Her words function as a temporary petulance-remover. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to be understanding, and a person for you to talk to, but I just don’t want you to leave. We can talk for the next twelve years, and I still won’t want you to leave.”
“You know how much I’ve wanted to get back into police work,” she says, “and in a position like that, I could really make a difference.”
Laurie was working for the Paterson Police Department when she told what she knew about the crooked lieutenant she was working for. When the issue was whitewashed, she left in protest. Her family has been in police work for generations, and she’s never felt fully comfortable with leaving. “You make a difference
“Thank you, but this is different. And you could be the best attorney in Findlay,” she says. Her smile says she’s kidding, but only slightly. “I had forgotten what an amazingly wonderful place it is to live.”
“So you want me to move to Findlay?” I ask, my voice betraying more incredulousness than I would have liked, but less than I feel. “Is good old Sandy offering me the town justice of the peace job? Great! You arrest the jaywalkers, and I’ll put ’em away for good. And then on Saturday nights we can get all dressed up, head down to the bakery, and watch the new bread-slicing machine.”
“Andy, please. I’m not saying you should move. I’m not even saying I should move. I’m just putting everything on the table.” She looks up from this grass table just as the eclipse is starting. “God, that’s spectacular,” she says.
“Yippee-skippee,” I say. “Now I can’t wait for 2612.”
* * * * *
THREE SECONDS AFTER I wake up I have that awful feeling. It’s the one where you’ve forgotten something really bad while you were asleep, and the sudden remembrance of it in the morning is like experiencing it fresh all over again. Why doesn’t that happen with good things?
Laurie may leave. That is a simple fact; I can’t change it. Or if I can change it, I don’t know how, which is almost as bad.
A number of months ago we talked about marriage. She didn’t feel she needed it, but loved me and was willing to marry if it was important to me. I didn’t force the issue, but what if I had? How would it impact on this situation, on her decision? Would she even consider leaving her husband behind?
But we’re not married, and I’m not her husband, so what the hell is the difference?
I know it’s immature, but the chances of my taking on Kenny Schilling’s case just went up very substantially. I need something else to think about, and the total focus and intensity of a murder case and trial are a perfect diversion.
I can feel this diversion start to take effect as I arrive at the courthouse for the arraignment. The streets surrounding the place are mobbed with press, and this will not change for the duration of the case. Clearly, the public view is that Kenny is guilty. This is true not because he is widely disliked; in fact, he’s been a fairly popular player. The fact is that the public always assumes that if someone is charged with a crime, then he or she is guilty. While our system purports to have a presumption of innocence, the public has a presumption of guilt. Unfortunately, the public makes up the jury.
I have to confess that this sentiment against Kenny also contributes to my desire to represent him. Great basketball players like Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, and Kobe Bryant have always said that what they love most is winning on the road, against the odds in hostile environments. I can’t shoot a jump shot into the Passaic River, but I know what they mean. It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of, but the legal “game” is more fun, more challenging, when I’m expected to lose.
Kevin and I meet with Kenny in an anteroom before the arraignment. He’s more composed than he was in the jail, more anxious to know what he can do to help in his own defense. I tell him to write down everything he can remember about his relationship with Troy Preston, whether or not he thinks a particular detail is important.
I describe what will take place during the arraignment. It’s basically a formality and one in which Kenny’s only role will be to plead. The rest will be up to me, although in truth my role is limited as well. This is the prosecution’s day, and Dylan will try to make as much of it as possible.
The judge who has been assigned is Susan Timmerman, who coincidentally presided over the arraignment the last time Dylan and I tangled. She is a fair, deliberate jurist who can handle sessions like today’s in her sleep. I would be quite content if she is assigned the actual trial, but that will be decided by lottery sometime down the road.
Dylan does not come over to exchange pleasantries before the session begins, and seems to avoid eye contact as well. I say “seems to” because not being an eye-contacter myself, I can’t be sure. I’m not even positive what eye contact is, but Laurie says you know it when you see it. Of course, it’s hard for me to see it, because I don’t do it.
The gallery is packed, and Kenny’s wife, Tanya, sits right behind us, a seat I assume and hope she’ll be in every day of the trial. I also see a few of Kenny’s teammates in the third row. That’s good; their abandoning him would be a major negative in the eyes of the public. And as I said, twelve members of that public are going to be the jurors in this case.
Dylan presents the charges, and I can see Kenny flinch slightly when he hears them. The State of New Jersey is charging Kenny Schilling with murder in the first degree, as well as an assortment of lesser offenses. They are also alleging special circumstances, which is New Jersey’s subtle way of saying that if it prevails, it will pay someone to stick a syringe in Kenny’s arm and kill him.
There is a slight tremor in Kenny’s voice when he proclaims himself not guilty, and I can’t say I blame him. If I were charged with a crime like this, I’d probably croak like a frog. Kenny is used to being applauded and revered. New Jersey is calling him a brutal murderer, and the worst thing that’s been said about him before this is that he has a tendency to fumble more than he should.
Judge Timmerman informs us that a trial judge will be assigned next week, then asks if we have anything we need to bring up.
I rise. “There is the matter of discovery, Your Honor. We’ve discovered that the prosecutor does not seem to believe in it. They have not turned over a single document to us.”
Dylan rises to his feet, a wounded expression on his face. “Your Honor, the defense will receive what they are due in a timely manner. The arrest took place on Friday, and this is Monday morning.”
I respond quickly. “Since I had no evidence to examine, Your Honor, I spent some time over the weekend looking at the rules of discovery, and it quite clearly states that the prosecution must turn over documents as they receive them, even if, God forbid, it interferes with their weekend. I might add that they were able to find the time during that same weekend to provide information to the media. Perhaps if I had a press pass, I would have a better chance of getting the information the discovery statute requires.”
Judge Timmerman turns to Dylan. “I must say I was concerned by the amount of information available in the media.”
Dylan is embarrassed, a state I would like to keep him in as much as possible. “I do not countenance leaks to the press, Your Honor, and I am doing all I can to prevent it.”
I decide to push it and agitate Dylan even more. “May we inquire what that is, Your Honor?”
Judge Timmerman asks, “What are you talking about?”
“Well, Mr. Campbell has just said that he is doing all he can to prevent leaks. Since he’s obviously failed, I would like to know exactly what affirmative steps he’s taken. Perhaps you and I can give him some advice and make him better at it in the process.”
Dylan blows his top on cue, ranting and raving about his own trustworthiness and his outrage at my attacking it. Judge Timmerman calms the situation down, then instructs Dylan to start providing discovery materials today.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” she asks, clearly hoping that the answer will be no. I could come up with other diversions, but that’s all they would be, and they really wouldn’t divert. The fact is, I could strip naked, jump on the defense table, and sing “Mammy,” and it wouldn’t be the lead story on the news tonight. The lead will be that Kenny Schilling, star running back for the Giants, is facing the death penalty.
It takes me twenty minutes to get through the assembled press outside the courthouse. I’ve changed my
