One entire side of the front of the courtroom is filled with large flowcharts and blown-up maps on easels. They show time, place, distance from one area where the bikers were, or allegedly were, to another. We parade our witnesses, from the time the bikers left town, one after the other, a stack of alibis so thick you could strain your back lifting them: the kid that sold them the gasoline, Maggie from route 14, the bikers they partied with in Albuquerque. Scores of people who saw them, if only fleetingly. We introduce the receipts that tell where they were at any given time from the minute they rode out of Santa Fe. Every witness, every scrap of evidence that is useful is presented. We’ve covered this legal waterfront like a San Francisco fog.
Our defense goes into its second week. My co-defenders and I are the toast of the legal community. In the bars, clubs, and restaurants where lawyers congregate after hours we’re the main topic of conversation: how well we’re conducting our case. I’m on a high, floating, I’m electric, alive. I
am
the toughest motherfucker in the valley, my erstwhile partners are going to be crawling on their hands and knees to get me back in the firm when this trial’s over.
In my more reflective moments I know the feeling for what it is; ego gratification on a pretty shallow level. Yes, it’s nice to be admired and respected, but that can zip by quicker than a Nolan Ryan fastball. And what goes around comes around, all the trite and true sayings. I want to get back in the firm; I think. I want to see if there’s really something there with Mary Lou, away from the glamour of an important trial. I want to be loved and respected and rich. But what I really want is for my daughter not to be taken away from me, and for my clients to be found not guilty. And those are the two things I’m the least secure about.
THE CLERK OF THE COURT
has a high, reedy voice that seems inadequate for the size of the courtroom, dissipating into the air before it can reverberate against the walls and ceiling. You feel such a voice should bounce, echo, resonate with authority. The voice of the law. I’m probably the only one that notices stuff like that. I like to hear my own voice resonate.
“Call Steven Jensen,” the clerk says.
Lone Wolf stands. He turns for a moment and stares at the jury; not a threat, a look—this is me, make sure you know who I am. He has undeniable presence. He walks to the dock, places his hand on the Bible, takes the oath in a firm, clear voice. He’s dressed in a suit and tie. It won’t fool anyone; he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing for sure.
The outcome of the trial could hinge on what happens while Lone Wolf is on the stand. It’s a calculated risk, putting him on. We’ve debated it endlessly. In the end, we decided we had to. We won’t call the others to testify. They’re too nervous, unpredictable. Lone Wolf is unpredictable, too, he could blow things sky-high, but we have to put him on, we have to confront the jury head-on with him, especially after his outburst at Grade.
I learned a long time ago that constitutional rights to the contrary, a defendant’s silence, his refusal to testify in his behalf, is too often construed as a tacit admission of guilt; the jury wants to hear the accused say he didn’t do it. And there’s another reason, particularly in cases like this one where the accused are thought of as being beyond the pale. We want the jury to see that they are people, human beings. That they can speak, that they are not animals, but men; men who perhaps live by a different code, but men. They have limits, like all men, limits that they have personally defined, marked off, won’t go beyond. In this instance their boundaries exclude sodomy and murder, not as a package, and this is critical, because this crime is specific. Maybe under other circumstances they would kill. Maybe I would, too, or anyone else. But under these specific circumstances, they would not. That is what his presence is going to say; what he is going to say.
The danger, of course, is that once I put Lone Wolf on the stand, his prior record, and by inference the records of his partners, will be brought out by the prosecution on cross-examination. It will hurt us, we know that for sure, we discussed it with our clients at length, but in the end we all decided that to not go on the stand at all would be even worse.
I lead him through their story. Yes, they all had sex with Rita up in the mountains, but it was okay with her. That’s how she earns her living, she’s already copped to that, he says. He’s lying there about it being okay, we both know it. I can’t help that. I’m paid to defend him, not to justify his every action. If the goddam cops had done their job right he’d have had to tell the truth about it. Tough shit. I’m not going to do their job for them.
It goes well. He’s a good witness, articulate, funny, with charm.
His public voice is louder than I’m used to, there’s a whiskey drawl in it. A voice that women would find attractive. I can see some of the women in the courtroom looking at him; he’s turning them on. I’m a man who does things he shouldn’t, but that’s the way men are, he’s saying. That’s what real men are. Maybe not faggots, but that’s something else. He wouldn’t know about that. He has no interest or desire in fucking a man, not even as some kind of sick punishment. Real men don’t fuck guys in the ass.
