Special Circumstances (27 page)

He takes out a cigar.
“Probably,” he says.
CHAPTER 31
WHAT ELSE CAN YOU TELL ME, ROOSEVELT?
“We have been asked to prepare papers to have Mr. Russo declaredlegally dead.”
—charles stern. san francisco legal journal. tuesday, march 10.
Tuesday, March 10. We get to take a break from our trial preparationto attend to an equally depressing matter: Wendy’s custody hearing. Herex-husband, Andy, has filed papers to revise their custody agreement.Wendy and I wait outside divorce court at ten o’clock in the morning.We’re joined by her divorce attorney, Jerry Mills, a quiet, rationalman in his mid-fifties with a gray mustache. Wendy is nervous. Idon’t blame her. I haven’t been in this corridor in five years. Itbrings back some unpleasant memories. It was in this very corridorthat I gave up on my lame brained idea that I was better suited to havecustody of Grace. I’ll never forget the look of relief on Rosie’sface. It was the only time during our divorce that she allowed herselfto cry.
A moment later, we are joined by Wendy’s ex, Andy Schneider, ahigh-strung advertising executive in his late thirties withslicked-back hair, who is dressed in a flashy double-breasted suit anda loud designer tie. He is accompanied by his attorney, a fiftyishasshole named Craig Sherman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to arattlesnake.
In my experience, divorce attorneys come in two species. Most of themare rational people like Jerry, who act more as counselors thanadversaries. Some have a knack for defusing tense situations. Thereally good ones steer their clients toward counseling and sometimessalvage marriages.
Then there are people like Sherman, who relish the role of barracuda.He represents only men. He actually has a picture of a shark on hisbusiness cards. If you’re going to war with your ex-wife, he’s yourguy.
Sherman says, “You guys don’t think the judge is actually going tobelieve this crap that Wendy has her own law firm, do you? We’re goingto call in child-custody services to review this case.”
Nice guy.
Mills looks at him.
“We have an agreement, Craig. It’s been approved by the court. Itisn’t going to change.”
Sherman cracks his knuckles.
“Sure, Jerry,” he says.
“I’ve had this judge modify custody orders for a lot less than this.”
And you wonder why people hate lawyers. In reality, he’s probablybluffing. In California, custody orders can be modified only if thereis a significant change in circumstance. A change in one spouse’seconomic situation generally isn’t enough.
Wendy glares at Andy.
“You’re an asshole,” she says quietly.
“You aren’t fit to take care of a hamster, let alone a six-year-old.”
He tugs at his tie.
“At least I’ve got a job.”
I get between them and glance at my watch.
“It’s time for court,” I say calmly.
Andy winks. Wendy moves closer to Mills.
We turn toward the heavy double doors to the courtroom when Pete walksup, soaking wet.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says.
“I got hung up.”
Sherman looks at him.
“I didn’t realize we were going to have a family reunion.”
“Craig,” Pete says, “can I see you and Andy in private for a moment?”
Sherman throws up his hands.
“What the hell is this all about?”
“Thirty seconds,” Pete says.
“That’s all I need.”
“Humor him,” Andy says confidently.
Pete, Andy and Sherman walk down the hall about thirty feet. Petetakes out a manila envelope from under his jacket and hands it to Andy.They huddle. They argue. Sherman gesticulates wildly. Pete remainsstone-faced. A moment later, the arrogance leaves Andy’s face.
Wendy turns to me.
“What’s this all about?” she asks.
“Beats me.”
Five minutes later, Pete, Andy and Sherman return. Sherman looks atWendy, then he turns to Mills.
“Jerry,” he says, “we’ve decided not to pursue any changes in thecustody deal. We’re going to drop our motion.”
He looks at me and wags a menacing finger.
“You and your brother are both assholes.” He and Andy walk down thehall toward the elevators.
I turn to Pete, who arches his eyebrows. Wendy walks over and giveshim a hug.
He hugs her back uncomfortably.
“I don’t know what you gave them, Pete,” she says, “but it worked.”
Pete gives us a wicked grin and pulls out a stack of snapshots.
“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” he says.
“I took these last night and it took a little longer to get themdeveloped than I thought.”
He starts flipping through the pictures, the way little kids flipthrough baseball cards.
“Here’s Andy’s executive assistant, Karen.” It’s a picture of anattractive woman going into a large house in Pacific Heights.
“Here’s Andy going into the house. Here’s Andy taking off his clothes.Here’s Karen taking off her clothes.” He says, “The next few picturesare a little tough to see.”
He shuffles through them quickly.
“Here they are rolling around on the floor.”
