The Last Plea Bargain (16 page)

35

Mace James spent the next three days fielding collect calls from his new client. Milton County gave prisoners liberal phone privileges, and Caleb Tate took advantage of the freedom.

Mace's cell phone would ring, showing the jail's number. He would answer to an automated operator that explained this was a collect call, what the rate would be, and that the call might be recorded. Mace would accept the call and inform anyone who was listening that this was an attorney-client conversation and that all monitoring devices must be turned off immediately.

Even with those precautions, Caleb seemed reluctant to share much information. The attorneys at his firm were pulling together the collateral to secure the three-million-dollar bond, Caleb said. He spent much of his time complaining about banks who had been all too eager to take his money when times were good but were not willing to lend money now. There was no equity in Caleb's mansion. His firm's equity lines were all tapped out. Some of his friends were putting together a “Caleb Tate Defense Fund.” Mace started wondering whether his ten-thousand-dollar retainer had been way too low.

“I may be in here through the weekend before we can get together the bond money,” Tate said. “And I'm going nuts.”

On Saturday, four days after Tate's incarceration, Mace went to visit his client.

The jail was a large brick building located on the outskirts of Alpharetta, a few blocks from the courthouse. It had a small concrete yard in the back, surrounded by shiny barbed wire. The place was always overcrowded. The inmates stayed together in pods based loosely on the types of crimes they had been charged with and their perceived level of danger to the guards and each other.

The facility, completed in 2002, was state-of-the-art. The guards sat behind bulletproof glass in a control room of sorts overlooking the pods. The inmates' cells opened into a small common area with bolted-down tables and televisions mounted high on the walls. Each pod was separated from the others by thick steel doors. In the event of a riot, individual pods could be isolated and the fights easily contained. The guards could activate tear gas or sprinklers in the pods by remote control.

The inmates spent an hour together during an afternoon recess, which was when gang alliances were cemented and new fish and outcasts were bloodied up. Mace had never served time in Milton County, but he knew the typical jailhouse routine and had the scars to prove it. Even in an environment like Milton County, which was a far cry from the state pen where hard-core felons served real time, a white-collar guy like Caleb Tate could be easy prey for other prisoners.

But Caleb Tate had a secret weapon every inmate desired—the know-how to exploit loopholes in the legal system.

Any worries about whether Tate would survive his time without being victimized were alleviated when Mace met with him in the private attorney conference room on Saturday morning.

“There are basically three gangs running this place,” Tate explained. He looked pale and haggard, his body swallowed by the orange jumpsuit. “My firm is now representing two of the gang leaders. I've promised to personally handle their cases when I get out. I talked one of my buddies at another firm into representing the third one.”

“How's your roommate?” Mace asked.

Caleb made a face. “Burned out. Brains fried on meth. Snores like a freight train.”

The two men discussed what Caleb had learned about the evidence presented to the grand jury. Mace didn't yet have a transcript, but Caleb had his sources.

“It all comes down to Rafael Rivera,” Tate explained. Mace could read the hatred in Caleb's eyes. “Former client. Told the prosecutors that he provided me with drugs.”

“Is he serving time here?”

Caleb lowered his voice though it was just the two of them in the conference room. “Nope. They transferred him to Gwinnett County—at his request. With good reason. The boys here don't like snitches.”

Mace wasn't too worried about Rivera's testimony. A three-time felon—how much credibility could he possibly have?

“When do you think you'll get the bond money together?” Mace asked.

Caleb waved the question off with a flick of his wrist. “Early next week. I've settled down, and I'm making good use of my time.” He placed his forearms on the table and hunched forward, closer to Mace. “You ever hear of the prisoner's dilemma? You ever teach that in law school?”

“The prisoner's dilemma?”

“Yeah. It's what greases the system. The idea is that you take two co-conspirators, and the police interrogate them in separate rooms. The cops tell each suspect that if he confesses and testifies against the other, they'll cut him a deal. One year in prison. But if he doesn't deal quickly and the other suspect beats him to the punch, the other guy gets the one-year deal. The noncooperating suspect could be looking at trial and ten years if convicted.

