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We decided to talk to Gordon
Monday after lunch the next day. We
chose Matthew as our spokesperson, since Gordon seemed to hate him the
least. With the newspaper editorial clutched
in his hand, Mathew knocked on Gordon’s door.
A look of displeasure crossed Gordon’s face when he saw us. He stood back as we walked into his office.
Matthew and Janice sat in
the office chairs while José and I stood behind them. “Um, we were kinda wondering if you had seen
the newspaper editorial from Friday?” Matthew asked.
“Of course.”
“We were kinda thinking
that this might be a good time to go to the commissioners and ask for more
lawyers?” I wished Matthew didn’t always
make statements sound like a question.
“I don’t plan on
taking such action.”
“But we don’t have enough
lawyers?” Matthew unfolded the crumpled
newsprint. “Look, it says so right here
in the newspaper.”
“I think I am
sophisticated enough to refrain from basing my opinions on what I read in the
newspaper.”
“But we could, you know,
use the editorial to support a request for more lawyers,” Matthew said.
“I have a responsibility
to this county to ensure that this office is run economically. You need to learn to be more efficient. You should feel lucky to have this job, and
you’re certainly paid enough to do it.”
“Are you joking? The court reporters get paid more than we do.” I said this before I could stop myself; we
had also agreed that I shouldn’t say anything since Gordon seemed to hate me
the most. “But we’re not asking to be
paid more, we’re asking for a manageable amount of work. It’s not fair to our clients and it’s not
fair to us.”
“It’s not in the budget.”
He said dismissively, and turned to face his computer.
“Ex-excuse me, Gordon, I
mean, boss, sir, um …. I mean …” Matthew
took a deep breath. “Whose side are you
on, anyway?”
“Bring this up
again,” Gordon said, turning back to us, “and I will terminate you all for
insubordination.”
“You know what, Gordon,”
I said. I decided it didn’t matter who
he hated most. Apparently it was all of
us. “If you won’t go to the
commissioners, then we will.”
“I forbid you to
do that.”
José walked around
Matthew’s chair to Gordon’s desk and leaned over because he knew his height
intimidated Gordon. “Last time I checked,
you were not crowned King of Olympic County.
We can participate in our local government like every citizen.”
“I will have you all
fired.”
I laughed a little too
loudly. “Go ahead and fire us,” I said. Matthew, his one point of bravery now passed,
was looking at me with large eyes. If he
lost his job, he’d have to move back in with his parents. I had to finish, but hoped I wasn’t sacrificing
Mathew’s job.
I walked around Gordon’s
desk and stood directly beside his chair, hands on my hips. “Go ahead and fire us. We’ll just add you as a party to our lawsuit. Talk about costing the county a lot of money. I can just see it now,” I said, pointing to
an imaginary marquee, “Olympic Public Defenders versus Gordon Elliott. It will be nice for someone to hear the
facts, rather than your propaganda. So
stay out of our way. We’re going to get
more lawyers for this office.”
José opened Gordon’s
door, and I led the way out, the others following behind me. As soon as we turned the corner in the
hallway, we stopped.
“What just
happened?” Matthew asked. “Do we still have jobs?”
“What just happened,” José
said, “is that Gordon learned that a woman can be aggressive enough to be a good
lawyer. Come on, let’s get the hell out
of here before he realizes that he hasn’t fired us yet.”
Later that week, I was at
Moezy’s, halfway through a pitcher of beer and a pot of coffee—a recipe for
certain inspiration, I thought—when Janice, José, and Matthew came in.
“You look like you’re up
to something,” Janice said.
“I’m trying to think of a
way to get rid of Gordon or force him to ask for more lawyers.”
José poured himself a
beer from my pitcher. “I’d always hoped
that you would turn your powers to good instead of evil. Have you come up with anything?”
“I feel like I’m close to
something,” I said, “but I can’t quite grasp it.”
“There’s always poison,”
Janice said. “Remember that one case you
had, Matthew? What did the lady use to
kill her husband?”
“Ricin.”
“There you go,” she said. “We’ll poison him with ricin.”