By the time I finish my direct it’s the end of the day. We recess until tomorrow, when Moseby’ll cross-examine. My colleagues and I regroup to my office, order in sandwiches and coffee. It’s been a good day. Lone Wolf did well; he told his story and he was civilized. I think he dissipated some of the ill will built up by his verbal attack on Dr. Grade.
We finish our homework and split up. I kiss Mary Lou goodnight outside her car. I’d like to be going home with her; that’s for another time, I’m going to keep my vow of abstinence with her. It’s a head-game I play with myself, if I do A then B will happen. If I don’t get involved with her or with any woman for a while, then Claudia will stay in Santa Fe. It’s a dream, a wish. It’s all I have to go on.
LONE WOLF LOOKS DOWN
at Moseby, who is pacing back and forth in front of him.
“I can’t help how you feel, man, that’s how it was,” he drawls in response to a question. Low-key and cool.
It’s been a long morning. For the first half-hour of cross-examination I had terrible butterflies in my stomach for fear that Lone Wolf was going to do something stupid, crazy, fuck up all the good he’d built up yesterday. As the questions and answers droned on, I became less tense, to the point where I’m relaxed now. Alert, but at ease. Moseby’s been looking for an angle all morning, some edge to pry the lid off Lone Wolf’s composure. He hasn’t done it. Lone Wolf’s in command.
“Let’s go back up on the mountain again,” Moseby says now. “The first time.”
“There was only one time, ace,” Lone Wolf says.
Moseby picks at his teeth. “The time the four of you were up there with the girl. That time.”
“That’s the time, man. The one and only.”
They’ve been sparring like this all morning. I wonder how long Moseby’s going to keep it up; he isn’t looking good. He’s not stupid, he knows when he’s not looking good.
“One more time,” he says. “You say Rita Gomez freely and of her own volition had sexual intercourse with you. Without coercion or threats. You didn’t even have to pay her.”
“I know a sad sack like you finds that hard to believe, but yes, she did. Ladies like outlaws and outlaws like ladies, friend, don’t you know that? Don’t you listen to country music? I thought ever’body out west here listened to country music.”
Smiles and laughter from the spectators. The jury, too. This man is a good witness, a real con artist. That he sounds like John Wayne doesn’t hurt his cause either.
“I’m a fan of the classics myself,” Moseby smiles self-deprecatingly, his stock in trade. That’s good, he’ll make points like that. “Anyway … you had sex with Miss Gomez but not with Richard Bartless.”
“He wasn’t there so how could I?”
“But even if he had been there you wouldn’t have, because you don’t have sex with men.”
“You got that right, ace.”
“How do you feel about sex with men? Abstractly, in general.”
“It makes me want to puke,” Lone Wolf says. He grimaces.
“Just the idea of it.”
“Goddam right.”
“How do you feel about homosexuality in general, Mr. Jensen?” Moseby continues.
“Objection,” I state. “This is not a trial about homosexuality.” I know in part it is but I want to ward it off as much as possible, this is where Lone Wolf’s fuse is shortest.
“Over-ruled,” Martinez snaps. “The victim was anally penetrated. Homosexuality is part and parcel of this. Answer the question,” he directs Lone Wolf.
“It’s sick,” Lone Wolf says.
“You feel homosexuals are sick,” Moseby says. “Do you feel sorry for them, then?”
“You crazy, man?”
“The answer is no?”
“Damn straight it’s no.” He leans toward Moseby. “If I was ever going to kill somebody—and I never have—it wouldn’t be a queer. Killing queers ain’t my style. It’s beneath me, you know what I mean?”
“In other words,” Moseby sums up, “you have nothing to do with homosexuality or homosexuals.”
“In those exact words,” Lone Wolf replies.
Moseby starts back towards the prosecution table as if to get something. Suddenly he turns back to the bench.
“No further questions, your honor.” He sits down, slumping low in his chair.
Martinez looks at him. He’s surprised. So am I. It’s almost like Moseby’s working with me, not against me.
Martinez shrugs. “The witness is excused.”
