No Way Out
This was true. The firm had defended rape suspects before. Indeed Jo herself had taken first seat in several rape defenses – and in some of those cases there was little room to doubt the guilt of the accused.
‘This is different. He’s done it before.’
‘And he’s served his sentence,’ said Alex. ‘But that doesn’t make him guilty this time. He’s not the same man now that he was then.’
‘He got off lightly last time.’
‘That’s not for us to judge.’
This was Webster again. Everyone else remained silent, including Alex. It was tempting to speak up in defense of Claymore, or even to lecture this woman on the finer points of legal ethics. But it wasn’t his job. If she had a problem with Levine and Webster being involved in Claymore’s defense, that was between her and her colleagues.
Again, it was left to Aaron Levine to break the silence. ‘Do we have a hope in hell of winning? There’s not much kudos in losing a high profile case.’
The other partners looked down or away, anything to withdraw from this pragmatic way of looking at the issue. Alex realized that the question was directed at him. He met the old man’s eyes.
‘It’s going to be an uphill struggle.’
‘How steep is the hill?’
Alex thought about this for a moment.
‘There’s a lot of evidence for us to refute – not to mention that we still have to overcome the effect of Claymore’s past. It won’t be easy. The problem is I can’t desanctify the victim without seeming like a bully.’
‘Desanctify the victim?’ Levine echoed softly.
Jo Gale spoke into the silence that followed, ‘A euphemism for character assassination used by sleazy shysters who like helping rapists and wife-killers beat the rap.’
Alex smiled, not in mockery, but out of respect for Jo Gale’s feisty attitude.
‘I prefer to think of it as leveling the playing field after the D.A.’s finished milking the sympathy of the jury for all it’s worth.’
‘Well if you can’t “desanctify the victim”,’ asked Jo Gale, ‘how do you propose to level the playing field?’
‘By making Claymore seem harmless.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
Alex looked around the table to gauge the mood. It was obvious that no one else had anything more to say. This was turning into a grudge match between himself and Jo Gale.
‘That’s very simple. A picture paints a thousand words.’
She rested her elbows on the oval table, and leaned forward, meeting Alex’s eyes implacably.
‘And how do you propose to paint a picture for the jury?’
‘By putting an attractive woman next to Claymore. She doesn’t have to say a word on his behalf, just sit there looking comfortable and relaxed. That’s all it takes.’
Jo recoiled. It was an actual, physical retreat.
‘You can forget it, Mr Sedaka,’ said Jo. ‘’Cause it ain’t gonna happen.’
Alex had to fight hard to resist the urge to smile.
Sherman, who until now had been leaning back in a desperate effort to make himself invisible, now sat forward, sensing an opportunity to earn some brownie points with the senior partners.
‘There’s Andi Phoenix.’
All the other heads in the room looked round at him. But it was Jo who spoke – and her tone was audibly defensive.
‘Who’s Andi Phoenix?’
‘She’s from our New York office. We needed someone to fill our victim litigation slot and she took the bait. She knew she wasn’t going anywhere in the Big Apple so she came out here.’
‘Will she do it?’ asked Webster.
‘She’s hot and she’s ambitious. I know she’d just love a piece of the action. If you want a cute piece of ass to sit next to Claymore looking comfortable and keeping shtum, you won’t have any trouble convincing Andi Phoenix to take the seat.’
Friday, 12 June 2009 – 16.30
‘I won’t do it!’ said Andi, flatly.
They were in one of the smaller conference rooms: Andi, Paul Sherman and Alex Sedaka.
‘Why not?’ asked Alex. ‘It’ll be great experience for you – and a challenge.’
‘Don’t patronize me, Mr Sedaka. I’m past the stage when I need that sort of a challenge. And I’ve had plenty of experience back east—’
‘Oh, my mistake, I thought you came out here because you hit the glass ceiling in the Big Apple.’
Andi felt like punching him in the face for his sarcasm. She felt like punching Sherman too for exposing her to it. But she contained her anger.
‘That doesn’t mean I have to scramble for the dregs.’
