The King of Torts (7 page)

On Day 45, he was examined by a physician. His weight was a healthy 138. His skin was clear of “… abrasions and lesions.” There were notes about his progress in learning to read, and his interest in art. As the days passed, the notes became much shorter. Life
inside D Camp was simple and grew to be mundane. Some days passed with no entries at all.

The entry on Day 80 was different: “He realizes he needs spiritual guidance from above to stay clean. He can’t do it alone. Says he wants to stay in D Camp forever.”

Day 100: “We celebrated the hundredth day with brownies and ice cream. Tequila made a short speech. He cried. He was awarded a two-hour pass.”

Day 104: “Two-hour pass. He left, returned in twenty minutes with a popsicle.”

Day 107: “Sent to the post office, gone almost an hour, returned.”

Day 110: “Two-hour pass, returned, no problem.”

The final entry was Day 115: “Two-hour pass, no return.”

Noland was watching as they neared the end of the file. “Any questions?” he asked, as if they had consumed enough of his time.

“It’s pretty sad,” Clay said, closing the file with a deep breath. He had lots of questions but none that Noland could, or would, answer.

“In a world of misery, Mr. Carter, this indeed is one of the saddest. I am rarely moved to tears, but Tequila has made me cry.” Noland was rising to his feet. “Would you like to copy anything?” The meeting was over.

“Maybe later,” Clay said. They thanked him for his time and followed him to the reception area.

In the car, Rodney fastened his seat belt and glanced
around the neighborhood. Very calmly he said, “Okay, pal, we got us a new friend.”

Clay was watching the fuel gauge and hoping there was enough gas to get back to the office. “What kinda friend?”

“See that burgundy Jeep down there, half a block, other side of the street?”

Clay looked and said, “So what?”

“There’s a black dude behind the wheel, big guy, wearing a Redskins cap, I think. He’s watching us.”

Clay strained and could barely see the shape of a driver, race and cap indistinguishable to him. “How do you know he’s watching us?”

“He was on Lamont Street when we were there, I saw him twice, both times easing by, looking at us but not looking. When we parked here to go in, I saw the Jeep three blocks back that way. Now he’s over there.”

“How do you know it’s the same Jeep?”

“Burgundy’s an odd color. See that dent in the front fender, right side?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Same Jeep, no doubt about it. Let’s go that way, get a closer look.”

Clay pulled onto the street and drove past the burgundy Jeep. A newspaper flew up in front of the driver. Rodney scribbled down the license plate number.

“Why would anyone follow us?” Clay asked.

“Drugs. Always drugs. Maybe Tequila was dealing. Maybe the kid he killed had some nasty friends. Who knows?”

“I’d like to find out.”

“Let’s not dig too deep right now. You drive, and I’ll watch our rear.”

They headed south along Puerto Rico Avenue for thirty minutes and stopped at a gas station near the Anacostia River. Rodney watched every car as Clay pumped fuel. “The tail’s off,” Rodney said when they were moving again. “Let’s go to the office.”

“Why would they stop following us?” Clay asked. He would have believed any explanation.

“I’m not sure,” Rodney said, still checking his side mirror. “Could be that they were only curious as to whether we went to D Camp. Or maybe they know that we saw them. Just watch your tail for a while.”

“This is great. I’ve never been followed before.”

“Just pray they don’t decide to catch you.”

______

JERMAINE VANCE shared an office with another unseasoned lawyer who happened to be out at the moment, so Clay was offered his vacant chair. They compared notes on their most recent murder defendants.

Jermaine’s client was a twenty-four-year-old career criminal named Washad Porter, who, unlike Tequila, had a long and frightening history of violence. As a member of D.C.’s largest gang, Washad had been severely wounded twice in gun battles and had been convicted once of attempted murder. Seven of his twenty-four years had been spent behind bars. He had shown little interest in getting cleaned up; the only attempt at rehab had been in prison and had been clearly unsuccessful. He was accused of shooting two people
four days before the Ramón Pumphrey killing. One of the two was killed instantly, the other was barely clinging to life.

