Chapter 8
When Sterling returns home, he goes immediately to the gym. The lights have been left on. The family should really know better, he thinks. He’ll have a word with Sara, obviously the culprit. Sterling is still undecided whether he will train for an hour. He tries his best never to skip training, however late in the day, however tired he is. Neither is the problem now; he’s pumped up with heated adrenaline. He is thinking about going upstairs to check in with Sara, for they must talk. He doesn’t need to. She is finishing up downstairs. The gym sparkles; without looking up she asks him to take out the two trash sacks to the curb for collection. When he comes back, she is heading upstairs.
“Hey, I’ll be up in an hour.”
“See you in the morning,” she replies.
He leaps toward her.
“Maybe we can talk. I need your advice.”
“Sterl, it’s been a long day. I’m really tired. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I guess.”
She kisses him on the cheek, sisterly and continues upstairs, leaving Sterling quite unsatisfied. He changes into his gym clothes and begins his routine, which will last an hour. The events of the day wish to play themselves in his mind; but he won’t let them. This is his time with boxing; he lets nothing interfere.
Sterling must get into shape and make weight for the Under-19, which are in mid-summer, with the preliminary rounds just days away. Welterweight for Under-19 is set at 152 pounds, an incredible two pounds short of the JOs, which he had barely met last year. The brainless officials who came up with this disparity have no idea how unbelievably difficult those last 32 ounces would be to lose. It’s not like all you need to do is cut out desserts and modify your water retention. Nevertheless, to move up to middleweight, 165 pounds, is ludicrous. The weight division is a veritable feed into the pros. This summer is Sterling’s last hurrah at boxing. In the previous several years he has advanced a few stages in the P.A.L.15-16 Championships and the Junior Olympics, but he has never got past the first bout at the regionals. As disappointing as these results are, they have provided a wake-up call. Most athletes would have quit, the message being that the level of competition has gone beyond their ability. Sterling believes this is not the case. Boxing like any sport requires a bit of luck. If Sterling had had easier opponents, he would have had better results. Indeed, he lost to one boy, Sam White, who had made it to the semis. He accepts the fact that it will take more than blind luck to move closer to the top, but he had once accomplished what no one (except his father) had said he could: win the Silvers six years earlier. He had been, for a brief moment, the best 105 pound 10-year-old boxer in the whole of the United States of America and, who knows, perhaps in the world. Then came the growth spurt that condemned him to forever towering over his opponents, giving them a bigger target. He has never kidded himself that his was an ability equal to his father’s, but he believes that he has still not done his best. When he does his best, win or lose, he’ll be ready to retire from the ring. By the end of the summer he’ll know whether boxing for him has reached its logical conclusion. For now he attacks the jump rope.
Showered and in his sweat bottoms, readying for bed, Sterling has Rube Goldberged the apartment. As a final step he now locks his bedroom door. He has already tied one end of a jump rope to the bed post and the other end around his ankle with a do-it-yourself Velcro lead, like the type used by surfers. If he’s figured right, even if he can find his door key, which he puts in a sealed envelope in the bottom drawer, he’ll trip in the hallway, before he can reach the kitchen for a somnambulistic gluttony. He’ll wake up and go back to bed. He has also locked the door to the kitchen and placed the key on the top ledge of the upper window, requiring a stool. Sterling figures that if he manages to free himself from the rope, he will still not be able to open the door. Even if he can remember where he’s put the key, he won’t remember where he’s put the stool (in the bathroom shower). Everyone in the Eumorfopoulos household, including Bucephalus the dog, a Boxer, of course, has been put on an overnight fasting regime.
The Sterling has been his family’s home for as far back as Sterling can remember. He assumed at an early age that all buildings were named Sterling and, after being informed of his error, then assumed that all homes were named after their firstborn sons. Eventually he figured out that not everyone enjoys such spacious accommodation. The family moved in as the hotel was being remodeled, long before Vegas gym was seriously contemplated and at about the time the upper floors of the structure were converted to offices. The first floor, which is now the family’s lodging, used to be a giant hallway with spacious rooms off one side. After conversion it became what Yankees call a railroad flat. At one end, where the elevator opens, is the family area. Several of the former hotel rooms have been dewalled and the area merged into a common space, off of which is the kitchen, the common lavatory and a series of rooms that extend off the long hallway. Proceeding down the hall you come to the first room, which is the master bedroom, a former deluxe suite that contains a sitting area, enclosed bedroom and bathroom en suite. Next to it is a former storage room, which was Sterling’s first bedroom, the one with thin walls. There are a dozen more rooms of various sizes, now serving as either storage space, work areas or guest rooms (Sara’s is one). At the end is another master suite, Sterling’s kingdom. He has not exactly booby trapped the hallway to prevent the feared midnight food run, but he has set in place a few chairs and tables, as obstacles to try to derail the hungry train.