“Um, you know,” Matthew
said, “my client got caught and sentenced to life in prison.”
“OK, maybe ricin is a bad
idea,” Janice said. “How about we get Gordon
sent to prison? Maybe plant some drugs
in his office? Wait, I know. We could download some child porn onto his
computer. You get a hundred years in
prison for possession of child porn.”
“That sounds like a very
bad idea,” Matthew said.
“I like the computer idea,”
I said. I could feel an idea worming its
way to the surface. I had a knack with
computers, not in a useful way, where I could write programs or make money, but
I understood that they were just tools. Computers
did what you told them to do. They
didn’t know things independently; they didn’t have a moral center. After my AutoCorrect discovery, I had made José’s
computer change “Hi” to “HOWWWDEEEEE!” which he claimed to like, and I had made
Matthew’s computer change correctly spelled words to misspelled words, which he
hadn’t noticed. I knew better than to
mess with Janice.
“Something with
computers.” I was thinking out
loud. “Gordon went to law school before
computers and the internet, so he’s probably pretty old-school when it comes to
his computer.”
“Yeah, he’s one of those
guys you think will faint if they have to do their own typing,” Janice said. “I saw him dictating the other day, for God’s sake.”
“All right, something
with computers,” José said. “But what?”
“We need to think about what
we are trying to do,” I said. “In the
short term, we are trying to get more lawyers.
In the long term, we need to get rid of Gordon, but we can save that for
later.”
“So, something with computers
and getting more lawyers,” Janice said.
“What was Ed saying the
other day?” I asked “Something about the
budget?”
“He said that our
office’s yearly budget request to the county commissioners’ office was due soon,”
Matthew said.
“Maybe Gordon can request
more lawyers without knowing about it,” I said, feeling the idea come together.
“What are you talking
about?” Matthew asked.
“We can use his computer,”
I said. “His computer just does what he
tells it to do—or what we tell it to
do, if we have his password. We can make
our own budget request, and send it from his computer.”
“OK,
Einstein,” José said, “how do we get the password?”
“You
know how I get here really early lots of times to get ready for trials?” I asked.
They
all nodded.
“One
time, I was doing paces around the office, practicing my opening statement, and
I noticed that Gordon had left his office door open.”
“What
did you do?” Janice asked.
“Let’s
just say that it’s not the best idea to hide your computer password under your
mouse pad. Totally predictable.”
“But that’s where I keep
mine,” Matthew said.
“I
know.”
Matthew
looked alarmed. “Kate, you didn’t do
anything to my computer, did you?”
“Um, no.” I told myself to change his computer back
right away.
“So
we just propose a budget for him?” José asked.
“Basically.”
“Well, it’s easy to send
the proposal by his email, but what happens when the commissioners respond?”
Matthew asked.
“We
need to take over the communication between Gordon and the commissioners,” I
said. “First, we need to make a rule in
the email program that all emails from the commissioners’ office get sent to his
junk mail. I’m sure he never checks his
junk mail, if he even knows it exists. Then,
a corresponding rule that sends one of us an email when he receives a message
from the commissioners. We can use Gordon’s
computer to talk to the comissioners by email, and persuade them to give us
more lawyers.”
“But we’re going to have
to go into his office at some point and either send emails from his computer,
or respond to emails out of junk mail,” Janice said.
“How are we going to do
it?” Matthew asked. “We can’t send emails
from his computer at three in the morning.”
“We’ll have to wait until
he goes to court,” José said. “And then
form a watch.”
“This doesn’t sound good,”
Matthew said. “He doesn’t go to court that much, and if we get caught, we’ll get
fired.”
“Wait a minute,” Janice
said. “I think I know how to handle access
to his computer.”
“You’re not, um,
consorting with Gordon, are you?” I asked.
“Because that would be sick.”
“Please.” Janice rolled her eyes. “Even I have limits. The parking guys? Yes. Gordon?
Never.
Gordon teaches a class at the law school every Tuesday and Thursday at at
noon .”
“Gordon teaches a class?” I coughed.
“In what?—How to plead someone guilty quickly?”
