Chapter 9 Kate

9

Kate

For some lawyers, there are no bad cases. There are only bad clients.

Kate didn't feel that way.

Most of her practice was concerned with carving large, bloody and expensive pounds of flesh from the torsos of men who as CEOs, executives and directors, decided to use their power to harass and manipulate their female junior members of staff into bed. Or worse. And she was very good at it. In the short time she'd been Eddie's partner, Kate had gutted eighteen companies – resulting in five directors fired, seven resigned and three senior executives demoted. She even did such a good job on annihilating one particularly nasty director that his wife instructed Kate to handle her divorce the week after the asshole got canned.

Kate was great at those cases because she didn't need to work to understand her clients. There was no leap of imaginative empathy required. Kate had been one of those women. Leered at. Pawed at. Marginalized. Ridiculed. Powerless. In her old firm, as a junior associate, she was at the bottom rung. Who could she complain to? Who would fight for her? It took Kate time to realize she had to fight for herself. She got out of that firm almost two years ago. Now she was the person women would come to. She'd become the person she wished had existed when she was getting asked about her stockings, where she bought her underwear, whether she found her supervising partner attractive and the unspoken promise that if she slept with certain people that her career would take off.

Well, she took off alright. With a shitload of their money and a criminal conviction against the partner who had viciously harassed her.

Before she was a lawyer, she was a working-class Jersey girl, growing up in Edgewater with her best friend, Bloch, and a view from her bedroom window right across the river. She had a good family. Loving parents. In the evening, her mom would knit in her La-Z-Boy chair in the living room. Kate would listen to the click , clack of the needles and stare out of the window. At night, the yellow office lights from the skyscrapers of Manhattan were like fallen stars on the dark waters that separated her from the island. She had always wanted to be one of those women, in the office late at night, working hard. If it got past eleven thirty, and her father had not come home yet, the young Kate couldn't help but notice the increase in the pace of her mom's knitting needles. Her pop's shift as a New York police officer finished at ten thirty. If he wasn't home by eleven thirty, that could mean one of two things. Either he'd hit a bar for a drink with his buddies, or something bad had happened to him. Her mom's fraying nerves were driving those needles at a furious pace by midnight. Kate could even see the Jersey bridge from her room. She watched the headlights of the cars as they drove across and said a silent prayer that one of them was her father's car.

That he was coming home safe.

In the end, he always did come home. Kate would hear the front door banging closed. And then the silence filled with absence of the click-clack of the needles. If he was late, there would always be the same joke too.

Her mother would scold him: ‘Why didn't you call to say you'd be late? I was worried sick.'

Her father's reply was always the same. ‘Darlin', this is a dangerous job. Lots of cops don't make it home to their wives. Sometimes they stay the night in their girlfriend's house.'

Then more reassuring noises would float up the stairs. Kate would hear the creak from the oven door, the clink of cutlery and glasses on their little kitchen table and her parents would sit down to eat at midnight. Kate never went downstairs. She could have. Could've sat on her daddy's lap and he would've held her and tickled her and told her she was a bad girl for staying up so late.

But she let her parents have their time alone. It was enough to know he was home safe.

Now, Kate sat beside Harry at the conference table in Al Parish's lush, million-dollar offices, across the table from a rich man facing life in jail. Kate was still that working-class Jersey girl. They had taken a break when Eddie and the assistants left around a half hour ago. The Jacksons got some refreshments while Al went with Eddie to get the cash from the firm's vault. Now, they were all back in the room. Al at the head of the table, the Jacksons on his left. Kate and Harry pulled up chairs across the desk from the Jacksons.

Where you sit in relation to your client is important. Al Parish knew this as much as any lawyer. Putting himself at the head of the table was a power play.

You are in my house.

This is my office.

My client.

My case.

You're just the help.

But you don't fuck around with Kate Brooks.

It seemed as though Al hadn't yet read that particular memo.

‘John, you know Kate. Now, Eddie will be our main courtroom warrior. We needed a battler for this case. Kate will be doing some of the prep work . . .'

Harry raised a finger, opened his mouth as if to object. He knew how good Kate was, and he felt protective of her. Even though Harry was an elder statesman, and former judge, and an utter gentleman who would defend Kate with his life, he also understood Kate didn't need him to fight her battles. He paused. Closed his mouth. Put his hands on the table and smiled at Kate.

She didn't need Harry fighting for her. But it was nice to know he was available should the need arise.