The next morning his father, his mother and Sara each must step over Sterling on their way in and out of the kitchen. He is obliviously asleep on the floor, in a fetal position, in front of the kitchen. One end of the jump rope is still tied to his ankle; the other end appears to have been cut by a knife. The stool has been knocked over; the key to the kitchen door is in the lock. His mother throws a blanket over him so that if he rolls over onto his back he won’t embarrass himself (as if Sterling would ever embarrass himself). As the day begins for the others, he eventually wakes up. He orients himself and realizes what’s happened.
“It worked. I didn’t get to the kitchen.” He feels his shoulder, which seems sore.
“I might have slipped off the stool, though.”
“Lucky you didn’t break your neck,” Sara chides.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. That and some other stuff.”
“I have ten minutes before I have to take the bus to school.”
They head back to his room.
“Your father took your car? I need to borrow it to go to Chapel Hill.”
“I can’t help you.”
“I have to see a lawyer. I’m in a little trouble.”
“I figured that much. You want to tell me what it’s about? I asked your folks. They didn’t seem worried. They said ask you.”
“I do and I will, but after I see the lawyer. I’m not sure how much I can say.”
“Did you do something really awful?” Sara asks, quite seriously.
“No. Nothing more than a practical joke, really. But some things will come out. And I need to tell you before you hear it from anyone.”
“Fair enough.”
“I just can’t tell you now.”
“I don’t like playing games, Sterl.” she chides.
“It’s not a game. It’s serious. And we will talk about it tonight. Please Sara, just give me the day to sort some things out.”
“I have to catch the bus,” she says, counting out some change. She leaves.
“Tonight,” he says after her.
With some time to kill before his meeting in Chapel Hill, Sterling decides to get the day’s training out of the way. He is in the gym working combinations on the heavy bag which seems not to be moved one way or the other. In the mirror he sees someone at the door. It’s not just someone, it’s Brandon Buffeau, dressed ready to box. He has a set of gloves slung
over his shoulders.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks as if his appearance is an everyday occurrence.
Sterling is a bit startled. He responds with a boilerplate spiel.
“We’re not really open to the public in the mornings. There’s a club that meets in the evenings that my father works with. We have other activities including ladies aerobics, youth boxing, Thai kick boxing and some other stuff. There’s a schedule on the counter. Feel free to take one.”
Brandon approaches.
“You should have called first, Brandon. I’m sort of busy.”
“You don’t read your texts?”
Sterling, in fact, was thinking about deleting all the texts and voice mail he has received in the past 24 hours. Important ones could be resent, the rest ignored.
“You ready to spar?” he asks.
“I’m on a training routine. I’ll spar with my father tonight,” Sterling responds with a lack of warmth.
“I mean now. You fight from the orthodox?” he asks.
“I don’t. I’m southpaw.”
“Good. I need the practice.”
“You’re not warmed up. You need headgear.”
“I’m warmed up. I don’t use headgear.”
“Well, that’s a gym rule. No one in the ring without headgear. That’s the rules. You know, I don’t break rules.”
There is a standoff.
“You’re a real shit, Eumorglopoulos.” He says the name like its dirty leaving his mouth. He continues:
“You haven’t in your friggin’ life ever come across a rule you couldn’t break, avoid or bend. I know all about you. Now, quit being a pussy and get into the ring and show me what you have. You wearing a cup?”
“No, do I need one?,” he asks, taken aback.
Buffeau removes his own cup, tossing it on the floor and further ignores Sterling as he climbs into the ring and puts on the gloves. He does some stretches near the far turnbuckle. Sterling stands his ground. It’s apparent Buffeau won’t budge either.
“Can you give me a ride to Chapel Hill, when we’re done?” he asks.
“Make it before lacrosse,” is as close to a committal as Buffeau will give.
“It’s important. If not I have to stop early and hitch a ride.”
“Get in the ring, dopey. I’ll give you your friggin’ ride after I deck you.”
“Hey, amateur’s about points,” Sterling corrects him.
“A knock-out is better than points,” Buffeau re-corrects him.
Sterling climbs into the ring. He programs the timer bell for four two-minute rounds with one minute intervals. An unknown opponent. Sterling hates unknown opponents. He needs videos, information on strategy, shadow-boxing with the adversary. Even in the early rounds of the Silvers his father would always provide some scouting. The only think he knows about boxer Buffeau is that he is a class-A asshole. Whether he’ll fight like one remains to be seen. The electronic bell dings.
The fighters slowly walk to the center and tap gloves. Buffeau yells: “Box” and reinserts his mouthpiece.
