Harry thinks the enmity in the workplace toward males is something genetic, like the encoding on the X chromosome, that there will be no peace until women are sent home. He’s still blinking, wondering how a gender that makes up more than half of the species acquired all the perks of minority status and got its head under the tent of affirmative action.
‘There are rules in this stuff, like the canon of ethics,’ he says. ‘We all know the first one: “Thou shalt not dip thy quill in the company ink.” ’
I remind him that Dana doesn’t work for us.
The second, he says: ‘ “Beware of false prosecutors who come to you in the night in sheep’s clothing or slinky garb, for they are ravening wolves,” ’ he says. To Harry there is little that is sacred.
I give him a smile but don’t say anything.
‘Sure, laugh,’ he says. ‘But it ain’t me running down the street who’s being chased by Tabloid Mary,’ he says. ‘It’s your ass that’s in the flames. Burnt offerings to the god of yellow journalism,’ says Harry.
In the distance a half block away I can hear some asshole shouting, ‘There he is!’ The patter of feet, heels on concrete, like a stampede of hookers ahead of the paddy wagon.
We’re making for the sanctuary of court, across the intersection between the parking lot and the courthouse, against a light that says DON’T WALK. We are nearly hit by a car. We run up the ramp to the back door.
It takes us a couple of minutes to negotiate the metal detector. It is here that the first camera crew catches us. Harry is panting, out of breath, busy putting his belt with its metal buckle back through the loops in his pants. Pictures at five. We move away. They try to follow. The guard is pointing to the conveyor belt and telling them to unstrap for inspection.
Harry turns around and gives them the finger. Their lights still on, film still whirring. ‘See you assholes upstairs,’ he says. ‘And leave the fucking cameras and mikes outside, in the hall,’ he tells them. Harry Hinds on public relations.
He sees the look on my face. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘They gotta bleep out all the bad stuff.’ Harry’s never heard of lip-reading.
We look like two brush salesmen toting sample cases as we finally make it to the elevator. Harry’s is filled with exhibits and pieces of evidence for our case. My own has lined-out questions for examination, in the case of today, for Jack Vega, who is due up in the state’s case — if I am not suspended from the practice before then.
When we arrive at the clerk’s station behind the courtroom, Dana is already inside with Woodruff. The clerk knocks on the door and we are told to wait a couple of minutes. Morgan Cassidy has been summoned by the judge and is on her way. Woodruff apparently is concerned by appearances of ex parte communications. He doesn’t want one of the lawyers inside behind closed doors without opposing counsel being present.
Two minutes later Cassidy breezes into the office, followed by Jimmy Lama. She walks past us like we are not there, nothing but an imperious look. Lama’s expression is dour, like maybe he’s not looking forward to this meeting.
The clerk opens the door and we all press into chambers. Woodruff is seated behind a large mahogany desk. Dana has one of the two stuffed club chairs across from him. Her briefcase is in her lap.
‘Your honor, if I could explain.’ I don’t waste any time. ‘I take it you’ve seen the morning paper?’
Woodruff has his hand up. ‘I’ve seen it and I’ve talked to Ms. Colby. She’s already told me what happened,’ he says. ‘An inaccurate news story,’ he says. ‘Right now I’m more concerned about how it got in the paper.’ He means whether there is some ulterior motive for this, and whether it takes its inspiration from the trial.
Woodruff may have the bushy eyebrows and the genteel twinkle of Walter Cronkite, but this morning he is a mean face, all of it aimed at Morgan Cassidy. There has been no love lost between her and the judge.
‘What can you tell us about this, Ms. Cassidy?’
‘Not a thing, your honor. You don’t think-’
‘Well, it didn’t come from our shop,’ says Dana.
Cassidy gives her a look to kill.
Harry’s smiling. The other side of the gender conspiracy — a catfight.
‘How about your people?’ Dana’s looking at Jimmy Lama.
His Adam’s apple comes halfway up, and then does a jackknife. A lot of nervous eyeing of the judge. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I thought the postal investigation was a federal affair?’
‘We called in the local bomb squad, and forensic support,’ says Dana.
‘Maybe we should get whoever headed it up over here,’ says Woodruff.
‘No need. They’re here already,’ says Dana. ‘Lieutenant Lama was local liaison.’
With this Jimmy is seven shades of purple, a lot of fidgeting and nervous glances, more than a few of them in my direction. Lama on the carpet. Woodruff demanding answers. Who had access to information? The fingerprint reports?
‘It didn’t come from our side,’ says Jimmy. Absolute denials which he undercuts a moment later with assurances that he’ll check it out and get back to the judge.
‘By this afternoon,’ says Woodruff.
‘You got it,’ says Lama.
‘What?’
‘Your honor,’ says Jimmy.
Woodruff gives him a look that says, ‘That’s better.’
Lama’s muttering to Cassidy. Denials sputtering like they are out of gas. ‘Our people wouldn’t do this.’
All of them except one, and I am looking at him right now. There is no longer any mystery in my mind as to the source of this news story. Humiliation over the courthouse tape, the loss of the compact as evidence was the last straw. This is classic Lama, time-honored techniques designed to screw one’s opponent. To Jimmy life is one large board game of getting even. Something tells me there is no way Woodruff will ever prove Lama was involved. He would have more layers of insulation on this than the average Eskimo. A dozen people between himself and the reporter, his name or fingerprints on nothing. Under the circumstances the court cannot call the reporter who wrote the story onto the carpet and demand to know his sources. Ostensibly Woodruff has no jurisdiction. The information in the article does not relate to evidence in our case. It is all tangential, intended only to cripple me as counsel. In this Lama has been deft.
Woodruff wrings his hands over the desk, making noises about a mistrial. At this moment, given the holes we have punched in their case, this would be a gift-wrapped package to Cassidy. She now knows our theory of defense. She could shore it up and try the case again.
The judge says he will poll the jury to see how many have read the article, what effect it has had. In the meantime he will craft an instruction. He orders Lama to return after today’s session to report progress on this, his inquiries regarding the story. Jimmy is bowing and scraping. Your typical toady in the face of authority, Lama is vowing to get to the bottom of it.
By five o’clock he’ll be back with iron-clad assurances that nobody in the department was involved, and Woodruff will be left as I am, to harbor empty suspicions without proof.
Lama and Cassidy head out to the courtroom to prepare for the day’s session. Harry follows them. Dana and I huddle in the hallway just beyond the clerk’s station.
‘That bitch,’ she says. I am struck by her language. This is an anger I have not seen in Dana before. Her face is flushed, her hands shaking. She is looking at the wall behind me at this moment, not engaging my eyes. The expletive uttered as if she were talking to herself. As if I were not present.
‘She’s spent months trying to derail the appointment,’ she says. Dana’s talking about her judicial aspirations. Her wrath, it seems, is predicated on something more than her personal loyalty to me. Cassidy in her denials to the court has in her own inimitable way implied that if it was not the local authorities whose indiscretions led to the embarrassing news article, then there is only one other possibility — it had to be Dana or some of her people. She does not take kindly to being played the stooge.