Lone Wolf steps down, comes back to our table, takes his seat. He winks at me, out of sight of the jury.
They didn’t lay a glove on him.
I stand up. “The defense rests, your honor.”
Martinez nods. “Closing arguments will commence Monday unless there are rebuttal witnesses.” He looks at Moseby. Moseby looks sick to his stomach.
“We’re trying to locate one, your honor. We’re not having much luck.”
“After Monday morning it’ll be too late. If you have anyone else he had better be an important factor or I’m not going to allow his testimony. This has been a long trial. It’s time to finish it up. I’d like to be charging this jury by the end of business Tuesday.”
“Yes, sir,” Moseby says. “If this witness turns up, you’re going to want to hear him.”
IT ALWAYS STARTS OUT
the same way. It’s late, you’ve been working your brains out seven days a week, eighteen-hour days. You finally go home to a place you can’t stand—either you can’t stand the people you’re living with, like my situation with Holly, the woman to whom I was married and now am about not to be—the final decree’s coming down any day now, just another deadly thorn in my side—or you hate the physical place itself, like this fleabag condo. It’s one of the reasons, maybe the biggest one, that you put in those hours. You don’t admit that to yourself; your posture is that you love your work, you’re a workaholic because of your love for it. That’s bullshit, elementary denial. You damn well may love your work, but don’t pretend it’s the only thing that keeps you away.
Anyway. You’re wired, being in trial is like eating raw volts of electricity, you don’t turn it on and off like a spigot. You have to wind down. The problem is in a few hours you’re due back in court again, and you have to be sharp. People’s lives are in your hands. You need your beauty sleep, baby, you have to get your rest. You’re going to strip down, maybe take a shower or a hot bath, watch the late news on CNN. And to ensure that you will mellow out, at least enough to sleep, you’ll have a glass of wine. One, that’s all, it’s late, you’re going to sleep soon, you’ll sleep better. Red wine, that’s more suitable late at night, a nice Zinfandel or maybe a Merlot, you still have some of the ’82 Newton stashed away you bought for some special occasion. What was that occasion anyway? Doesn’t matter, it’s nice, good body, good legs, if you can’t have the woman of your dreams tonight a nice glass of Merlot will substitute just fine.
It tastes good, you’d forgotten how good, you don’t as a rule open a bottle at home when you’re alone and you haven’t had anyone over that would have appreciated this (except Mary Lou, and the circumstances didn’t call for it), you’ll top up your glass, maybe he in bed with it and watch something else for awhile, “Saturday Night Live,” and it’s a good show, a rerun but you haven’t seen this one, and you sip your wine and you’re finally, finally after the strain of the workweek, relaxing. Savor it, tomorrow afternoon you’re rehearsing your closing arguments, it’s showtime again. You have to be double-sharp for that, you won’t even allow yourself two cups of coffee.
You watch and sip and chill out until you fall asleep.
One of these days maybe I’ll wise up and learn something. It’s morning, the bottle is empty, the TV is blasting Jimmy fucking Swaggart, and my mouth feels like the elephant’s graveyard. I’m not hung over, nothing near that, one bottle of wine doesn’t come close to bringing on a hang over for a drinker of my stature and experience, but I feel bad. I feel slow, unfocused, my head’s stuffed with cotton. I have to prepare my final summation today, run it by my colleagues, listen to and critique theirs, and incidentally try to save the lives of four men I strongly feel are innocent of the crime of which they’re accused.
Most important, I’ve violated a trust: my own, to me. I don’t mean the promise I made under coercion to Andy and Fred, I’d have promised my right testicle there and then; or the implicit promises I’ve been making to Patricia for years when she’s mentioned how Claudia talked about my drinking; none of that. I mean the promise about taking care of my life. I don’t care so much about the drinking, it’s the inner lying that’s eating me up. If you can’t be straight to yourself who are you ever going to be straight to? Quit bullshitting yourself, Alexander. Have the goddam drink and don’t be a martyr to it, tell your partners how you feel. Stop making excuses, stop asking the people who care the most about you to make excuses for you. You wake up one day and look around and they aren’t there to do it anymore. You got rid of them all. More bullshit: they dumped you. No more family, no more kid, no more law partnership.