Sterling holds the advantage in both weight and reach. Buffeau is right on the money at 152 pounds and he’s compact like Pandely, built like a champion. The boys move in to size one another up and each throws a few tentative punches to measure his opponent’s agility. For a punch to be counted in amateur scoring the white strip of the glove, placed across the knuckles, must land cleanly on the head or torso. Amateur boxing is not about showboating and knockouts. It’s about scoring points, as Sterling said. Each round is judged by the number of clean punches landed (which is where judgmental subjectivity rears its head). The boxer who scores the most points should be awarded the victory, if the referee and judges do their jobs properly. The best fighter may not win. This contest feels awkward to Sterling. It’s the first time in his life he has boxed without protection, above or below. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to imitating a professional.
Buffeau takes an orthodox stance, japing with his left. He’s very bouncy, a veritable pogo stick with his perfect, blow-dried hair lifting and falling like the wings of a dove. He’s opening himself up unnecessarily; this stops after Sterling gets off a clean, solid combination to the gut in the pogo’s downward motion. It’s apparent immediately to Sterling that Buffeau’s midsection is where he should attack. He fights his opponent in a very classic style, what he teaches the pee-wees. A few jabs followed by a left cross or straight left hand, commonly called the one-two. When you throw the two, you shift the body forward and put your shoulder behind it, then pivot on the foot like you’re putting out a cigarette. Thus at the end of punch you’re protecting your chin with the shoulder; and at the end of each punch, you turn the hand like opening a doornob and then bring it right back This is Boxing 101. Of course, Buffeau is no street brawler. He has learned the sweet science from someone, who knows whom, and appears to have received passing marks in Boxing 101. He uses the classic defense, which is called offence. As a right-hander, his left hand is his jabber. That’s his strong side, the one closer to the opponent. After he attacks with a (left) jab followed by a (right) cross, he steps off at a 35-45 degree angle so he can follow up with a combination. Stepping off allows him a new position, leaving Sterling where he can’t retaliate. You do this several times (if the opponent allows) by basically moving around the opponent, making it harder for him to retaliate. The two teenagers continue to test each other for the duration of the round. This dance could be videotaped as a demonstration of stand-still boxing, neither being aggressive enough to score additional points. It’s a lesson in defense and counter punching; one throws the punch and the other slips it and attempts to put himself in a better position to throw a counter punch. For each of them anything thrown with the straight right hand is followed up with a left hook and vice versa. They take a minute break, the bell pings again and they are back in center ring.
Some invisible trainer in their corners must have given the youths identical advice: stop pussy-footing around and show the jerk what you have. They come out of their corners aggressively and start throwing immediate punches. Buffeau gets a point with a combination that ends up successful because Sterling had lowered his guard. Sterling comes back with a series of punches to the gut, which he still reasons is Buffeau’s Achilles heal. Blondy may be buff but these superficial muscles represent tone not strength – just for show – and don’t offer much protection. The abs that so impress the Canuck’s groupies at school don’t hold up under Sterling’s hammer. Buffeau doesn’t like the attack; he gets a bit more ferocious and throws a few punches that seem almost wild. And he starts compacting his stance to prevent the lower blows. Sterling gets an opening. Having more ring savvy, he simply takes one of these wild punches to the forearm and counters with a upper right to the chin that lands Buffeau on the canvas. He’s dazed sufficiently so that a referee would call the fight. Buffeau rises, shakes off the punch and retrieves his mouthpiece. He has a cut lip.
“I slipped,” he explains.
Sterling shakes his head. A referee would call the match, probably either as a RSC-O or RSC-OS, meaning referee stopped contest, with notations for either Out-classed opponent or Out-scored opponent. Sterling doesn’t say this, though. That would be adding insult to injury.
“I’ll get you some ice for the lip. It’s a good workout. I’m tired. I gotta shower and you then can give me a ride to Chapel Hill. You want to shower upstairs?”
Buffeau is not really satisfied with the outcome, but he knows he’s been beaten, fair and square.
“I don’t have all day,” he responds.
Sterling, having quickly showered, wears a coat and tie. For once his hair is actually combed. Buffeau stands shirtless, having showered in the master bedroom. Sterling has tossed Buffeau a clean Tee-shirt, which Brandon tosses right back. He’s not about to wear one with a cutely smiling Sterling grinning on his abs. One suspects this
is a joke on Sterling’s part; if so Buffeau is not showing Sterling that they share a sense of humor. Sterling then gives him an XL P.A.L. shirt which Buffeau slips on.
This is the time the boys should be talking about the fight, complementing each other, comparing notes, reliving the experience. A sharing. They say nothing. It’s less an atmosphere of hostility than one of self-absorption that leads to ignoring the person next to you. They are on the same wave length. On their ten mile hop to Chapel Hill in the Shelby, the silence continues. Buffeau tries to find a station to his liking on the classic ’60s radio. Sterling is studying one of the subpoenas. Buffeau cannot avoid noticing. He offers no comment. He pulls up to the Law School on Ridge Road. In getting out of the car, Sterling is the only one to say anything.
“Thanks for the match and the lift.” Sterling does not say: “Let’s do it again.” Buffeau pulls off.