Matthew broke in before I could get too wound
up. “Do you really think your idea can work?
It sounds risky.”
“It’s the only plan we
have, and we have to do something,” I said.
“For ourselves, for our clients, for the new lawyers who come next.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
It turned out I was lucky
that Judge Peterson had continued Mark’s case two months rather than the two
weeks I had requested. It took two weeks
just to get a court order directing the emergency room doctors to answer my
questions and provide me with Mr. Smith’s medical records. I had again asked Frank to agree to the
order, because I was clearly entitled to the records; as usual, he refused to
cooperate. I filed a formal motion with a
legal memorandum attached. My motion was
granted, of course, but the process burned up 14 valuable days.
Once the reams of medical
records arrived, I spent a week reading through the documents. Stacked together, the papers formed a pile
three feet high. One foot of the stack
was the records from Mr. Smith’s hospital stay and the other two feet were a
lifetime of doctor visits. The next
Monday, I called Dr. Rudolph, Mr. Smith’s family doctor, who reluctantly agreed
to meet with me on Wednesday. I was
hoping that Mr. Smith had a history of vision problems or had been advised that
he shouldn’t drive.
Dr. Rudolph’s office
occupied the corner suite of a three-story office building. The harsh lines of the ugly concrete building
were softened by abundant ivy covering the walls and flower beds. Dr. Rudolph’s receptionist led me to the
doctor’s personal office. He was sitting
at his desk with his hands laid flat on his clean desk surface. He wore a white doctor coat, and had a beefy
face made walrussy by a large mustache.
He looked like a person who was probably jovial with his patients. This demeanor did not extend to lawyers.
I sat in one of the
leather chairs facing his desk. “First,
I want you to know that I’m not that kind of a lawyer.” I smiled.
“I don’t sue anyone, especially doctors.
I’m just trying to help a kid out.”
Dr.
Rudolph didn’t respond, apparently unimpressed by my friendly tone.
“So,
you were Mr. Smith’s doctor?” I finally said.
“Yes,
treated him for 40 years,” he said.
“Nice guy,” he added in a way that made his death seem like my fault.
“I
guess you know that he died after a car accident?”
“Yes,
I am aware of that. Doesn’t surprise me
that he didn’t make it. He was healthy,
but when you’re that age, you’re pretty frail.”
“Did
he have any problems with his balance?”
“Let’s
see … he had had a few falls in the past couple of years, but nothing serious.”
“What
about his vision?”
“He
was OK to drive, if that’s what you’re getting at. Like most elderly people he was overly
cautious—he probably got flipped off a lot for going too slow, but he was OK to
drive.”
“I’ve
got all these hospital records, and this autopsy report. I was wondering if you would mind taking a
look at it?” I handed him the report and
a summary of the emergency room records.
“It says something about how the emergency room doctors saw a hernia and
then surgically repaired it.”
His
expressions changed from tolerance to interest.
He scanned the report. “He’s had
that hernia for years. Twenty years, to
be exact. It was actually huge.”
“What
exactly is a hernia?”
“A
hernia occurs when one part of your body protrudes through an opening into
another part of your body. Mr. Smith had
a large hiatial hernia. There is a
muscle, your diaphragm, that separates your chest cavity from your abdominal
cavity.” Dr. Rudolph held his hands flat
about mid-chest to show me where the diaphragm was. “This type of hernia forms at the opening, or
hiatus, in your diaphragm, where your esophagus, or food tube, joins your
stomach. When the muscle tissue around
the hiatus becomes weak, the upper part of your stomach can creep through the
hole in your diaphragm into your chest. Part
of your stomach then basically resides in your chest cavity. This is called a hiatial hernia.”
“But
they thought he got the hernia in the accident?”
“A person can also have a
traumatic hernia, where trauma causes a tear in the diaphragm, and the stomach
bulges through the tear.”
“Could a doctor tell from
an x-ray whether the hernia was pre-existing or, um, traumatic?”
“They
sure as hell should be able to.” He was
animated, a little angry now.
“Would it help to see the
x-rays that they took in the emergency room?”
