“Starcher is in trouble. He got in a fight at school, punched another kid.”
I am overwhelmed with fatherly pride and I almost laugh. But I bite my tongue and say, “Oh, gosh, what happened?” I want to add questions such as “Did he win?” “How many times did he punch him?” and “Was the other kid a third grader?” But I manage to control my excitement.
“That’s what the meeting is all about. I’ll see you in the principal’s office at four.”
“Four, today?”
“Yes,” she says, bitchy and firm.
“Okay.” I’ll have to move a court appearance but it’s no problem. I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world. My kid—a soft little boy who’s never had a chance to be tough—punched somebody!
I smile all the way to the school. The principal has a big office with several chairs around a coffee table. We meet there, very casual. Her name is Doris—a frazzled veteran of at least forty years in public education. But she has an easy smile and a comforting voice. Who knows how many meetings like this she’s suffered through. Judith and Ava are already there when I arrive. I nod at them without speaking. Judith is wearing a designer dress and is stunning. Ava, the former lingerie model, is wearing supertight leather pants and a tight blouse. She may have the brains of a gerbil but she still has a body that belongs on magazine covers. Both women look fabulous, and it’s obvious, at least to me, that they spent some time dressing up for this occasion. But why?
Then Ms. Tarrant arrives, and things become clearer. She’s Starcher’s teacher, a thirty-three-year-old knockout who got a divorce recently and, according to a source, is already back in the game. She has short blond hair, cut smartly, and large brown eyes that force everyone she meets to do at least one double take. Judith and Ava are no longer the hottest babes in the room. In fact, they’re getting smoked. I stand and make a fuss over Ms. Tarrant, who enjoys the attention. Judith immediately goes into total-bitch mode—she’s halfway there by nature—but Ava’s eyes sort of linger when she looks at the teacher. Mine are lingering like crazy.
Doris gives us the basics: During recess yesterday afternoon, some second-grade boys were playing kickball on the playground. There were words, then a scuffle, then a boy named Brad pushed Starcher, who then smacked Brad on the mouth. It caused a slight cut, thus blood, thus it’s a major incident. Not surprisingly, the boys clammed up when the teachers arrived and haven’t said much.
I blurt out, “Sounds pretty harmless. Just boys being boys.”
None of the four women agree, not that I expect them to. Ms. Tarrant says, “One of the boys told me that Brad was making fun of Starcher because his picture was in the newspaper.”
“Who threw the first punch?” I ask, almost rudely.
They squirm and don’t like the question. “Does that really matter?” Judith shoots back.
“Damn right it does.”
Sensing trouble, Doris rushes in with “We have strict rules against fighting, Mr. Rudd, regardless of who starts the altercation. Our students are taught not to engage in this type of activity.”
“I get that, but you can’t expect a kid to get bullied without standing up for himself.”
The word “bullied” is a hot one. With my kid now the victim, they’re not sure how to respond. Ms. Tarrant says, “Well, I’m not sure he was being bullied.”
“Is Brad a bad apple?” I ask the teacher.
“No, he certainly is not. I have a great group of kids this year.”
“Sure you do. Including mine. These are little boys, okay? They can’t hurt each other. So they push and shove on the playground. They are boys, dammit! Let them be boys. Don’t punish them every time they disagree.”
“We’re teaching them lessons, Mr. Rudd,” Doris says piously.
Judith snarls, “Have you talked to him about fighting?”
“Yes I have. I’ve told him that fighting is wrong, never start a fight, but if someone else happens to start one, then by all means protect himself. And what, exactly, is wrong with that?”
None of the four take a crack at answering this, so I shove on. “You’d better teach him now to stand up for himself, or he’ll get bullied for the rest of his life. These are kids. They’ll fight. They’ll win some, lose some, but they’ll outgrow it. Believe me, when a boy gets older and gets punched a few times, he loses his enthusiasm for fighting.”
For the second time, I catch Ava glancing at Ms. Tarrant’s legs. I’m glancing too; can’t help it. They deserve a lot of attention. Doris is watching these mating rituals. She’s seen it all before.
She says, “Brad’s parents are quite upset.”
I jump in with “Then I’ll be happy to talk to them, to apologize and to have Starcher apologize too. How about that?”
“I’ll handle this,” Judith barks.
“Then why did you invite me to this little party? I’ll tell you why. You want to make sure all blame is properly laid at my feet. Five days ago I took the kid to the cage fights; now he’s brawling on the playground. Clear proof it’s all my fault. You win. You wanted some witnesses. So here we are. Do you feel better now?”
This, of course, sucks the air out of the room. Judith’s eyes glaze over with hatred and I can almost see steam coming out of her ears. Doris, the pro, rushes in with “Okay, okay. I like the idea of one of you having a chat with Brad’s parents.”
