The weather comes on and I go to the shower.
Partner picks me up at eight and we head to the hospital. Doug Renfro is still in surgery. Officer Keestler’s wounds are not life threatening. There are cops everywhere. In a crowded waiting room, Partner points to a huddle of stunned people, all sitting knee to knee and holding hands.
Not for the first time, I ask myself the obvious question: Why didn’t the cops simply ring the doorbell at a decent hour and have a chat with Mr. Renfro? Two cops in plain clothes, or maybe just one in a uniform? Why not? The answer is simple: These guys think they’re part of an extreme, elite force, and they need their thrills, so here we are in another frantic hospital with casualties.
Thomas Renfro is about forty. According to Partner, he’s an optometrist out in the suburbs. His two sisters do not live around here and are not yet at the hospital. I swallow hard and approach him. He wants to wave me off, but I say over and over it’s important that we talk. He finally steps away and we find privacy in a corner. The poor guy is waiting on his sisters so they can go to the morgue and start arranging things for their dead mother; meanwhile, their father is in surgery. I apologize for intruding but get his attention when I explain that I’ve been through this before with these cops.
He wipes his red eyes and says, “I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Probably on the news. I take some crazy cases.”
He hesitates, then, “What kinda case is this?”
“Here’s what will happen, Mr. Renfro. Your father is not coming home anytime soon. When the doctors are finished with him, the cops will take him to jail. He’ll be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer. Carries a max of twenty years. His bond will be set at a million bucks or so, something outrageous, and he won’t be able to make it because the prosecutor will freeze his assets. House, bank accounts, whatever. He can’t touch anything because this is how they rig prosecutions.”
As if this poor guy hasn’t been hit with enough crap in the past five hours. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s listening. I go on: “The reason I’m bothering you with this is that it’s important to file a civil lawsuit immediately. Tomorrow if possible. Wrongful death of your mother, assault on your father, excessive force, police incompetence, violation of rights, et cetera. I’ll throw everything at them. I’ve done it before. If we get the right judge, then I’ll have access to their internal records right off the bat. They’re covering up their mistakes as we speak, and they’re very good at it.”
He breaks down, fights it, gets some control, and says, “This is too much.”
I hand him a card and say, “I understand. Call me as soon as you can. I fight these bastards all the time and I know the game. You’re going through hell now, but, unfortunately, it will only get worse.”
He manages to say “Thanks.”
3.
Later that afternoon, the police stop by and have a chat with Lance, the shiftless kid next door to the Renfros. Just three cops, in plain clothes, bravely approaching the house without assault weapons or bulletproof vests. They didn’t even bring their tank. Things go smoothly; no one gets shot.
Lance is nineteen, unemployed, home alone, a real loser, and his world is about to change dramatically. The police have a search warrant. After they grab his laptop and cell phone, Lance starts talking. He’s in the den when his mother comes home, and he’s admitting everything. He’s been piggybacking on the Renfros’ Wi-Fi system for about a year. He trades on the Dark Web, on a site called Millie’s Market, where he can buy any quantity of any drug, illegal or prescription. He sticks to Ecstasy because it’s accessible and the kids, his customers, love it. He does his business in Bitcoin, current balance valued at $60,000. All the details pour out in a torrent, and after an hour he’s led away in handcuffs.
So at 5:00 p.m., or about fourteen hours after the raid, the police finally know the truth. But their cover-up is already in play. They leak some lies here and there, and early the next morning I’m reading the Chronicle online and see the front-page news. There are photos of Douglas and Katherine Renfro, she now deceased, and Officer Keestler. He sounds like a hero; the Renfros sound like outlaws. Doug is a suspect in an Internet drug-trafficking ring. Shocking, a neighbor says. Had no idea. The nicest people. Kitty just got caught in the cross fire when her husband fired upon peace-loving officers of the law. She’ll be buried next week. He’ll be indicted shortly. Keestler is expected to survive. There’s not one word about Lance.
Two hours later, I meet Nate Spurio at a bagel shop in a strip mall north of town. We can’t be seen in public, or at least identified by anyone who might be a cop or know a cop, so we alternate our secret meetings between A, B, C, and D. A is an Arby’s roast beef joint in the suburbs. B is one of two bagel shops. C is the dreadful Catfish Cave, six miles east of the City. D is for a donut shop. When we need to talk, we simply choose a letter from our little alphabet game and agree on a time. Spurio is a thirty-year veteran of the police force, a genuine, honest cop who plays by the book and despises almost everyone else in the department. We have a history, which began with me as a twenty-year-old college boy who got too drunk in a beer hall and found myself outside on the sidewalk getting roughed up by the cops, one of whom was Nate Spurio. He said I cursed him and shoved him, and after I woke up in jail he stopped by to check on me. I apologized profusely. He accepted and made sure the charges were dropped. My broken jaw healed nicely, and the cop who punched me was later dismissed. The incident inspired me to go to law school. Over the years, Spurio has refused to play the political games necessary to advance and has gone nowhere. He’s usually hanging around a desk, filing papers, counting the days. But there is a network of other officers who have been ostracized by the powers that be, and Spurio spends a lot of time tracking the gossip. He’s not a snitch by any means. He’s simply an honest cop who hates what his department has become.