Say what you want about Carolina being just a party school with a few excellent athletic programs. Indeed, that’s often what Sterling himself has said, although he doesn’t say it to the people who are encouraging him to go for a Morehead-Cain scholarship: four years, fully paid, summers included. Academically, UNC is a more than fair school. On the best schools list of US News & World Report, Duke ranks 9th, Wake Forest 25th and UNC-Chapel Hill 30th. Among state-funded research and teaching universities only Michigan, Virginia and two in California – Berkeley and UCLA – rank higher. Sterling has taken a few AP courses here; he doesn’t mind the place.
The campus is not busy. Classes and exams ended Friday for the Maymester. The first summer session is well under way and will be wrapped up in a couple of weeks. Sterling makes his way into Van Hecke-Wettach Hall, a tongue twister of a name, which defies the mouth to repeat it ten times without error. Sterling takes the stairs and heads down a hall, past the offices of the First Amendment Law Review, which he considers a good omen. He arrives at an academic office with a name card beside the door: Professor Hunter O’Connor, Institute of Constitutional Law. This organization is not the Raleigh-based NC Institute for Constitutional Law, which is a 501(c)3 which Sterling greatly admires for its vigilance in keeping state lawmakers from using their taxing authority irresponsibility. As much as Sterling likes Dell and Google, he fully supports the NCICL’s assault on government incentives ($260 million handout to Google) given to these business by state politicians. He knocks on the door, hears a “come in” and does so.
The secretary is on the phone and motions for Sterling to take a seat. It’s not a very spacious office, for being an institute, Sterling reckons. Of course, institutes are a dime a dozen on campus, but still, it looks like there’s only a secretary and her boss, Mr. O’Connor, whose diplomas are on the wall. Very impressive: J.D. from Columbia and a S.J.D. from Harvard. Also, Certificate of Admission to the Bar of the Supreme Court of the United States as well as a certificate of good standing from the Supreme Court of North Carolina. The secretary gets off the phone.
“Hello, I’m here to see your boss. I’m Sterling Eumorfopoulos.”
“I am my own boss,” the lady says.
Aren’t we all, Sterling thinks. This woman, like most all females allowed onto the UNC campus is gorgeous, drop-dead gorgeous. Sterling wonders if the campus has some sort of screening process for the distaff component of the work force. Do they have to score high in the swimsuit competition? Maybe he could apply to be one of the judges. He could imagine this secretary in a two-piece. Actually he could imagine her without any pieces. Hey, Sterling chides himself, Behave! You cannot still be loyal to Sara and share a lust among others.
“Could you tell Professor O’Connor I’m here for my 3 o’clock?”
She checks the calendar.
“Yes, you are William Duke’s friend. I have had several conversations with the young Duke. Let’s go into the office.”
She motions for Sterling to proceed her, and he steps into the back office, which is a work in progress. A lot of projects are going on simultaneously and each is sparring for a few square feet of space. The lady, who is obviously Professor Hunter O’Connor herself, sits behind the desk and Sterling takes the empty chair. She asks to see his papers and he waits a few minutes while she reads over them, checking the calendar to reconfirm the day’s date.
“I’m glad you didn’t wait until the last minute, Mr. Eum…I’ll just call you Sterling, is that OK? You could have come here at nine tomorrow morning.” She smiles to lessen the seriousness of Sterling’s infraction.
Sterling has no response. He knows he’s not given her much time.
“Tomorrow’s affair, I think, is fairly simply. We’ll discuss the options. But the other subpoena, that’s much more serious and much more interesting, to me at least. There are some potential Constitutional issues and the only way I can help you is if Constitutional issues are involved. You see the name on the door. We’ve had some indications that the Assistant United States Attorney has a runaway grand jury on his hands. This seems to confirm it,” she says, dropping the federal subpoena onto the desk. She motions to it.
“They want you next week. It’s absolutely essential we talk with them beforehand. But that can wait for a moment. Tomorrow, the local grand jury, comes first. And there are two very painful items we must first cover. One is fees. Your friend, the young Duke – you know he’s come in here three times to see me, so I am pretty familiar with you, at least from his perspective. Your friend Mr. Duke wants to set up a legal defense fund. I can’t do that, first because it would obviously be a conflict of interest and second because I’m not so advanced with computer this-and-that.”
She waves her hands in feigned frustration. For the lawyer, in an institute the funds for which doesn’t at the moment even provide a secretary, she has to do her own typing. Computers are but a tool, one that she’d gladly place in the hands of others. She continues:
“But William tells me you have a friend who’s a computer consultant with A-list clients and that he can do this. So if you’d like, I can give him some general dos-and-don’ts over the phone. A legal defense fund would have to be up and running at the moment the grand jury issues its indictments.”
“I’ll be indicted?”
“We’ll talk about your options in a moment. But getting a legal defense fund ready, just in case, would not be a bad idea. Do you want me to talk to someone about this?”