“Sure, I’ll take a look
at those. But they didn’t need to be
able to tell whether the hernia was traumatic from the x-rays—they talked to me
before the surgery.”
“They
talked to you?”
“It’s
standard procedure to contact a patient’s primary doctor before emergency
surgery, if possible. You know, get the
medical background, general condition, et cetera.”
“Did they ask you about
the hernia?”
“They didn’t even mention
it. In fact, they didn’t even tell me
that they were doing surgery.” He shook
his head in disbelief. “What was the
cause of death?”
“Peritonitis.”
“From?”
“An unknown source.”
“My God. They killed him.”
“Do
you think they should have asked, or at least checked to see if the hernia was
pre-existing?”
“You’d
sure as hell think you’d check before you go hacking away at someone.”
I
suppressed a smile. “I anticipate I will
be calling you as a witness in the trial.
I’ll be in touch as the trial date gets closer.”
“How can they have a
trial when I’m going to come in and say that the hospital killed the guy?”
I shook my head at his
naiveté. He thought the fact that a
person was innocent would prevent him from being prosecuted.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
José, Janice, Matthew,
and I implemented our plan to get more lawyers over the next weeks. José enlisted his mother, a tax lawyer, to
help with our budget proposal. His
mother and an accountant from her firm developed a professional proposal with
spread sheets, graphs, and charts. A bar
graph demonstrated our budget’s lack of growth in the last 20 years. A pie chart illustrated the disparity in
funding between the prosecutors and public defenders. Appendices listed national caseload standards
and showed how our office failed to meet these standards. At the end, a summary proposed funding for an
additional ten lawyers, six secretaries, four paralegals, and four
investigators.
We also attached the newspaper
editorial advocating additional staff for our office. José done some national research, and had
found that many of the public defender systems across the county were in
crisis. Some states appeared to be even worse
off than us.
José cited a study by the
Spangenberg Group, which showed that the crisis in Olympic County was a symptom
of a nation-wide problem: “There is a crisis in defender services.
Historically underfunded, the strain on the indigent defense component of the
criminal justice system has been exacerbated by the federal government’s
declared ‘war on drugs’ fought with a zero tolerance policy that promotes the
criminalization of more behavior and Draconian penalties (such as ‘three
strikes’ and mandatory sentencing laws). While drug war pressures have resulted
in increasing sums of money to fund courts, prosecution, police and
corrections, criminal defense spending remains almost negligible in comparison.
This failure to fairly fund the indigent defense component of the criminal
justice ‘eco-system’ has resulted in ‘overburdened public defenders, the
incarceration of the innocent, court docket delays, prison overcrowding, and
the release of violent offenders into the community.’”
A few public defender
offices had filed law suits in federal court.
Some counties had been sued by the ACLU for their failure to provide
adequate indigent defense services. José
had attached copies of the complaints in a couple of the lawsuits. He also attached copies of the jury awards
for innocent people who had been wrongly convicted because of ineffective assistance
of counsel. The documents made clear
that paying to defend a lawsuit in federal court, paying an ultimate settlement
or jury award, and paying for individual lawsuits by clients inadequately
represented, would cost far more than simply giving our office more lawyers.
Every Tuesday and
Thursday, one of us would sneak into Gordon’s office to check his junk
mail. We intercepted emails that
announced the budget proposal deadlines.
The Thursday before the budget proposal was due, we ransacked Gordon’s
office until we found a copy of his finalized budget proposal in his desk
drawer. It was in an interoffice mail
envelope addressed to the commissioners resting on top of a stack of Fish and
Wildlife magazines.
“Oh, my God,” Janice said.
“Come on,” José
said. “It’s not like you’ve never seen fish
porn before.”
“It’s not the that, it’s
this.” Janice was scanning pages of Gordon’s
proposal. “That Fucker!” she hissed. “He’s proposing that our office be dismantled
and our cases contracted to private firms.”
“No,” José, Matthew, and
I said together.
José grabbed the proposal
from Janice and started flipping through the pages. “The bastard is trying to destroy us. He’s probably trying to funnel money to his
friends in the private firms.”
