An Improbable Cause

 “Just like they said. A wiseass.”

Silence is my pal. I say more nothing.

Anxiety lines around his eyes belie his reputation. I take his stare, tweak an eyebrow and twinkle a smile. He vents venomous air through tightened teeth, shrugs and looks away.

He’s called me a wiseass. Now, I call Jack Bugley a hard-ass. Silently. So he can’t hear.

Jack-Bugley is an over-hyphenated stereo-type, a well-connected, self-centered, power-hungry, nouveau-riche, entrepreneur-criminal Type-A with spotless-hands and a filthy-soul.

He’s sitting in the downtown lockup. One of us is pleased. Both of us are shocked.

“So” he grunts and takes my eyes in his. I retrieve them. Not the eyes, Jack. They’re hard to replace and I hate shopping.

He switches tack and flashes a Pan-Am smile about as genuine as a pedophilic priest’s vocation.

“So” I echo and smile with my eyes. I’m happy and relaxed. Jack Bugley has nothing on me. Other than having me horribly maimed or brutally murdered, he can’t touch me. And, we both know it.

His sham smile segues into a sullen scowl. He chins at the chair opposite and barks a command “Sit.”

I stay standing. We wiseasses think better on our feet. We run better on them too. Also, we don’t take too kindly to barked commands from hard men we despise and we definitely don’t take a seat if it will imply a lawyer/client relationship.

I am a lawyer and he is a client. Just not mine. Not now. Not ever.

My disobedience discommodes him. Slowly, his shoulders slump. He is a man teetering on the edge.

I can relate. I too am on the edge, on the edge of skipping out of here. I raise the other eyebrow. I like to show my superciliary versatility every chance I get. It’s an eyebrow-raising weakness of mine.

“Wiseass” he repeats in case I’ve missed what “they” told him about me.

He shrugs again. For a guy who does it a lot, he’s a lousy shrugger. I shrug him one of my own, to show him how it’s really done. The lesson escapes him. I mentally charge him for it anyway. Time, they’d taught me in law school, is money.

Jack is a man who’s sailed stormy seas all his life and has finally fallen overboard. He’s hit a reef he’s shelled out fortunes to steer clear of. He’s out of his depth. An idea occurs and, hating myself for having anything to do with this creep, I toss him a lifeline to give it time to develop “So?”

Like a Willie Nelson concert from the cheap seats, his voice switches from badass tenor to gravelly bass as he inches his story forward and croons “Yesterday.” He coughs without meaning to and it visibly hurts. He painfully swallows saliva or bile or whatever he lubricates his malevolent tongue with.

“Yesterday” he repeats but this time the pitch is alto. The guy’s got range. He coughs, intentionally, to clear an intrinsic whine. Perhaps his diaper’s been too tightly tied during those important formative years.

Yet another “Yesterday” and I get it. I’m quick like that. He’s trying to tell me something about yesterday.

He doesn’t like that one either and goes for another take “Yesterday.”

If he doesn’t get a move on, he’ll be talking about today. I nod encouragement, letting him know that I hang on his every yesterday. He takes it as a slight and I’m glad.

My mind escapes to thoughts of sweet revenge.

I recapture it and force myself to tune in to what he’s saying. He’s saying another “Yesterday...” I suppress a groan but he surpasses himself and all his yesterdays “…the cops arrested me.”

Some people consider me dumb. I test their thinking. We’re in jail. I’m not under arrest. Dum-de-dum!

He says, deadpan and resolute “You’re going to defend me.”

Throughout the dance of my life I’ve heard a lot of short sentences but none has ever thrown me as completely as this one. It puts the disco into discombobulated. For the first time in my twenty years as a defense lawyer I ask an accused that unaskable question “Why?”

Jack looks at me like I’m a moron “Why what?”

My why is too restrictive. I do something I’ve been planning to do for years. I branch out “Why me? You’ve got more lawyers than sense.”

His lawyer/sense equation trends toward equilibrium as he bitterly explains “Their job is to keep me out of jail. And, where am I now?”