‘No one’s asking you to scramble. I’m coming to you, remember. All I’m asking of you is your help for our client.’
‘He’s your client not mine.’
‘He’s Levine and Webster’s client,’ Sherman stepped in. ‘That makes him your client too.’
‘That doesn’t mean I have to prostitute myself defending him.’
‘We’re not asking you to prostitute yourself,’ said Alex. ‘We’re just asking you to stand up for the principle that a man is innocent until proven guilty.’
‘Oh, come off it, Mr Sedaka. What do you need me for? I’m a civil litigator.’
‘You’ve had criminal experience,’ Sherman cut in. ‘Working both sides of the fence.’
‘There are plenty of criminal lawyers here with a lot more experience. Why do you need me?’
‘Okay, I’ll be honest with you,’ said Alex. ‘I don’t want you to play an active role. I just want you to sit next to him, make him look harmless. Look, you know the kind of pre-trial publicity this case is going to arouse – the sort of publicity it’s already aroused. They’ll drag in every incident from Claymore’s past. They’ve already compared him to O.J. Simpson. They’re going to savage his reputation before the case ever gets to trial. That’s what we’re up against.’
‘And how do you think me sitting there next to him is going to refute the negative pre-trial publicity?’
Alex met her eyes, trying to read her.
‘When the jury sees a beautiful young woman sitting next to him, it’ll dissolve their prejudice. It’ll make him look like a normal, everyday human being. It’ll show them that he’s safe, harmless, inoffensive…not the monster that the prosecution is to going to try and make him out to be.’
‘And you say you’re not asking me to prostitute myself?’
She was looking at him hard; she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
‘Look,’ he said after a long pause and a deep breath. ‘Claymore has an image problem with Middle America. Everyone knows about his past, how he raped white women and said it was political. How he broke out of prison and fled to Libya. But he has the right to be judged by the evidence in this case – not his past when he was an angry and embittered young man.’
‘I don’t deny that Claymore’s got a problem,’ she conceded, shifting uncomfortably. ‘But asking me to sit next to him and make him look harmless is like…like trying to use my body to sell a product.’
‘What product? We’re talking about a man’s reputation.’
‘Then sell it like a reputation, with reasoned argument – not with a head of bottle-blonde hair and a pair of silicone-enhanced tits.’
Alex was about to argue, but he fell silent as his face melted into a smile. He realized that there was an element of satire in Andi’s description of herself.
‘Okay, you’ve nailed me. We’ve got to use Madison Avenue techniques. But you know what? We’re doing it in a worthy cause.’
‘What you’re proposing goes way beyond Madison Avenue…more like Sunset Boulevard or Old Moulin Rouge.’
‘All right, Ms Phoenix,’ said Sherman. ‘Let me lay it on the line for you. You’re an employee of Levine and Webster and I’m pulling rank.’
‘Pulling rank?’
‘Yes,’ he said stiffly.
Alex said nothing. They were playing the old good cop, bad cop routine, and now it was Sherman’s turn.
‘You seem to think you’ve got something to back it up with.’
‘How about your future at this law firm?’
‘My future?’ she echoed, more amazed than afraid, more puzzled than angry. ‘I have a contract.’
‘That cuts both ways. You’re refusing to work for one of our biggest clients.’
‘Elias Claymore?’ she asked incredulously.
‘His insurance company.’
‘Well if it comes down to it, I have a valid reason for not representing Claymore.’
‘What reason?’ asked Sherman.
‘My…partner…she works at the Say No to Violence rape crisis center. She might even be assigned to this case.’
‘She could agree to hand over to another member of staff.’
‘She may have had some contact with the victim already.’
‘We can cite the defendant’s right to his counsel of choice. And you can agree not to talk to your partner about the case.’
‘It’ll…put us under…strain.’
Alex noticed that she had mellowed in her objections: the tone of her refusal was no longer outright. But he also knew that if he waited any longer, they’d lose her completely.
‘Okay,’ Alex cut in. ‘Try this.’
He turned and grabbed a couple of newspapers from a nearby wooden trolley and threw them on the table.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Andi, her tone betraying her confusion.
