16

I spent Thursday afternoon in a cramped courtroom on the third floor of the Milton County Superior Court building, arguing bond hearings. I had the good fortune of having drawn Magistrate Simmons, a chubby blonde woman who looked like a kindergarten teacher but was tough as nails. She had a squeaky voice that engendered not one ounce of respect, but lawyers or defendants who tried to cross her found themselves on the short end of a lightning-quick temper.

I opposed two of the first three requests for bond modifications. On the third case, after Simmons ruled in my favor, the defense lawyer cursed under his breath on the way out of the courtroom. Simmons heard it, and the lawyer almost ended up joining his client in jail.

As a result, tension lingered in the courtroom when the clerk called the case for Rafael Rivera, a reputed gang member facing time for dealing based on the testimony of an undercover narcotics officer. In addition to his drug offenses, Rivera had been tried twice for murder, but witnesses had mysteriously disappeared or miraculously recanted their testimony. That’s what made this third distribution charge so important. We might not get him for murder, but he would serve at least fifteen years under the three-strikes law.

Ironically, Rivera was represented by an associate from Caleb Tate’s law firm, a hard-charging young woman who graduated one year ahead of me from Southeastern Law School. But when Rivera’s case was called, the young attorney was nowhere to be found.

“She called in to say she got stuck in a motion-to-suppress hearing in Fulton,” the clerk told Magistrate Simmons. “She’s sending someone else to cover.”

Simmons looked perturbed. “Did she say when her colleague might grace us with his or her presence?”

“Three o’clock, give or take.”

Simmons didn’t like it, but she realized that defense lawyers couldn’t be in two places at once. Bond hearings didn’t have a high priority.

Simmons banged her gavel. “We’ll reconvene at 3:10,” she said.

I reentered Simmons’s courtroom at three and was shocked to see that the great man himself—Caleb Tate—had taken a seat at the defense counsel table. “Slummin’ today?” I asked.

He stood and extended a hand. “Good to see you too, Counselor.”

I thought about extending condolences for the death of his wife but couldn’t bring myself to be that hypocritical. “You’re here for the bond hearing?”

Tate broke into his sleazy smile, showing off a mouth full of big white teeth, a smile that had wooed more than a few jurors—especially the women. “My man’s innocent, Jamie. He needs to be out contributing to society.”

“Save it for the magistrate.”

Tate lowered his voice. “I don’t really expect to get too far with Simmons. But after the hearing, could I get five minutes of your time?”

“For what?”

He took a step closer as if we were frat brothers ready to share a secret. “I’ve got a deal I’d like you to consider.”

“I don’t do deals, Caleb. Maybe if you came to court once in a while on some common felonies, you’d know that.”

He snickered. “Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot. But could I just have a few minutes? You might be glad we talked.”

I wanted to spit on him, but I knew I couldn’t refuse to even listen. I had enough of a reputation among the defense bar as it was.

“You’re wasting your breath. But I’ll give you five minutes after the hearing.”

“Fair enough. That’s three minutes more than I expected.”

The hearing went according to form. Rivera made a sulking appearance, frowning at the judge and slumping in his chair. He had dreads and stringy facial hair and conveyed an attitude of superiority to everyone in the courtroom. Simmons listened skeptically, her hand on her chin, as Caleb Tate argued that the bond should be reduced from the three hundred thousand another magistrate had established shortly after Rivera’s arrest. “I’ve represented murderers who got lower bonds,” Tate said. “Alleged murderers,” he added with a smile.

I responded with a passionate argument about how dangerous Rivera was and reminded Simmons that witnesses had disappeared in his prior cases. She nodded and checked her notes. When I finished, she told Rivera to stand. He stayed seated until a deputy moved behind him and gave him a hard nudge. Rivera shrugged it off and rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Magistrate Simmons.

“I ought to increase your bond to half a million,” she said, matching his stare with a hard look of her own. “I’m certainly not going to decrease it. And let me tell you something, Mr. Rivera: if I hear even a hint about witness tampering or intimidation, you’re going to wish that you and I had never met. Is that clear?”