He’s got a point. I buy time to put some wheels under my idea “What are they charging you with?”

“Statutory.” He doesn’t need to complete the phrase.

I look at him more carefully and I see. Jack’s really scared. He’s spent the night in a place where his reputation, reach and riches count for zilch. His silk shirt sports scarlet spots. On his throat black/blue bruises bear brutal witness. Every swallow recalls last night’s hell. The experience has thrown him so far out of his comfort zone that he wants to hire…Me!

Normally, Jack wouldn’t wipe his shoes on someone like me. Jack’s is a gilded world of luxury cars, yachts and mansions, young wives, younger hookers, fine food and finer wines. And, crucially, no jails.

Ordinarily. Now, he’s washed ashore on my patch and he doesn’t like it one little bit.

I’m not crazy about it either.

***

I am a Velcro man in a Teflon world.

If the Buddha was right I must have done something real bad in a previous incarnation to have been saddled with the heavy burden of a conscience in this one.

I’ve tried to hide it.

I’ve tried to hide from it.

I’ve tried to beat it to death.

I’ve tried to secretly slip it into the pockets of passing pedestrians.

I’ve driven it out to the boonies in the dead of night and symbolically abandoned it. But, like Lassie, it always finds its way home.

***

The mainstream media and their wealthy backers depict my clients as the dregs of society. Except they’re not. Mostly, they’re ordinary people with extraordinary problems. Venal politicians, crooked big-time real-estate developers like Jack Bugley and psychotically greedy Wall Street gamblers disgust me infinitely more.

Sure, my clients are addicts and grifters, dippers and hookers but they’re real. They’re honest in ways that only the powerless can be. They’re not good, not good-for-nothings.

Someone has to steer them through a system rigged by, and for, the powerful. That someone is me. This is why I became not just a lawyer, but the type of lawyer I am.

I’ve never turned down a plea for help.

I intend to turn Jack down.

***

I decide. I park the idea as an unworkable delusion. I’ll price myself out of this predicament. I name a sum I couldn’t earn in three good years and he nods immediate uncalculated assent. I gulp, panic and add “And half again for expenses.”

He nods again and says tamely, like the broken man he has temporarily become, “Ok, half today when you bail me out, the rest on acquittal.”

I swear silently. I’ve underestimated how rich and how scared Jack is. In naming my fee, I’ve taken the case.

Dazed by my stupidity and sudden wealth I walk to the door.

A menacing command triggers a landmine of recognition “Talk to Rudy.”

I ask the door “Who’s Rudy?” The door’s dumber than me. Jack answers for it “My driver, you fool. He was with me yesterday.”

Resigned, I nod without turning.

I push the thought of the enormous fee to the back of my mind where it sits heavy as a stone the way the lasagna in Uncle Sal’s diner sits in my stomach every time I eat it.

Jack’s right. I am a fool. I know Uncle Sal’s lasagna will get me every time, but my taste buds are in my wallet. If it’s cheap, it’s tasty.

Taking a case for Hard Jack Bugley is a bad idea, but he’s right. I have accepted it. As of now I am his lawyer with all that that entails.

It’s time to go. Hating him and annoyed with myself I pummel the door and call the guard.

After purgative gulps of fresh air I call Jack’s secretary and charm the directions to Rudyville from her.

An hour later Jack and I go see the judge.

***

Bail was invented by the rich for the rich.

Jack was out before I could say, and why would I bother, “Let justice prevail”.

He could’ve been out the night before except the shock of his arrest had been too great. He hadn’t been thinking straight. His first night in the slammer has convinced him that it has to be his last. Panicking for the first time in his loathsome life he’s dumped his retinue of straitlaced legal office jocks in favor of a street fighter who specializes in defending the indefensible.

Me.

***

If only the good die young, Rudy will live forever.

He’s dark, slim, small, and bent. He wears his faded black leather jacket like an old threat. His tongue darts relentlessly along thin red lips but I have to stoop down to see.

Rudy is Jack’s driver not an alchemist yet his dead weasel eyes never leave his belt buckle as if he’s trying to stare it into gold. I don’t want his belt or his company, I want his recall. If he has any he’s mislaid it someplace like a single sock.

