Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller (3 page)

Warren took the elevator up to the fifth floor and the 342nd District Court. Under a lofty ceiling, its walnut-paneled walls were lined with oil portraits of robed judges from decades past. The current presiding resident of the 342nd, Judge Dwight Bingham, was one of Harris County's four black judges. His courtroom was the most spacious and dignified in the courthouse; he had earned it by seniority. "But what Dwight Bingham knows about the law," Warren's father had said, when Warren had just begun practicing, "you could stuff into a wetback's taco. He's too easy, too friendly. He doesn't like to send young niggers to prison on the theory that they get buttfucked and come out more violent than they went in. He's got what I suppose you and your hippie friends would call… compassion."

Warren liked and admired Judge Bingham. The law could be harsh. Good law became bad law if bad men administered it. The world was crueler than most people would admit, Warren believed, and it needed all the compassion available.

Ten days ago, in a familiar ritual, the clerk at the Office of the District Attorney had spun the birdcage that held colored Ping-Pong balls with the numbers of the twenty-six Harris County courts. The yellow ball with Judge Bingham's number had popped out; he had drawn the plum of the current season, the Ott murder case. The accused, the owner of a topless nightclub, had killed her lover, Dr. Clyde Ott, a multimillionaire gynecologist who owned drug detox clinics throughout Harris County. The State of Texas was charging willful murder; Scoot Shepard, on behalf of the defendant, had pled self-defense. For weeks the murder had been a lead story on the evening news. The trial was on the docket for late July, guaranteed to make headlines every day — the kind of trial a lawyer loved.

Nearing seventy years of age and ready to retire, Judge Bingham sat on the high walnut bench framed against the Great Seal of Texas. Although today's event was merely a routine application for reduction of bail for the defendant, there was no room in front of the bar on the courtroom bench reserved for lawyers. Warren squeezed into one of the spectators' pews, noting that more than a few defense attorneys and prosecutors were scattered among the crowd. They had come to hear Scoot Shepard, the maestro. Young lawyers learned from him, veterans simply enjoyed him.

Chunky, about five-ten, Scoot had a pale, domelike forehead, and his slightly bloodshot eyes were black disks set deep into his head. His nose was large and fleshy. Today he wore a wrinkled suit. Warren had always thought he could pass for an oil rig operator on holiday in Vegas.

Dim yellow lights gleamed from the high paneled ceiling onto Judge Bingham's bald brown head. He looked up from some papers and said gently, "All right now, Mr. Shepard, I've read this application on behalf of your client, Ms. Johnnie Faye Boudreau. You want me to reduce her bail from $300,000 to $50,000. I'm not sure I can do that."

Scoot Shepard scrambled awkwardly to his feet. "Your honor, my client's got the best reason a defendant can have. She's broke."

Judge Bingham looked across the courtroom at the frowning face of Assistant
District Attorney Bob Altschuler, chief prosecutor in the 342nd. "I take it," the judge said, "that the State of Texas disagrees."

"Yes, your honor, and for the best reasons the state could have." Altschuler was already standing, feet planted wide apart like a wrestler's. A bulky, handsome man of forty-five, with snapping brown eyes and a full head of pepper-and-salt hair, he folded his arms in a truculent posture. "This is a murder charge. No question that the defendant, Ms. Boudreau, shot the victim, Dr. Ott, who wasn't armed. She's admitted it."

"No, no, no," Scoot Shepard murmured, barely audibly.

Judge Bingham said to the prosecutor, "Well, these papers claim that Ms. Boudreau surrendered voluntarily to the police. Says here that she lives in town, is gainfully employed, has roots in the community, and isn't going anywhere, even assuming she's got someplace to go. And she's showed up today." He peered down in a kindly manner at Bob Altschuler; they worked together nearly every day. "What's your contention, Mr. Prosecutor? Here today, gone tomorrow?"

"The state's contention," Altschuler said, "is that the defendant can afford the $300,000 bail set by this court before Mr. Scoot Shepard came on the scene. Especially if the defendant can afford to hire Mr. Shepard."

"Ah, but that's the point!" Scoot cried, taking a fencing step forward. "I don't come cheap! The amount of current bail might make it impossible for this lady to pay my fee! What if it comes down to a choice between me and bail? I know there are a lot of other good lawyers around town, and I'm not the spryest or the youngest, maybe not even the smartest." He spread his hands before the elderly judge. "But she wants me. What can we do about that, your honor?"