Wendy is smiling.
“We get the idea, Pete,” she says.
Pete glances at me.
“You know,” he says, “it seems Karen is married to Andy’s boss.”
“I was not aware of that,” I say.
“I’d say we’re holding Andy’s career right here in the palm of myhand,” Pete says.
Jerry Mills is admiring. He asks Pete for a business card.
“You guys play in a different league,” he says.
Thursday, March 12. Four days before the start of jury selection.We’ve spent the last week interviewing witnesses, rehearsing my openingand working on juryselection strategy. The clock is ticking—and wedon’t have anything that will give us an acquittal.
The process of preparing for trial is far more of an art than ascience. You spend a lot of time honing your presentation. While thelaw professors and commentators like to talk about the pursuit ofjustice, when you cut to the chase, it’s all theater. In our MTVworld, you can’t just inform the jury; you have to entertain them and,if possible, dazzle them with special effects.
Unlike real theater, a trial attorney has to perform all the importantroles:
producer, director, lead actor, costume designer, special effectssupervisor, production accountant and, perhaps most importantly, foodprovider. We have created an impromptu “war room” in the narrowhallway just outside my office. Exhibit binders, easels, enlargedpictures, diagrams and charts are everywhere. It will take a minormiracle just to put everything in order for presentation at the trial.My biggest worry is that our stuff will get soaked as we lug it fromthe parking lot to the courtroom.
Rosie, Mort and I spend the day with our jury consultant, BarbaraChilds, who is considered an up-and-comer in a growing field. I’veworked with her on a couple of cases. She’s a little full of herself,but you have to be in her line of work. I take her suggestions with agrain of salt. We don’t have the time or the resources to do a fullmock trial.
At three in the afternoon, I walk past Wendy, who is poring over someS&G financial records at a table just outside Rosie’s office.
“Find anything we can use?” I ask.
“Nothing yet.” She looks at me.
“Where are you going? I would think you might have a few things to dotoday.”
“I thought I’d take the afternoon off,” I reply.
“You know—conserve my strength for trial.”
“Really, Mike. Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to take one more run at Roosevelt. Maybe he’s foundsomething that’ll help.”
I meet Roosevelt in the back of a cop bar not far from the Hall. Thecops and detectives respect each other’s private space here. The placeis run by a heavyset man named Phil Agnos. It’s sort of a crossbetween a saloon and a halfway house for Greek immigrants. Phil is theonly person permitted to handle the money. Every three weeks or so,there’s a new, large young man with a toothpick in his mouth standingat the grill. Since the only English words he ever knows are“cheeseburger” and “double,” your culinary options are somewhatlimited. I opt for a single cheeseburger today.
Roosevelt is sitting in the back room, nursing a cup of coffee andreading the paper. A picture of Joe DiMaggio hangs on the wall behindhim. He stands to greet me when I walk in.
“I was just reading about you in the paper,” he says.
“What are they saying now?”
“The usual. You’re spending all your time on a hopeless disinformationcampaign in a feeble attempt to find some technicality to get yourclient off. Typical stuff for a defense attorney.”
“I knew they’d get my number sooner or later.” I take a bite of mycheeseburger.
“Have you guys found anything else?”
He sips his coffee and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.
“Nothing I haven’t told you already. Skipper has poor Bill McNultyliving with two jury consultants. One of them told me Skipper haspracticed his opening in front of two different mock juries.”
“How are the test audiences playing?”
“Pretty well. For all his faults, the man has charisma.”
Indeed. Believe me, I know.
“What else can you tell me, Roosevelt? Anything else I can use?”
“Not a thing, Mike. You’re doing everything you’re supposed to bedoing. Once you got the confession knocked out, it turned into acircumstantial case. It isn’t an easy one.”
For either side.
He wipes his glasses and gazes at the Yankee Clipper.
“Why don’t you ask for more time? Your client isn’t rotting in jail atthe Hall. Why the hell are you rushing to trial?”
“He won’t listen to reason on that particular subject.”
“So I gather.”
“Any new leads on Vince Russo?”
“Nope. His story went cold at the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Pete thinks a cab driver may have picked him up and driven him to theairport,” I tell him.
“That’s more than we’ve found.”
Great. Just great.
Mort calls me at the office at five o’clock the same afternoon.
“I got a fax from the judge,” he says.
“And?”
“She ruled we can’t call Skipper as a witness at the trial.”
“No big surprise there, Mort.”
“Nope. I was surprised she didn’t rule against us on the spot.”
Four days until trial. On Monday, we start playing for keeps.
CHAPTER 32
OPENING CEREMONIES
“We are extremely confident.”
