Джон Гришэм - Rogue Lawyer

I play for sympathy and touch slightly on the issue of insanity. I ask the jury for a not-guilty verdict, or, in the alternative, manslaughter. When I return to the defense table, Tadeo has moved his chair as far away from mine as possible.

Judge Fabineau instructs the jurors, and they retire at 3:00 p.m.

The waiting begins. I ask a bailiff if Tadeo can visit with his family in the courtroom while the jury is out. He confers with his colleagues and then reluctantly agrees. Tadeo steps through the bar and takes a seat on the front bench. His mother, a sister, and some nieces and nephews gather around him and everybody has a good cry. Mrs. Zapate has not physically touched her son in many months and she can’t keep her hands off him.

I leave the courtroom, find Partner, and head for a coffee bar down the street.

32.

At 5:15, the jurors file back into the courtroom, and there is not a single smile among them. The foreman hands the verdict to a bailiff, who hands it to the judge. She reads it, very slowly, and asks the defendant to please stand. I stand with him. She clears her throat and reads, “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Sean King.”

Tadeo utters a soft groan and drops his head. Someone in the Zapate clan gasps from the back row. We sit down as the judge polls the jurors. One by one, all guilty, unanimous. She congratulates them on a fine job, tells them their checks for jury duty will be in the mail, and dismisses them. When they’re gone, she sets deadlines for posttrial motions and such, and gives a date a month from now for sentencing. I scribble this down and ignore my client. He ignores me right back as he wipes his eyes. Bailiffs surround him and slap on handcuffs. He leaves without a word.

As the courtroom thins out, the Zapate family makes a slow exit. Miguel has his arm around his mother, who is distraught. Once they’re outside in the hallway, and within clear view of some reporters and TV cameras, three cops in suits grab Miguel and tell him he’s under arrest.

Obstruction of justice, bribery, and jury tampering. Suarez was indeed wearing a wire.

33.

Since I lost, I avoid the reporters. My phone is buzzing, so I turn it off. Partner and I go to a dark bar to lick our wounds. I knock back almost an entire pint of ale before either of us speaks. He starts with “Say, Boss, how close did you come to bribing Suarez?”

“I thought about it.”

“I know you did. I could tell.”

“But something wasn’t right. Plus, Mancini was playing it straight, not cheating. When the good guys start cheating, then I have no choice. But Mancini didn’t have to. We tried a clean case, which is unusual.”

I finish the pint and order another. Partner has had two sips of his. Miss Luella frowns on drinking and will say something if she smells it.

“What happens to Miguel?” he asks.

“Looks like he’ll be spending time with his brother.”

“You gonna defend him?”

“Hell no. I’m sick of the Zapate boys.”

“You think he’ll sing about Link’s thugs?”

“I doubt it. He’s in enough trouble as it is. A couple of murders won’t help him much.”

We order a basket of fries and call it dinner.

After we leave the bar, I keep the van and drop Partner off at his apartment. It’s Monday and Naomi is busy grading tests. “Make sure Starcher gets an A,” I tell her. “Always,” she says. I need to be loved but she can’t play tonight. I finally go home, and the place feels cold and lonely. I change into jeans and walk down to The Rack, where I drink beer, smoke a cigar, and shoot eight ball for two hours, all alone. At ten I check my phone. Every Zapate in town is looking for me: mother, an aunt, a sister, and Tadeo and Miguel from jail. Seems they need me now. I’m fed up with these people, but I know they’re not going away.

Two reporters are calling. Mancini wants to have a drink. Why, I have no idea.

And there is a voice mail from Arch Swanger. Condolences on the big loss. How in hell?

I need to leave town. At midnight, I load the van with some clothes, the golf clubs, and half a case of small-batch bourbon. I flip a coin, head north, and last for two hours before I almost fall asleep. I stop at a budget motel and pay forty bucks for one night. I’ll be on a golf course, somewhere, by noon, all alone.

This time I’m not sure I’m going back.

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