The Heavens May Fall (18 page)

Lila’s eyes grew large and her mouth opened in anticipation of responding, but nothing came out.

Boady turned another chair around and sat backward on it, facing Lila. “Ben Pruitt is an innocent man, which means that there’s a person wandering around out there who killed Jennavieve Pruitt. I suspect that the State isn’t looking too hard for that person. So we will.”

“If we can come up with anything important, we get it to Max and maybe have it presented to the grand jury, although that’s a long shot.”

“So you’ll just call up Max and say, ‘Hey, I got something for you’?”

Boady smiled. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I’m pretty sure he’ll take my call.”

“I thought that cops and defense attorneys hated each other.”

“Sometimes things can get ugly. I once had a cop follow me home after a hearing where the cross-examination got a little heated. But that’s the exception, not the rule. Max knows we all have a job to do.”

“How’d you and Max become such good friends anyway?”

Boady smiled at the memory. It had been so long ago, he hardly ever thought about it anymore. He folded his arm across the back of the chair and rested his chin.

“I was a public defender back then, handling felonies in Hennepin County. I had this client, Marvin Dent, a huge man with this enormous mane of matted hair and tattoos running up his neck. Just a mean sonofabitch all around. He’d been accused of beating another man with one of those mop wringers—you know, they attach to the inside of a bucket and have a handle . . .”

“Yeah, I used one back when I worked at McDonalds.”

“Right. Well I’d met with this guy once at my office, and the bottom line is that he was completely insane. I mean full-blown, untethered schizophrenic. He sat in our meeting and talked to people in the room who weren’t there. I explained to him what a Rule 20 evaluation was. I told him that he was likely suffering under the throes of his schizophrenia when he clobbered his buddy.”

“He hit his friend?”

“His only friend, which made it more likely that he was insane at the time. I told him my plan, and he continued to speak to the voices in his head. I should have paid more attention because he kept repeating that ‘he wasn’t going back’ and ‘I couldn’t make him go back.’ I thought it was just gibberish.”

“Prison?”

“Security hospital. Turns out he’d spent six years there and he was trying to tell me that he wouldn’t let anyone take him back there. So we get to court and I present a motion to have my client evaluated to see if he’s competent to stand trial. I barely get the words out and he jumps out of his chair and tackles me to the ground. I mean he was on me in a flash. Hands around my throat. Pounding my head into the floor. I thought he was going to crush my larynx.”

Lila’s eyes grew big as she listened to Boady’s story.

“The bailiff was a retired sheriff’s deputy. No match for my client. I started to black out. But then, from out of nowhere, Max Rupert comes flying in. He was a patrol officer back then, and he’d been in court, waiting for a hearing. He ripped that three-hundred-pound behemoth off me and pinned him to the ground using pressure points. Had his arm twisted in the air. Dent was screaming and swearing, but Max had him good. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“So Max kind of saved your life too?”

Boady nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I suppose he did. After that I demanded that he let me buy him a beer. We met to settle up and discovered that we had a lot in common, including a love of poker. We started a poker group and we’ve been friends ever since.”

“Have you ever gone against him before? Ever cross-examine him?”

“A few times. Smaller cases, early in both of our careers. Never in a murder case.”

Lila puzzled over a thought, maybe unsure how to ask the question that jabbed at her. Finally, she said, “What happens if you have to go after him, I mean really tear into him? Does that worry you?”

Boady considered the question, remembering a lecture he gave in his Legal Ethics class and said, “
Fiat justitia ruat caelum
.”

“Fiat what?”

“
Fiat justitia ruat caelum
. It means ‘let justice be done, though the heavens may fall.’”

Lila looked puzzled, so Boady explained. “You ever heard the story of the Scottsboro Boys?”

“It sounds familiar, but I can’t say I remember any details.”

Boady turned his chair around to get more comfortable, crossing one leg over another. “In 1931, these nine black teenaged boys were pulled out of a train boxcar and arrested for raping two white women in Alabama. The charge was a complete load of crap, but the case went forward anyway, as those kinds of cases usually did back then. All nine were found guilty, but those convictions were overturned by the US Supreme Court because of the shoddy defense given the boys.