‘Wait!’ he said, thumbing through the papers. ‘Just listen. “Elias Claymore is the kind of man who expects people to believe he’s right whatever side he takes and whatever he says or does. When he was raping white women and calling it a revolutionary, political act, he expected us to think of him as a freedom fighter, not a criminal. When he fled to Libya and started preaching Islam, he expected to be thought of as a religious scholar. Then he ‘saw the light’ and found Jesus – as well as capitalism – and expected us to welcome him with open arms. And like fools, we did. Now he’s accused of rape once again and, having come full circle, he asks us to believe that he’s an innocent man who is being victimized because of his outspoken political comments in the recent past.’”
‘So what? Of course he’s going to get some hostile press.’
Alex wasn’t finished yet. ‘Okay, that’s the mainstream press. And it’s typical of the rest. Trust me, I’ve read through them all.’
He pointed to a stack of newspapers on the cherrywood trolley beside the table. ‘Now let’s see what black radical journals are saying.’
He grabbed another paper. This one was already open on the right page.
‘“The chickens are coming home to roost for a Judas who betrayed his people for thirty pieces of silver. Elias Claymore, who once stood for the rights of his oppressed brothers, now stands exposed as a hypocrite who places self-indulgence above any cause. This perennial campaigner, who keeps reinventing himself whenever it suits him, has now run out of ideas and has finally reverted to type as a narcissist and egomaniac. Having turned against his own kind and sold his soul to the devil, he has now compounded his crime by bringing his brothers into disrepute.
‘“When Claymore was a respectable figure of the middle-class establishment, he was held up by conservatives as an exception to the rule, the black man who worked within the system and succeeded. The rest of us only had ourselves to blame for our miserable plight because we were lazy and refused to abide by the rules and make use of the system. But now that he has been exposed for what he really is, he will be held up as a typical example of the black everyman and the old stereotype of the black male as sex-driven monster will be resurrected yet again.”
‘Okay. That’s what we’re up against!’
‘And you think…’ She stopped. There was no easy way to brush off an appeal to the fighting spirit within her. Bullying hadn’t worked, but this was quiet persuasion.
‘Well, what do you say?’
‘I say…’ She hesitated again, wondering if Alex could see the civil war raging within her.
Alex and Sherman looked at Andi, inviting her final answer. Ignoring Sherman, she stared back at Alex for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Then, not trusting her voice, she nodded her head in reluctant truce rather than surrender. He smiled gently as if accepting it with good grace.
‘Okay,’ said Sherman. ‘I’ll go now and leave you to start working.’
And with that, Sherman packed his papers into his attaché case and left.
Friday, 12 June 2009 – 18.10
‘The case took a dramatic turn today when it was revealed that Andromeda Phoenix – a civil litigator with Los Angeles law firm Levine and Webster, is to serve as co-counsel with Alex Sedaka.’
Martine Yin’s voice was coming from the television window in the web browser on a computer.
‘Ms Phoenix is in a relationship with Eugenia Vance, a counselor at the Say No to Violence rape crisis center. In order to protect Elias Claymore’s right to the counsel of his choice, the judge issued an injunction against Ms Vance having any contact with the alleged victim.’
Standing outside the courthouse, Martine was wearing her snooker vest, speaking to the camera in a dry, clipped tone. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to depart from her trademark blue jacket, but she had worn the snooker vest a couple of times before and had got a positive response in her mailbag. And she had a particular reason for wanting to emphasize her figure today; the network had been talking about putting her behind a desk in the studio and were evidently getting some funny ideas about parachuting in some ambitious spring chicken to fill her slot.
‘Ms Phoenix’s participation was opposed by the prosecution. But after a long sidebar, the prosecution’s motion was denied. The D.A.’s office declined to say afterwards whether they would file an interim appeal.’
A woman’s hand reached out and paused the news report. Then she returned her attention to the computer in front of her. With a click of a button she launched an e-mail package and started preparing a message to aphoenix@levineandwebster.com.
This would put the fear of God into the bitch.