“One of the two of us, or one of the three of us?” I ask. What a smart-ass. “I’m sorry, but it gets kind of crowded.”
Ava shoots daggers at me. I glance at the teacher’s legs. What a ridiculous meeting.
Doris shows some spine by looking at me and saying, “I think you should do it. You’re right; it’s a boy thing. Call Brad’s parents and apologize.”
“Done.”
“What’s the punishment for Starcher?” Ava asks because Judith can’t speak right now.
Doris says, “What do you think, Ms. Tarrant?”
“Well, there has to be a punishment.”
I make matters worse by saying, “Don’t tell me you’re going to expel the kid.”
Ms. Tarrant says, “No, he and Brad are friends and I think they’ve already moved on. What about a week with no recess?”
“Can he still have lunch?” I ask, just trying to clog the wheels of justice. I’m a lawyer; it’s instinctive.
She smiles but ignores this. We hammer out an agreement and I’m the first one to leave. As I drive away from the parking lot, I realize I’m smiling. Starcher stood his ground!
Late that night, I e-mail Ms. Tarrant—Naomi is her first name—and thank her for doing such a fine job. Ten minutes later, she e-mails me back and says thanks. I fire right back and ask her to dinner. Twenty minutes later she informs me it’s not a good idea to date parents of her kids. In other words, not now, maybe in the future.
It’s Wednesday and raining. We’ve played Dirty Golf many times in bad weather, but Alan said no tonight; no more ruts in the fairways. Old Rico is closed for the evening. I’m wide awake, bored, worried about Tadeo and Doug Renfro, and I’m also fairly revved up at the slim prospects of chasing Ms. Tarrant. Sleep eludes me, again, so I grab an umbrella and hustle down to The Rack. At midnight, I’m losing ten bucks a game in nine ball to a kid who looks no more than fifteen. I asked him if he goes to school, to which he answered, “Occasionally.”
Curly is watching us, and at one point whispers to me, “Never seen him before. Amazing.” Mercifully, Curly closes the place at 1:00 a.m. The kid has picked my pockets for $90. I’ll avoid him next time. At 2:00, I manage to close my eyes and fall asleep.
14.
Partner calls me at four. Sean King died of a cerebral hemorrhage. I make coffee and drink it in the dark while gazing down on the City, still and quiet at this hour. The moon is full and its light reflects off the tall buildings downtown.
What a tragedy. Tadeo Zapate will now spend at least the next decade or so behind bars. He’s twenty-two, so he’ll be too old to fight when h
e gets out. Too old for many things. I think about the money, but just for a minute. I invested $30,000 in the kid for a quarter share of his career earnings, which to date total about $80,000. Plus, I’ve picked up another $20,000 betting on him. So I’m slightly ahead on the cash side. I try not to think about his future earnings, which were going to be substantial. All that seems trivial now.
Instead, I think about his family, their hard life and the hope he gave them. He was their ticket out of the street life and the violence, to the middle class and beyond. Now they’ll sink even deeper into poverty while he rots away in prison.
There is no defense, no credible legal strategy to save him. I’ve watched the video a hundred times now. The last flurry of blows to Sean King’s face were absorbed while he was unconscious. It won’t be difficult to find an expert who’ll say those were the shots that did the fatal damage. But an expert will not be needed. This case is not going to trial. I’ll serve my client well if I can somehow pressure the State to make us a decent offer. I just hope it’s ten years and not thirty, but something tells me I’m dreaming. No prosecutor in this country would pass up the opportunity to nail such a high-profile murderer.
I force myself to think about Sean King, but I never knew the guy. I’m sure his family is devastated and all that, but my thoughts return to Tadeo.
At six I shower, get dressed, and head for the jail. I have to tell Tadeo that his life, as he knew it, is over.
15.
The following Monday, Tadeo Zapate and I appear in court again, though the mood is quite different. He’s charged with murder now, and thanks to the Internet he’s famous. It seems as though few people can resist the temptation of watching him kill Sean King with his bare hands.
As expected, the judge denies bail and they take Tadeo away. I’ve had two brief chats with the prosecutor and it looks like they’re out for blood. Second-degree murder carries a max of thirty years. For a plea, they’ll agree to twenty. Under our screwed-up parole system, he’ll serve at least ten. I have yet to explain this to my client. He’s still in denial, still in that fog where he’s sorry it happened, can’t explain it, but still believing that a good lawyer can pull some strings and get him off.
It’s a sad day, but not a complete waste. In the large open hallway outside the courtroom, there is a crowd of reporters and they’re waiting for me. There is no gag order yet, so I’m free to say all the ridiculous things that lawyers say long before the trials. My client is a good person who snapped when he got a raw deal. Now he is devastated by what happened. He cries in sympathy for the family of Sean King. He would give anything to have those few precious seconds back. We will mount a vigorous defense. Yes, of course, he hopes to fight again. He was helping his poor mother support her family and a house full of relatives.
