| |
WASHINGTON, DC—THE Daly Building
Naim waited in a crappy room, bare except for the standard carved up wood table and two battered wood chairs. He sat, staring at the beige walls until David Thurman was let in, bringing along with him a foul body odor like a thick layer of icing on a cake. He looked his attorney up and downsizing him up, maybe?—covered his mouth with a fisted hand and sneezed violently several times. Then he said, “So glad you came.”
On the contrary, I’m not thrilled. “Duty calls,” Naim replied.
David Thurman was forty-six, appeared much younger, but he looked weak and tired. He was a tall man with wide shoulders. His usually neat hair was a mess; it was red, hung right over his ears, and appeared wet, obviously from sweat. His eyes were milky ovals with big blue centers, but they seemed vacant. He had to be attractive at some point in his life. Today wasn’t a reflection of it.
Naim was wearing his glasses that late afternoon; he cared if people thought that he looked smart enough to be a lawyer. He didn’t shake Thurman’s hand or give him a fist bump even though he always shook hands with clients. He learned long ago shaking hands with new clients was code for trustworthiness and forthrightness, thus making the client more apt to pay bills without questions. Thurman looked like he’d pass along a communicable virus, so touching was out the window. Naim signaled for him to sit down. He didn’t. He paced.
He walked five steps and did an about-face. Five more steps and another about-face. He rubbed his arms as if the warm room was frigid. His legs were wobbly and twitched uncontrollably. Halfway into his five-step walk, he doubled over and roared like he had just mustered the strength to squat one thousand pounds.
“Are you OK?”
“Withdrawal.”
Like many men and women who abstained from drug abuse, Naim wanted to admonish his client and question why not get into rehab and off that stuff. It was much easier to suggest to them to understand the psychological addictive nature of drugs. Knowing that, Naim nodded to avoid being condescending.
A few minutes passed, Thurman stood straight up and began pacing again. Apparently, the withdrawal had subsided. After two passbys, he stopped, pulled out a chair, copped a squat, staring at his counselor. The dark rings around his eyes and dry lips were magnified.
“Why are you here?” Thurman asked. He looked perplexed. Bewildered.
“Because you hired me to represent you.” Naim had no desire to josh with the killer before him. He preferred to be in his comfy home office, doing what he liked most: sentencing mitigation. He had fully appreciated that as a lawyer he had to prevent people from even getting to the sentencing phase of the judicial process.
David cocked his head to the side, furrowed his brows—practically making them meet at the bridge of his nose—before he said, “Who the hell are you?”
Naim snatched off his glasses, “Come again.”
“Are you some kind of sexual predator?” Thurman asked, pushing back in his chair, frowning indignantly.
“What?”
“I will not come again, or at all, perv. Who the hell are you? Where are we? Why am I trapped in this room?” He stood aggressively.
Naim stood, watching the menacing flare envelope David Thurman’s demeanor. Thurman backed into the corner, before dropping to his knees. He bowed his head, leaving his eyes open staring up at Naim child-like now. His hands met, and then he prayed, “Jesus, help me. Oh God, have mercy on me. Please don’t let this man hurt me this evening. God, please...No...No...No. Please, in the name of the Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost. Amen. Amen. Amen.”
Naim and Thurman’s eyes remained locked before Thurman closed his eyes and a wide smile spread across his face. After he recovered, he stood, took a seat at the table and tented his hands on his lap. He lightly rocked, shaking his head.
Retaking his seat, Naim dug into his wallet, retrieved a business card and slid it across the table to Thurman. He picked up the business card with his thumb and forefinger and held it before his face.
“You an ESQ?”
“Yes, a lawyer.”
“You a lawyer?” He massaged his temples. Tossing the card into the air, he said, “Then, tell me, Mr. Lawyer. Why am I here?”
“OK, I’ll play along,” Naim said. Somebody help me. “You’re accused of killing a judge, a senator, a judge’s clerk, four U.S. Marshals. Attempted murder and assaulting two wives.” He ticked off each of the deceased with a finger. Holding up nine fingers, he then extended a tenth and said, “And, use of a weapon to commit said crimes of violence.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Hell-to-the-no.” The murderer shook his head. His eyes become watery. “I’d remember that.”
“Selective memory. Look, I don’t have time or energy to exert on this charade...”
“I want my daddy.” He stomped his feet.
What the fuck. “Excuse me.”
“I want my daddy. Please,” Thurman said, folding his arms across his chest, sounding like a ten-year-old. A lone tear escaped his right eye. “Dad help me. I promise to be good.”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but...”
“Why are you yelling at me?” More tears materialized. “I’m telling my father.”
Naim stared blandly. He was never lost for words. This qualified as one.
“I want to go home,” Thurman said, sniffling and hugging himself. “Can I go home?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“OK, I’ll play along,” Thurman said, mimicking the lawyer, “I’m a kid. The cops don’t lock up kids. I know that much.”
Naim stood up, grabbing his briefcase. At the room’s door, he said, “I’ll be back,” sounding more like the Terminator than he wanted.
“Mr. Lawyer,” Thurman called through tears, stopping Naim’s exit. Looking Naim in the eyes, a broad, wicked grin spread across his face. “Have Brandy get the three-inch, bold headline ready: NOT GUILTY BY REASON OF INSANITY.”