“Now, both suspects know that if neither one of them squeals, neither one of them goes to jail. But if you don't squeal and the other guy does, you're looking at ten long years. What do you think happens?”

“They both try to cut the deal. There's no honor among thieves.”

“Exactly. And that's how most of the crimes in our country get solved. You know what percentage of cases plead out in Milton County?”

Mace hadn't given the idea a moment's thought, but he knew Milton wasn't much different from other jurisdictions. “Probably 90 percent or so.”

“Ninety-four percent.” Caleb's voice took on a conspiratorial whisper. “What do you think would happen if the defendants all got together and decided none of them would plea-bargain anymore? What do you think
that
would do to the system?”

Mace didn't like where this was headed. “It would overwhelm the system. Chaos.”

“Exactly,” Caleb said, tapping his finger on the table. “The prosecutors would be swamped. Public defenders would drown. The state's already cut everybody's budget. Every defendant could ask for a speedy trial and then scream on appeal because they got ineffective assistance. The system would be backlogged for years. If every single prisoner in this jail right now insisted on full trial rights, the prosecutors would have to let half of them out because they couldn't try everyone fast enough to fulfill their constitutional right to a speedy trial. The other half would have great issues to bring up on appeal. Heck, government workers and teachers have unionized. Why not felons?”

Caleb leaned back in his chair, pride beaming from his thin face. Mace knew jail had a way of playing with your mind. Confinement created paranoia and conspiracy buffs. But Mace couldn't tell if this was just typical jailhouse bluster or something Caleb could actually orchestrate.

“Now, of course, this could only work if all the prisoners played along. And the prosecutors would probably start offering up some sweet deals to break the logjam. So you'd have to have all the gang leaders on the same page and ready to punish anyone who cut a deal. And that would require—hypothetically speaking, here—somebody to quarterback the whole thing. Somebody the gang leaders trusted. Of course, since these rival gang leaders hate each other so much, it could never happen. But if it did, just think how much it would help us. Because I'm taking my case to trial no matter what. And it wouldn't hurt if the prosecutors were busier than one-armed paperhangers with all the other prisoners who suddenly decided to quit plea-bargaining.”

Caleb Tate sat there for a moment with a look on his face that really worried Mace. Either the man was losing it or the plan was already in place.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Mace said, his uneasiness about the case expanding. “Any plan like that would require some pretty serious enforcement. You don't need to be tied in with any of that.”

“You're right. That's why I'm just speaking hypothetically. But it sure would be fun to watch.”

36

On Tuesday, I felt like I was reliving my first day in the DA's office, doing something I had never done before.

I found myself in court with twelve case files, each one a guilty plea of some type or another. None of the cases were mine. But I was there because Rafael Rivera would be sentenced that day, a bargain that had been worked out by Masterson himself. I was also covering for one of my friends who had handled my cases while I was grieving for my dad.

I knew I didn't exactly have to bring my A game to court for plea bargains. My job was to simply explain the charges to the court, inform the judge that the defendant had pleaded guilty, and recommend a sentence. Theoretically, the court could either accept or reject the sentence, but in reality, the court almost always went along with a recommendation jointly proposed by the prosecutor and the defense attorney.

Because Rafael Rivera was being held in another jurisdiction to keep him away from Milton County's inmates, his case was up first.

I thought Masterson had been too easy on Rivera, and I assumed that was why Masterson didn't appear in court himself—he didn't want to get stigmatized with this deal during his campaign. Nevertheless, I was grateful that the boss had taken Rivera off my plate. Masterson had struck a deal I would never have agreed to, but at least now we could move forward with the Tate prosecution.

Judge Harold Brown was a tall, thin man who had been sitting on the Superior Court bench for as long as I could remember. He'd been a distance runner in college and still prided himself on being in shape at sixty. He was prompt and efficient except when he hauled you back into his chambers and got started with his stories. Brown was the type of judge who made the judicial system click—he didn't favor either the prosecutors or the defendants, and he made sure every rule and procedure was followed punctiliously.

He took the bench, welcomed the public defender and me, and asked the deputies to bring in the defendant. While Rivera shuffled to his seat, shackled at his wrists and ankles, Judge Brown took off his watch and large college ring and placed them in front of him. It was one of his little idiosyncrasies that meant he was ready to get down to business.

