“He probably thought you were an associate and were charging the firm,” Barton says, laughing, as we return to his office. While he picks up his messages, I marvel at all the wasted space. He is by himself, and yet he has a small office building all to himself. On the walls are photographs of the area including Beaver Lake, the President’s retreat for a couple of days his first summer in office, and numerous aerial shots of the Ozarks. Knowing Barton, I suspect he is trying to figure out a way to buy northwest Arkansas for himself and his clients and lease it to the rest of the state.
One of the pink slips is from a lawyer Barton called to help me, and from his desk he gets him on the speakerphone, explaining who I am and what is happening in Dade’s case. I have never heard of Bliss Young, but then, I doubt if he has heard of me.
After a few inane pleasantries, I blurt, “Is there any body I should be calling? What should I be doing now?”
Bliss Young snorts, “Helping Dade pack his bags probably. If he hadn’t been charged, his chances of playing might have been even, but his luck ran out when Mike Cash got hold of him. All you can do now is to prepare for trial. If Carter doesn’t throw him off the team, the university will.” I listen impatiently while Young in great de tail tells me a story about his representation of a student athlete before the university judiciary board.
“Now that’s a three-ring circus,” he says.
I draw my finger across my neck. Barton nods, but he can’t shut this guy up. He drones on for ten minutes non stop about the lack of due process. God, lawyers like to hear themselves talk. Finally, when he pauses to take a breath, I tell him I’ll take a rain check, but that I have an other appointment.
Pissed at being interrupted, he hangs up abruptly, and I apologize to Barton.
“I wasn’t trying to hack the guy off, but I’m looking for some way to deal with Carter.”
Barton nods sympathetically.
“I know you’re frustrated,” he says, “but I think there’s not much you can do now except wait for him to make a decision.” We are like housewives in a TV soap opera who can do nothing but wring their hands until the next commercial. He offers me a cup of coffee.
“What’s the prosecutor’s name? Cross?” I ask, deciding to move on to a more promising subject.
“Tell me about him” “Yeah, Binkie Cross. He must give a lot of money to the Razorback Club,” Barton says, his tone slightly aggrieved.
“He always gets better seats than I do.”
I stir my coffee, envying the paneling in Barton’s office.
He has enough wood in here for me to build a new house. Money and influence. Where you sit at Razorback games depends on the generosity of your contributions to a private organization whose books haven’t been open to the public and your friendships with Jack Burke and others who control it.
“Somehow, I’m not terribly surprised.”
“Even if I could put two words together in public without sounding like I had an IQ of 4,1 wouldn’t be the prosecutor for love or money,” Barton needlessly confesses.
“You’ve got all these groups up here-gays and lesbians, environmentalists, foreign students. They’ve always got a beef about something, and the media loves to stir ‘em up.
Binkie always looks stressed out at bar meetings. Lot of toes to avoid. I hear he may not run again.”
That’s the trouble with power. You exercise it, and people get pissed off.
“So, he’s not real crazy about his job, huh?” I say, encouraging him.
“Or Binkie,” Barton hoots from behind his desk, “thought he was gonna be a hero and just prosecute drug cases and regular crime stuff. Bullshit! Last month at the Washington County Bar Association luncheon he said half the people in Fayetteville want the other half in jail.
One group wants to impeach him for not prosecuting gays under the sodomy law; gays want him to arrest that same group for harassment. The pro-choice people want injunctions against the right-to-lifers, who want them charged with murder. By the time you get through trying to pacify all the special-interest groups, it’s already five o’clock. I thought he was gonna cry.”
Sounds like of’ Binkie might like to avoid a trial. Barton, I decide, likes gossip more than I remember.
“What else have you heard about the girl?” I ask, not worried I’m taking up his time. He obviously can afford it.
Barton fingers his tie, a plain brown number that looks like a long dirt stain against his starched white shirt.
“Not much about the girl, but her father is rumored to be a big contributor to the Razorbacks. They say he gives so much that if he wanted, he could sit in Nolan’s lap during basketball season. Big Baptist, too. One of the leaders in driving the moderates out of the seminaries. They tell me a liberal Baptist these days is one who thinks Jesus might have sported a beard.”
I try to grin at this feeble attempt at humor. Barton wasn’t known as a stand-up comedian and hasn’t improved much. Still, this information is useful. The old man may have mixed emotions about what a trial will do not only to his daughter but to the Razorbacks as well.
“Back in the old days, everybody would have wanted to keep the lid on,” Barton says.
“The girl would have dropped out of school, and it never would have gotten beyond the gossip stage.”
The old days. Barton must be all of thirty. As we are talking, Lila, one of his two secretaries, a girl who must be a student at the university, bursts into his office, and says excitedly, “Dade Cunningham’s still on the team!
Coach Carter’s just announcing it. Turn on your radio!”
Barton reaches behind him to his. stereo and we hear the leathery voice of Dale Carter. “… I realize I take this action against the advice of Chancellor Henry, who has strongly recommended a different course of action. But I am convinced it would be unfair to discipline Dade until he has had a trial. After reviewing this matter, I have to say that I have heard no evidence that leads me to believe that a crime has been committed. It would be improper for me to say more at this time. The young woman has made serious charges against Dade in the criminal courts of this state, but it’s my view that due process of law re quires that Dade be presumed innocent until proven guilty. For this reason I’m not, at this time, suspending him for a violation of team rules. This is not to say that I consider the matter closed, nor am I making any judgment about whether a violation of the law occurred. If in formation is made available that persuades me that Dade is a threat to her safety or anyone’s safety, I will change my decision in a heartbeat. That’s all I’m going to say on this matter. Athletic Director Burke has authorized me to say that he supports my decision at this time.”
“Hot damn!” I exclaim excitedly.
“Carter is one tough son of a gun!”
Barton snaps off the radio.
“God bless him!” Barton laughs.
“He just bought himself a load of trouble. They’re gonna come after him with everything but the kitchen sink.”
I look at Lila, who has remained in the room.
“Why?”
I say.
“Why shouldn’t he be presumed innocent? All Carter did was maintain the status quo until the trial.
What’s wrong with that?”
The girl looks at me coldly, as if I had suggested that this were a case about as significant as a traffic accident.
In her expensive ash-colored cashmere sweater and heels, she could be Barton’s mistress. She turns and flounces out of the room.
Barton closes the door.
“There’s your problem, right there,” he says, frowning.
“Some women will go ape shit over what Carter’s done. There’re a bunch more on the faculty and in administration than there used to be.”