“I’ll come back soon, Tom,” said Chilly. He stood and motioned to the video camera in the corner of the room. A moment later the same guard came through a door to retrieve Stoller.
“I don’t care who my lawyer is,” he said, as the guard touched his arm. “I just want this over.”
We watched him walk out through his door. Then we left through ours.
“A wrinkle,” I said to Chilly out in the hallway. “What’s the diagnosis?”
“Schizophrenia. Disorganized schizophrenia. They think it was triggered by the PTSD.”
“Disorganized is right.”
“Aunt Deidre didn’t mention any of this?”
“No,” I said. “She said he was sick. She wanted me to see for myself, I think.”
Chilly put his hand on my shoulder. “You surprised me in there, Counsel. I thought this was just a feel-out session. I didn’t expect you to offer your services.”
So Tom Stoller suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and disorganized schizophrenia. He admitted to apologizing to the victim after he shot her, so an insanity defense was an uphill climb. Self-defense was a sure loser; it would be hard to believe that a young woman would appear to be a threat to a homeless man.
This case was a d-o-g.
“He said he’s hot in his room,” I told the guard at the front desk.
“This ain’t the Four Seasons,” the male guard said, reading some document.
I stared at the guard, but he wasn’t looking at me. Staring at someone doesn’t impress your point if they don’t know you’re staring at them. I wanted him to know. So I slapped my hand down on the table in front of him. Now he knew. He looked up at me, momentarily startled and then offended. He was the guy with the gun, after all.
I said, “This isn’t one of your behavioral cases. This is a guy who’s mentally ill. This is a guy who served two tours in Iraq and came back broken. He put his ass on the line for his country and paid a pretty steep price. Now whaddaya say we check on that temperature?”
“We’ll check on it,” said the woman. “Dial it down a notch or we’ll put you in cuffs.”
We got into the elevator.
“So?” Chilly asked me as we rode down. “Why’d you take the case?”
I shrugged. “Aunt Deidre got to me.”
“Yeah, but you wanted this case, didn’t you?” He wagged a finger at me. “And I’ll bet everything you learned up there made you want it even more. I mean, it looks like a dog, no?”
I shrugged. “You said yourself. With you leaving, there’s nobody available on your staff who could do it without wanting another continuance. And I’m not that busy.”
We reached the ground floor and the doors parted. “Okay, well, this is great, Jason. Thanks. Tom’s a good guy and he deserves the best.”
He’d have to settle for me. I had fifty days to be all that I could be for First Lieutenant Thomas David Stoller.
5
Judge Bertrand Nash is one of these larger-than-life legal figures in this city who seems like he’s been on the bench since the dawn of mankind. Word is that he once served as the county attorney-the top local prosecutor-but I’m not sure anybody is alive today to actually attest to that fact. If you looked up the definition of “judge” in the dictionary, you’d expect to see his picture: the broad, weathered face; the thick mane of silver hair; he even has a baritone voice belying his age.
He is imperialistic and stubborn and gregarious. He spares absolutely no one his wrath, which may come in the form of a stinging rebuke or withering sarcasm, always to the acclaim of the spectators in the courtroom, most of them lawyers well trained in the art of laughing uproariously at every tidbit of humor offered by the man in the robe.
He treats his courtroom like a treasured jewel. He tolerates no informality, no breach of etiquette circa 1890 or whenever he cut his teeth as a practitioner in the courts. You don’t approach the witness without permission. You don’t dare utter a sound after an objection is made until he’s addressed it. You don’t address the court unless you’re on your feet, and only then if he invites you. You don’t ask for an extension of time on a response to a motion unless your reason for doing so involves death or serious bodily harm. And you are never, ever late to court.
Cancer took a bite out of him two years back, but he’s slowly rebounding, growing that wide face back into the loose-fitting skin around his eyes and jowls. The guy is probably going to live to a hundred, if he isn’t already there.
This morning, Judge Nash looked over his glasses and down at me. “You’re a bit late to the game, Mr. Kolarich,” he said.
“Yes, Your Honor. As Mr. Childress indicated-”
“I can read, Mr. Kolarich. Mr. Childress is moving on to greener pastures, I see?”
“I’ll be joining Gerry Salters’s firm, yes, Judge,” said Bryan, standing next to me.
“Mr. Salters is a fine attorney. A lousy golfer, but a fine attorney.”
Like a laugh track in an old sitcom, the courtroom burst out in amusement.
Judge Nash looked over at the prosecution team, led by a woman named Wendy Kotowski. “Do the People have any objection?” he asked.
I moved to the side so that Wendy could approach the microphone. Judge Nash handled his courtroom more like the federal courts, where the lawyers spoke from a lectern into a microphone.
Wendy said, “We would only object to a continuance at this stage, Your Honor.”
The judge looked alternatingly at me and Childress, then back to Wendy.
“I didn’t ask you if you objected to a continuance, Ms. Kotowksi. I asked you if you objected to substitution of counsel.”
Wendy should have known better. This wasn’t her first time in front of this guy.
“We do not object, provided that it will not delay this proceeding,” she clarified.
“What about that, Mr. Kolarich? Will you be seeking to move this trial date?”
“Your Honor-”
“It’s a one-word answer, Mr. Kolarich. Do you want to move this trial date? We’re scheduled for trial six weeks from now.”
“Judge, my answer depends-”
“That’s more than one word, Counsel. I said one word. And I gave you your choice of yes or no. These are basic words of the English language.”
The judge looked over our heads at the gallery. We were first up, which you never wanted to be in front of Judge Nash. He was playing to the crowd.
“Maybe,” I answered.
“Maybe?” The judge rotated his head. The courtroom went silent, waiting for the volcano to erupt.
“Maybe,” I said.
The judge’s eyes narrowed. “Well, how about this, Counseclass="underline" This case has received several continuances, and I don’t want another. Mr. Childress has undoubtedly prepared this case for trial, and the parties are prepared to try this matter on the scheduled date. If your entry into this matter requires a continuance, keeping in mind that Mr. Childress is perfectly capable of staying on as lead counsel, I will have to think very hard about your motion. Now,” he said, leaning forward, “does that change your answer?”
“No,” I said.
The judge blinked. He didn’t like my response. A defendant’s right to counsel of his choice is sacred in the law. It transcends virtually all other rights. It is not without limits, but a judge runs very close to that word he dreads the most- reversal, an appeals court overturning his ruling-when he tells a criminal defendant he can’t have his chosen lawyer.
The judge had been trying to box me in, and I’d called his bluff.
After a moment, a twinkle appeared in his eye and one side of his mouth moved. Judge Nash loved the artistry of the courtroom. He respected someone who was willing to play the chess game.
“I’d like to hear from the defendant,” said the judge.
Tom Stoller was seated in the holding pen to our right, staring at the corner of the courtroom, seemingly oblivious to all of us. A guard had to walk over and get him to stand up. He was wearing a canary-yellow jumpsuit befitting an inmate in solitary lockup pending trial.