Friday, 12 June 2009 – 19.45
‘So how did you manage to overcome her objections?’ asked Martine over her hors d’oeuvre of torchon of duck foie gras with poached Adriatic fig in Muscat wine.
Ten minutes earlier, Martine and Alex had entered the Little Door, one of Martine’s favorite haunts. As they’d stepped through the wooden doors to the patio, it had been like passing through a gateway into another dimension. In an instant, they had left the city behind them and entered a rustic world of bougainvilleas, ferns, a tiled fountain and a Koi pond. A succession of light waves from the wrought-iron candelabra rippled across the lace tablecloth. They could even see the moon through the open skylight.
‘I don’t want this to end up on the evening news,’ said Alex.
‘Strictly off the record,’ Martine assured him.
‘We used a bit of gentle persuasion.’
He didn’t really feel comfortable telling her about the incident. It would probably make him sound like a bully. But the practice of law was a dirty business. They both knew that.
‘We?’ Martine raised her eyebrows with a delicate smile.
‘Paul Sherman and I.’
‘You mean you blackmailed her?’
‘I prefer to call it bribery,’ he said with a guilty smile, after a short pause.
He attacked his own hors d’oeuvre of farmer’s market butter lettuce and steamed spring vegetables, a light starter to allow room for his main course of filet mignon and roasted fingerling potatoes.
‘So what was the carrot?’ she smiled, alluding to the piece of carrot poised at the end of his fork with a smile.
‘I sold it as a fight for a man’s right to a second chance.’
His facial expression was nervous, as if he was expecting a torrent of skeptical laughter or a cutting response. But Martine’s smile was both piercing and bewitching.
‘And what did Sherman use as the stick?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come off it, Alex. You were playing good cop, bad cop.’
He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, caught in the glare of Martine’s headlamps.
‘Okay,’ he acknowledged reluctantly. ‘You’ve got me. We did a little arm twisting.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. It must be pretty hard for her, with her lover working at a rape crisis center.’
‘That’s a personal matter. They’ll just have to work it out for themselves.’
‘You make it sound so easy. Imagine what it must be like for Eugenia Vance: one minute she’s doing her job, next minute she gets handed an injunction telling her she’s not allowed to have any contact with the victim.’
‘I’m sorry. I may have sounded a bit callous. But the judge didn’t exactly have a choice. He had to do it to avoid a conflict of interest.’
Martine’s face turned suddenly serious. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
Alex had an uneasy feeling when he heard the words…and the tone. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I also have a conflict of interest. I can’t cover the case and carry on going out with you.’
Friday, 12 June 2009 – 21.15
It was quite late when Andi arrived home. She had spent the day going over the case file with Alex and then stayed on for a few hours after he left. It had been exhausting. They were racking their brains trying to figure out how they could refute the DNA evidence. All the other evidence could be challenged and the seeds of reasonable doubt sown.
But the DNA was a problem, a real problem. It couldn’t just be swept under the rug. In the past, they might have been able to attack the science itself or throw up smoke screens to confuse the jury. But post-O.J. Simpson that was no longer an option. Defense ploys are like magicians’ tricks – they can never be repeated in the same form. The most Alex and Andi could do was point out that the particular form of the DNA technology used in this case was less discriminating than other methods.
But all of this was still way down the line. First they had to resolve the issue of trial venue. That was the big question that was going to come up at the pre-trial in two weeks’ time. And that was what Andi had to focus on now.
Gene was lying on the bed in her underwear in the dimly lit room, watching the wall-mounted TV when Andi entered. Andi took off her street clothes in the walk-in closet by the door and then shuffled back into the bedroom barefoot and in her underwear, expecting Gene’s usual warm welcome. But Gene didn’t even turn to look at her. Andi was hurt and confused; Gene was never cold like this, even if she was in a bad mood.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Gene, her eyes glued to the TV.
Andi sensed that Gene had had a bad day as she climbed onto the bed behind her lover, gently massaging Gene’s raised shoulder.
‘At the office. I had a lot of paperwork to clear up. I’ve just started on a major case.’
‘I know. Some flunky from the court came round to the center to serve an injunction on me.’
Andi stopped massaging, but left her hands in place. She knew now what this was about. ‘Are you angry?’
