Defense

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter i

  Chapter ii

  Chapter iii

  Chapter iv

  Chapter v

  Chapter vi

  Chapter vii

  Chapter viii

  Chapter ix

  Chapter x

  Chapter xi

  Chapter xii

  Chapter xiii

  Chapter xiv

  Chapter xv

  Chapter xvi

  Chapter xvii

  Chapter xviii

  Chapter xix

  Chapter xx

  Chapter xxi

  Chapter xxii

  Chapter xxiii

  Chapter xxiv

  Chapter xxv

  Copyright

  FOR KATHRYN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel owes much to the experienced eye of my editor, Jack Macrae, who was able to see what was right with it, and to the steady hand of Rachel Klauber-Speiden, who helped correct what was wrong with it. Without the timely encouragement of Glenn DuBose it would not have been written at all.

  i

  I never lost a case I should have won, and I won nearly all the cases I should have lost. The prosecution, sworn to do justice, is not supposed to convict the innocent—I spent a career doing everything I could to stop them from convicting the guilty. Winning was the only thing that mattered. It was what I lived for. I had not become a lawyer to lose.

  I never thought about becoming anything else. My father was a physician, but even as a child I knew that I would never be a doctor. Physicians did their work in private; I wanted to perform where I could be seen, admired, and even envied. I wanted to be a courtroom lawyer who won famous cases.

  I used to sit in the darkness of a movie theater and watch, mesmerized, while a lawyer tried to save the life of a thoroughly decent man or woman with a passionate appeal to a jury of twelve honest and thoughtful citizens. The defendant was always innocent, the proof against him overwhelming, the key witness for the prosecution a liar, the defense attorney idealistic, underpaid, and lucky beyond measure. The verdict was always in doubt but never really in question. The innocent could never be convicted, not in America, not in 1949, when they still made movies in black and white.

  I was pre-law at Michigan, and went to law school at Harvard. After three years of mind-numbing drudgery, I came home to Portland, Oregon, where I had spent so many Saturday afternoons alone in the dark, watching the life I was to lead flicker on the screen in front of me. I rented a small office two blocks from the courthouse and waited for someone to call.

  I won the first case I tried and the one after that. And then the next and the next until I began to think I could never lose. I won cases that everyone—even the defendant—expected me to lose. Juries trusted me; they believed me when I told them I only wanted them to follow the law. Judges who thought everyone guilty dismissed my success as the dumb luck of the beginner. One of them told me that I won only because I had a face like a sworn affidavit.

  Success killed whatever was left of my boyhood dream of defending the innocent. After a while the only cases I would accept were those that brought in enormous fees or those that would add to my reputation. And then Leopold Rifkin’s office called to ask if I could come by to see him at the end of the day. I didn’t even bother to check my calendar. Whatever I had to do could wait. Rifkin was the most interesting and intelligent man I had ever known. He was also the senior circuit court judge.

  In eleven years I had moved my office three times, but I was still only a short walk from the courthouse. The dreary, six-story building where I had first begun as a sole practitioner had been torn down years before. The firm in which I was now one of four partners occupied half of the sixteenth floor of the newest skyscraper in the city. On days when the rain stopped and the mist cleared I could stare out to Mt. Hood through the glass walls of my corner office. It had been sitting there for thousands of years, a volcano like St. Helens. One day, a hundred years from now, or ten years, or next year, or maybe even the day after tomorrow, something would stir deep inside it, and the mountain would blow itself apart. Nothing would be the same again.

  Walking to Rifkin’s office, I crossed the park in front of the courthouse, where azaleas and rhododendrons were blooming on one of the days that make you think the rains have finally stopped. I had no idea something was about to happen that would change my life forever.

  Rifkin was sitting behind his desk, barely visible in the shadows that scattered around the single shaft of light falling from a small metal lamp. The blinds had been closed. His head was bent forward, his eyes focused on the page of a dog-eared book.

  “Joseph!” he exclaimed softly, when he noticed my presence. He moved quickly around the desk and grasped my hand with his fragile fingers.

  “Please,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of the desk. He opened the blinds and let in the sunlight. He sat down and for a moment looked at me as if I were a long-lost friend instead of someone he had last seen just five days before.

  “I worry about you, Joseph. You win too much. It is not good.”

  “Last week?” I asked, uncertain what he meant.

  “You were very good, Joseph. Very good. Your closing argument in particular. That was as good as anything I have heard in all the years I have been on the bench. But we both know, don’t we, that the defendant was, shall we say, not innocent? Yes, this is exactly what I mean. You win too much. It is not good. I’ve told you that before.”

  “It’s better than losing.”

  “Do you really think so? Even if the guilty go free?”

  “That’s not my job.”

  “Not your job?”

  “Not my job to worry about it. The prosecution has to prove its case. The defendant doesn’t have to prove anything.”

  “That’s not what you mean, though, is it?” he asked gently.

  I had forgotten with whom I was talking. It was the same answer I gave every time someone asked me what it was like to get someone off who was, as they almost always put it, “guilty as sin.”