Partner stays in the van, in the parking lot, on guard in case other cops happen by and want a bagel. We huddle in a corner and watch the door. He says, “Boy oh boy, it’s a big one.”
“Let’s have it.”
He starts with Lance’s arrest, the confiscation of his computer, the clear proof that the boy is a small-time dealer, and his detailed admission about tagging along on the Renfros’ router. Their computers are squeaky-clean, but Doug will be indicted day after tomorrow. Keestler will be cleared of all wrongdoing. The typical cover-up.
“Who was there?” I ask, and he hands me a folded sheet of paper. “Eight, all from our department. No state boys, no Feds.”
If I have my way, they’ll be named defendants in a lawsuit seeking damages of, oh, I don’t know, how about $50 million.
“Who led the party?” I ask.
“Who do you think?”
“Sumerall?”
“You got it. We could tell from watching the news. Once again, Lieutenant Chip Sumerall leads his fearless troops into a quiet home where everybody’s asleep, and he gets his man. You gonna sue?”
I reply, “I don’t have the case yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Thought you were the best at chasing ambulances.”
“Only the ones I want. I’ll catch this one.”
Spurio chews on an onion bagel, washes it down with coffee, says, “These guys are outta control, Rudd. You gotta stop them.”
“No way, Nate. I can’t stop them. Maybe I can embarrass them from time to time, cost the City some money, but what they’re doing here is happening everywhere. We live in a police state and everybody supports the cops.”
“So you’re the last line of defense?”
“Yep.”
“God help us.”
“Indeed. Thanks for the scoop. I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t mention it.”
4.
Doug Renfro is too physically damaged and emotionally overwhelmed to meet with me, and since a meeting would have to take place in his hospital room, it’s a bad idea anyw
ay. The cops have the only door secured as if he were on death row. Privacy would be impossible. So I meet with Thomas Renfro and his two sisters in a coffee shop down the street from the hospital. The three are sleepwalking through their nightmare, exhausted, stunned, angry, grief stricken, and desperate for advice. They ignore their coffee and at first seem content to let me do the talking. Without the least bit of bluster, I explain who I am, what I do, where I come from, and how I protect my clients. I tell them that I’m not a typical lawyer. I don’t maintain a pretty office filled with mahogany and leather. I don’t belong to a big firm, prestigious or otherwise. I don’t do good works through the bar association. I’m a lone gunman, a rogue who fights the system and hates injustice. I’m here right now because I know what’s about to happen to their father, and to them.
Fiona, the older sister, says, “But they murdered our mother.”
“Indeed they did, but no one will be charged with her murder. They’ll investigate, send in the experts, and so on, and in the end they’ll all agree that she simply got caught in the cross fire. They’ll indict your father and blame him for starting the gun battle.”
Susanna, the younger sister, says, “But we’ve talked to our father, Mr. Rudd. They were sound asleep when something crashed inside the house. He thought they were being robbed. He grabbed his gun, ran into the hallway, then hit the floor when he saw figures in the dark. Someone fired a shot, then he began returning fire. He says he remembers Mom screaming and running into the hall to check on him.”
I say, “He’s very lucky to be alive. They shot both dogs, didn’t they?”
“Who are these goons?” Thomas asks helplessly.
“The police, the good guys.” I then tell them the story of my client Sonny Werth, with the tank sitting in his den, and the lawsuit we won. I explain that a civil lawsuit is their only option right now. Their father will be indicted and prosecuted, and once the truth is finally learned—and I promise them that we will expose everything—there will be enormous pressure on the City to settle. Their endgame is to keep their father out of jail. They can forget justice for what happened to their mother. A civil lawsuit, one put together by the right lawyer of course, guarantees a safer flow of information. The cover-up is already under way, I say more than once.
They’re trying their best to listen, but they’re in another world. Who could blame them? The meeting ends with both women in tears and Thomas unable to speak.
It’s time for me to back off.
5.
Uninvited, though it’s open to the public, I arrive at the large Methodist church just minutes before the service for Katherine Renfro. I find the stairs, climb up to the balcony, and sit in the semidarkness. I am alone up here, but the rest of the sanctuary is packed. I look down on the crowd: all white, all middle class, all in disbelief that their friend got shot seven times in her pajamas by the police.
Aren’t these senseless tragedies supposed to take place in other parts of town? These people are hard-core law-and-order. They vote to the right and want tough laws. If they think about SWAT teams at all, they think they’re necessary to fight terror and drugs in other places. How could this happen to them?
Absent from this ceremony is Doug Renfro. According to yesterday’s Chronicle, he has just been indicted. He’s still hospitalized, though recovering slowly. He begged the doctors and the police to allow him to attend his wife’s funeral. The doctors said sure; the cops said no way. He’s a threat to society. A cruel footnote to this tragedy is that Doug will live the rest of his life under the cloud of somehow being involved with drug trafficking. Most of these people will believe him and his denials, but for some there will be doubts. What was old Doug really up to? Surely he must’ve been guilty of something or our brave police would not have gone after him.
