The county is considerate enough to provide defense attorneys with small offices in the courthouse so that we can productively pass the time while waiting for the wheels of justice to ponderously come around to us. I head for the office assigned to me, which is on the third floor.
When I get off the elevator, I run into Lynn Carmody, a court reporter for the Bergen Record. She tells me that she has been waiting for me, and asks if I've got some time to talk. I say that I do, since I've been planning to start speaking to the press about our side of the Willie Miller case anyway. I invite her into the office, stopping off at a vending machine to get some absolutely undrinkable coffee.
I've never really had a problem with reporters. I treat them as human beings, not as objects to be manipulated. I find I can manipulate them better that way. I've long ago learned that in dealing with the press, sincerity is the most important quality you can have. If you can fake sincerity, you've got it made.
Lynn is a particularly good reporter. She's been covering the courthouse beat for almost fifteen years, without aspirations of going anywhere else. She recognizes the incredible human drama that takes place in courtrooms every day, and enjoys conveying that emotion to her readers. She and I get along pretty well, because we understand each other. She knows I will only tell her that which will further my agenda, and she'll do the same.
I'm not really sure what to tell her about Willie, so I mouth platitudes about our confidence at trial, hinting at new evidence by talking about how different this trial will be from the first one. The strange thing is that I don't have to answer a bunch of penetrating questions about the case, since she doesn't seem terribly interested in it.
Lynn asks as many questions about the reason I am here today as she does about the Miller case. I tell her about Wanda, though I leave out my connection to her through Cal. He doesn't need his name dragged through the papers, though I can't imagine why Lynn would want to write about this anyway. She asks me if she can go with me downstairs when Wanda's case is brought up, and I shrug and say that it's fine with me. She's obviously a courtroom junkie.
The call comes moments later, and Lynn and I go downstairs. We enter the courtroom, and I'm surprised by the number of press in attendance. Obviously there is a case after mine that has some public interest, and I consider the possibility of hanging out afterward to lobby the assembled reporters about Willie's prospects. I just wish I had a more compelling story to tell.
On the way down to the defense table, I pass Alex, who has been the bailiff here since the fourteenth century. Alex looks twenty years older than his seventy-one years. In this courthouse, the metal detectors are the first and last line of defense; it the bad guys get to Alex they win.
“Big case today, Alex? The press is out in force.”
He turns around in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed them.
The Russian army could sneak up on Alex. He shrugs. “Beats me. I ain't never seen that many of them here before.”
I take my seat at the table, while Judge Walling finishes up a misdemeanor drug possession case. Walling is sixty-two years old, and is staggering toward retirement the way a once-a-year marathoner staggers toward the finish line. He is all but sleeping through this case, and I doubt that Wanda and I will provide him any more substantial stimulation.
Wanda's prosecutor, Barry Mullins, comes over to say hello and to go over the final arrangements for the plea. Wanda will plead no contest, Walling will lecture her on the evils of her ways, and she'll get two years probation. If she stays clean, it'll come off her record. My initial assessment is that she won't and it won't.
In any event, it's all straightforward and has been done a million times before; it is a safe bet that no future attorneys will be citing New Jersey v. Morris as precedent-setting law.
Finally, Wanda is brought in and our case is called. Wanda is no more friendly or animated than she was before, and she's also no more nervous.
Without looking up, Walling asks if the state is ready to proceed. “Yes, Your Honor,” says Mullins.
“And the defense?”
“We are, Your Honor,” I intone.
For the first time, Walling looks up, taking off his glasses so that he can see me. He seems surprised.
“Well, Mr. Carpenter, this is an unusual type of case for you to be involved with.”
I bow slightly. “A return to my humble roots, Your Honor.”
I sense something and turn around. The press has moved forward, en masse, apparently interested in this exchange. I'm glad my retort was characteristically clever.
Mullins, less concerned with putting on a show, gets to the point. “Your Honor, Ms. Morris was arrested on May 15 of this year for soliciting a police officer. The District Attorney's office and counsel for the defendant have agreed to probation in this case, if it pleases the court.”
Judge Walling examines the papers before him, as if deciding whether he will go along with this arrangement. Waiting for his decision is not exactly nail-biting time. He's probably had this kind of case brought before him ten thousand times, and it's safe to say that the next plea bargain he refuses to accept will be the first.
When he's finished, he removes his glasses and looks at Wanda, catching her in mid-yawn. “Young lady, do you know what is going on here?”
“Yeah, I'm getting off.” Good old Wanda, she must have been valedictorian of her charm school graduating class.
Walling isn't pleased by her answer or her demeanor. “You are possibly being put on probation. There is a difference.” He looks at me. “Which I hope Mr. Carpenter has explained to you.”
I nod. “In excruciating detail, Your Honor.”
Walling turns back to Wanda. “You understand the difference?”
“Yeah.”
“You will be expected to find proper employment, and to refrain from future actions of this kind.”
Wanda jerks her thumb in my direction. “Tell him that, not me.”
She is now officially getting on my nerves, and I think Walling's as well. He asks her, “Why should I tell Mr. Carpenter that?”
“'Cause he's my pimp.”
It takes a split second for the meaning of what she has said to penetrate. However, it doesn't take the press quite that long. There is an immediate uproar among them; and I realize in a horrifying flash that they have been primed for this.
Walling pounds his gavel to get quiet. “What did you say?” he asks.
“I said, he's my pimp.” Then she looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face. “I thought they knew that.”
Walling turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter, do you have any comment on your client's contention?”
I've been set up. I don't know why, or by whom, and I can't believe that Cal would do this to me.
“Your Honor, she clearly is using a different definition of pimp, from the Latin pimpius, meaning ‘to represent.’ ” I'm floundering and trying to use humor to defuse the disaster. But Wanda will have none of it.
“He keeps me and a bunch of other girls out on the street. We pay him part of what we take in.”
Walling turns to me. He's having so much fun I can see him reconsidering retirement. “Well, Mr. Carpenter, sounds like Webster's definition to me.”
Before I can respond, Wanda drops another bomb. “And he gets free blow jobs whenever he wants.”
The press is going berserk, laughing and cheering as if they are in a nightclub. I try and compose myself.
“Your Honor, this is bizarre. Ms. Morris's father is a friend of mine, and he called me, asked me to help his daughter. I have never met her before today.”