Sterling has never thought he would actually be indicted. He is only desired as a witness. There are bigger fish to fry. But the lawyer is now suggesting that an indictment is forthcoming. That means a trial or at least a plea bargain. All this sounds complicated and will require money. He takes out his phone and calls Jeremiah. The number is blocked. It is clear Jeremiah doesn’t want any trail between him and Sterling.
“May I use your phone?” She nods and Sterling uses the land line.
“Jerry, I’m putting a lawyer on. If anyone is listening in, this is going to be a privileged conversation so you better get the fuck off the line.”
He hands the phone to Ms. O’Connor and apologizes for his swearing. She spends about ten minutes referring Jeremiah to several websites that can serve as models and provide some boilerplate language. He had been expecting her call, alerted by Billy in the wee hours of the morning. He has already built the site’s framework. She points out that he must make perfectly clear that this does not involve a charitable donation, that donations will not be tax deductible. She points him to several similar fund-raising attempts that say First Amendment rights are under attack. She notes that a neo-Nazi Holocaust denial website and an anti-Islam Muslim-baiting site are particularly good with reference to the Constitution, arguing that the right to say or show something nasty or vulgar or blatantly offensive to the average person is still protected. “The USA is not France or Germany,” is an especially effective phrase. She sends him also to several legal websites that focus on pornography cases involving free speech. Fi
nally, she tells him to keep the website clean and vague. “Less is more.” Links can be added as needed later. Don’t activate anything publicly until Sterling gives authorization, she says. She cups the receiver and says to Sterling: “That means, when your lawyer gives you the authority.”
She certainly seems to know her way around Legal Defense Funds, Sterling thinks. In fact she’s taken many trips down this road. She looks at Sterling to see if he has any questions.
“You said two painful things.”
“I need to know exactly what you did that has ruffled so many feathers. You have generated subpoenas from two separate grand juries. I asked William to show me the website or give me a link and he refused. He was on the verge of tears when he said it, so I didn’t press. You, however, don’t have the choice. It may be embarrassing…”
“It’s not embarrassing.” Sterling hands her a flash drive.
“Can I watch it now?” Sterling nods.
“How long is it?”
“Fifteen seconds. My fifteen seconds of fame,” he says, condensing Andy Warhol.
“And it’s still on the web?”
“It keeps cropping up but the boy you just talked to, he wrote a pixel recognition program to track the video any time it’s aired. People have downloaded it and they’ve tried to include it on DVD. Gay porn sites pick it. Anyway Jeremiah has his step-dad on retainer, and he sends out a “cease and desist order.” It’s quite effective.”
“And when did you make this recording?”
“It was shot March 2nd about 4:03 p.m. in a student dorm.”
She writes all this down on a legal pad and glances occasionally at the computer screen.
“And you put it on the web then?”
“I never put it on the web. I never intended it for public consumption. I swear to you. Someone else uploaded it. There’s a production company that gives an address at the end. I assume they distributed it.”
And do you know how many views it’s had?”
“Jeremiah has the exact stats. There were 325,403 views in the two days it was on YouTube before they took it off. They caught it because either it generated an unusual amount of traffic or someone complained to them as it violates their terms of service. Anyway, that’s probably 99% of all views.”
She removes the flash drive, returns it to Sterling and asks:
“Did you ever have any communication with YouTube over this?”
“No.”
“Or with the production company.”
“We had a contract.”
“I’ll need that.”
“I’ve scanned it. I can give you a copy. I have the original, of course.”
“Now your discussions with Mr. Miles, the DA. What transpired? See if you can recount word-for-word.”
She expects Sterling to explain the substance of their two meetings in a few sentences. Rather, Sterling being Sterling, he reports both meetings much as a court stenographer, repeating the speaker’s name and then what was said. Ms. O’Connor has never witnessed such a performance. He must be great at parlor tricks, remembering playing cards, or obscure dates in history, she figures.
As she listens Ms. O’Connor becomes especially interested in the history of the promise of immunity, who initiated it (the DA not Sterling). Had they indicated they had seen the video? How close did they come to telling him to “testify or else”? And how did they find out about Sterling in the first place? Someone turned him in, apparently. Had he a history with the district attorney? In Sterling’s explanation he then briefly relates the story of bikegate and his earlier encounter with Mrs. Abernathy.
By the end of the conversation which lasts nearly two hours, Ms. O’Connor feels that she has a reasonable take on the young man sitting in front of her. He is pretty literal-minded. Ask a narrow question, get a narrow response. Ask a broad question, get as narrow response as possible. He doesn’t volunteer information. Not such a bad witness to have on your side. Sterling seems honest with her, but then she had not explored the reasons behind his actions (either bikegate or Smiley Boy). Sterling’s response to the “why?” questions go unchallenged. He has told her he did the video on a lark, as a joke to share with friends or future lovers, just sort of a bêtise, a childish stupidity. It does not offend him; he doesn’t understand why others get so worked up about it.