“On retrial, the case was moved to the court of a judge named James Horton. He presided over a trial where the only question in most folk’s minds was whether the boys would get life in prison or the death penalty. The first defendant to have his trial before Judge Horton was a young man named Haywood Patterson. As expected, Patterson was found guilty by a jury of white men. The case was a sham and the evidence was completely unreliable, but that didn’t matter.

“After Patterson was found guilty, his attorney brought a motion for an acquittal notwithstanding the verdict, basically asking the judge to overrule the jury. It’s a standard motion that everyone, even the attorney, expected to be denied. But Judge Horton knew that the trial was a sham, that the evidence was cooked. And to everyone’s surprise, he acquitted Patterson.

“Well, Judge Horton lost his judgeship and a great many friends because of his decision. The press had a field day with him. The decision to acquit Patterson came at a great price for Horton. Years later, when asked if he would do anything differently, he said no, and his explanation was
Fiat justitia ruat caelum
—let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. If a person is ever presented with the choice, that person must always do what is right even though it may bring on great personal loss. So in answer to your question, if justice for my client demands that I tear into Max Rupert on a cross-examination, I’ll do what I have to do. I have no choice.”

Chapter 27

Boady Sanden slipped a toe into the pool at the St. Paul Athletic Club a few minutes before six in the morning. He was alone. He broke the glass surface of the water and slid in, bobbing in the water a few times, listening to the soft slurp of the ripples resonating through the empty room. Then he started with a breaststroke.

As he moved through the water, he contemplated the possibility of stepping foot back into a courtroom after six years away from that life.

He thought about his last appearance before a jury, the shaking in his hands, the pressure in his chest as he rose to deliver his last opening statement. He stood in front of that jury for three agonizing minutes before he could utter his first word. More than anything else, Boady feared sending another innocent man to prison.

Boady switched from the breaststroke to freestyle. Stroke—stroke—stroke—breath. He could still see Miguel Quinto’s face, the look of shock, maybe even betrayal, when the judge read the jury’s verdict of guilty. He remembered his own thoughts: “win some—lose some.” That’s not what he told Miguel, of course. He didn’t remember the exact words, but he was certain he’d done his best to exude confidence in the appeal, another lie. Boady knew he wouldn’t be handling the appeal. The family had run out of money just getting through the trial. He would pass the appeal on to the State Public Defender’s Office. Wash himself of this kid.

He turned to kick into another lap, and his feet didn’t reach the side of the pool. He’d turned too early. Stroke—breath, stroke—breath. He was out of rhythm.
Calm your breathing
, he thought.
Get your timing back
. Stroke—stroke—stroke—breath.

Miguel’s family had hired him too late—at least that’s what Boady told himself back then. Miguel had gone to the police and given a statement. That was a mistake. If only he hadn’t given a statement. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, right?

And the story he told the police . . . he should have simply confessed instead of making up such a whopper. It would have saved the family a lot of money. They wouldn’t have had to sell their hardware store to pay for Boady to defend him.

Turn. This time Boady was too close to the wall and his heels scraped against the side of the pool. Had he not tucked enough? He pushed off at a bad angle and had to work harder with his left-side stroke to pull himself back to his line.

Of course, the police weren’t going to believe Miguel’s lame story. He said that he went to his dealer to buy some pot, just a little to get him through finals week. He gets to the guy’s apartment and finds the door ajar. He eases the door open and sees Kevin Deavor, his dealer, lying dead on the floor, blood still draining from a hole in the man’s head. Does Miguel leave? Does he call the cops to report the homicide? No.

Miguel ransacks the place. He needed a little college money and, hey, if he finds some free pot along the way, all the better. He spreads his fingerprints and skin cells all over Deavor’s apartment. He leaves his shoeprints in blood swirling around the kitchen linoleum. And when he finds $5,800 in cash tucked under the dead man’s mattress, he keeps it neatly stacked in the same plastic baggie where Deavor put it, ready and waiting for when the cops would later search Miguel’s apartment.