—michael daley. news center 4. monday, march 16 “I’m scared to death,Rosie,” I say.
“I haven’t been this nervous in a long time.” We’re driving towardRabbi Friedman’s house in a light rain on the morning of Monday, March16. El Ninyo’s giving us a small respite today, but the gray skiesfurther dampen my mood.
“First-day jitters,” she replies.
“You’re like a baseball pitcher. After you make it through the firstinning, you’ll be fine.” We pull into Rabbi Friedman’s driveway. Shegives me a peck on the cheek.
“Go get ‘em,” she says.
“Once the trial starts, there’s no looking back.”
The rabbi meets us at the door. He looks grim. Per my instructions,Joel and his dad are dressed in dark business suits, with white shirtsand subdued ties.
Joel’s mom and Naomi are wearing conservative clothes, no jewelry and aminimal amount of makeup.
I gather everyone in the dining room.
“I know we’ve gone over this,” I say, “but I want to remind you onemore time that trials are theater. It sounds paranoid, but you have toassume everything you say and do will be scrutinized by the jury. Iwant you to act normal, but be careful. An inappropriate gesture couldhave greater impact than you’d think.”
They listen attentively.
“Michael,” says Rabbi Friedman, “are we allowed to show any emotion?”
Tough call. Generally, histrionics don’t play well in the courtroom.They tend to distract the jury and irritate the judge.
“It won’t hurt to shake your head every once in a while. I don’t wantyou to draw unnecessary attention to yourselves. I want to keep thejury focused. And I don’t want the judge to think we’re trying todisrupt her courtroom. She’s very businesslike.”
Rosie looks at her watch.
“Time to go,” she says.
Joel and Naomi hold hands in the back of Rosie’s car as we drive to theHall. I can only imagine what’s going through their minds. As Rosiemakes a left onto Bryant, I turn around and face them. He’s stoic,almost serene. She’s tugging her hair.
“It’s going to be all right,” I say.
Joel is silent. Naomi says quietly, “I know.”
We pull into the pay lot next to McDonald’s. Joel’s parents take thespot next to us a moment later. They huddle under a large blackumbrella while Rosie and I pull our trial cases out of the trunk.
Even though it’s now raining steadily, reporters from all the localstations are waiting for us on the front steps of the Hall. The nerdyguy from CNN is here. The arrogant woman from Court TV who’s beencalling me an idiot for the last six weeks has left the comfort of herstudio to insult me in person. A dozen police officers form a humanbarricade for us. The cameras and reporters follow us. It starts torain harder. We’re pelted with questions and rain as we push our wayto the doors.
“Mr. Daley, is it true you’re discussing a plea bargain?”
“Mr. Daley, is your client going to take the stand?”
“Mr. Daley, is it true you’re going, to have a surprise witness?”
“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”
As we reach the door, I turn back and face the nearest camera. Channel7 will get the best footage tonight. Two dozen microphones are held upto my face.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “we are extremely confident Mr. Friedmanwill be fully exonerated of these outrageous charges.” I turn and walkinto the building. Reporters continue shouting questions to my back.
Mort is waiting for us inside. We make our way through the metaldetectors and up the elevators. Police mill around. Security istight. As I turn to open the heavy wooden doors to Judge Chen’scourtroom, I see Skipper’s smiling countenance as he strides forcefullytoward us, reporters nipping at his heels.
If he’s nervous, he isn’t showing it. It’s sound-bite time. I can’thear what he’s saying, but I’m sure he’s extolling the strength of hiscase and his faith in the criminal justice system. I catch his eye.It’s opening day. Let’s play the National Anthem and start the game.
The small, windowless courtroom is packed. The roar is deafening. Thehot, heavy air smells of mildew. Umbrellas and raincoats are strewnabout. McNulty and two law clerks lug in four trial bags. Skipper andMcNulty take their places at the prosecution table near the jury box.Joel sits between Rosie and me at the defense table and Mort sits atthe end. Mort has his game face on. He sits quietly, looking forwardintently. His eyes are moving constantly. He’s looking for any nuanceor advantage.
The gallery is full. Naomi and her in-laws are in the first row,directly behind us. Diana’s mother sits right behind Skipper. Thecourtroom artists have their sketch pads poised. Reporters andonlookers crowd into the remaining seats.
Judge Chen’s bailiff is an older black woman named Harriet Hill. Atprecisely ten o’clock, she instructs us to stand. The judge hurries toher tall leather chair on the bench and nods to Skipper, and then tome. Her hair is pulled back tightly. She calls for order. Thecourtroom becomes silent.