“We all know what happens
when a private firm takes a public defender contract,” Janice said. “The private firm takes the money and screws
the clients.”
“Yeah,” Janice said. “The clients come in and the lawyer says,
I’ve been appointed to represent you, but if you want me to do a really good
job, then you need to cough up five thousand bucks.”
“Now Gordon is going to
know we changed his request,” I said. “I
was hoping he would just think it was weird if he got more lawyers than he requested. But he’s requesting that our office be
dismantled.”
“He won’t know until it’s
over,” José said. “We have to keep
going. Even if it means we get fired
once the budget is approved.”
“But how are we going to
keep Gordon from sending his budget proposal to the commissioners?” I asked. “Won’t they think it’s strange when they get
two different proposals from him?”
“Easy,” Janice said. “I know a couple of guys in the mailroom.”
“We also need to send an
original of our request,” José said, holding a folder containing our
proposal. “But the cover letter needs
his signature.”
“What are we going to do
about the signature?” Matthew asked.
“Here,” I said, pulling a document from my
purse, “We can copy his signature from my latest admonishment letter.”
Over the next week we
monitored Gordon’s emails as closely as possible. We allowed an email through to his inbox that
acknowledged receipt of his proposal. We
were holding our breath, because the plan seemed to be working, but we knew it
could implode at any time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Two
weeks before Mark’s trial, I saw Doug in the courthouse cafeteria. He held a tray with two cheeseburgers and a large
order of fries. He was stuffing three
French fries in his mouth as he carried his tray away from the cashier.
“Is one of those burgers for
me?” I remembered that I hadn’t eaten
since lunch yesterday.
“I’m really hungry,
Kate.” He moved the tray higher so that
I couldn’t reach it. He turned away from
me and walked to a table. I followed him. My stomach growled just as I sat down with
him. Neither of us said anything. He sighed. “Fine, here.”
He passed me a burger. “But
you’ll be sad when I die of starvation.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.”
I unwrapped the burger
and took a delicious bite. “Can I have a
drink of your pop?”
“God, Kate, will you
never stop? Would you like a french fry,
too?
“Sure.” I loved french fries, but usually didn’t
order them myself.
“I’ve been trying to find
you, anyway,” he said. “I need to tell
you something.”
I nodded because my mouth
was full of his food.
“You didn’t hear it from me,”
he said, “but there’s something funny going on with your vehicular homicide case.”
“Funny?” I took a drink of his pop. “Yes, it’s hilarious when an innocent kid is
charged with someone’s death. Just like
Nate. You want to send this kid to jail
too?”
“Kate,
I’m trying to help you.”
“What
then?”
“I
overheard Frank and Smoot talking. They’re
really worried about you finding out about something.”
“But
they’re supposed to tell me everything.
Especially anything that helps my client.”
“I
think Frank considers that rule more of a suggestion than a mandate.”
“He
considers the United States Constitution a suggestion? In Brady versus Maryland the Supreme Court
held that the prosecution must divulge exculpatory evidence to the defense …”
“Kate,
lighten up. I know. I’m trying to help.”
“Alright—sorry. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
“I
overheard them talking. Something like, ‘If
she finds this out, we’re dead in the water.’
And then Smoot asked, ‘Do you think she’ll figure it out?’ And Frank said, ‘I doubt it—nobody checks
that stuff.’”
“What were they talking
about?”
“I
have no idea.”
“Can’t
you go and ask them?”
“No.”
“Damn
it.”
“Kate,
I’m trying to help. Take it or leave
it. But something sounds fishy.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The next Thursday, we checked Gordon’s email during the
lunch hour. “OK, here’s something from
the commissioners’ office ‘Re Proposed Budget,’” José said. He clicked to open the message, and read
aloud. “Mr. Elliott: We have reviewed your budget request, and
while it does contain rather dramatic provisions, we have come to the conclusion
that these changes are justified.”
We all cheered. “We did it!
They accepted our budget!”