I suffer through the service, along with everyone else. The air is thick with confusion and anger. The minister is comforting, but at times clearly unsure of what has happened. He tries to make some sense of it, but it’s an impossible challenge. As he’s wrapping things up, and as the crying gets louder, I ease down the stairs and exit through a side door.
Two hours later my phone rings. It’s Doug Renfro.
6.
A lawyer like me is forced to work in the shadows. My opponents are protected by badges, uniforms, and all the myriad trappings of government power. They are sworn and duty-bound to uphold the law, but since they cheat like hell it forces me to cheat even more.
I have a network of contacts and sources. I can’t call them friends because friendships require commitments. Nate Spurio is one example, an honest cop who wouldn’t take a dime for inside information. I’ve offered. Another guy is a reporter with the Chronicle, and we swap gossip when it’s convenient. No cash changes hands. One of my favorites is Okie Schwin, and Okie always takes the money.
Okie is a mid-level paper pusher in the federal court clerk’s office in a downtown courthouse. He hates his job, despises his co-workers, and is always looking for an easy way to make a buck. He’s also divorced, drinks too much, and constantly tests the boundaries of workplace sexual harassment. Okie’s value is his ability to manipulate the court’s random assignment of cases. When a civil lawsuit is filed, it is supposedly assigned by chance to one of our six federal judges. A computer does this and the little procedure seems to work fine. There’s always a judge you’d prefer, depending on the type of case and perhaps your history in various courtrooms, but who cares when it’s completely random? Okie, though, knows how to rig the software and find the judge you really want. He charges for this, handsomely, and he’ll probably get caught, though he assures me there’s no way. If he’s caught, he’ll get fired and maybe prosecuted, but Okie seems unconcerned by these possibilities.
At his suggestion, we meet in a seedy strip club far from downtown. The crowd is staunchly blue collar. The strippers are not worth describing. I turn my back to the stage so I don’t have to look. Just under the roar, I say, “I’m filing suit tomorrow. Renfro, our SWAT boys’ latest home invasion.”
He laughs and says, “What a surprise. Let me guess, you think justice will be best served if the Honorable Arnie Samson presides.”
“My man.”
“He’s 110 years old, on senior status, half-dead, and he says he’s not taking cases anymore. Why can’t we make these guys retire?”
“That’s between you and the Constitution. He’ll take this one. The standard fee?”
“Yep. But what if he says no and bounces it down the line?”
“I’ll have to take that chance.” I hand him an envelope with $3,000 in cash. His standard fee. He quickly shoves it into a pocket without even a thank-you, then turns his attention to the girls.
7.
At nine the following morning, I walk into the clerk’s office and file a $50 million lawsuit against the City, the police department, the police chief, and the eight SWAT boys who attacked the Renfros’ home six days earlier. Somewhere in the murky depths of the office, Okie does his magic and the case is “randomly and automatically” assigned to Judge Arnold Samson. I e-mail a copy of the lawsuit to my friend at the Chronicle.
I also file a request for a temporary restraining order to prevent the prosecutor from freezing Doug Renfro’s assets. This is a favorite strong-arm tactic used by the government to harass criminal defendants. The original idea was to tie up assets supposedly accumulated in whatever criminal activity the defendant was engaged in, primarily drug trafficking. Seize the ill-gotten gains and make things tough for the cartels. And like so many laws, it didn’t take the prosecutors long to get creative and expand its use. In Doug’s case, the government was prepared to argue that his assets—home, cars, bank and retirement accounts—were accumulated, in part, with dirty money he earned while peddling Ecstasy.
Say what? By the time we have the emergency hearing on the temporary restraining order, the city prosecutors are backing down and looking for a way out. Judge Samson, as feisty as ever, scolds the
m and even threatens them with contempt. We win round 1.
Round 2 is a bail hearing in state court, where the attempted murder charge is pending. With his assets free, I’m able to argue that Doug Renfro poses absolutely no flight risk and will show up in court whenever he’s supposed to. His home is worth $400,000 with no mortgage, and I offer to post the deed as security. To my surprise, the judge agrees, and I walk my client out of court. We win round 2, but these are the easy ones.
Eight days after getting shot and losing his wife and both dogs, Doug Renfro returns home, where his three children, seven grandchildren, and some friends are waiting. It will be a subdued homecoming. They graciously ask me to join them, but I decline.
I fight tooth and nail for my clients and will break most laws to protect them, but I never get too close.
8.
At ten on a perfect Saturday morning, I’m sitting on a bench at a playground, waiting. It’s a few blocks from my apartment, our usual meeting place. On the sidewalk, a beautiful woman approaches with a seven-year-old boy. He is my son. She is my ex-wife. The court order allows me to see him once a month for thirty-six hours.