I’m unhappy. I don’t want Jack as a client. I don’t want to plead for him, anywhere anytime with anyone.

I incline to Rudy’s level. I explain that his boss has hired me and that I need to talk to him about yesterday. Unlike Jack, I say it right the first time but Rudy never lifts his head, never acknowledges my existence, just keeps wetting those eternally dry red lips of his and staring fixedly at his groin.

Rudy is a knife man. He likes to do it quiet and up close, as close as he ever gets to another human being. If birth is a lottery Rudy’s role in life was a sociological certainty. Brutalized by his family, bestialized by his environment and betrayed by his gnome-like physiognomy, it was a sure thing from the moment he’d spurted out of the womb onto a blood and urine-soaked bed sheet that he’d turn out the way he has. A dumb, mean outsider, full of hatred, his knife-hand quicker than his synapse.

I’ve known a hundred Rudys. I’ve defended them all and liked none of them. I’ve helped them walk free knowing one thing for certain. I’d see them again. It’s sustainable fishing. Catch. Release. Catch again.

They can’t resist the bait.

***

When a loner like Rudy connects with a man like Jack the bond is immutable and concrete. Jack is not just Rudy’s meal ticket. He is his raison d'être, his surrogate father, his mentor and sage.

True lawyers fake empathy. I talk to Rudy the way Jack does, with understanding, with kindness. I tell him that his boss is in a bind and needs his help. I assure him that he can tell me everything and anything since Jack is protected by attorney-client privilege.

He raises his head, reddens his lips and relents.

Rudy’s story is as short as he is.

I take notes.

What Rudy tells me turns my stomach. Jack will walk. No question.

My idea loses traction. Then, its wheels spin and grip on the grounds that Rudy is utterly loyal to Jack. He’s normally mute. But, he’s talking now.

My next question makes him edgy. I soothingly reassure him that I too am bound to Jack. Despite his misgivings his filial fidelity fosters a response.

I grill him some more.

I open my legal pad to a new page. Ten minutes later I’ve written down Rudy’s story in BLOCK CAPITALS. I tender a gold-colored pen. He recoils. I wiggle it playfully in front of him to show it means no harm.

He licks his lips and scribbles his name at the bottom of the page. His signature is that of a sixth grader’s and confirms my theory of arrested development.

I sign my name beside his. I clutch the pad tightly to my chest and walk away.

I am happy again.

***

That evening my part-time bookkeeper/full-time sister calls me in a flap.

Seeking thrills, or laughs, she’s played online banking roulette with my account.

With gleeful dread she tells me that the bank has made a terrible error, like that card in Monopoly only with many more trailing zeroes.

I tell her it’s Ok and to expect a similar deposit in the near future. When she pushes me to explain how I’ve earned so much money in one day, I tell her the truth.

I tell her I’ve sold my soul to a devil.

***

Next morning I take a call from a guy called Reilly who says he’s the head of Jack’s legal office. He tells me he’s cut short a skiing trip. I try not to be impressed. It’s easy.

He’s convening a case conference in an hour. He tells me where. I give him silence and he gets the impression that I’ll be there.

I’ve no intention of talking to Jack let alone his lawyers. I conduct my cases solo and, in defiance of the text books, without the distraction of a client’s recall.

I know what’s happened. Back in the bosom of the familiar Jack’s reengaged with his highly paid attorneys. For now, they’ve conceded my role.

Later on they’ll cut me out.

Or try to.

***

That afternoon I take a call from Jack.

He asks me why I’ve missed the conference with his legal team.

I ignore his question, ask one of my own. How many crummy criminal cases has his legion of legal legends successfully settled?

He has to think about it and I pounce.

I say “Exactly” and kill the call.

***

An hour later I catch a break.

Reilly calls me again. He makes no mention of my no-show. He tells me he will apply to the court to be listed as co-counsel.

This is a prelude to kicking me off the case. I cannot allow it. Overcoming my initial misgivings, I am now completely committed to this cause. Justice and my conscience demand that Jack and I have our day in court.