“Wait, there’s
more.” José continued, “Olympic County
Code requires a public hearing for all major budget proposals. While your budget has received our tentative
approval, it will nevertheless need to be introduced and voted on at a public
hearing. Your budget presentation will
be added to the agenda of the next public hearing. While the hearing will largely be a
formality, you will nevertheless need to make a formal budget presentation,
with the opportunity for public input.”
“This is not
good,” Janice said.
“Dang,” I said. “I mean, we knew Gordon was going to find out
about our proposal if it was approved.
But that was the beauty of the plan.
He couldn’t refuse to take the money once it had been authorized. And he couldn’t fire us for doubling our
office budget.”
“Shit, shit,
shit,” Janice said.
“What are we
going to do?” Matthew said.
“He can still
receive this email, right?” José said. “We’ll just send this message to his
inbox. Because he did submit a budget
request. So this email won’t look
strange to him.”
“Yeah,” Janice
said, “but then he’ll go to the meeting and request that our office be
dismantled.”
“Wait a minute,”
I said. “I think we can still finesse
this.” I took over José’s seat at the
computer and hit reply. “Dear Commissioners,”
I typed. “I appreciate your tentative
approval of my budget proposal. Regarding
the public hearing, I hope you realize the delicacy of my position. While the budget I have submitted to you in
writing is essential to the future of this office, I must downplay my request
at the meeting for political reasons. I
assume that you will be able to help finesse the approval of my true request,
which is the budget I submitted in writing.
While I must temper my public appearance so as not to appear extreme, be
assured that I am MOST FERVED in my position, and will follow through with all
available legal options if the request is not granted.”
“Ferved?” José
asked.
“Good word, huh?”
I said.
“Have you been
studying for the SATs again?” Janice asked.
“It pays to
enhance your word power,” I said.
“This is getting
too complicated,” Janice said.
“We just have to
hold steady,” Matthew said.
“Hold steady?” I
said. “Are we on a ship?”
“Hold it
together, whatever,” Matthew said.
“If we can hold
it together,” José said, “it may still work.”
At the front of
the bland meeting room was a raised stage with a long, rectangular folding
table, dressed up for the occasion in royal blue skirting trimmed with gold
braid. Three ancient microphones sat on
the table in front of each commissioner’s empty chair. Fake wood nameplates with white lettering
designated each commissioner’s place:
Miriam Dickensen, Roger Frankfurter, Clay Kunkle.
“It seems
strange that these people have power over our office,” I said. The room seemed more likely to host a PTA
meeting than government action.
“The
commissioners control the money,” Janice said.
We were sitting
in the back of the audience portion of the room. Commissioner meetings were open to the
public, but sparsely attended. We sat
behind a group of anti-flouridation people and hoped we blended with their
group.
At exactly seven
o’clock, the commissioners entered the room from a door behind the stage.
Miriam Dickensen
was a small, thin woman with short hair frozen with hairspray. She had a small, pointy nose and gold-framed
reading glasses. Clay Kunkle was cuter
than I expected, with wavy brown hair and a muscular physique. Roger Frankfurter looked like middle-aged
county functionary—he was balding, overweight, with a red, puffy face.
The men waited for Miriam
to sit, either in deference to her gender or power. “We call this hearing to order,” she
announced. “This is the public hearing
of the County Commissioners for Olympic County.
On the agenda today are the budget proposal for the County Public
Defenders’ Office and a petition to add fluoride to the water supply. This meeting is now in session.”
Gordon stood and
walked to the podium. He adjusted the
microphone to his level. “Good
evening. My name is Gordon Elliott and I
am a public official involved in the administration of public defense.”
“Nice intro,”
Janice whispered.
“I think he’s
embarrassed to say he’s a public defender,” Matthew whispered back.
“Yeah,” José
said, “Ed would have been like, ‘I’m The Public Defender of Olympic County, Motherfuckas!’”
One of the anti-fluoridation
people turned around and shushed us.
Gordon cleared
his throat and continued, “I understand that these are lean times in Olympic
County, and that lean times calls for sacrifice. And sacrifice from everyone.”