  “No,” I admitted, “it’s not what I mean. What do you want me to say? I’m supposed to put on the best possible defense. I’m supposed to show there’s a reasonable doubt. I’m supposed to show—if I can—that a link in the prosecution’s chain of evidence doesn’t hold.”

  Rifkin watched me without expression. “Yes, but you still haven’t answered the question. Everything you said is correct. You are required to cast whatever legitimate doubt you can on the prosecution’s case. That is the law. I’m not asking you about the law. I’m asking you about justice. There is a difference.”

  “Justice,” I replied too quickly, “is whatever the jury decides.”

  Rifkin’s pale blue eyes sparkled. “Yes, but would you still think that if you had lost all your cases instead of winning them?”

  “If my clients were guilty,” I replied.

  His eyes—the most incisive eyes I have ever seen—grew larger. “So, you agree there is a difference? The guilty should be punished and only the innocent set free? Yes, well, that is good, but it is also superficial. Whether the guilty are convicted or the guilty go free, it is still the jury who decides, isn’t it? Strange, when you think about it. The only people in the courtroom who know nothing about the law and nothing about the defendant make
the only decision that matters.”

  “That ignorance is the condition of their impartiality.”

  Rifkin smiled. “That ignorance is the condition of their susceptibility to persuasion. And that, Joseph, is why you win. You know how to persuade. But do you know why? I mean, if I can put it in this utterly awkward fashion, do you know what it is you know?”

  I laughed. “Do I know what?”

  He was sitting on the edge of his chair, both elbows on the desk, his fingers interlaced, concentrating all his attention on me. He pursed his lips and nodded. “You are a natural, Joseph. You have the gift of persuasion. You understand instinctively the way spoken words work together—the way they sound, beyond what they mean. And you have a facility of convincing anyone listening to you that you believe everything you are saying. It is a gift—a great gift—but a dangerous one. And that is why I worry about you. You remind me of Alcibiades. Do you know Alcibiades?” He asked this as if he were asking me about another lawyer whom he had known and I might have met.

  “Alcibiades,” he went on, “was one of the most remarkable men who ever lived.”

  He paused for a moment and studied me, a benevolent smile forming on his delicate mouth. “You don’t know about Alcibiades, do you?”

  “I’ve heard the name,” I replied, watching him watching me. It was not quite a lie.

  “Alcibiades was a genius. The remarkable thing is that everyone realized what he was from the time he was just a boy. His father had died in battle and he was raised by his uncle, the great Pericles, but educated, if you will, by Socrates. Alcibiades was drawn to Socrates, fascinated by the remarkable and unique power of his mind. And Socrates was drawn to him. There is a place—I’ve forgotten just where—it might be in the Theaetetus, or perhaps it is the Protagoras?” Rifkin said, referring to Platonic dialogues the way another judge might cite court cases. “Socrates says that he loves two things: philosophy and Alcibiades. I believe this is the only instance on record of Socrates saying such a thing about anyone. And Alcibiades loved Socrates. He wanted to possess him, to become his lover.”

  Rifkin’s eyes danced. “The beautiful Alcibiades wanted to become the lover of the decidedly unattractive Socrates. Strange, isn’t it? Anyway, as Alcibiades reports rather ruefully, Socrates refused.”

  Rifkin broke into a broad smile. “Alcibiades says ‘We even spent the night together and nothing happened!’ He was amazed! No one, you see, had ever—or would ever—turn him down. Everyone wanted him, and not just the Athenians. Later, he slept with the wife of the Spartan king, and when she discovered she was pregnant, instead of trying to conceal her infidelity, she bragged about it! But the best part,” he continued eagerly, “was that Alcibiades claimed he only slept with her so his son could become king of Sparta and the Spartans could finally know what it was like to have a real king!”

  “You see,” he said, the smile fading, “Alcibiades was what Socrates understood him to be: a completely erotic human being. Just as you are, Joseph. That is what I meant by the similarity.”

  “Erotic?” I mumbled, confused and embarrassed.

  “Yes. Exactly. But not in the way we think of it, as physical intimacy at best or dirty movies at worst. Of course it means the desire for sex, and through sex the desire for a certain kind of immortality. But it also means the passionate pursuit of what we love. Without that nothing important is ever achieved. Nothing.”

  He paused and, though his eyes were still fixed on mine, he was looking right through me. “You see,” he said finally, “that is what Socrates saw in Alcibiades, that and a tremendous intelligence. The problem, of course, was that Alcibiades was too much in love with what he wanted others to think about him to love the pursuit of wisdom. He was so much in love with his own ambition that nothing else—not even his own country—meant anything to him.”

  “And that, Joseph, is why I worry. You are, in this broader sense, completely erotic. You want it all. And, so far at least, you have gotten what you wanted. How old are you now? Barely forty. And already you are more successful than any lawyer around here. Success can ruin you, if you are not careful.”