‘Can I interrupt, Mr. Parish,' said Kate, then directed her voice to the Jacksons. ‘Al is unfamiliar with the precise way that Eddie and I work. I'll be handling the opening statement in the trial, and I'll be cross-examining witnesses alongside my partner. Eddie has a . . . creative approach to the law. That's what he's doing right now,' she said, and nodded toward the TV in the corner. It was a live news feed. After Eddie had left along with the associates, one of Parish's assistants had turned on the local news channel.

Castro was going to start his news conference any minute.

‘Al, would you mind getting up for a second?' asked Kate.

A look of confusion spread over Parish's features, but he got up.

‘I want to sit next to John for a moment,' said Kate as she moved round and took Parish's chair.

Sitting across the desk from a client puts distance between them and you, as well as a physical barrier. If Kate was going to get this man's trust, she wanted to use every available weapon in her arsenal. When Parish sat down beside Harry, and now found himself across the desk from his client and Kate at the head of the table, his confused look soon turned to irritation.

He coughed. Looked at Harry. He had been put firmly in his place by a woman thirty years his junior. Either he would deal with that, or Kate would have to deal with him.

Harry beamed Parish a knowing smile.

Parish didn't smile back.

Kate focused on John. She opened her arms, leaned back in the chair and kept her eyes on his – concentrating, making sure she had his full attention.

‘John, this case is going to take some time to come to trial. Thankfully, it won't be too long. District Attorney Castro has an election coming up and he has a serious challenger for the job. Morgan Montgomery is a popular civil-rights lawyer – lot of people in this town will vote for him. If Castro wants to win, he will fast track this case to trial and ride your conviction to an election victory. So you're not going to have to wait for years. That's the first piece of good news. Here's the second – we're not going to let Castro win. You have to trust us to defend you. But that trust goes both ways. We have to trust that you're going to get through this. We need you strong for the trial.'

Jackson hung his head, squeezed his eyes shut. He was physically in great shape. A surgeon has to look after his mind and his body to be able to perform at the peak of his skills. This was not a physique and mind that was made for vanity – it was built for the service of others. Sensing his pain, Alison wrapped both her arms around John, placed her head on his shoulder and whispered to him that it would be alright.

‘Listen to Alison, John. Things are going to be okay,' said Harry.

John's head snapped up, his eyes wet and red, and when he spoke his voice was breaking. ‘How do you know it's going to be okay? You can't know that.'

‘We know you're innocent,' said Kate. ‘We wouldn't be here otherwise. That's how our practice works. We don't represent the guilty.'

‘People think I murdered that woman,' said John, and broke down.

Kate let him cry. Let his wife comfort him.

‘John . . .' began Parish, reaching out a hand to him. Kate shot Parish a look. Harry gave him a nudge under the table and then shook his head – telling Parish to shut up.

This was technique. An old lawyer's trick. If the client wants to cry, let them. Say nothing. Let it all come out. Look sympathetic, but professional. Kate didn't have to fake the sympathy – this man's heart was breaking right in front of her. Yet she knew that for his own good, John needed to listen to her. That meant he had to stop crying. If Kate tried to comfort him, it would give him encouragement, relax him, let his emotions run wild. Kate couldn't afford that. Easiest way to stop a client from crying was to sit in front of him in complete silence. It's hard to cry in front of somebody. Even a relative stranger. Soon, the silence from the lawyers would make him uncomfortable. And that discomfort would rapidly overtake his emotional state.

All of this happened in less than thirty seconds. John wiped his face with a Kleenex, apologized to everyone.

‘It's okay,' said Kate. ‘I have never gone through what you are experiencing right now, but I've sat beside enough people who have and I think I understand it. You feel like you've got a sign around your neck that says you killed somebody . . .'

‘Yes,' said John, nodding. ‘People look at me on the street, or when I'm in a restaurant having lunch. Friends, neighbors, they all think I killed Margaret.'

‘But you didn't kill her. And you know that,' said Kate.

‘Of course I know that – but no one else sees it that way, apart from my family.'

‘Everyone will know you're innocent, given time,' said Kate. ‘Until then, this sign you've got around your neck, I know it feels heavy, but you're going to have to carry it. Alison, she doesn't see that sign. We don't see it. When you're with us, it disappears. That sign is not in your home. It's not in this office. And when we win your case we're gonna take that thing off your neck and burn it for all the world to see. All we need you to do is hang in there until we get to that day. Can you do that?'

John looked at his wife. Held her hand. Drawing strength from her fingers.

‘I can do that.'

