In the courtroom in Washington, U.S. District Court Magistrate William Boyer had been listening to the arguments of federal prosecutor Henry Hartz for about a quarter of an hour. Hartz was an Assistant United States Attorney for the District of Columbia. In the legal practice, he was called an “AUSA” for short. The case against Vinnie Archmont was unorthodox, even sensational. But Hartz’s pitch for the magistrate to order her held in detention without release on bail, pending trial, was textbook.
Blackstone was seated at the defense table next to Vinnie Archmont, who had to suffer the humiliation of watching the proceedings next to her attorney with her hands manacled. Blackstone still knew very little about his client. But everything in him said that this diminutive beauty of an artist was no threat to anyone.
On the other hand, the more Blackstone studied human nature, the more he was willing to be surprised. Vinnie Archmont could just be the next big surprise.
As Hartz stood at the courtroom lectern, steadying himself by gripping it with both hands, Blackstone was taking him in, not just as the prosecutor but as the man.
He hadn’t come up against Hartz in any prior cases, but Blackstone knew a few things about him. Hartz needed a cane to walk, for some unexplained reason. When the prosecutor walked, his gait was out of joint. He wore glasses that had thicker than normal lenses.
Hartz had a handsome face and a winning style of verbal delivery. He had gained a reputation among criminal defense attorneys as a fierce legal opponent. He rarely gave any quarter, never asked for any, and almost always won his cases. He had experienced a quick rise from prosecuting misdemeanor drug offenses in the local District of Columbia prosecutor’s office to handling the most complex terrorism and murder cases in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He was now the second-highest-ranking AUSA in the criminal division of that office.
His argument focused on two facts: First, that Vinnie Archmont had a history of extensive international travel, which posed a better-than-average risk of flight out of the territorial United States. And secondly, that the indictment alleged she was a member of a secret cult group, which meant that she had access to an underground network that could help her to flee from the country and then hide, rather than face trial and the possibility of a criminal sentence that could yield a death sentence.
The magistrate seemed intensely engaged in the case, and took quite a few notes, but didn’t ask any questions of Hartz. The arguments were the usual stuff from an AUSA. The only thing that Blackstone found oddly missing was the intangible element, namely, the typical prosecutor’s passion. Henry Hartz was either so overconfident of winning the motion to detain Vinnie without bail that he was sleepwalking through the argument—or else, and Blackstone doubted this one, Hartz really didn’t care, down deep, whether Vinnie got released or not.
When it was Blackstone’s turn at the podium, he was concise and to the point.
“Regarding the prosecution’s argument,” Blackstone began, “about my client’s history of extensive international travel, and how that makes her a flight risk—well, there is a simple remedy for that. Your Honor, simply require her to produce her passport to the court clerk for safekeeping. That will ensure her remaining in the jurisdiction of the United States until trial.”
Then Blackstone stepped away from the podium to drive home his second point. His arms were crossed over his chest, like a professor ready to lecture his class.
“And as for the absurd allegations about my client’s membership is some secret society, I simply draw the Court’s attention to the fact that Mr. Hartz has failed to file any evidentiary proof to support that. None whatsoever. I think it was De Tocqueville who once said that, in contrast to Europe, ‘In America there are factions, but no conspiracies.’ Apparently Mr. Hartz, on behalf of the government, believes that if he cannot prove the conspiracy of a secret society, then he is perfectly free to simply invent them. Let Mr. Hartz try his hand at fiction writing if he wants to do that. But Your Honor, let’s save the courtroom for facts.”
Magistrate Boyer had only one question. And it said it all.
“Professor Blackstone, how quickly can your client produce her passport?”
“If she is released today,” he replied with a smile, “we can have it filed with the clerk by tomorrow.”
“So ordered,” the magistrate said. “Mr. Hartz, your motion for detainer of the defendant is denied. Mr. Blackstone, I will order the U.S. marshal to release your client upon the posting of a 10 percent bond on the bail amount of $1 million.”
“It has already been posted,” Blackstone said with a smile.
The magistrate nodded and gaveled the proceedings to a close.
Vinnie was so happy she was nearly in tears. She hugged Blackstone clumsily, unable to fully embrace him because of her handcuffs.
As Henry Hartz hobbled past Blackstone and Vinnie, leaning on his cane with one hand and holding his thick brown case folder with the other, the federal prosecutor was harboring a strange smile.
“Enjoy this insignificant little victory today,” he said to Blackstone. “It won’t last long. There’s some bad news coming your way tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Blackstone asked. “Like what? That you’re enrolling in my criminal law class next fall so you can learn how to be a prosecutor?”
But Hartz’s smile was spreading slightly into a grin.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I will be filing my formal notice to the court that I will, in fact, be seeking the death penalty against your client, Vinnie Archmont.”
“The AUSAs I’ve dealt with from your office,” Blackstone shot back, “usually give defense counsel the courtesy of a conference before filing the death penalty notice.”
“I’m all out of courtesy, Blackstone,” he retorted. And then he threw a stony glance at Vinnie, and continued walking to the courtroom door.
She grabbed onto Blackstone’s sleeve.
Blackstone held on to her and looked into her face. He could see the look of terror in her eyes.