“It’s only sex. Maybe I have a bit of artistic flair, but you know, Ms. O’Connor, I am hardly a ground-breaker. The internet is full of shit like this. Sorry, stuff like this. It just seems that my junk comes with a price tag,” he explains.
As for bikegate, according to the lawyer, the boy seems morally outraged by being treated the way he was by the police. No doubt he enjoys being on his high horse, she thinks. Curiously, he shows virtually no remorse over the reckless bicycling issues. He has no remorse about Smiley Boy, either. Combine all these factors and you get a remorseless crusader who can go the distance, just what’s needed in a Constitutional case.
Why Sterling shot the Smiley Boy video is a question worth his exploring with his parents, girl- or boyfriend, or a psychologist, the academic reckons. It is not important from the legal perspective, not at this point at least. O’Connor watched the 15 second video, discretely just this once as Sterling had answered her questions. Tempest in a teapot might be one way to describe it. Lewd, immature, bathroom humor and not something she’d want her nieces to watch, but something that would bring on Sodom and Gomorrah and turn you into a pillar of salt? Hardly. Yet Constitutional fires have often raged from a single spark. Well, she isn’t exactly sure how often the metaphor holds true, probably seldom. Certainly once or twice in the past two hundred plus years seemingly insignificant incidents have resulted in big changes in law. It’s part of a process in which the nation tries to come to grips with the meager 45 words of the first, and in her opinion foremost, of our Bill of Rights:
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Of those words five are at issue here, of which three are crucial: abridging, freedom and speech. They were not in the original document, The Constitution, our forefathers adopted and ratified. They were an afterthought that appeared in the form of an amendment several years later. Professor O’Connor, however, considers this 45-word afterthought to be arguably the most important sentence written in the history of humanity. She is eager to see it interpreted correctly. That’s her lot in life. The Sterling boy might be just the one who can light a spark under the butts of the nine old men and women who make the ultimate determination about what those words mean.
Ms. O’Connor knows that when courts confront morality issues the results are almost always less than desirable, and sometimes even less than comprehensible. Such court decisions are by necessity compromises; they breed big messes. The current thinking on defining pornography is different from the old “I know it when I see it” test, but that doesn’t mean the recent thinking is cleaner. The ruling which influences current law dates back to1973, when Sterling was minus 19, at which time the courts ruled on Miller v. California. Morals in America, however, have greatly changed – be it an advance or a decline is a matter of debate. The law for the past 35 or so years has hardly budged, despite all sorts of national social changes in sexual mores: the public’s acceptance of co-habitation between unmarried adults, the destigmatization of children born out of wedlock, a technology that allows fertilization in test tubes, the broad acceptance of homosexuality and abortion, Oprah, the recognition that sex for purchase should have no victims by the law, not to mention cable television and the internet, with their abundance of adult-themed content. The United States of the 21st Millennium is not the United States of 1973. In many regards, as Sterling points out, sex is no longer a big deal.
Miller v. California deemed a work “obscene” if it met three criteria: that “the work depicts/describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by applicable state law;” that it, “taken as a whole, lacked serious literary, artistic, political or scientific value;” and that “the average person, applying contemporary community standards would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest.” Hunter O’Connor believes that this three-strikes-and-you’re-out approach needs an update.
In her own mind Ms. O’Connor, the legal scholar, declines to judge Sterling’s video on the Miller criteria. The content of Smiley Boy hardly matters. It could be a skin head saying that all Jews are evil or a rightwing Christian saying all Muslims are evil. Or it could be a boy playing with his genitals. The content may offend some people; that’s a matter of taste. She is, however, an ambitious academic who would love to bring a case before the nation’s highest Court forcing it to revisit Miller v. California. Smiley Boy if it’s (mis)handled (im)properly by the grand juries may offer her that very opportunity. Furthermore, O’Connor knows that she is ambitious to a ruthless flaw, but she consciously does not want to exploit the boy; thus she must be very careful in any counsel she gives to Sterling to ensure that she is representing his, not her, best interests. The DA is under no dilemma, of course: he’s a political animal; that a randy teenager gets knocked down, dragged, even barbequed along the route to his political goal is of no concern to him. Ms. O’Connor, however, is so concerned about the conflict of interest issue, that almost two hours ago she decided that she could not represent Sterling per se. He needs, and well deserves, a totally independent attorney, who will guard his interests. O’Connor will work with Sterling as closely as possible in the future, but for the moment they have been sufficiently exposed to one another. To that purpose while listening to Sterling, she has texted her brother-in-law, who is also a lawyer, although not an outstanding legal mind. He has a big practice that handles petty criminals and Sterling has parked himself right up his alley. She calls in a favor forcing him (“you ever hear of pro bono, Stacy?”) to agree to help Sterling. Being bothered on a holiday weekend posed no problem for Stacy James, who preferred work to home, most any day of the year. After tomorrow Sterling will have to put him on the clock. But that’s tomorrow. They arrange to meet at the Carolina Club at 6 P.M. Sterling texts (for which he has a template) his significant others that he won’t be home for dinner.
