Untitled (3 page)

  Bathers looked at the dark wood by the dead man's hand. "That's not a damned gun," said Bathers.

  "I only had a second," said Vic.

  "It was clean," said Lenny.

  "Take these two into federal custody," Bathers instructed an FBI agent. The agent took the young cop's gun and escorted him and his partner away.

  "This is bullshit," said Vic. "He had a gun."

  "Wait," said Bathers to the officers. "Did he say anything to you. Anything at all?"

  "No. He just turned with that thing in his hand," said Lenny.

  Bathers looked at the sidewalk. A crowd of officers were on the street now. An ambulance rolled slowly toward the scene.

  Bathers's face registered shock for a second, then he grabbed his radio and began to yell into it. "This is Bathers, secure the auditorium! You hear me, get every available man and lock that damned place down!"

At Masonic Temple, the tight line of security had been broken during the chase. Crowds of people stood around buzzing with fear and excitement. The media groups made the circuit, greedily lapping up anything they could get on tape.

  As the law enforcement team came back in numbers to secure the building, a man ambled casually onto the street out of a back entrance, made his way to a parked car, and drove away unnoticed.

M
arshall Jackson was not happy to be in jail. He nervously paced the narrow confines of the little cell, cursing under his breath. He had far better things to do than be here.

  Jail was unforgiving, he thought. It fed off the freedom of men, and did so without remorse or humanity. He believed this, even though he was not a hardened criminal, but an assistant United States attorney.

  Marshall was in jail for contempt of court. Judge Clark Langworthy's decision to sanction him was hasty, and occasioned by very unjudgelike anger over the cross-examination of a witness. Judge Langworthy had asked several questions of the witness, interrupting Marshall's momentum. Marshall took verbal exception to this, and the judge shipped him off to the holding cell.

  Marshall loosened his tie and sat his tall frame down on the old bench that was the holding cell's only furniture. He was the cell's only occupant. In fact, he was all alone in the wing. The regular criminals awaiting court dates were in another area. This area was reserved for special guests of the government and victims of evil judges.

  He heard footsteps coming his way. The holding cells were just off a long hallway. The hallway was dark at his end but illuminated by a light at the other. Soon, Marshall saw the elongated shadows of people coming his way.

  "About goddamn time," Marshall said in a low voice. He'd been locked up for over a half hour. More than enough time to learn his supposed lesson. The judge had obviously surmised that and sent a court officer to let him go.

  Marshall stood up and put on his suit jacket. He walked to the cell door, and was surprised to see Judge Langworthy himself approaching the cell. A large bailiff followed Langworthy, dwarfing the judge.

  Langworthy was a short, squat man of sixty-eight. He was appointed by Jimmy Carter and in the ensuing years had become the chief judge of the district. He was a noted liberal, which made him a fierce opponent of the government. He stopped at Marshall's cell door.

  "You picked a bad day to mess with me, Mr. Jackson," said Langworthy.

  "With all due respect, Judge," said Marshall, "if you're looking for an apology, you've come to the wrong man."

  "This I know." Langworthy gestured to the bailiff, who opened the cell door. "I guess I should have said
we
picked a bad day. There is a situation that makes both of our egos unimportant today."

  Marshall stepped out of the cell. "What situation?"

  "I've been told not to say right now, but the building has been closed, and we are told to conclude our case. You and brother counsel will do your closings, and I will send the jury out."

  Langworthy turned and left abruptly. Marshall looked at the bailiff, who just shrugged. Marshall walked toward the exits, not knowing what awaited him in the courtroom upstairs.

Marshall waited patiently for his opponent to finish his summation in court. Langworthy sat and watched dispassionately.

  The gallery had been cleared. Before Marshall had been jailed, it was about half filled, mostly with ATF officers and the families of the victim.

  The defendant, Lewis Quince, had allegedly shot and wounded an ATF officer while transporting illegal guns. Quince had a reputation as an important gun dealer who serviced an illegal drug clientele. He had a long and violent history on the street and was apparently the man to see if you wanted any weapon, from the Saturday Night Special to an illegal assault rifle.

  Marshall wondered how many young black kids were dead because of Quince's enterprising nature. So many times a gun would be recovered at a murder scene and there was no way to trace it. If they could follow the trail, they'd probably find Quince. The ATF had been after him for a while but so far had never gotten this close.

  Quince had made incriminating statements to officers. Statements that he alleged were elicited by a beating. After all the motions to suppress, evidentiary hearings, and yelling, Langworthy had played Solomon and thrown out roughly half of Quince's statement.

  The defense attorney, Ivan Stahl, was a veteran defense lawyer. He was fifty or so and looked like a saintly priest. Marshall had tangled with him before, and he was always formidable. Stahl's strategy had been to trash the government, making the actions of the ATF agents and federal prosecutors seem suspect.

  Stahl finished his closing. Marshall rose and faced the jury. Marshall, a tall and good-looking man, was always an imposing figure in court. He walked across the courtroom gracefully, making sure that he passed by his opponent, whom he looked at with mild disgust so the jury could see.