  Leopold Rifkin was twenty years older, better read, and far more learned than I was ever likely to become. Yet I had a sense that I knew more than he ever would about certain things. His appearance seemed to confirm this feeling. Every time I saw him I wondered how he could even take care of himself. He was barely five four, with slight, sloping shoulders. Even for his size, his head was surprisingly small. A few wisps of brownish gray hair were combed carefully across the top. His nose was slightly hooked, and his mouth was oval shaped and as prim as a spinster’s. It was his eyes you remembered. When he looked at you, it was as if someone from another world were staring out from behind them. When he spoke about Athens, I had the strange feeling he was speaking about people he had actually known. But sometimes I worried whether he could find his way home without help.

  I began to smile. “So, it is the advice of the presiding circuit court judge that I should throw my next case?”

  “You see,” he retorted with a quick, triumphant nod, “it is just like I said. You think that is the only way you could ever lose! Well, if that is the only way, then perhaps you should throw a case. There might be times when it would be a good thing. But don’t do it just yet,” he added, as he began to search through a stack of files on his desk.

  “Yes, this is it,” he said picking up a file. “Joseph, I have a favor to ask. A very large favor.”

  “Of course,” I replied without hesitation. Rifkin had given me my first case and, especially during my early years when so much was new, had always done everything he could to help me. He had never asked me for anything before.

  “I have a case I would like you to take. I know you stopped doing court-appointed cases a long time ago.”

  I held up my hand and shook my head. “No, I’ll be glad to do it. What kind of case is it?”

  “Rape.” He paused for a moment. A trace of weary disgust vanished as quickly as it had come. “The victim is a child, twelve years old at the time it happened. The indictment alleges that after he raped her, the defendant threatened her with a knife.”

  Rifkin closed the file. “Joseph, I’m asking you to do this because, among other reasons, the defendant, the girl’s stepfather, is very difficult to handle. I appointed Charlie Berg—you know him—a very good lawyer, and a week later the defendant was back in court accusing Berg of everything imaginable. I appointed someone else, and the same thing happened. The defendant’s been in and out of prison. Burglaries, drugs, assaults, that kind of thing, and he’s spent enough time in the prison law library to think he knows more law than the lawyers. You can handle him; I don’t know anyone else who can.”

  I stood up to go. “When do you want me in court?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he said, nodding quickly. He glanced at the leather-bound calendar that lay open on his desk. “Can you do it tomorrow? Ten o’clock?”

  “Sure,” I said as I turned to go. I stopped and turned around. “By the way. What is the name of this guy I’m supposed to defend?”

  “Johnny Morel.”

  “Johnny Morel? He even sounds guilty.”

  “Joseph, one last thing. Don’t forget, you’re expected Saturday night.”

  * * *

  The next morning I was in Rifkin’s courtroom, sitting alone on a bench, waiting for the prisoners to be brought in. Made of solid oak, the bench was as hard as any church pew. The church is supposed to help protect your soul and the court is supposed to help preserve your life and your property. You are supposed to pay attention, and to guarantee you do, everything is done to make everyone as uncomfortable as possible.

  Everyone except the judge. At the front, high above the jury box and the witness stand, looking down at the spectators who come to watch, is the closest thing to a throne found in America. It is only a black leather chair, but it lends an authority more absolute than any enjoyed by a Europe
an monarch since the French Revolution. There are only two kinds of people who wear black robes, the priest who prays to God, and the judge who listens all day to people praying to him.

  When he became the senior circuit court judge, Rifkin could have chosen any courtroom he wanted. Most judges have the mentality of career civil servants; they think the size of the space they control is the measure of their importance. Rifkin kept the courtroom he had had since his first day on the bench. With only seven short rows for spectators, it was the smallest courtroom in the courthouse.

  The jury box was on the judge’s left. The witness stand was on the same side, directly below the bench and slightly above the level of the jury box. At the closest point, the counsel table was less than ten feet from the jury box and not more than fifteen feet from the witness stand. It was too confined for the wild gestures and shouted arguments that many lawyers think are the only ways to prove how hard they work for their clients. A trial in Rifkin’s courtroom was more like a conversation among people who, regardless of whatever they really thought about each other, felt compelled to treat each other with polite respect.

  A few minutes before ten, the doors at the back swung open and five inmates, shackled together, shuffled awkwardly up the aisle under the baleful eye of a stoop-shouldered deputy sheriff. When they reached the front row the deputy grunted an order to stop. As he bent forward, glowering at each in turn, he unlocked the chains that bound them together.

  At precisely ten o’clock the door to the judge’s chambers opened, the clerk called “All rise,” and Leopold Rifkin walked solemnly to the bench. He looked down at the counsel table where a deputy district attorney sat alone behind a stack of case files and gave a single, silent nod. In a voice that had never known enthusiasm the deputy district attorney recited the name of the first inmate brought forward and the charge against him.

  Johnny Morel was the third defendant called. I watched as he was led inside the bar and left to stand alone at the far end of the counsel table. He appeared to be in his early thirties. His black hair was wavy, almost wiry. His nose was off-center, as if it had been broken more than once.