Page 6 of The 1 Lawyer

A timer dinged, and the judge pulled a tea bag from a steaming cup. He squeezed the bag, discarded it, pulled out a penknife, and, using his desk as a cutting board, sliced a lemon. I could smell the citrus as it sprayed into the air.

Walker sipped his tea, his eyes crinkling at me over the mug he held. “Stafford Lee, is your daddy retiring soon?”

I was surprised by the change of topic. “He’s slowing down these days. I’d say he’s semiretired.”

The judge snorted. “Well, that explains why the ERs and funeral parlors haven’t seen much of Charlie.” To the DA, Judge Walker said, “In his day, Charlie Penney had a deal with all the undertakers in town. He handed out business cards at every funeral. And he was notorious for jawboning injured people being carried into the hospital on stretchers.” He gave us a sly wink. “You know what they called him.”

Gordon-James avoided my eye and said shortly, “An ambulance chaser.”

The judge nodded, chuckling.

What Walker had said about my dad was true. But there’s a thing called family loyalty, and it chafed me to hear my father belittled, even if he deserved it. I had to exercise profound control to keep my fists from clenching and my jaw shut. This was no day to pick a fight with Judge Walker. Judges wield tremendous power over the outcome of a case. A trial lawyer is absolutely obligated to remain silent in these situations. The judge holds all the cards.

Maybe my discomfort showed. The judge took a swallow of the tea and set the mug on a coaster on his desk. “Stafford Lee, don’t get your hackles up. I’m not putting you in the same class with Charlie, no, sir. You’ve got star quality. Charisma. You don’t need to chase down widows and orphans.” With a nod to the prosecutor, he added, “Henry’s got it too—the magic. I say with total honesty that Henry here is the best DA in Mississippi.”

“A lot of people in Harrison County were shocked when I was elected to this office,” the DA said, his voice cool. “Others called it progress. But you know what they say: Progress in Mississippi is one step forward, one step back.”

The judge leaned forward, interested. “Who said that? Faulkner?”

The DA’s face looked chiseled from granite. “I’m not talking about literature; I’m talking about the Caro case.” His gaze slid to me. “I’m determined to see justice done in this trial.”

I said, my voice ringing with all the sincerity I could pump into it, “We are all interested in justice here.”

“I’m getting justice for the victim, for Aurora Gates,” the prosecutor said, his voice sharp as a razor. “It’s personal for me. This shit keeps happening, and I’m sick of it. My people are dying.”

After a moment of silence, he repeated, “It’s personal.”

CHAPTER 6

AFTER THE jurors took their seats in the box and listened to the judge’s instructions, both sides hit the ground running, moving straight to opening statements.

The jurors need to like the defense attorney and think he’s a good guy; it’s a way to build trust and score allies. God knows the jurors are not usually impressed with the defendant.

At the defense table, I placed Caro in the seat directly next to the jurors. The physical proximity could provide an advantage as long as the client behaved himself. I hoped I wouldn’t regret the decision.

Since our table was so close to the jury box, Henry Gordon-James stepped within a couple of yards of us during his opening. I listened closely, appraising him with a careful eye. He was good, passionate but controlled. I had my work cut out for me.

When my turn came, I was ready. I recited the speech I had rehearsed an hour prior in front of Mason and Jenny. I was better in court than I had been in the office, and early on in my opening, I hit my groove. The jurors were listening; eye contact was good. When I talked about Caro delivering babies, one of the women nodded—a lawyer’s fondest hope. I finished and sat down, pretty sure I’d hit the mark.

Judge Walker turned to the DA. “You may call your first witness.”

Gordon-James stood. Speaking with deep solemnity, he said, “The State calls Harley Oates to the witness stand.”

Caro whispered to me, “He’s the fisherman?”

“Right,” I said, keeping my eyes on the jury. They watched Oates make his way down the center aisle of the courtroom and up to the bench.

After Oates was sworn in, Gordon-James commenced direct examination. “Please state your name.”

“Harley Oates.”

“Where do you live?”

“Biloxi, Mississippi.”

“Occupation?”

“Plumber. Well, I was a plumber, had my own business here in town. I retired two years ago.”

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