"Well, that might be a pity," the judge said. "We might be deprived of a fine trial."

Sitting on the bench in the rear, Warren smiled. He understood that Judge Bingham liked to perform for Scoot, or with him, especially with reporters sitting in his courtroom.

The judge peered down now at the defendant, Johnnie Faye Boudreau, sitting alone at the defense table. "Ma'am, you claim you don't own that topless nightclub out on Richmond that everybody says you own. What's it called?" Adjusting the horn-rimmed bifocals on his fleshy nose, he rustled the papers set before him. "Ecstasy! What a provocative name. Is that right? Is that your contention?"

Scoot walked back and bent to whisper to his client. Then he said to the court, "Your honor, Ms. Boudreau has a slight sore throat, and this is a mighty cavernous courtroom. I don't want her to have to shout and aggravate her condition. May we and Mr. Altschuler approach the bench for this discussion?"

"Of course you may, Mr. Scoot," the judge said.

Johnnie Faye Boudreau rose slowly from her chair. This May morning in the air-conditioned courtroom she wore a white linen suit with high heels to match, one strand of cultured pearls and an emerald ring. She had admitted she was forty years old but could have passed for thirty. Two decades ago she had been voted Miss Corpus Christi and then runner-up in the Miss Texas pageant. Now there was hardly a wrinkle on her face and her hands were as smooth as vellum. She had high breasts, flaring hips, and a remarkably narrow waist. Her most remarkable feature, however, was the color of her eyes. The left one was hazel, the right one a cool gray-blue. Few people noticed that at first. They just felt uncomfortable under her gaze.

She took several steps toward the judicial bench, then turned and went back for her handbag. Zoologists would have described her walk as that of a tiger in estrus. Even Judge Bingham gazed at her swaying buttocks.

As she reversed course and approached the judge a second time, Warren Blackburn watched too from his seat on the back bench. Look like a pair of boar shoats squirming around in a gunnysack, he thought.

The courtroom grew still. Everyone strained to hear.

"That's right, your honor," Johnnie Faye Boudreau said in a husky, relaxed voice. "I don't own Ecstasy. I just work there."

Scoot took over: "She's on salary, your honor — $40,000 a year, paid monthly. She borrowed the money from her employers to put up that high bond. Borrowed it at twelve percent interest. Her only current assets are a bank account with under two thousand dollars, some jewelry, and a car."

"Her car is a two-year-old Mercedes 450-SL," the judge pointed out.

"She's got good taste," Scoot said. "And we wouldn't take that car away, would we? How would she get to work?"

"Or to court, for her trial," Judge Bingham added.

Bob Altschuler, scowling, leaned his weight toward the defendant. "Ms. Boudreau, are you telling the State of Texas and this court that you have no stocks, bonds, savings accounts, mutual funds, CDs, money market accounts, or any other negotiable assets?"

Johnnie Faye Boudreau's wide mouth curved into a smile. "No, sir. Nothing except my checking account at Bank of America and the clothes on my back."

"And a few clothes in your closets at home, I'm sure."

"A few," Johnnie Faye said. "Do y'all want me to sell some of them?"

Perched on the edge of their seats, the reporters from the
Post
and the
Chronicle
scribbled in their notebooks. That was quotable.

Judge Bingham said, "Mr. Bob, these papers tell me that if the bail is reduced, Ms. Boudreau's employer — this corporation owned by some oil people over in Louisiana — is ready to lend the money back to Ms. Boudreau. Then she can pay Mr. Shepard and we can get on with this case. Otherwise, Mr. Shepard isn't going to appear and you are going to be deprived of a worthy opponent. What do you say to that?"

Altschuler wheeled smartly on the defendant, as if to intimidate her with his bulk. "Ms. Boudreau, do you swear under oath that you have no controlling interest in this Louisiana corporation that owns Ecstasy? No shares at all?"

"No, sir. Neither. Just like the papers say."

The prosecutor glowered at the judge once again. "If she can't pay Mr. Shepard, that's too bad. There are plenty of defendants who would like to have him, but they have to settle for something less, or different. There's no constitutional right in the State of Texas to be represented by Mr. Shepard, your honor."

