Chapter 29
A Regrettable Compromise
It had been three months since the accident, and Charles’s law practice had stagnated as he began refusing to represent every prospective criminal defendant he consulted. There was always something that compelled him to not accept a client, something that led him convinced that he couldn’t believe a word he said. Once he had been unlike all other criminal defense attorneys: he had always given the potential client the benefit of the doubt, at least until the police reports, videotape or audiotape of their encounters with the police changed his mind. Now, the opposite approach was becoming the norm. It seemed that if a potential client’s lips were moving, a lie was spewing forth. The burden to prove truthfulness rested on the client’s shoulders from the get-go.
There was the case of a teenage boy who was given a ride to the mall by a friend only to have the friend pulled over for speeding and arrested for possession of marijuana. Both were charged with the crime, and the desperate boy, an honor student who had never been in trouble before, needed help. All Charles could do during the initial consultation was to call him a liar over and over again in his mind. There were many other more serious cases that he could have taken on—a statutory rape, an aggravated battery, and one attempted murder—and he found it easy to walk away from all of them, even the ones that had substantial reasonable doubts as to the potential clients’ guilt. If they didn’t do this crime, he reasoned, they most certainly deserved to pay for the others they got away with. In the meantime, the bills piled up, and the telephone messages left by bill collectors went mostly unanswered. He was thankful that he had socked away personal assets and investments so the law office’s bankruptcy wouldn’t make a dent in his personal fortune, a fortune built up with criminal defense blood money.
Then there was the first time DUI client who brought up all the emotions he had felt when he saw Michael Thomas’s name on the police file in Darkwell. During the consult Charles went through the motions and silently, regrettably, noted several issues that would likely lead to a victory at the drivers’ license hearing, but refrained from sharing them with the potential client. Instead, he told the boy that the department of motor vehicles would suspend his license because he failed or refused to take a breath or blood test. Moreover, even if he “got off” from the charge of DUI, he would still have his license suspended. At the end, the boy felt much worse than when he walked in, dejected and defeated already.
Charles couldn’t get past the fact that this kid would drink and drive again if he, Charles, helped him “get off,” and that might result in an innocent person getting hurt or killed.
“Stop drinking and get the hell out of my office!” he yelled at the kid at the end of the consultation. He shot up out of his seat, stormed to his office door, and ripped it open as he motioned the kid to leave. The poor kid almost cried as he did as directed.
At that moment it dawned on Charles that he was slipping into another habit his faith had compelled him to leave behind many years before— cursing. After the kid left the building, Charles shut his inner office door, locked it behind him, and returned to his desk chair. This time he turned away from the computer on the credenza and instead laid his head on his desk, sobbing into the crook of his elbow. When will this nightmare end? He wondered.
Charles had arrived at the point where he had a hard time believing anyone. And he had an even harder time justifying his profession. But for his modest collection of rental properties, he and Nancy would have had a difficult time weathering the dry spell. Indeed, he found himself sitting in a local Starbucks Café most of the time, and Becky was hard pressed to protect him from the many previously retained, disgruntled clients who felt like he was neglecting their cases, which he knew he was, while he stayed in what he called his “funk.” As he continued to ponder how much he’d wasted his life, the depression and anxiety that came with his belief that he had almost killed his grandson grew deeper and deeper. So it was surprising that on the day DA Jackson called the office, Charles was actually there, sitting at his desk surfing the Internet and trying to at least look productive for the first time in months.
The intercom buzzed and Becky’s voice interrupted his pity party. “It’s Anthony Jackson from Darkwell on line one.”
“Got it,” he said as he picked up the handset. “Charles here.”
“Hi, Charles,” Jackson answered. “You have a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Looks like your boy will be pleading guilty; nolo contendre is not an option.”
Charles’s eyes lit up and a smile appeared on his face. “As charged?”
Jackson was silent far too long for the news to be a good development.
“Dammit!” Charles exclaimed loudly, again realizing he had just let out a word that hadn’t slipped through his lips in years. The smile the plea announcement brought back to his lips dissolved into a frown. “What the heck are you boys doing down there? You lettin’ this guy get off with a slap on the wrist?”
“Calm down,” Jackson said. “There’s a problem with the case. I’m sending you copies of the reports and the defendant’s motion to suppress so you know what we’re dealing with.”