When I explained that we were dropping the charge of possession with intent to distribute and that Rivera would plead guilty to the lesser offense of possession of cocaine, Brown raised an eyebrow. He had been around long enough to recognize a sweet deal when he saw one. I looked down and read the rest of my notes so I didn't have to look the judge in the eye when I explained the recommended sentence. Brown, like everyone else on the Superior Court bench, knew my policy on plea bargains.

“The state recommends that Mr. Rivera be sentenced to five years in prison, with all but sixty days suspended, including time served, conditioned on Mr. Rivera's continued cooperation in other cases where he is providing valuable information and testimony. We also recommend that Mr. Rivera be placed on supervised probation for ten years.”

After I detailed the recommended terms for probation, Judge Brown had Rivera stand and took him through a litany of questions to ensure that the plea was voluntary. Rivera mumbled all of the correct answers, and Brown decided to end the festivities with a well-deserved lecture.

“You're getting a good deal, Mr. Rivera, and you ought to consider yourself lucky. But I will tell you this, son . . .”

I couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Rivera, who was bristling at being called “son.”

“. . . you'd better keep your nose clean and do everything the prosecutors ask you to do. Because if you come back in this courtroom having violated your probation or having failed to fully cooperate with every single thing they ask—” Brown let the words hang there for a moment, though Rivera didn't seem cowed by the court's threat—“I'll give you every day of the five years that will be hanging over your head. And I won't show you one drop of mercy on any new charges. Is that clear?”

Rivera mumbled something I couldn't hear.

“Speak up, son,” Judge Brown said. “The court can't hear you when you mumble.”

Rivera stared at the judge for a moment, contempt dripping from his sneer. “Yeah,
Your Honor
, I get it.”

“Very good. Then the court accepts the recommendation of counsel and sentences the defendant to five years with all but sixty days suspended on the conditions cited earlier by Ms. Brock. The court also sentences the defendant to ten years of supervised probation on the terms recited by Ms. Brock.”

A few minutes later, Rivera shuffled out of the courtroom. On the way, he gave me a menacing look over his shoulder. I hadn't expected him to be grateful, but I wondered again if we were doing the right thing.

I had no time to dwell on it, because the assembly line continued. A new public defender stepped to the defense table, and a defendant named Lucious Hazlett was brought in by the deputies. Hazlett had been charged with aggravated assault and battery for cutting his girlfriend's face during a domestic dispute.

Hazlett had agreed to plead guilty and save the state the trouble of trying him in exchange for a reduced sentence recommendation. There were some notes in the file, explaining that we were accepting the plea because the girlfriend was living with Hazlett again and there were “proof problems.” I knew the implications of this euphemism. We could always compel the girlfriend to testify, but we couldn't keep her from shading the testimony to make the whole event look more accidental than intentional.

I explained the proposed plea agreement, and Judge Brown kept his raised eyebrows to himself this time. He had seen hundreds of cases where a boyfriend or girlfriend or husband or wife went to the police and swore out charges but later tried to back out. My colleagues would usually plead the cases out.

“Do you understand the nature of the charges against you and that you have a right to plead not guilty?” Brown asked.

“Yeah,” Hazlett said.

“By pleading guilty, you understand that you waive the right to a trial by jury and to be confronted by the witnesses against you?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you satisfied with your counsel's representation in this matter?”

“Not really.”

“Do you understand—?” Brown stopped in the middle of the next sentence. It had taken a moment for Hazlett's response to register. “Did you just say ‘not really'?”

“Yeah.”

Brown frowned at the answer. Sometimes guilty pleas blew up because the defendants were too stupid to give the right answers. Maybe this was one of them. Brown decided to give Hazlett some help.

“You do understand that I can't accept your guilty plea unless you're satisfied with the services provided by your lawyer,” Brown said. He sounded like he was coaching a five-year-old. “Otherwise, you could claim ineffective assistance of counsel and argue on appeal that the deal isn't valid.”

Hazlett shrugged his shoulders. The issue of his own freedom was apparently not that interesting to him.