Crucially, I sense that this is Reilly’s idea, not Jack’s. I tell Reilly why it’s a cinch that Jack will walk at the arraignment. As he cogitates I assemble the killer lie, an IED concealed beneath the twisted trail of his self-esteem. I ask “Do you know why Jack hired me? I mean, his real reason?”

Reilly answers with the assurance of the confidant “Of course. Jack wasn’t himself. He couldn’t believe that the cops had actually arrested him. He had a rough night in jail. He was angry at my colleagues and…eh…me. He felt we had let him down.”

I force a frivolous laugh and ask, as if genuinely impressed by Jack’s creative talents, “Is that what Jack really told you?”

A hesitant affirmation and the IED detonates “Well, he’s lying. He hired me because he’s anxious to protect your reputation. He told me that you guys are too important to him to drag into criminal court. If I recall correctly, the word he used to describe this case was ‘crummy’.”

Reilly can be my co-author but never my co-counsel. I pause to let him finish my fairytale.

He does and says “Oh. Well, yes, I see. He has a point… Hmm.”

I gut and fillet his ego with “Personally, I’d be delighted. It would help my career enormously if we were co-counsels on this…”

The thought terrifies him. He backs off “Eh, well, no. I think Jack is right. Besides, from what you say, it will only take a few minutes to have this thrown out of court.”

I can’t laugh while biting my tongue. I mumble agreement.

He grunts decisively and says “Good” then adds “Oh, one more thing. Jack told me what you’re charging. Forget it. You’ve got all you’re going to get.”

For a few moments I act outraged, then say resignedly “I’ll need that in writing, signed by Jack. Have his secretary fax me the letter.”

I hang up.

I’m not surprised. Jack’s attorneys are paid to give him good advice and protect his wealth. They know I have tried it on but not why. They know my fee should be a fraction of what the shell-shocked Jack tamely agreed to in the lockup. His lawyers are at the top of their profession. They are the very best that greed can lure from the path of righteousness.

If I was in their shoes I’d do the same. Well, with one difference.

I’d have told me after the case had been thrown out.

***

Three days later I’m sitting beside Jack in a crowded courtroom at the pre-trial hearing.

So many journalists have shown up I figure their media mogul bosses have given other news the day off. I imagine the suffering a day without mention will cause to countless celebrities I couldn’t name under oath.

I’ve pushed for an expedited arraignment and the prosecutor has agreed since the case against Jack is a bust.

Like a proud mother goose Reilly sits beaming behind Jack in the front row of the public gallery. Around him sit half a dozen identically dressed goslings who could be mannequins or lawyers, or both.

Firmly back in his comfort zone, Jack ignores me. He reclines in his chair and Reilly leans forward across the bar holding muttered conversations about God knows what.

***

In their rush to pin something on Jack the cops have screwed up in the most fundamental way.

The girl won’t talk. Though little more than a child she’s already an experienced professional.

The evidence isn’t there. The swab tests were negative.

In any case none of this matters.

The cops have had a long-time hard-on for Jack. They’ve tried to get him on any of a dozen charges. He’s too careful and his lawyers are too good. The same team of cops has shadowed him for so long Jack writes their salaries off against his taxes.

Jack plays with their heads. That’s what’s caused this mess. He’s pushed the guys who follow him 24/7 too far. A couple of his goons delivered a laxative-laden lunch to their surveillance van. After the cops cleaned up they swore to get Jack any way they could. They have literally, and for a second time, dropped themselves in the doodoo.

Knowing that Jack likes his girls young and, at the insistence of his lawyers, legal, the cops pressured the escort agency into supplying a minor. They’d followed as Rudy, as he often did, drove Jack to an apartment Jack owns downtown.

The cops gave Jack what they assumed to be enough time to make the beast with two backs then stormed past Rudy into the room.

Jack spent the hour or so after entering the apartment waiting for the Viagra to kick in and making some calls. Sure, when the cops burst in Jack and the young lady were naked but they hadn’t done anything. More coitus impedo than coitus interruptus.