Being a lawyer (having been a 1L actually) has taught O’Connor the skill to capsulate Sterling’s situation in the five minutes before drinks arrive (soda water for Sterling). Stacy James, the brother-in-law, listens in silence. When she’s finished presenting the facts of the case, Stacy says:
“It’s now about legal strategy. I’ll call you tomorrow, Hunter.”
They exchange a peck on the cheek and she leaves, handing Sterling her card, writing down her cell number. James drinks his shot of bourbon and motions for the waitress to bring him the bill.
“I’ll give you, son, the same advice I give to all my clients who have the misfortune to look down the barrel of a grand jury: do not testify. Let me rephrase that: do not fuckin’ testify. Appear, yes. After that you say only two words: Fifth Amendment. This is what your generation would call a no-brainer. Nothing positive for you – or just about anyone – can possibly be gained by your testifying before a grand jury,” James reiterates, while fumbling for a twenty to pay the bill.
“Immunity,” Sterling suggests.
“Hah! Don’t put the horse before the cart, boy”
“That’s cart before the horse, sir,” Sterling says in offering the correction.
“You don’t hear me, son. The horse is the grand jury. The cart is the indictment. Don’t put the goddamn horse before the cart. If there’s going to be an indictment, unmerited or whatever, there will be an indictment. This is the grand jury; they don’t need reasonable doubt, just probable cause. In this day and age most anything goes as probable cause. In the vast majority of cases the witness does himself little or no good if he testifies. And in many cases he harms himself by blabbering something he shouldn’t. Save yourself the trouble. Immunity is a prosecutorial trick.”
He motions to the waitress to repeat the shot.
“I’ve read up on this. I will testify, sir. There are principles at stake. Now, will you be my lawyer or not?”
James shakes his head. When he loses this little skirmish, he knows he’ll probably lose the war that undoubtedly will follow. Thus, he asks Sterling some additional questions about testifying: his willingness or unwillingness, under what conditions, etc. He generally probes his reasons for making the video, an area that Ms. O’Connor chose not to explore in depth. From the questions and their responses it becomes clear that Sterling takes some responsibility, and he clearly does not want his testimony to hurt those who were just innocent bystanders. “Who would they be?” James asks. There is the student director, Singh, and the actress Babette, and the student producer Raj, whom he signed a contract with. Sterling, to use the legalese, wants them held harmless. He’s not afraid to testify, but his testimony must not harm them, he says adamantly.
Yet, the lawyer explains, they have no way of knowing what’s up the DA’s sleeve. One of these alleged friends could have ratted on him. He will chat with Miles before the jury’s session. He and the DA know each other quite well, professionally and socially. They have been on the opposite sides of the aisle in numerous court rooms, too many to count. But they respect each other. Whoever loses a case, usually buys the drinks afterwards.
To hold the others harmless is a tall order, Mr. James continues. The pornographers are in a slightly different boat from Sterling and the Babette lady. It’s quite likely their lawyers have given them the same advice that James has given to Sterling: take care of yourself, let other’s take care of themselves and don’t expect them to help you, and any help you give them should be incidental to your primary task, which is to help yourself.
“That’s a bit selfish,” Sterling says.
“Then why don’t you offer to plead guilty to whatever charges they can dream up, and go to prison so everyone else can stay out. Is that what you want to do?” James demands, his patience wearing thin.
“No sir.”
James studies the boy. His response is sincere. All his responses have been sincere. He sighs.
Furthermore, he explains, whatever indictments that the grand jury hands down must be specific. They will not be blanket, in other words specific offenses for specific individuals. James explains that they are all drifting in the boat SS Pornography, but there’s a difference between being the captain and being the guy who mops the deck. The grand jury no doubt wants the big fish, the guy who’s putting up the financing. That’s probably the question that most interests them.
“You told Miles that you never met the big boss and you were never given his name. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s literally what I said.”
“You know what I mean,” says Miles, not eager to play footsie with this kid. Sterling hesitates.
“No one told me the big boss’s name. I told the DA that; that’s the god’s truth. But I heard names mentioned. I can speculate based on what I can piece together.
“That’s hearsay, no good in court. The grand jury, on the other hand, can use it. Yet another reason not to testify.”
“Between you and me, sir, I know the names of three men out of Georgia. I overheard the producer on the phone with his bookkeeper or accountant. I can recall the telephone number of one of the men,” he admits.
“Your memory is so good?” asks the attorney.
“Yes.”
“No doubt the DA figures numerous laws have been broken, even if he doesn’t know which ones. Think of the grand jury as a type of lynch mob, with the government shouting its hue and cry in order to gather the posse
. They’re after whoever is corrupting the morals of a minor.”