He allowed him to slip back into defense attorney mode for a moment. He calmed down as he prepared to listen to what the DA had to say. There had to be a reason behind it. “What’s the offer?”
“Guilty to aggravated battery, dismissal of the remaining counts, and three years prison. Based on what the triple-I report contains, he should go away for at least that long. And with Judge Bosco, who knows? He adds time to our recommended sentences all the time.”
“Sorry I snapped at you. You mind telling me what changed your mind?”
“Sure. Deputy Brown, who, by the way, has been fired, screwed up the investigation. He barged into the man’s motel room without a warrant and before there was much evidence to justify any search, let alone a warrantless one. Robert’s backpack, computer and wallet will probably be suppressed, and that will give us fits on proving up the aggravating factors. I’d rather take a plea to the most serious charge than give the punk a three-day jury trial followed with some rinky-dink misdemeanor hit-and-run conviction. He’ll max out at twelve months in county on that.”
“Makes sense. I imagine I’d try the darn thing.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Thanks for your help and the heads up.”
“No problem.”
After hanging up the phone, Charles said quietly, “Aggravated battery’s not bad, not bad at all.”
He picked up the handset and started punching in phone numbers of family and friends to tell them the news. He silently rehearsed the words, knowing that they’d all see the wisdom of a plea once he massaged the message a little bit, thoroughly washing out the clear compromise with the benefits of a guaranteed felony conviction. It felt weird doing so from the other side of the fence, but it was a necessary evil. He specifically asked everyone to not call Robert until after he did.
He saved the last call for Robert. He expected that it would be the most difficult. He doubted that he would be emotionally capable of even walking out of his office after delivering the news to the grandson he had helped to injure and almost kill.
“Hello?” Robert answered on his dorm telephone as he sat at his desk studying.
“Hi, buddy,” he said, trying to sound chipper.
“Hi.”
“I just got off the phone with the prosecutor. Thomas is pleading guilty, but not as charged.” Charles explained to Robert what had been communicated to him, throwing in a little bit of information about how lousy the prisons are in Oklahoma, and how serving time in that state would make three years seem more like ten. The other end of the line was silent after he finished. “You okay with that?”
“I guess. He’s going to prison, so that’s good.”
Charles sensed trepidation on the other end of the line.
“His attorney is very
good. If this thing would’ve gone to trial, there is a very real possibility of the kid going free. That’s not a good thing. This deal guarantees that he serves prison time, at least a few years’ worth.”
“I’m okay with it, honest.”
“There’s also restitution. It’s a guilty plea, so that means we won’t have any problem suing him for damages. I’ll take care of the civil claim—” He smiled, seeing an opportunity for a lighter moment. “—I’ll only charge you half my regular rate.”
Robert let a chuckle come out, though he didn’t feel much like laughing. “Funny, but it’s just blood from a turnip. He’s got nothing.”
“I know, but we can keep any judgment alive indefinitely. Who knows? Maybe he’ll inherit a million dollars some day. It could happen. Oklahoma has a lottery.”
Both laughed, a little louder this time. Robert’s laughter told Charles that his grandson would be okay, if not now, eventually.
“Thanks for calling,” Robert said just before both hung up and went about their daily routines.
Janie was sitting on Robert’s bed studying American history, trying her best to eavesdrop. After the conversation ended, she said, “What was that about?”
“He called to tell me that they’re offering a deal to Thomas.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
Robert shook his head side to side and shrugged his shoulders. “Probably.”
Sitting at his desk tapping a pencil on a blank sheet of paper, Robert felt the urge to cry. His right arm, still protected in a sling most of the time and fastened tightly to his midsection so he couldn’t move it, reminded him of the true cost of Thomas’s crime. He silently reflected that he would pay for the rest of his life, while the criminal who did this to him would be done with paying his cost in a few years.
Their relationship was almost back to where it was before the accident, so Janie sensed that he wasn’t telling her everything—he wasn’t buying what his grandpa and the prosecutor were selling. She stood up and went to his side, her left hand gently caressing his shoulder, his good shoulder. “You okay?”
Robert looked up and smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay, but thanks for asking.”
He gave her a quick hug with his good arm and both prepared to resume their studies, Robert thinking, No, I’m not okay. I’m a worthless cripple who has no idea what to do with the rest of his life. He did his best to suppress the snicker that accompanied the thought. Fortunately, Janie’s back was turned as she walked back to the bed so she didn’t see or hear it.