The cops have persisted with this farce in a feeble effort to embarrass Jack socially. They had no warrant and no probable cause for entering the apartment. If there had been evidence of coitus they could never have used it. Fruit of the poison tree and all that.

I know it.

They know it.

And Jack, who is back to his typical arrogant self, knows it.

Ironically, their attempt to embarrass Jack is backfiring. In Jack’s world being caught partying with a young woman is cool. It’s proof he still has it. His current wife is an ex-escort girl and won’t complain since the latest one could easily become her replacement.

In a few years.

When she’s old enough.

***

I’ve forgotten more law than I know. I don’t use it. I don’t need to. I operate in the legal gutter where knowledge of the law is less important than an ability to tell a good story, put a witness at ease and charm a juror or twelve. Oh, and a willingness to let a judge win a few dollars at a poker game.

Though this defense is as straightforward as they come I’ve prepared more carefully for it than I have for any previous case. I’ve spent the last two nights poring over law books I’d last read while popping my acne.

Nothing is too much for me, the conscientious lawyer.

Justice must be served.

***

I’ve come to believe that the unit of measurement of proof in a legal case is the ‘jot’.

At the judge’s signal, I rise to speak. I drip derision like a faulty faucet “Your honor, this case should never have been allowed to get this far.”

The prosecutor’s mouth falls open as he reluctantly levitates from his seat to defend the fine reputation of the police department. I flap an outstretched palm that says “don’t bother”.

Deploying a harsh staccato sure to annoy any other judge I add “There is simply no evidence that my client…” I almost gag but press on “…engaged in an illegal act with anyone, let alone a minor, on the day in question.”

Beside me, Jack beams. This is why he’s hired me, the sewer rat. This is my sordid realm. The highbrow Reilly and Jack’s other corporate lawyers with their expensive suits and real gold pens would never talk like this in court. That’s their purpose. To never be here.

Not only will I get him off, I will be Jack’s proxy. I will badmouth the cops in court the way he would love to but can’t because he had the good sense not to go to law school.

Jack is right and he is wrong.

I continue “Though they have never adduced a jot of supporting proof, the police have long held the view that my client, Jack Bugley, is a criminal. For many years they have tried to entrap him. This charge is merely their latest feeble attempt.”

The judge interrupts to tell me to get on with it.

I get on with it “I ask the court for three things. Firstly, to dismiss this charge since the police entered my client’s apartment without a warrant.”

The judge has a lunch date. I know. It’s with me. He eagerly assents “So ordered. Charge dismissed.”

I cringe as Jack pumps the air in victory.

With gentle impatience the judge prompts “Well, counselor, what’s the second thing?”

To Jack’s supreme satisfaction I vibe vicarious victimhood “Secondly, I insist that the court order the police to cease their intimidatory surveillance.”

I can insist all I want. I know this is outside the judge’s remit but I’m determined that the cops’ hounding of Jack will cease, and soon.

The judge shoots me a look of fatherly annoyance and says “Counselor, you know that has nothing to do with this court. What’s the third thing?”

My legal pad sits in front of me on the otherwise bare table. I pick it up. I ask for permission to approach the bench. When it is granted I stride forward. Since the case is over the prosecutor does not match me.

I place the pad in which I have inserted Jack’s faxed letter in front of the judge. I slide the letter to one side. I retake my original spot. I carefully follow the judge’s eyes. He is, I know from my many past dealings with him, a fast reader. When I see his eyebrows head north I know he has seen my fee. The poker antes will go up.

I silently implore him to move his eyes to the right, to my legal pad. He does so. For a few tense moments I watch his eyes furiously absorb what I have written there in well-formed capital letters. It takes him a moment to decipher the childish scrawl at the bottom of the page.

This judge and I are not just frequent sparring partners, we are close friends. We often play poker together. His poker face has a fatal flaw that makes me feel like a fraud when I pretend not to notice it. When he has a strong hand he gets excited and invariably strokes the bridge of his nose. It is his tell.

Now, when I see his finger caress his nose, I know it is time.  I say “As you can see, the letter is addressed to me from my client.”