“If you’ll take
a look at my presentation, you will see a summary of my request.” He turned to the lap top he had set up with a
projector and clicked to start his power point presentation. The image appeared sideways initially, and
then every time he hit “next,” the image would dissolve or zip off the screen
or otherwise fade to nothing.
“Good, job, Kate,”
José said.
“Don’t you love
the one that dissolved into a big acid trip rainbow?”
“I don’t know
what’s wrong with this danged thing,” Gordon said. “Darn computers. I assume you all have the handouts that
contain my budget request?”
“Why, yes they
do, Gordon,” Janice whispered, “although you might not recognize their packet.”
“We admire your
moderation, but we understand the urgency of your request,” Clay Kunkle said.
Gordon cleared
his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well, if
not in the immediate future, certainly, at some point, we will need some
additional staff …”
“Yes,” Roger
Frankfurter said. “I assure you that we understand
the urgency of your position. We
understand that it is important for you to ask for these new lawyers, for the
purposes of the ABA committee on public defense.”
“I understood
those guidelines to be merely advisory,” Gordon said. “I don’t think the guidelines mandate
compliance.”
“Again, we
appreciate your dedication to fiscal responsibility, but we believe we must
comply with the ABA guidelines, or potentially face costly legal action. I’ll now open the floor to public
comment. Anyone?”
Because the
meeting had gone as planned, we didn’t say anything. The anti-fluoridation people didn’t have any
comment either.
“All right,
then. The floor is closed to public
comment, and we will take a vote. All in
favor of the proposed budget, say ‘AYE.’”
“Aye,” they all
said.
“That carries
it, then. The budget is approved. You can start hiring the new lawyers and
staff right away.”
We ducked out of
the room as quickly as we could, and burst out laughing the minute the door
shut behind us.
“Can you believe
it?”
“Did you see the
look on his face?”
We had all maintained our
composure while in the commissioners’ room, but José now leaned his head back
and howled like a coyote. We all grabbed
him to make him stop and ended up in a happy group hug.
“Let’s go have a drink,”
Janice said.
“I can’t,” I said,
although there was nothing I wanted more than a night of giddy celebration. “I have to get ready for Mark’s trial—it
starts a week from Monday. I can’t risk
having a hangover tomorrow. I have to go
home and go to sleep.” Maybe OK, just
one.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
I
couldn’t figure out what Doug’s tip meant, but otherwise made progress in my
preparation for Mark’s trial. My
accident reconstructionist would testify that Mark’s speed was probably between
50 and 55 miles per hour. This estimated
speed was faster than I liked, but slower than the state’s calculation. I had also subpoenaed Dr. Rudolph to testify
about Mr. Smith’s pre-existing hiatial hernia, and that the hospital’s surgery
to correct the hernia was totally unnecessary.
I had also written a trial brief that addressed the issue of whether
Mark’s speed was the proximate cause of the accident.
In the week before Mark’s trial, I was aware of
nothing other than the upcoming trial. I
organized nine large notebooks of materials.
Four of the notebooks contained medical records. Two contained photos and accident
reconstruction data. Two others held
research and various cases regarding legal issues I thought might arise. The last organized my trial preparation—an
outline of my opening and closing, cross-examination, direct examination, and
voir dire.
By
8:00 p.m. on Sunday, I was ready for Mark’s trial. After scrounging around, I found an old pack
of cigarettes in my lingerie drawer. I
went outside, sat with my legs sticking out of the neon ‘O’, and smoked the
stale cigarette. The night was clear,
and the stars reminded me of my insignificant role in the universe. I had done my best, but what if that wasn’t
good enough? What if my absolute best
wasn’t good enough to save an innocent kid?
In most of my trials, there was always something more I could have done
to prepare the case—more time spent on preparation of cross-examination, more
time spent polishing my opening statement, more investigation … The stress was usually: what if I hadn’t worked
hard enough to do a good job? This was
different. I had done everything I could
possibly do.
This time the stress was: what if I wasn’t good enough?
Want to read more? Find the next chapters here!
This time the stress was: what if I wasn’t good enough?
Want to read more? Find the next chapters here!
