the tongue popping in and out of his mouth and the wiggly fingers, even though his hands were cuffed in front of him. “Okay,” he said.

“You understand that, sir?” The judge’s tone had softened. He liked beating up on us lawyers, but an individual defendant got kinder, gentler treatment. Plus the courts of appeals in this state were big fans of the Sixth Amendment, and no judge wanted to be viewed as denying someone the counsel of their choice.

“Yeah.”

“And this is something you agree with, Mr. Stoller? You want Mr. Kolarich to be your lawyer?”

Tom’s eyes bored into the floor. “Okay.”

“Well, I want it to be more than ‘okay,’ Mr. Stoller. This isn’t my request. This is your request. You want to change lawyers? Because Mr. Childress here is a fine, experienced attorney who has handled your case for some time. And the law firm that’s going to hire him can wait for him, if you’d prefer to keep him.”

“Okay,” Tom said.

The judge sat back in his chair, exasperated. “Mr. Kolarich also is an excellent attorney. He’s appeared before me many times, and I have no qualms about his abilities. But he’s coming into this trial very late. I’m not sure your case is that complicated, but he’s still late. And I want you to understand, I am going to be very reluctant to move your trial date. So before you choose, you need to understand that. Now,” he said, “do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.”

I was pretty sure Tom was having a different conversation inside his head right now.

“Who do you want as your lawyer, Mr. Stoller?”

Tom looked at both of us. Then he pointed at me. “Him,” he said.

“You are indicating Mr. Kolarich?”

“Okay.”

The judge took a deep breath. “Even though he’s only going to have about six weeks to get ready for this trial? I am very unlikely to move this trial date.”

“I don’t wanna,” Tom mumbled.

“Say that again, Mr. Stoller?”

“I don’t wanna move it. I want this over.”

The judge studied Tom for a moment, concern arching his eyebrows.

“May I be heard, Judge?” I asked.

“You may.”

“My client doesn’t want a continuance, Judge. But I very well may. My client is mentally ill, and I think he should take my advice. So far, he hasn’t. I’m not prepared to move for a continuance at this time, but I may do so.”

“You’ll carry a heavy burden,” Judge Nash warned me. He granted the motion allowing me in as lead counsel and called the next case.

I looked back at Deidre Maley-Aunt Deidre-who was watching her nephew walk out of the courtroom, tears brimming in her eyes. When he was gone, she turned her eyes to me.

Thank you, she mouthed to me, showing a bit more hope in that expression than I’d previously seen.

I sincerely hoped that it was warranted.

Don’t ask me why I do the things I do.

The part about being at Vic’s until closing-that part’s easy. The vodka helps me sleep. And I don’t like drinking alone, even if I don’t know anyone else in the bar.

The part about the girl, though. That’s the don’t-ask-me-why part.

I watched her for three hours at the end of the bar. Came in alone about ten, maybe ten-thirty. Thin and dirty-blond and pretty. But not like a Barbie doll. Petite face, slightly crooked nose, but a look about her more than anything. Like she’s seen a lot.

Character, they call it. That’s what I like, a face with character. I don’t trust Barbie dolls. I prefer women who don’t realize how attractive they are.

Ten-thirty, we’ll call it, she came in. Kept to herself. Looked my way once or twice, but that was due more to the fact that we were opposite bookends of the wraparound bar, so I was directly in her line of sight.

She wasn’t the problem. The yuppies and middle-aged burnouts in their work costumes, talking big and making their moves, they weren’t the problem, either.

The two guys in the corner booth, they were the problem. Swarthy Italians with thick manes of hair and even thicker necks.

They sent over the first drink to the lady at about midnight, when the population had dwindled from thirty to single digits. A glass of pinot. She turned and smiled and looked away before she could see the two men in the corner, raising their glasses of scotch to her in response.

The second drink came at half past midnight, when there was a finger’s worth remaining in her glass. She said something to the bartender that I couldn’t make out. Maybe that’s because I was on my fourth vodka, but the volume of her voice seemed to match her petite build.

The bartender personally delivered the next round of scotch to the goons in the corner, and his voice was a little stronger than the lady’s.

“She said thanks, guys, but she’s not in the mood for company tonight. She said no offense.”

“Ho!” cried one of the Italians, wounded.

The peppy adult-contemporary music had changed to soft, boozy jazz. Cologne still lingered in the bar. I was getting tired and figured I could sleep well now, but something told me to stick around.

Besides, I could use the exercise. In the week-plus since I’d entered Tom Stoller’s case, I’d gone through all the evidence the prosecution had turned over and everything that Bryan Childress and the public defender had gathered on Tom’s behalf. I’d spoken again, with little success, to Tom himself. I didn’t get much out of him besides the meal plan for that day and the temperature of his room. I hadn’t gone for a run for nine days straight, and our recent mid-October ice storm hadn’t helped matters any. Either way, the lack of exercise had left my muscles itchy.

The woman fiddled with her smart phone for a moment. She didn’t seem like the smart-phone type. Not the aggressive, corporate sort, this one, not if I was reading her correctly. But what did I know? All I could really figure was that she was nursing some sort of wound, and she could hold her liquor. Counting how she started plus the ones courtesy of the Sicilians, that made six wines, which would tip me more than four Stolis.