When Rivera didn’t respond, Tate jumped in. “Your Honor, Ms. Brock’s allegations about witness tampering are unfounded and—”

“Save it,” Simmons snapped. “Mr. Rivera, your bond modification request is denied.” She banged her gavel. “Court will stand adjourned.”

Rivera sneered and let out a haughty chuckle as Simmons left the bench. Two deputies pushed him through the exit door and let it slam behind them.

Tate turned to me. “Another rousing success,” he said. He packed up his stuff and asked if we could step into the hallway. I nodded and followed him out the door.

It had been eleven years since this man had defended my mother’s killer and called my father a liar. The time had done nothing to lessen my contempt for him.

During my three years as a prosecutor, I’d never had the chance to try a case against Caleb Tate head to head. In fact, I’d never been this close to him. I’d learned to despise him from a distance. And now, standing toe to toe with him, I felt the old hatred bubbling up in me with new intensity.

I was five-eight, and Tate was only a few inches taller. In my mind, I would always recall him from eleven years earlier, strutting around the courtroom, making outrageous claims and pouring acid on the gaping wounds of our shattered family. But now, standing in front of me, he looked like a hollowed-out version of the man I remembered. It was like seeing a movie star up close where you could examine every wrinkle and pore and the red blood vessels in the tired eyes.

“Five minutes,” I reminded him.

“Let’s cut a deal on Rivera,” Tate suggested. “You and I both have more important things to do. It’s just a drug charge, Jamie. I’ll talk him into seven years, all but two suspended on the condition of good behavior. Nail him again during that seven years, and you can send him away until I retire.”

My briefcase was on the floor, and I had my arms folded across my chest. “Done?”

“With that part,” he said.

“No,” I said. “No way. Not now, not on the eve of trial. Not ever. This one’s going to trial, Caleb. You’re right—we’re both too busy to waste time. So don’t bother proposing any more deals.”

Tate made a face. “Okay,” he said. “I knew it was a long shot.”

That felt good. I picked up my briefcase, feeling a little smug.

“I’ve still got two minutes,” Tate said.

“For what?”

“The real reason I’m here.” He lowered his voice and did a quick scan of the hall. “I know Bill Masterson has asked you to help with the investigation of my wife’s death. I’ve tried to reach Bill, but he’s busy on the campaign trail. I can imagine that you might find it a little hard to remain unbiased, and I can’t really blame you for that. But, Jamie . . .” He paused and looked me dead in the eye. “I didn’t kill Rikki. I’ll answer any questions you want. I’ll take a lie detector. But you’ve got to believe me—I loved that woman, and I would never have harmed her.”

I didn’t say a word. I learned early in my career that when a suspect was talking, you let him talk . . . even if you hated his guts. Even if you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck and strangle him.

So I said nothing.

“I’ve been around long enough to know that you can get an indictment for anything,” Tate continued. “But tell your boss that if he indicts me on this, he won’t get his conviction. The only way I can defend myself is to tell the world about the dark side of Rikki Tate. She had a hard-enough life, Jamie. Don’t make me dissect her in public.”

It was as close to begging as I would ever see the great Caleb Tate stoop. With another prosecutor, it might have triggered a tinge of sympathy. But this was the same man who had faked outrage at the police and accused them of trying to railroad Antoine Marshall. The same man who had oozed sincerity even as he challenged my father’s testimony during a dramatic cross-examination.

Caleb Tate was an actor. And I wasn’t buying it.

“I’ll pass your message on to Mr. Masterson,” I promised. “But the messages go both ways.”

I paused for a second, gathering my thoughts. I kept my anger in check, my voice steady. “If you made one mistake when you poisoned your wife, if you forgot to cross one t or dot one i or gave us even the tiniest bit of rope . . . I promise you this: I’ll use every inch of that rope to string you up from the first tree that I can find, and I won’t think twice about it. You’re right—Rikki had a hard life. And she deserved better than a man like you.”