"That's true," Judge Bingham gently responded, "but I think this defendant ought to have the lawyer she wants. That's the American way. And you're not going to run away before or during the trial, are you, Ms. Boudreau?"

"No, sir," Johnnie Faye said firmly.

"You're going to show up every time we ask you to?"

"Yes, sir. I give you my word of honor."

"Well, then, I believe the request has merit. It's reasonable and certainly straightforward. I'm going to compromise. I'm going to reduce bail to $100,000." Judge Bingham tapped his big black mahogany gavel, a gift from Scoot Shepard ten years ago after the acquittal in the Martha Sachs case.

Warren Blackburn managed to intercept Scoot just outside the broad swinging doors of the courtroom. "Nice work," he said.

"Can't talk now," Scoot explained, dramatically placing a finger on his lips and gesturing at the gang of reporters about to corral him. "You available for lunch next week, young fellow?"

"Any day," Warren said.

"I'll call you after the weekend," Scoot said regally, "and tell you where."

===OO=OOO=OO===

A number of events that followed would mark Warren Blackburn's life, change it forever.

Late that same Friday afternoon Johnnie Faye Boudreau dug under the mattress in her guest room, stuffed $50,000 in hundred-dollar bills in her big ostrich-leather handbag, and went out on a spending spree. She knew from experience that it would raise her spirits. Despite the financial victory, she had not enjoyed her day in court. She was not used to begging or wheedling.

In Sakowitz, opposite the Galeria shopping mall, she bought a ruby brooch. Crossing the boulevard in 85-degree May heat, in the cool of Lord & Taylor she bought a Russian sable jacket, a T-shirt with a leopard motif, two lace bras, and makeup from Lancôme. And then in Neiman-Marcus she bought a gray shantung suit and a dark-blue silk dress she thought would be appropriate to wear in court for the Ott murder trial. She paid cash for everything.

===OO=OOO=OO===

At about the same hour a man named Dan Ho Trunh was repairing a pump and installing a pool timer in the backyard of a house off Memorial Parkway. A twenty-seven-year-old Vietnamese who carried a green card, Dan Ho had been in Houston for five years and would be eligible for citizenship in August. He was a journeyman electrician who worked cheap and liked to be paid in cash. His youth in Saigon allowed him to understand something that no United States government pamphlet or history book could ever teach: it was the right of human beings everywhere to avoid the payment of taxes.

With the job finished and three twenty-dollar bills in his wallet, he edged his old Ford Fairlane wagon into the thick traffic of the 610 Loop, then a mile later bore off on the Southwest Freeway in an easterly direction. Soaring glass facades of office buildings ricocheted light from a setting sun. Close to the Wesleyan exit, Dan Ho remembered that he had to pick up laundry and dry cleaning. With a quick glance into the rearview mirror, he flicked his directional signal, stepped on the gas and veered from the middle lane toward the exit ramp. This should not have been difficult. In his experience, Texans were courteous and forgiving drivers.

But the car to the right of him seemed to accelerate rather than slow to give him room. He felt a mild jolt, as if his rear bumper had grazed the other driver's front bumper.

It was not possible to stop. Cars were surging right and left. Dan Ho powered down the exit ramp. A minute later he swung the wagon off the road into the parking lot of a mini-mall, pulling up in front of the Wesleyan Terrace Laundry & Dry Cleaners. It was after eight o'clock and all the other shops but Crown Books had closed until morning. Except for a wino propped in a loose sitting position against an optician's facade, smiling at something that only a drunk could smile about, the parking lot was empty of people.

Through the plate-glass window of the dry cleaners Dan Ho Trunh saw the half-turned back of an Indian woman in a green and gold sari. She was stacking cardboard boxes.

Then he became aware that another car had pulled up parallel in the parking lot, and a woman in that car was in a rage and was shouting at him. She was cursing. He had no idea why. He rolled down his window.

"Hey, you! Speak Murkin?"

"What's the problem?" Dan Ho said quietly.

The woman snarled, "Don't get smartass with me, you yellow motherfucker, you scumbag slant-eyed sleazeball!"

He shook his head and said, "Lady, you're not only nasty, you're crazy."

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

Sighing, Dan Ho Trunh turned away, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, which contained his laundry ticket. From the car parked a few feet to his left, he heard a shriek. He looked up wearily and beheld a small black circle, the barrel of a pistol.