6.

I spend a lot of time in a building officially and affectionately known as the Old Courthouse. It’s a grand old structure, built around the turn of the century, with soaring Gothic columns and high ceilings, wide marble hallways lined with busts and portraits of dead judges, winding staircases, and four levels of courtrooms and offices. It’s usually crawling with people—lawyers doing their business, litigants searching for the right courtroom, families of criminal defendants wandering fearfully about, potential jurors clutching their summonses, and cops waiting to testify. There are five thousand lawyers in this city, and at times it seems as though every one of us is hustling around the Old Courthouse.

As I leave a hearing one morning, a man who looks vaguely familiar falls in beside me and says, “Hey, Rudd, got a minute?”

I don’t like his looks, his tone, or his rudeness. What about “Mr. Rudd” to start with? I keep walking; so does he. “Have we met?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter. We have something to discuss.”

I glance at him as we walk. Bad suit, maroon shirt, hideous tie, a couple of small scars on his face, the kind left behind by fists and beer bottles. “Oh really,” I say as rudely as possible.

“Need to talk about Link.”

My brain tells me to keep walking but my feet simply stop moving. My stomach does a long, nauseous flip as my heart races away. I stare at the thug and say, “Well, well, where is Link these days?”

It’s been two months since his dramatic escape from death row and I haven’t heard a word. Not that I would; however, I’m not completely surprised. Frightened, maybe, but not shocked. We move to the edge of the hallway for privacy. The thug says his name is Fango, and there’s a 10 percent chance Fango is the name on his birth certificate.

In a corner, with my back to the wall so I can observe the foot traffic, we converse in voices that are low, our lips barely moving. Fango says, “Link’s having a hard time of it, you know. Money’s tight, real tight, because the cops are watching everybody even remotely connected to the businesses. They watch his son, his people, me, everybody. If I bought a plane ticket today for Miami, the cops would know about it. Suffocating, you know what I mean?”

Not really, but I just nod. He goes on, “Anyway, Link figures you owe him some money. He paid you a pile, got nothing in return, you really screwed him, you know, and now Link wants a refund.”

I fake a laugh like this is just the funniest thing. And it is laughable—a client who loses wants his money back when the case is over. Fango, though, is not in a humorous mood.

“That’s funny,” I say. “And how much of a refund?”

“All of it. A hundred grand. Cash.”

“I see. So all of the work I did was really for free, is that it, Fango?”

“Link would say that all of your work really sucked. Got him nowhere. He hired you because you’re a hotshot gunslinger who was supposed to reverse his conviction and get him off. Didn’t happen, of course, in fact he got slammed every which way. He thinks you did a lousy job, thus the refund.”

“Link got slammed because he killed a judge. Oddly enough, when this happens, and it’s quite rare, it really pisses off the other judges. I explained all this to Link before he hired me. I even put it in writing. I told him his case would be very difficult to win because of the overwhelming proof the State had. Sure he paid me in cash, but I put it on the books and sent Uncle Sam about a third of it. The rest of it was spent a long time ago. So, there’s nothing left for Link. Sorry.”

Partner approaches and I give him the nod. Fango sees him, recognizes him, says, “You got one pit bull, Rudd, Link still has a few more. You got thirty days to get the money together. I’ll be back.” He turns and deliberately brushes by Partner as he leaves. Partner could break his neck, but I gesture for him to be cool. No sense starting a fistfight in the middle of the Old Courthouse, though I’ve seen several here.

Most involved angry lawyers taking swings at each other.

7.

Not long after Tadeo got famous for killing a referee, I began receiving solicitations from doctors claiming to be expert witnesses, all wanting a part in the show. There were a total of four, all with medical degrees and impressive résumés, all with experience in courtrooms in front of juries. They had read about the case, seen the video, and, to varying degrees, all offered the same opinion; to wit, Tadeo was legally insane when he attacked Sean King in the ring. He did not understand right from wrong, nor did he appreciate the nature of what he was doing.

“Insanity” is a legal term, not a medical one.

I talked to all four, did some research, called other lawyers who’d used them, and settled upon a guy named Dr. Taslman, out of San Francisco. For $20,000, plus expenses, he is willing to testify on Tadeo’s behalf and work his magic with the jury. Though he has yet to meet the defendant, he’s already convinced he knows the truth.

The truth can be expensive, especially when it comes from expert witnesses. Our system is chock-full of “experts” who do little in the way of teaching, researching, or writing. Instead, they roam the country as hired guns testifying for fat fees. Pick an issue, a set of facts, a mysterious cause, an unexplained result, anything, really, and you can find a truckload of PhDs willing to testify with all sorts of wild theories. They advertise. They solicit. They chase cases. They hang around conventions where lawyers gather to drink and compare notes. They brag about “their verdicts.”

Their losses are rarely mentioned.

They are occasionally discredited by nasty cross-examinations, in open court, but they stay in business because they are so often effective. In a criminal trial, an expert has to convince only one juror to hang things up and cause a mistrial. Hang it again on the retrial, and the State will usually throw in the towel.

I meet Tadeo in a visiting room at the jail, our usual spot, and discuss Dr. Taslman’s possible role in his defense. The expert will testify that he, Tadeo, blacked out, went crazy, and has no recollection of what happened. Tadeo likes this new theory. Yes, come to think of it, he really was insane. I mention the fee and he says he’s broke. I’ve already mentioned my fee, and he was even broker. Needless to say, I’ll represent Tadeo Zapate simply because I love him. That, and the publicity.

It’s the O. J. Simpson theory of legal fees: I’m not paying you; you’re lucky to be here; go make a buck with your book.

Using Harry & Harry’s paperwork, I file the proper notice telling the court that we will be relying on an insanity defense. Mr. Ace Prosecutor, Max Mancini, howls in response, as always. Max is fully in control of the Zapate matter, primarily because of the overwhelming proof of guilt, as well as the publicity. He’s still offering fifteen years for second-degree murder. I’m stuck on ten, though I’m not sure my client would plead to that. As the weeks have passed and Tadeo has become the beneficiary of hours of free jailhouse legal advice, he has become even more rigid in his belief that I can somehow pull the right strings and walk him out. He wants one of those technicalities all of his cell mates know about.

Dr. Taslman comes to town and we have lunch. He’s a retired psychiatrist who never liked to teach or listen to patients. Legal insanity has always fascinated him—the crime of passion, the irresistible impulse, the moment when the mind is so filled with emotion and hate that it commands the body to act violently and in a way never contemplated. He prefers to do all the talking. It’s his way of convincing me how brilliant he is. I listen to his bullshit as I try to analyze how a jury will react to him. He’s likeable, intense, smart, and a good conversationalist. Plus, he’s from California, two thousand miles away. All trial lawyers know that the greater the distance an expert travels, the more credibility he has with the jury.