landing as the deputies mumble into their radios. When we finally step outside, I get the impression that word was leaked. A cheer goes up by my haters when they see me frog-marched out, handcuffed. For no apparent reason, the cops stall as they try to decide which patrol car to use. I stand by one, exposed, smiling at my little mob. I see Partner and yell that I’ll call him later. He is stunned and confused. For sport, they shove me into the same backseat with Gardy; lawyer and client, off to jail. As we pull away, with lights and sirens fully engaged to give this miserable town as much drama as possible, Gardy looks at me and says, “Where you been all day?”
I’m not about to try. I lift my bound hands and say, “Fighting with the judge. Guess who won?”
“How can they throw a lawyer in jail?”
“The judge can do whatever he wants.”
“You getting the death penalty too?”
I chuckle for the first time in many hours. “No, not yet anyway.”
Gardy is amused by this unexpected change in routine. He says, “You’re gonna love the food there.”
“I’ll bet.” The two deputies in the front seat are listening so hard they’re barely breathing.
“You ever been in jail before?” my client asks.
“Oh yes, several times. I have a knack for pissing off judges.”
“How’d you piss off Judge Kaufman?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, we got all night, don’t we?”
I suppose we do, though I doubt they’ll throw me in the same cell with my dear client. Minutes later we stop in front of a 1950s-style flat-roofed building with several additions stuck to its sides like malignant tumors. I’ve been here a few times to meet with Gardy and it’s a miserable place. We park; they yank us out of the car and jostle us inside a cramped open room where some cops lounge around pushing paper and acting like badasses. Gardy disappears into the rear, and when an unseen door opens I can hear prisoners yelling in the background.
“Judge Kaufman said I can make two phone calls,” I snap at the jailer as he moves toward me. He stops, uncertain as to what exactly a jailer is supposed to do when confronting an angry lawyer sent over for contempt. He backs away.
I call Judith, and after barking at her receptionist, then her secretary, then her paralegal, I get her on the phone, explain I’m in jail again and need help. She curses, reminds me of how busy she is, then says all right. I call Partner and give him the update.
They hand me an orange jumpsuit with “Milo City Jail” stenciled across the back. I change in a filthy bathroom, carefully arranging my shirt, tie, and suit on one hanger. I hand it to the jailer and say, “Please don’t wrinkle this. I have to wear it tomorrow.”
“You want it pressed?” he says, then roars with laughter. The others break down too at this real knee-slapper, and I smile like a good sport. When the laughing is over I say, “So what’s for dinner?”
The jailer says, “It’s Monday, Spam day. Always Spam on Monday.”
“Can’t wait.” My cell is a ten-by-ten concrete bunker that reeks of stale urine and body odor. On the bunk beds are two young black men, one reading, the other napping. There is no third bed, so I’ll sleep in a plastic chair stained with dark brown splotches. My two new cellies do not appear the least bit friendly. I don’t want to fight, but getting beat up in jail, in the middle of a capital murder defense, would cause an automatic mistrial. I’ll ponder it.
Because she’s done this before, Judith knows exactly what to do. At 5:00 p.m., she files a petition for habeas corpus in federal court in the City, with an urgent demand for an immediate hearing. I love federal court, most of the time.
She also sends a copy of her petition to my favorite reporter at the newspaper. I’ll make as much noise as possible. Kaufman and Huver have blundered badly, and they’ll pay for it. The reader on the bottom bunk decides he wants to talk, so I
I’m not about to try. I lift my bound hands and say, “Fighting with the judge. Guess who won?”
“How can they throw a lawyer in jail?”
“The judge can do whatever he wants.”
“You getting the death penalty too?”
I chuckle for the first time in many hours. “No, not yet anyway.”
Gardy is amused by this unexpected change in routine. He says, “You’re gonna love the food there.”
“I’ll bet.” The two deputies in the front seat are listening so hard they’re barely breathing.
“You ever been in jail before?” my client asks.
“Oh yes, several times. I have a knack for pissing off judges.”
“How’d you piss off Judge Kaufman?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, we got all night, don’t we?”
I suppose we do, though I doubt they’ll throw me in the same cell with my dear client. Minutes later we stop in front of a 1950s-style flat-roofed building with several additions stuck to its sides like malignant tumors. I’ve been here a few times to meet with Gardy and it’s a miserable place. We park; they yank us out of the car and jostle us inside a cramped open room where some cops lounge around pushing paper and acting like badasses. Gardy disappears into the rear, and when an unseen door opens I can hear prisoners yelling in the background.
“Judge Kaufman said I can make two phone calls,” I snap at the jailer as he moves toward me. He stops, uncertain as to what exactly a jailer is supposed to do when confronting an angry lawyer sent over for contempt. He backs away.
I call Judith, and after barking at her receptionist, then her secretary, then her paralegal, I get her on the phone, explain I’m in jail again and need help. She curses, reminds me of how busy she is, then says all right. I call Partner and give him the update.
They hand me an orange jumpsuit with “Milo City Jail” stenciled across the back. I change in a filthy bathroom, carefully arranging my shirt, tie, and suit on one hanger. I hand it to the jailer and say, “Please don’t wrinkle this. I have to wear it tomorrow.”
“You want it pressed?” he says, then roars with laughter. The others break down too at this real knee-slapper, and I smile like a good sport. When the laughing is over I say, “So what’s for dinner?”
The jailer says, “It’s Monday, Spam day. Always Spam on Monday.”
“Can’t wait.” My cell is a ten-by-ten concrete bunker that reeks of stale urine and body odor. On the bunk beds are two young black men, one reading, the other napping. There is no third bed, so I’ll sleep in a plastic chair stained with dark brown splotches. My two new cellies do not appear the least bit friendly. I don’t want to fight, but getting beat up in jail, in the middle of a capital murder defense, would cause an automatic mistrial. I’ll ponder it.
Because she’s done this before, Judith knows exactly what to do. At 5:00 p.m., she files a petition for habeas corpus in federal court in the City, with an urgent demand for an immediate hearing. I love federal court, most of the time.
She also sends a copy of her petition to my favorite reporter at the newspaper. I’ll make as much noise as possible. Kaufman and Huver have blundered badly, and they’ll pay for it. The reader on the bottom bunk decides he wants to talk, so I
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