To the surprise of everyone, Upchurch was indeed brief. He simply stated what was common knowledge about the late Jerome Clifford, and explained to the court that he had a trial in federal court in St. Louis beginning three weeks from Monday. He was glib, relaxed, and completely at home in this strange courtroom. A continuance was necessary, he explained, with remarkable efficiency, because he needed time to prepare a defense for what would undoubtedly be a long trial. He finished in ten minutes.
“How much time do you need?” Lamond asked.
“Your Honor, I have a busy trial calendar, and I’ll be happy to show it to you. In all fairness, six months would be a reasonable delay.”
“Thank you. Anything else?”
“No sir. Thank you, Your Honor.” Upchurch took his seat as Foltrigg was leaving his and heading for the podium directly in front of the bench. He glanced at his notes and was about to speak, when Lamond beat him to it.
“Mr. Foltrigg, surely you don’t deny that the defense is entitled to more time, in light of the circumstances?”
“No, Your Honor, I don’t deny this. But I think six months is entirely too much time.”
“So how much would you suggest?”
“A month or two. You see, Your Honor, I—”
“I’m not going to sit up here and listen to a haggle over two months or six or three or four, Mr. Foltrigg. If you concede the defendant is entitled to a delay, then I’ll take this matter under advisement and set this case for trial whenever my calendar will allow.”
Lamond knew Foltrigg needed a delay worse than Muldanno. He just couldn’t ask for it. Justice must always be on the attack. Prosecutors are incapable of asking for more time.
“Well, yes, Your Honor,” Foltrigg said loudly. “But it’s our position that needless delays should be avoided. This matter has dragged on long enough.”
“Are you suggesting this court is dragging its feet, Mr. Foltrigg?”
“No, Your Honor, but the defendant is. He’s filed every frivolous motion known to American jurisprudence to stall this prosecution. He’s tried every tactic, every—”
“Mr. Foltrigg. Mr. Clifford is dead. He can’t file any more motions. And now the defendant has a new lawyer, who, as I see it, has filed only one motion.”
Foltrigg looked at his notes and started a slow burn. He had not expected to prevail in this little matter, but he certainly hadn’t expected to get kicked in the teeth.
“Do you have anything relevant to say?” his honor asked as if Foltrigg had yet to say anything of substance.
He grabbed his legal pad and stormed back to his seat. A rather pitiful performance. He should’ve sent an underling.
“Anything else, Mr. Upchurch?” Lamond asked.
“No sir.”
“Very well. Thanks to all of you for your interest in this matter. Sorry it has been so brief. Maybe we’ll do more next time. An order for a new trial setting will be forthcoming.”
Lamond stood just minutes after he’d sat, and was gone. The reporters filed out, and of course were followed by Foltrigg and Upchurch, who walked to opposite ends of the hallway and held impromptu press conferences.
29
Though Slick Moeller had reported jailhouse riots, rapes, and beatings, and though he’d stood on the safe side of the doors and bars, he’d never actually, physically, been inside a jail cell. And though this thought was heavy on his mind, he kept his cool and projected the aura of the surefooted reporter and confident believer in the First Amendment. He had a lawyer on each side, high-paid studs from a hundred-man firm that had represented the Memphis Press for decades, and they had assured him a dozen times in the past two hours that the Constitution of the United States of America was his friend and on this day would be his shield. Slick wore jeans, a safari jacket, and hiking boots, very much the weather-beaten reporter.
Harry was not impressed with the aura being projected by this weasel. Nor was he impressed with the silk-stocking, blue-blooded Republican mouthpieces who’d never before darkened the doors to his courtroom. Harry was upset. He sat on his bench and read for the tenth time Slick’s morning story. He also reviewed applicable First Amendment cases dealing with reporters and their confidential sources. And he took his time so Slick would sweat.
The doors were locked. The bailiff, Slick’s friend Grinder, stood quite nervously by the bench. Following the judge’s order, two uniformed deputies sat directly behind Slick and his lawyers, and seemed poised and ready for action. This bothered Slick and his lawyers, but they tried not to show it.
The same court reporter with an even shorter skirt filed her nails and waited for the words to start flowing. The same grouchy old woman sat at her table and flipped through the National Enquirer. They waited and waited. It was almost twelve-thirty. As usual, the docket was packed and things were behind schedule. Marcia had a club sandwich waiting for Harry between hearings. The Sway hearing was next.
He leaned forward on his elbows and glared down at Slick, who at a hundred and thirty pounds weighed probably a third of what Harry did. “On the record,” he barked at the stenographer, and she started pecking away.
Cool as he was, Slick jerked with these first words and sat upright.
“Mr. Moeller, I’ve brought you here under summons because you’ve violated a section of the Tennessee Code regarding the confidentiality of my proceedings. This is a very grave matter because we’re dealing with the safety and well-being of a small child. Unfortunately, the law does not provide criminal penalties, only contempt.”
He removed his reading glasses and began rubbing them with a handkerchief. “Now, Mr. Moeller,” he said like a frustrated grandfather, “as upset as I am with you and your story, I am much more troubled by the fact that someone leaked this information to you. Someone who was in this courtroom during the hearing yesterday. Your source troubles me greatly.”
Grinder leaned against the wall and pressed his calves against it to keep his knees from shaking. He would not look at Slick. His first heart attack had been only six years earlier, and if he didn’t control himself, this might be the big one.
“Please sit in the witness chair, Mr. Moeller,” Harry instructed with a sweep of the hand. “Be my guest.”
Slick was sworn by the old grouch. He placed one hiking boot on one knee, and looked at his attorneys for reassurance. They were not looking at him. Grinder studied the ceiling tiles.
“You are under oath, Mr. Moeller,” Harry reminded him just seconds after he’d been sworn.
“Yes sir,” he uttered, and feebly attempted to smile at this huge man who was sitting high above him and peering down over the railing of the bench.
“Did you in fact write the story in today’s paper with your name on it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you write it by yourself, or did someone assist you?”
“Well, Your Honor, I wrote every word, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean. Now, in the fourth paragraph of this story, you write, and I quote, ‘Mark Sway refused to answer questions about Barry Muldanno or Boyd Boyette.’ End quote. Did you write that, Mr. Moeller?”
“Yes sir.”
“And were you present during the hearing yesterday when the child testified?”
“No sir.”
“Were you in this building?”
“Uh, yes sir, I was. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Be quiet, Mr. Moeller. I’ll ask the questions, and you answer them. Do you understand the relationship here?”
“Yes sir.” Slick pleaded with his eyes to his lawyers, but both were deep into reading at this moment. He felt alone.
“So you weren’t present. Now, Mr. Moeller, how did you learn that the child refused to answer my questions about Barry Muldanno or Boyd Boyette?”