And so on.
16.
With Harry & Harry churning out the paperwork, and with Judge Samson haranguing the City’s lawyers whenever they get close to his courtroom, the civil action moved ahead at an unusually rapid pace.
We are in a race here, one that we will not win. I would love to try Doug Renfro’s civil case in a packed courtroom before his criminal case is called. The problem is that we have a speedy-trial rule in criminal cases, but not in civil. In theory, a criminal case must be brought to trial or otherwise disposed of within 120 days of indictment, though this is routinely waived by the defendant’s lawyer because more time is needed to prepare. There is no such rule in civil cases, which often drag on for years. In my perfect scenario, we would try the civil case first, get a huge verdict that would be front-page news and, more important, influence prospective jurors in the criminal case. The press can’t get enough of the Renfro debacle, and I relish the chance to grill the cops on the witness stand for the benefit of the entire city.
If the criminal prosecution goes first, and if Doug Renfro is convicted, then the civil case will be much more difficult to win. As a witness, he’ll be impeachable because of his conviction.
Judge Samson understands this and is trying to help. Less than three months after the botched SWAT raid, he orders all eight cops to appear in his chambers to be deposed by me. No judge, federal or otherwise, would ever consider suffering through a single deposition; it would be far beneath his or her dignity. But to set the mood and deliver the message to the cops and their lawyers that he is highly suspicious of them, Judge Samson orders the depositions to be taken on his turf, with his law clerk and his magistrate in the room.
It is a brutal marathon that pushes me to the limits. I begin with Lieutenant Chip Sumerall, the leader of the SWAT team. I elicit testimony regarding his experience, training, and participation in other home invasions. I am deliberately dull, tedious, poker-faced. It’s just a deposition, the purpose of which is to establish sworn testimony. Using maps, photos, and videos, we walk through the Renfro affair for hours.
It takes six full days to depose the eight cops. But they’re on the record now, and they cannot change their stories at either the criminal or the civil trials.
17.
The only time I spend in Domestic Relations Court is when I’m dragged in to account for my sins. I wouldn’t handle a divorce or adoption at gunpoint. Judith, though, makes her living in the gutter warfare of divorce trials and this is her turf. His Honor today is one Stanley Leef, a cranky old veteran who lost interest years ago. Judith represents herself, as do I. For the occasion she’s dragged in Ava, who sits as the lone spectator, in a skirt so short you can see her name and address. I catch Judge Leef gazing at her, enjoying the scenery.
Since we’re both lawyers, and representing ourselves, Judge Leef dispenses with the formalities and allows us to just sit and talk, as if we’re in arbitration. We are on the record, though, and a stenographer is taking it all down.
Judith goes first, states the facts, and makes it sound as though I’m the worst parent in history because I took my son to the cage fights. Then, four days later, Starcher got in his first fight at school. Clear proof that I’ve turned him into a monster.
Judge Leef frowns as if this is just awful.
With as much drama as she can muster, Judith proclaims that all visitation rights should be terminated so the kid will never again be subjected to my influence. Judge Leef shoots me a quick glance that says, “Is she crazy?”
But we’re not here for justice, we’re here for a show. Judith is an angry mother and she’s once again dragged me into court. My punishment is not the loss of visitation rights; rather, it’s just the hassle of dealing with her. She will not be pushed around! She will protect her child at all costs!
From my seat, I tell my side of the story without embellishing a single word.
She produces a copy of the newspaper, with “her son” on the front page. What humiliation! He could have been seriously injured. Judge Leef is almost asleep.
She produces an expert, a child psychologist. Dr. Salabar, female of course, informs the court that she has interviewed Starcher, spent an entire hour with him, talked about the cage fights and the playground “brawl,” and is now of the opinion that the carnage he witnessed while under my supervision had a detrimental effect on him and encouraged him to start a fight of his own. Judith manages to string this testimony out until Judge Leef is practically comatose.
On cross-examination, I ask, “Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a son or sons?”
“Two boys, yes.”
“Did you ever take either son to boxing matches, wrestling matches, or cage fights?”
“No.”
“Did either son ever get into a fight with another kid?”
“Well, I’m sure they did, but then I really can’t say.”
The fact that she won’t answer the question speaks volumes. Judge Leef shakes his head.
“Did your boys ever get into a fight with one another?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall? Were you a loving mother who
gave your sons all the attention possible?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“So you were there for them?”
“As much as possible, yes.”
“And you can’t remember a single time when one of them got into a fight?”
“Well, no, not at this time.”