A buzz bees through the court.

I push on “In it he states that he is reneging on our agreement regarding my fee.”

Reilly jumps to his feet and says “Objection! Mr. Bugley is protected by attorney-client privilege.” Since he is not listed as counsel in this case the judge ignores him but he looks at me and, as if we have rehearsed, which we have not, gives me my cue “Mr. Reilly has a point. You are bound by attorney-client privilege.”

This is what I have researched in those long forgotten law books. Thinking of Uncle Sal’s lasagna, I say “Attorney/client privilege may be waived when a lawyer’s interests are threatened by his client’s actions. I have an interest in eating well. Since my client seeks to unilaterally reduce the agreed fee, he and I are in dispute and privilege no longer applies.”

I know this is one of a few ways that privilege can be waived but I have my reasons for choosing it.

I ignore the bristling Jack and Reilly’s hissed threats of disbarment. I am on something I am not use to - solid legal ground. I wait for the judge to play his part. He is, I know, a very bright guy. He could apply to sit in another court. He could dazzle the Court TV cameras with those excessively whitened teeth of his. He could sit in judgment of Wall Street’s economic war criminals.

But he does not.

As well as sharing a fondness for poker and a belief that court should sometimes be fun, we share some other things.

Like me, he has a conscience.

Like me, he believes, genuinely and passionately, in the importance of a fair and just legal system for all.

Like me, he understands that poverty and its attendant horrors are a life sentence not a lifestyle choice.

Like me, he despises the abuses of the wealthy and the powerful.

Like me, he would not fit in anywhere other than in this sewer we joyfully inhabit.

Finally, he stifles a grin and says “I agree counselor.” He looks at Jack but addresses another person “Bailiff, take the defendant into custody.”

The full courtroom is stunned into an empty silence. Then, pandemonium breaks out. The judge allows it run free for several moments before rapping his gavel once but loudly. He raises his voice and says “I am issuing an arrest warrant for Jack Bugley on a charge of conspiracy to murder…” though he is already very familiar with it, he glances at my legal pad as if needing to confirm the victim’s name “…Howell Sutton. Take him down now.”

Demonstrating an impressive lung capacity doubtless developed on Aspen’s slopes, a seething Reilly is on his feet loudly lecturing the judge that he can only issue an arrest warrant on foot of a signed and sworn affidavit showing probable cause that a crime has been committed.

The judge waits while a bewildered Jack is handcuffed and escorted from the courtroom to the holding cells downstairs. He carefully extracts the page from my legal pad. He stands and holds the page triumphantly aloft and responds to Reilly with wicked playfulness “You mean, a sworn and signed affidavit like this one?”

He sweeps out of the room to issue an arrest warrant for Rudy.

I’m less a sweeper, more a strider. I retrieve my legal pad and Jack’s letter and stride through the confusion and out of the room. In the hallway I call my sister/bookkeeper. I break her heart and make her day. I tell her to transfer Jack’s money, every last cent, from my account to Howell Sutton’s wife’s account. She already has the details.

I hang up.

***

I loved Howell Sutton. Until now he was the unavenged victim of society’s tolerance of greed.

Howell was everything that Jack is not. He was honest and hard working, loyal and loving.

He left a heartbroken widow and two beautiful children. He wasn’t rich but that wasn’t his fault. He ran a gas station coveted for its location until a voracious real-estate tycoon sent a knife-wielding nutcase to take it and everything else away from him.

To Jack, Howell was insignificant, a nobody. He had him killed, extorted his property then forgot everything about him. Even his name.

I intercept Reilly as he exits the courtroom at the head of his cohort of clones. I hold his furious glare as I tell him “Go ahead, try and have me disbarred. Make sure you get my name right.”

I spell it out for him “That’s B-e-n S-u-t-t-o-n, Attorney-at-law.”

As I push through the crowd and go to meet my friend the judge I wipe away a tear and a phrase from law school plays in my mind “Grief is the price we pay for love. Justice is its meager balm.”

God bless you my brother. I hope that, at last, you can rest in peace.