“So let me ask you again. Are you satisfied with the assistance of your counsel?”

This time, Hazlett turned to his lawyer and snorted. “This dude doesn't even know my name. See that pile of paper in front of him, Judge? All he wants to do is get to the bottom of those files so he can go have a beer with his buddies and get home to his woman. If the DA's office wanted to give me the needle, he'd cut a deal for that, too! When I told him I wanted to fight the charges, I thought he might pee his pants. So no, I ain't happy with my counsel. I think the state of Georgia got screwed if they're paying this guy more than twenty bucks for handling my case.”

Judge Brown's face reddened. “Are you through?”

“Pretty much.”

“Good. Then we're going to do two things. First, I'm going to allow your lawyer to withdraw, and we'll find you a new lawyer. And second, I'm going to reject this plea, and the DA is going to pursue this case against you and ask for the full sentence allowed by law. Is that clear, Ms. Brock?”

I stood. “Crystal clear.”

The court talked logistics with the public defender for a few minutes. Hazlett smirked as he was escorted out of the courtroom.

When the next two defendants sabotaged their plea agreements too, I knew something was up. It was rare to have even one guilty plea fall apart. But three in a row defied any random explanation. For some reason, the defendants had all decided to take their chances at trial. I had never seen or heard of this happening before. The public defenders started whispering to each other, and the court clerk sat up straighter and took note. Since all twelve of the defendants had been in the same holding cell waiting for court, I assumed one of them was dissatisfied with his plea and was strong-willed enough to talk the others into rejecting their pleas too. Hazlett was the most likely candidate.

When the fifth straight defendant rejected his plea, Judge Brown ran out of patience. He dispensed with all the preliminaries on the next guy.

“Is it your intention to accept or reject this plea that has been worked out?” he asked the defendant even before I could explain the basics of the deal.

The startled defendant stood. “I'm having second thoughts, Judge.” The man stared at the floor as if he was ashamed to be doing this.

“Next!” Brown said.

The surprises were not yet finished. The ninth defendant of the morning, a young man named Ricky Powell, had agreed to plead guilty to first-degree vehicular homicide. He had two prior DUIs, and this time his drunk driving had resulted in a buddy's death. Powell was appropriately repentant and had agreed to plead guilty for only a slight reduction in sentence.

“Are you going to take this guilty plea that's been negotiated by your counsel, or is it your intention to squirm your way out of the deal too?” Judge Brown asked.

Powell trembled as he stood. “No, Judge. I did what they charged me with, and I'll never forgive myself. I still want to take the deal.”

The clerk stopped typing, and even the court reporter seemed surprised by this. A guilty plea that might actually go through! I never thought I'd be so excited to see a criminal defendant get a deal.

Judge Brown asked the usual questions and threw in a couple more for good measure. Powell, to his credit, looked the judge in the eye and answered all of them correctly. I felt so sorry for the kid that I thought about knocking another year off his sentence out of sympathy.

Brown sentenced Powell to ten years in jail, suspending all but five, and the kid actually thanked the court. “I've learned my lesson, Your Honor. I can promise you that.”

“I certainly hope so,” Brown said.

I noticed the victim's family had shown up in court to hear Powell's sentence. My notes in the file indicated that they thought Powell was remorseful and were in full support of this deal.

But Powell was the only success story that day. After the other defendants had rejected their pleas, Judge Brown called the public defenders and me up for a bench conference.

“What's going on here?” he asked.

“I don't have the slightest idea,” I replied. “But I intend to find out.”

By the end of the day, the office was buzzing about what had happened in court that morning. It became a running joke. They told me I gave off anti-plea-bargaining vibes. They assured me they would never send me to court again on such a simple task. Even Bill Masterson got in on the action. He called me and said he would have to put in an emergency budget request for two new prosecutors if I ever handled plea bargains again.

The joking stopped on Wednesday afternoon. Ricky Powell was found dead in his pod at the Milton County jail. The inmates had somehow managed to shield him from the view of the security cameras while they sliced out his tongue. He bled to death before the guards knew what had happened.

Caleb Tate was not around to witness it. He had posted bond on Wednesday morning and was once again enjoying life on the outside looking in.