off his game now. When she’s handed over to me, I sweetly walk her down the golden path, then slice her throat from ear to ear. Within ten minutes, she’s crying, gasping for breath, and wishing a thousand times she’d never called my name at the arena. It becomes painfully obvious she’s lying in her affidavit. Even Judge Kaufman asks her, “In a crowd of five thousand people, how did Mr. Rudd find you if he’s never met you before?”
Thank you, Judge. That would be the great question.
As her story goes, she came home from the fights late on Friday. When she finally woke up on Saturday, she called her mother, who immediately called Mr. Dan Huver, who knew exactly what to do. They met in his office on Sunday afternoon, worked out the language for the affidavit, and, presto! Huver was in business.
I call Huver as a witness. He objects. We argue, but Kaufman has no choice. I question Huver for an hour, and two bobcats trapped in the same burlap sack would be much more civilized. One of his assistants wrote every word of the affidavit. One of his secretaries typed it. Another secretary notarized it.
He then questions me and the squabbling continues. Throughout this tedious ordeal, the jurors wait in the deliberation room, no doubt briefed by Glynna Roston and no doubt blaming me for another frustrating delay in the trial. As if I care. I keep reminding Kaufman and Huver that they are playing with a cobra here. If Glynna Roston stays on the jury, I’m guaranteed a reversal. I’m not sure of this—on appeal nothing is guaranteed—but I gradually see them wither under the strain and doubt their own judgment. I repeatedly move for a mistrial. The motions are repeatedly denied. I don’t care. It’s in the record. Late in the afternoon, Kaufman decides to excuse Mrs. Roston and replace her with Ms. Mazy, one of our blue-ribbon alternates.
Ms. Mazy is no replacement to get excited about; in fact, she’s no better than the last old gal who occupied her chair. No one in Milo would be better. You could select twelve from a pool of a thousand and every jury would look and vote the same. So why did I burn so much clock today? To hold them accountable. To scare the hell out of them with the scenario that they—prosecutor and judge, duly elected by the locals—could screw up the most sensational case this backwater hick town has ever seen. To collect ammunition for the appeal. And, to make them respect me.
I demand that Marlo Wilfang be prosecuted for perjury, but the prosecutor is tired. I demand she be held in contempt. Instead, Judge Kaufman reminds me that I’m in contempt. He sends for a bailiff, one with handcuffs.
I say, “I’m sorry, Judge, but I’ve forgotten why you found me in contempt. It was so long ago.”
“Because you refused to continue the trial this morning, and because we’ve wasted an entire day back here fighting over a juror. Plus, you insulted me.”
There are so many ways to respond to this nonsense, but I decide to let it pass. Tossing me in jail over a contempt charge will only complicate matters for them, for the authorities, and it will give me even more ammo for Gardy’s appeal. A large deputy comes in and Kaufman says, “Take him to jail.”
Huver is at the window, his back to it all.
I don’t want to go to jail, but I can’t wait to get out of this room. It’s beginning to reek of stale body odor. The handcuffs are locked around my wrists, hands in front, not back, and as I’m led away I look at Kaufman and say, “I’m assuming I will be allowed to continue as lead counsel in the morning.”
“You will.”
To frighten them even more, I add, “The last time I was tossed in jail in the middle of a trial the conviction was reversed by the state supreme court. Nine to zero. You clowns should read your cases.”
Another large deputy joins our little parade. They take me through the back doors and down the rear hallway I use every day. For some reason we pause on a
Thank you, Judge. That would be the great question.
As her story goes, she came home from the fights late on Friday. When she finally woke up on Saturday, she called her mother, who immediately called Mr. Dan Huver, who knew exactly what to do. They met in his office on Sunday afternoon, worked out the language for the affidavit, and, presto! Huver was in business.
I call Huver as a witness. He objects. We argue, but Kaufman has no choice. I question Huver for an hour, and two bobcats trapped in the same burlap sack would be much more civilized. One of his assistants wrote every word of the affidavit. One of his secretaries typed it. Another secretary notarized it.
He then questions me and the squabbling continues. Throughout this tedious ordeal, the jurors wait in the deliberation room, no doubt briefed by Glynna Roston and no doubt blaming me for another frustrating delay in the trial. As if I care. I keep reminding Kaufman and Huver that they are playing with a cobra here. If Glynna Roston stays on the jury, I’m guaranteed a reversal. I’m not sure of this—on appeal nothing is guaranteed—but I gradually see them wither under the strain and doubt their own judgment. I repeatedly move for a mistrial. The motions are repeatedly denied. I don’t care. It’s in the record. Late in the afternoon, Kaufman decides to excuse Mrs. Roston and replace her with Ms. Mazy, one of our blue-ribbon alternates.
Ms. Mazy is no replacement to get excited about; in fact, she’s no better than the last old gal who occupied her chair. No one in Milo would be better. You could select twelve from a pool of a thousand and every jury would look and vote the same. So why did I burn so much clock today? To hold them accountable. To scare the hell out of them with the scenario that they—prosecutor and judge, duly elected by the locals—could screw up the most sensational case this backwater hick town has ever seen. To collect ammunition for the appeal. And, to make them respect me.
I demand that Marlo Wilfang be prosecuted for perjury, but the prosecutor is tired. I demand she be held in contempt. Instead, Judge Kaufman reminds me that I’m in contempt. He sends for a bailiff, one with handcuffs.
I say, “I’m sorry, Judge, but I’ve forgotten why you found me in contempt. It was so long ago.”
“Because you refused to continue the trial this morning, and because we’ve wasted an entire day back here fighting over a juror. Plus, you insulted me.”
There are so many ways to respond to this nonsense, but I decide to let it pass. Tossing me in jail over a contempt charge will only complicate matters for them, for the authorities, and it will give me even more ammo for Gardy’s appeal. A large deputy comes in and Kaufman says, “Take him to jail.”
Huver is at the window, his back to it all.
I don’t want to go to jail, but I can’t wait to get out of this room. It’s beginning to reek of stale body odor. The handcuffs are locked around my wrists, hands in front, not back, and as I’m led away I look at Kaufman and say, “I’m assuming I will be allowed to continue as lead counsel in the morning.”
“You will.”
To frighten them even more, I add, “The last time I was tossed in jail in the middle of a trial the conviction was reversed by the state supreme court. Nine to zero. You clowns should read your cases.”
Another large deputy joins our little parade. They take me through the back doors and down the rear hallway I use every day. For some reason we pause on a
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