The police would match the fingerprints in Deavor’s apartment to Miguel Quinto. They would find Deavor’s baggie of money in Miguel’s backpack. They would find Deavor’s fingerprints on the baggie. They would find Deavor’s blood on Miguel’s shoes. They would find everything except the .22 caliber gun that sent the bullet into Deavor’s brain.

And then Miguel Quinto’s heartbroken parents would take a loan against their hardware business in West St. Paul to pay for the great Boady Sanden to represent their son.

The day that Miguel’s verdict came down, Boady had a dinner to attend. He was being given an honor by the Warren E. Burger Inn of Court for his service and skills as a trial attorney. He remembered thinking that it would be nice to get an acquittal for Miguel Quinto that day in advance of the dinner. It would have been a perfect processional for his evening. He also remembered that he was concerned that the jury might keep him in court, waiting for their verdict, and cause him to be late to his dinner.

How many laps had it been? Twelve? Fourteen? Boady struggled to pull in oxygen, feeling as though he’d swum twenty laps, but he knew he hadn’t been in the water that long.

In the end, the jury came back in a timely fashion, so as not to ruin Boady’s dinner. They found Miguel guilty of killing Kevin Deavor. Boady would not be going to the event as the triumphant hero he’d hoped, but this was a dog of a case. He’d kept the jury out for a day and a half. That had to be something of a victory, although Miguel Quinto might not see it. He whispered encouragement into Miguel’s ear—lies about the good appeal they had—intending to buoy the young man, give him something to hope for as he grew acclimated to his new life in prison.

Boady went to his dinner. He received his honor with grace and just a touch of practiced humility. He looked out at that sea of judges and accomplished attorneys applauding him and smiled, proud of how far he’d come since his days with the public defender. He went home to Diana that night and slept soundly in his bed, not giving a second thought to Miguel Quinto.

Those second thoughts wouldn’t start for another three months.

The call came from the public defender handling Miguel’s appeal. When Boady heard who was waiting for him on the phone, his first thought went to the potential issues for appeal. It’s common for appellate attorneys to consult with trial attorneys to get their take on where issues may be hiding. He started flipping back in his mind to any problems he remembered from Miguel’s case. It had been a pretty clean case and nothing came immediately to mind. When he picked up the phone, the woman on the other end informed him that Miguel Quinto had been found dead in his cell. His throat had been cut. She thought Boady should know.

Boady’s hand smashed into the pool deck, sending a shudder of pain up his right arm. Boady curled his head to the left as his shoulder slammed into the side of the pool. He’d missed his turn—completely lost track of where he was in the water.

He let his body float to the surface, pain shooting up from his wrist. He inspected his shoulder and saw a slight abrasion. The air seemed thin and he gulped in deep breaths, holding the side of the pool like a scared child. He looked around and saw that he was no longer alone. A woman with a swimming cap peeled lazily in the farthest lane away. Another woman, older, probably in her late seventies, was getting ready to enter the lane next to him. Boady rolled over onto his back. He filled his lungs with air to make his body buoyant and kicked his legs, his arms floating limp at his sides. He took short, quick breaths, keeping his chest mostly inflated.

The news of Miguel’s death saddened Boady the way the death of a distant relative might. He had no real connection to the boy. He was the kid’s attorney, not part of the family. Would they expect their plumber or their mailman to break down and cry at a customer’s death? No, and why should Boady? He was hired to do a job, and he did it.

But now those second thoughts began to leak into his consciousness. Had he done all that he could have? He didn’t focus his energies on that case—not like he did when he handled his first murder case. But he didn’t need to be that focused anymore. He had experience.

Boady attended Miguel’s funeral, drawn there by those second thoughts. When Miguel’s mother thanked Boady for doing all he could for her son, Boady gave her his best look of empathy, but in his mind he thought,
This is what happens when you kill your drug dealer
.

Two months later, Boady got a call from Max Rupert. He thought Boady should know, before it hit the news. A recent drug raid turned up a .22 caliber revolver. Ballistics matched the gun to the bullet that killed Kevin Deavor. Phone-tower data placed a man named Robert Wallace at Deavor’s apartment just minutes before Deavor was murdered. Armed with this new evidence, they brought Wallace in for questioning. After a short interrogation, Wallace confessed to killing Kevin Deavor.