  "I'm sure you've all heard the expression: 'Don't make a federal case out of this.' It means don't make a big deal out of something. Federal cases have always been those that are more important to the nation than ordinary state matters. But what separates a regular, garden-variety crime from a federal one? Well, we do, ladies and gentlemen. Only those crimes that affect the peace and security of the entire nation become federal cases like the one you are sitting on. And we give the government its power in making that determination."

  Marshall moved closer to the jury. Most people thought the government was mysterious and distant. It always helped to put a face on it.

  He quickly went back through the facts of the case. He told how Quince had been surprised by the officers, and how he had wounded one in the chest. He laid out all of the evidence and danced around the fact that the gun had never been found. But he knew these things didn't win cases. Juries were always swayed by strong, familiar emotion, no matter where it came from.

  "My opponent has taken great pains to bash the government in this case," said Marshall. "He says that we forced a confession, manufactured evidence, and tried to railroad his client into prison. Isn't it funny how people always try to get us to distrust our government? They want to exploit our belief that something is wrong with the government, that it doesn't work anymore. Well, that is a lie, people. The government isn't perfect, but it does work."

  Marshall moved even closer to the jury. He was making eye contact with them. His stare was intense, unwavering. He'd practiced it for a long time.

  "Not long ago, a black man couldn't even become a lawyer legally. More recently, I would have had to enter this building through the back entrance, if at all. But now I stand here before you, an attorney, with the power of the United States federal government at my side." Marshall lowered his voice, as if telling some great secret. "We made this possible. We did it because this is our government and it does work." In his normal tone, he said: "This defendant shot one of our federal guardians, a man with a wife and family whose duty was to protect you and me from the violence assisted by men like Lewis Quince. And now, it's our job to get him. So, let's do it. Then we can all go home."

  Marshall walked back to his table confidently. He noticed Stahl had a pissed-off look on his face. Marshall knew why he was angry. He hadn't played the race card, but he had shown it. He'd used his race to get the jury emotionally invested. Now, they all felt better about themselves and the government because a black man had the right to be a federal prosecutor. If the government could overcome prejudice, then maybe it
did w
ork.

  Stahl was upset and Langworthy didn't seem to like it either, but Marshall didn't care. Race was a powerful theme in American life. It was one of the few things about which everyone had strong emotion. Race had worked against him many times, so he would be damned if he wouldn't use it to work for him.

  Langworthy charged the jury. Marshall sat uncomfortably. He had argued bitterly with Langworthy about the jury instructions. Langworthy had taken every opportunity to give instructions that would make it easier to presume government misconduct and result in an acquittal. Langworthy abhorred police brutality and government coercion and Marshall was paying for it.

  When Langworthy finished, the jury was led out of the courtroom. Quince was taken away. Now the waiting would begin. Marshall walked over to Stahl and politely shook his hand.

  "Nice closing, Marshall," said Stahl. "I wasn't aware that government misconduct had been vitiated by civil rights."

  "It was in all the papers," said Marshall with a smile.

  "Langworthy should have kept you locked up."

  "Sorry, but you know we don't like it when one of our ATF officers catches a bullet. The gloves come off."

  "How about a deal?" asked Stahl. "My guy says he can give you some of his clients. One of which I'm sure you'll be interested in—your brother, Moses."

  Marshall recoiled at the mention of his brother's name. He hadn't thought about him in months. He remembered the line from the movie
The Ten Commandments
when pharaoh forbade anyone to speak the name.

  "I don't know how you feel about that," said Stahl. "But if it was my damned brother, I'd jump at it."

  "Okay," said Marshall. "Quince does fifteen to twentyfive on the charge, and he gives me a list of all his clients, and he testifies against them."

  "Shit," said Stahl. "How about we just shove a shank into his heart right now. You know he can't do that."

  "That's what I thought. Then we can each sweat out this verdict." Marshall closed his briefcase. "So, do you know why Langworthy decided to spring me? He said something about a 'situation.' "

  "He wouldn't say," said Stahl, "but I do know there's been some kind of shooting. The building was cleared and several cases adjourned. Unfortunately for us, we were close to finishing."

  "Excuse me, everyone," said Langworthy. "I'm letting the jury go with instructions to finish their deliberations tomorrow."

  Marshall was about to object. He felt that a quick deliberation would mean a guilty verdict.

  "This morning, Supreme Court Justice Farrel Douglas was assassinated," said Langworthy. "He was shot at the commencement program for Wayne Law. The city is on alert, and a manhunt for the killer is under way. I will inform counsel when the jury reaches a verdict." Langworthy got up and walked to his chambers.

  Marshall was stunned. He just stood there for a moment, looking at the federal court seal. Then he saw Stahl hurrying from the courtroom and shook himself back into reality. Marshall gathered his things and walked into the antiseptic hallway of the federal courthouse. Normally, the building was busy, filled with lawyers and court staff, but now the halls were empty. Marshall's footsteps echoed as he walked toward the elevators.