‘We know you can, John,' said Harry. He was right. To cut into kids' skulls and perform live-saving operations that can take ten hours or more requires a special kind of fortitude.

Harry continued, ‘We're going to keep things light today. We just have a few questions. I want you to open your mind, speculate a little. Could someone who has access to your home have planted that gun in your closet?'

‘No way. It's just us, and Ruby the nanny, and Althea the maid, and they've been with us for a while. They're just young girls. Ruby is the sweetest girl in the world. She had a terrible upbringing and managed to get through it. Tomas loves her. And Althea, the maid, she just works and works and works. We trust them completely.'

‘Okay then, do you have any idea how that gun got into your closet?' asked Kate.

‘Sure I do,' said John.

This was new information. Harry leaned forward and Kate drew the top off her pen, held it to the page, ready to make a note.

‘The NYPD planted it there,' said John.

Kate and Harry said nothing. Proving that the NYPD planted a gun in his home and then somehow faked the DNA results was a lot for any jury to swallow. Plus, there was no evidence for any of it.

‘The police arrested you and searched your home because of a tip. An anonymous phone call. We've asked for the recording in discovery. Tell me, do you have any idea who would have made that call?' asked Kate.

‘No clue.'

‘Someone with a grudge against you? Maybe a former patient, or their family?'

‘I have a great relationship with my patients and their families. I don't hate anyone and, far as I know, nobody has any strong feelings against me. I'm just baffled by the whole thing.'

As he talked, veins stood out on his neck. Alison laced her fingers through his and spoke as John swallowed down the rising emotion.

‘John is the kindest, sweetest man I've ever met. I don't know why someone would lie about John. Obviously, they've never met him. They don't know him. If they did, they couldn't lie about him. On our first wedding anniversary, John was a new resident at the hospital. He spent seventeen hours in the theatre with a five-year-old kid from Harlem. He removed a tumor from his brain. John got home exhausted just before midnight, and you know what he did? He cooked dinner for both of us and we ate it in our pajamas on the kitchen floor. We didn't even have furniture. We'd just moved from San Diego. He slept for four hours and then went back to check on the boy. You know what that kid is doing now? He's in college on a basketball scholarship and he's probably going to get drafted next year into the NBA. He writes to John every couple of months. And John writes back. That's who my husband is, Miss Brooks. He's the best man I know.'

Kate and Harry nodded.

And the load they carried felt a little heavier.

Kate understood that being a lawyer meant owing a sacred duty to your client. That you represent them to the very best of your ability. But that's only the oath you take as a new lawyer. If you care about your clients, you carry around their pain inside. Until you can let it go. Representing an innocent person accused of murder adds to the load. Kate had already found herself unable to sleep some nights, thinking about this case, thinking about what might happen if John was convicted. That was the nightmare that kept her awake, that made her get up early and into the office – the weight of that responsibility was sometimes too much to bear. But Kate took it on. She cared. Couldn't help it.

‘The press conference is starting,' said Al Parish, breaking the silence.

They all sat back in their chairs, raised their head to look at the screen.

District Attorney Robert Castro stood outside the Manhattan Criminal Court building, wearing a white suit, blue shirt and red tie. His hair slicked back. He was flanked by assistant DAs in dark suits. Castro stood tall, the low afternoon sun in his eyes. The camera angle picked up the battle line of reporters in front of them, their mics held aloft like swords.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,' began Castro.

While he spoke, he patted his jacket.

Both sides.

Like he was looking for something.

Then he unbuttoned the jacket, checked his inside pockets.

Both sides.

He looked over the heads of the journalists, then took a second to get his shit together. Composed himself. He knew it had been a rocky start and the silence that filled the space between him and the microphones was beginning to become awkward.

He coughed, put on that fake professional smile that all politicians wear, as if they all bought it from the same store.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he began again, ‘thank you for coming. I've come straight from the grand jury room and can confirm that we have an indictment against John Jackson for the murder of Margaret Blakemore. This is a first-degree murder case and we intend to speed this case to trial at all—'

Castro's head shot up. Something was happening right in front of him. He narrowed his eyes. The press conference had come to a complete stop. The shot of the courthouse took in some background. Kate could see people moving quickly past Castro, moving toward whatever was going on behind the reporters.

‘What the hell is going on?' asked Parish.

Sweat broke out on Castro's top lip. His nose wrinkled, his brow furrowed and his fake smile had died – replaced by a scowl of pure anger. Even his pallor changed – a bright red seeping up from the collar of his shirt.

Harry shook his head, said, ‘There's only one man alive that can piss people off that badly.'