Washad had spent six months at Clean Streets, locked down and evidently surviving the rigorous program there. Jermaine had talked to the counselor, and the conversation was very similar to the one Clay had had with Talmadge X. Washad had cleaned up, was a model patient, was in good health, and gathering self-esteem every day. The only bump in the road had been an episode early on when he sneaked out, got stoned, but came back and begged for forgiveness. Then he went almost four months with virtually no problems.

He was released from Clean Streets in April, and the next day he shot two men with a stolen gun. His victims appeared to have been selected at random. The first was a produce deliveryman going about his business near Walter Reed Hospital. There were words, then some pushing and shoving, then four shots to the head, and Washad was seen running away. The deliveryman was still in a coma. An hour later, six blocks away, Washad used his last two bullets on a petty drug dealer with whom he had a history. He was tackled by friends of the dealer who, instead of killing him themselves, held him for the police.

Jermaine had talked to Washad once, very briefly, in the courtroom during his initial appearance. “He was in denial,” Jermaine said. “Had this blank look on his face and kept telling me that he couldn’t believe he’d shot anybody. He said that was the old Washad, not the new one.”

   CHAPTER 7   

Clay could think of only one other occasion in the past four years on which he called, or tried to call, Bennett the Bulldozer. That effort had ended dismally when he’d been unable to penetrate the layers of importance surrounding the great man. Mr. BVH wanted folks to think he spent his time “on the job,” which for him meant out among the earth-moving machinery where he could direct matters and smell up close the unlimited potential of Northern Virginia. In the family’s home there were large photos of him “on the job,” wearing his own custom-made and monogrammed hard hat, pointing here and there as land got leveled and more malls and shopping centers got built. He said he was too busy for idle chatter and claimed to hate telephones, yet always had a supply nearby to take care of business.

Truth was, Bennett played a lot of golf, and played it badly, according to the father of one of Clay’s law
school classmates. Rebecca had let it slip more than once that her father played at least four rounds a week at Potomac, and his secret dream was to win the club championship.

Mr. Van Horn was a man of action with no patience for life behind a desk. He spent little time there, he claimed. The pit bull who answered “BVH Group” reluctantly agreed to forward Clay on to another secretary deeper inside the company. “Development” the second girl said rudely, as if the company had unlimited divisions. It took at least five minutes to get Bennett’s personal secretary on the phone. “He’s out of the office,” she said.

“How can I reach him?” Clay asked.

“He’s on the job.”

“Yes, I figured that. How can I reach him?”

“Leave a number and I’ll put it with the rest of his messages,” she said.

“Oh thank you,” Clay said, and left his office number.

Thirty minutes later Bennett returned the call. He sounded indoors, perhaps in the Men’s Lounge at the Potomac Country Club, double Scotch in hand, big cigar, a game of gin rummy in progress with the boys. “Clay, how in the world are you?” he asked, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

“Fine, Mr. Van Horn, and you?”

“Great. Enjoyed dinner last night.” Clay heard no roaring diesel engines in the background, no blasting.

“Oh yes, it was really nice. Always a pleasure,” Clay lied.

“What can I do for you, son?”

“Well, I want you to understand that I really appreciate your efforts to get me that job down in Richmond. I didn’t expect it, and you were very kind to intervene like that.” A pause as Clay swallowed hard. “But truthfully, Mr. Van Horn, I don’t see a move to Richmond in the near future. I’ve always lived in D.C. and this is home.”

Clay had many reasons to reject the offer. Staying in D.C. was mid-list. The overwhelming motive was to avoid having his life planned by Bennett Van Horn and getting locked into his debt.

“You can’t be serious,” Van Horn said.

“Yes, I’m very serious. Thanks, but no thanks.” The last thing Clay planned to do was to take any crap off this jerk. He loved the telephone at these moments; such a wonderful equalizer.

“A big mistake, son,” Van Horn said. “You just don’t see the big picture, do you?”

“Maybe I don’t. But I’m not so sure you do either.”

“You have a lot of pride, Clay, I like that. But you’re also very wet behind the ears. You gotta learn that life is a game of favors, and when someone tries to help you, then you take the favor. One day maybe you’ll get the chance to repay it. You’re making a mistake, here, Clay, one that I’m afraid could have serious consequences.”