Gene turned round, brushing off Andi’s hands in the process. There were tears of anger in Gene’s eyes. This surprised Andi. It was very rare for Gene to cry.
‘What do you think? I quit my job in New York and crossed the continent with you ‘cause you couldn’t make it over there and now you stab me in the back by getting me thrown off the case, so I can’t even help the victim. And why? To defend a rapist!’
Andi understood Gene’s anger, and she could hardly blame her for it. In a way she knew that Gene was right. The anger that Gene was feeling towards Andi was every bit as intense as the anger that Andi had felt towards Alex. But the fact was, she had signed on for the defense and all she could do was fall back on that last standby of litigants and lovers: anger of her own.
‘It’s my job,’ she snapped, rolling off the bed. ‘And it’s alleged rapist!’
With these words, Andi stormed out of the room.
Tears now streaming down her own cheeks, Andi went downstairs to the living room. She crossed over to the alcove that housed a desk and bookshelves, which they had set aside as a study and office. On the desk was a laptop PC, a docking station and a large monitor. Andi switched on the computer to download her mail. There were five messages. Four were from old friends wishing her luck in her new job. But it was the fifth message that startled her. It read:
That rapist scumbag Elias Claymore is unworthy of your assistance and deserves everything he gets. Make sure that you are not around when justice is finally delivered or you will only have yourself to blame.
Lannosea
An alarm bell went off inside her head. Who had sent the message? And where from? She scrolled up to the ‘From’ field, and saw that it had come from a webmail address. It could have been sent from a public library or an Internet café. There would be no way to trace it to a person.
A range of emotions swept over her like a quick succession of waves: confusion followed by fear followed by anger. But if the first was a ripple and the second a surfer’s tube ride, the third was a tsunami.
Who the fuck was Lannosea?
Monday, 15 June 2009 – 10.25
‘What’s she doing here?’
Elias Claymore’s reaction appeared to border on paranoia when Alex first brought Andi into the room at the Ventura pre-trial detention facility that had been allocated for their conference.
‘Allow me to introduce my co-counsel on this case,’ said Alex. ‘Andi Phoenix.’
Claymore’s eyes darted away to Alex for a moment before returning to Andi, the suspicion lingering in his eyes.
‘You didn’t say anything about co-counsel. Nothing personal, Ms Phoenix.’
‘Oh, please, call me Andi,’ she said, in a reassuring tone calculated to put him at ease.
She held out her hand warmly. Claymore hesitated before reaching out to shake it. Then he sat down, not taking his eyes off Andi. Andi followed suit, leaving Alex last to take his seat round the table.
‘The first thing we need to talk about,’ Alex began, ‘is a change of venue.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Andi.
She looked at Alex. He nodded.
‘According to the latest stats, Ventura County has just under 700,000 Caucasians and 17,000 African-Americans. That makes the State 2.1 per cent black and 87.5 per cent white.’
‘That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m probably more unpopular with my own people at the moment.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Andi. ‘We’re talking about ultraconservative whites.’
Claymore tried to sound jovial. ‘Well, hey…I’m a conservative!’
‘I know, Mr Claymore, and that might have worked if it was a minor charge. But this is rape and a lot of your natural supporters have already turned against you.’
‘You’ve done an opinion poll?’ He grinned, desperately, trying to make light of the situation.
Andi maintained her neutral face. ‘We’re keeping an ear to the ground and those are the vibes we’re getting.’
Claymore looked over at Alex, who nodded imperceptibly, content to let Andi earn her keep.
‘In any case,’ Andi continued, ‘we know from the stats that Ventura juries tend to be convicting juries.’
‘What about Hispanics?’ asked Claymore.
‘Hispanics can be either race and they’re included in the black and white stats. But we have a separate figure of 287,000 Hispanic and Latino citizens. Of those, 272,000 are classified as white Hispanic. There are also some 50,000 Asian citizens who are likely to be hostile to working class blacks, but might admire you and a further 17,000 of mixed race who may be a bit more friendly. But those two groups combined are less than 10 per cent of the population.’