“That would be me?”
“No that’s not you. That’s everyone else but you. You are a young, immature teenager who is a victim here. Do you understand? I repeat, you are the victim.”
“Yes,” Sterling replies, without much conviction.
The lawyer continues:
“There are labor laws, concerning minimum age in the adult entertainment industry (You were 16 ½ when Smiley Boy was shot); there are laws about the use of state property (Smiley Boy was shot in a university owned residence hall); and there is a law that offers almost limitless possibilities: Section 14-190.9. Indecent exposure is a class 2 misdemeanor but they’re not going to register you as a sex offender, not in North Carolina for something like that. You can plead out as a juvenile and get a PJC. You know what that is?
“Prayer for Judgment Continued. I had one for bad bicycling. It would have been expunged by now.”
“You have some options. I can’t make up your mind for you.”
“One. Hand over the video, testify with immunity, no indictment. Two, don’t testify and possibly…possibly…be indicted on a class 2 misdemeanor which gets expunged some day. You would recommend the second, of course.”
“Of course.”
“If I go for the first option, but don’t give them the video?”
“I’ll have to talk to Miles. I don’t know what he’ll say. If you honestly don’t have the video, have lost it or something, I guess you can’t give it to them, can you? You understand I am not telling you to destroy evidence.”
“I understand,” says Sterling, by which he means he understands he should quickly destroy the evidence and thus solve the problem.
“Less risk with the second option, even if I’m indicted. Maybe a $500 fine,” he continues.
“If you get the right judge. Let me tell you, Sterling boy, about a client I once had. A young lad about your age, about my son’s age. A different case. Burglary, really small potatoes. Some one else had the weapon and hid it; my client knew where. He had similar options as you. And like you he was more worried about his mates than himself. He didn’t follow my advice and he took the risk. I presented a strong case to the judge. And for what? He got six months in juvie. You know what six months in juvie is like, son?”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I guess he got another lawyer.”
James studies his three empty shot glasses and mutters to himself: “Just what I need, another DUI.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hitch home, it’s not far.”
Fortunately for them both, Stacy James says he lives south of town in a gated community. Durham is not far off his route, he says, handing the boy the keys. A bargain struck, about the first thing they have agreed on.
In Sterling’s humble opinion his attorney’s BMW 750i is more comfortable than any car likely to give him a ride, mostly ones driven by voracious cougars or dirty ol’ men. For his part the attorney doesn’t mind the boy’s taking the wheel while he lowers his own blood alcohol level. Moreover, this defense attorney who sees the underbelly of society day in and day out is fairly opposed to young boys’ accepting rides from strangers, himself excluded naturally. But waking up in the morning to headlines about Sterling’s rape and murder, or his own DUI, would surely be more inconvenient. Finally, he would want someone to do the same for his own son, a kid as timid as Sterling is reckless.
It is on the way home that Mr. James learns of the boxing side of Sterling. James himself had boxed at East Carolina University where he did his undergraduate. ECU, a former teachers college (ECTC) that went by the moniker Eat-zi-Teat-zi, is now the only Carolina school to make it regularly onto Playboy’s list of party schools. James had spent his four years there partying and politicking, two necessary but not sufficient skills for an up and coming lawyer. He somehow managed to get into the night program at North Carolina Central University Law School, an historic African-American institution in Durham. James struggled but managed to graduate in four years and then to pass the bar, on only the second attempt. What he lacks in academic skills and scholarship, however, he makes up for in business savvy. He knows how to make the law profitable. He has hired a lot of fresh graduates, who come eager and cheap. He has them work in teams, as they had done in law school, so the weaker ones will not bring down the others. He has them evaluate each other in a formal process which determines promotions and dismissals, his administrative decisions thus supported by the collective. And he has them bill by the quarter hour. James knows his client base; he has a big presence in the yellow pages and on the internet. Eighteen times each day (24 on weekends) he can be seen off-peak on the local cable stations, repeating with utter conviction his firm’s motto: “never a case too small to handle.” “The smaller, the more profitable” is the in-firm motto. When Sterling says drop him at The Sterling, he can’t believe it. He know The Sterling well. $10 an hour or $30 for all night back in his college days. It’s where he and his various girl friends, including his future, now present, wife first became acquainted. Ah, the pleasant memories of youth.
The attorney asks for a coffee and has Sterling give him a tour of Vegas gym, while Pandely finishes up with some of his boxers, which include a father and uncle of his pee-wees. When James sees the Golden Gloves belt in the showcase, he stops and stares. Not much has passed him by in life; this has, however, and he can only admire its recipient, the father of the boy who jerks off on the internet, he reflects without malice. The two adults are introduced and chat while Sterling excuses himself to find Sara. It is going on 10 P.M. and he wants to catch her before she calls it a day.