“What kinds of consequences?”

“This could really affect your future.”

“Well, it’s my future, not yours. I’ll pick the next job, and the one after that. Right now I’m happy where I am.”

“How can you be happy defending criminals all day long? I just don’t get it.”

This was not a new conversation, and, if it followed the usual course, things would deteriorate quickly. “I believe you’ve asked that question before. Let’s not go there.”

“We’re talking about a huge increase in salary, Clay. More money, better work, you’ll be spending your time with solid folks, not a bunch of street punks. Wake up, boy!” There were voices in the background. Wherever Bennett was, he was playing for an audience.

Clay gritted his teeth and let the “boy” pass. “I’m not going to argue, Mr. Van Horn. I called to say no.”

“You’d better reconsider.”

“I’ve already reconsidered. No thanks.”

“You’re a loser, Clay, you know that. I’ve known it for some time. This just reaffirms it. You’re turning down a promising job so you can stay in a rut and work for minimum wage. You have no ambition, no guts, no vision.”

“Last night I was a hard worker—had broad shoulders, lots of talent, and I was as sharp as a tack.”

“I take it back. You’re a loser.”

“And I was well educated and even handsome.”

“I was lying. You’re a loser.”

Clay hung up first. He slammed the phone down with a smile, quite proud that he had so irritated the great Bennett Van Horn. He’d held his ground and sent a clear message that he would not be shoved around by those people.

He would deal with Rebecca later, and it would not be pleasant.

__________

CLAY’S THIRD and final visit to D Camp was more dramatic than the first two. With Jermaine in the front seat and Rodney in the back, Clay followed a D.C. police car and parked again directly in front of the building. Two cops, both young and black and bored with subpoena work, negotiated their entrance. Within minutes they were in the midst of a tense confrontation with Talmadge X, Noland, and another counselor, a hothead named Samuel.

Partially because he had the only white face in the crowd, but primarily because he was the lawyer who’d obtained the subpoena, the three counselors focused their wrath on Clay. He could not have cared less. He would never see these people again.

“You saw the file, man!” Noland yelled at Clay.

“I saw the file that you wanted me to see,” Clay shot back. “Now I get the rest of it.”

“What’re you talking about?” Talmadge X asked.

“I want everything here with Tequila’s name written on it.”

“You can’t do that.”

Clay turned to the cop holding the papers and said, “Would you please read the subpoena?”

The cop held it high for all to see, and read: “All files pertaining to the admission, medical evaluation, medical treatment, substance abatement, substance abuse counseling, rehabilitation, and discharge of Tequila
Watson. As ordered by the Honorable F. Floyd Sackman, D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division.”

“When did he sign it?” Samuel asked.

“’Bout three hours ago.”

“We showed you everything,” Noland said to Clay.

“I doubt that. I can tell when a file has been rearranged.”

“Much too neat,” Jermaine added helpfully, finally.

“We ain’t fighting,” said the larger of the two cops, leaving little doubt that a good fight would be welcome. “Where do we start?”

“His medical evaluations are confidential,” Samuel said. “The doctor-patient privilege, I believe.”

It was an excellent point, but slightly off the mark. “The doctor’s files are confidential,” Clay explained. “But not the patient’s. I have a release and waiver signed by Tequila Watson allowing me to see all of his files, including the medicals.”

They began in a windowless room with mismatched filing cabinets lining the walls. After a few minutes, Talmadge X and Samuel disappeared and the tension began to ease. The cops pulled up chairs and accepted the coffee offered by the receptionist. She did not offer any to the gentlemen from the Office of the Public Defender.

After an hour of digging, nothing useful had been found. Clay and Jermaine left Rodney to continue the search. They had more cops to meet.

The raid on Clean Streets was very similar. The two lawyers marched into the front office with two policemen behind them. The Director was dragged out of a
meeting. As she read the subpoena she mumbled something about knowing Judge Sackman and dealing with him later. She was very irritated, but the document spoke for itself. The same language—all files and papers relating to Washad Porter.

“This was not necessary,” she said to Clay. “We always cooperate with attorneys.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Jermaine said. Indeed, Clean Streets had a reputation for contesting even the most benign requests from OPD.