33

Mace James was a sucker for helping the underdog. It was what landed him in prison and what got him out. It was what he had been doing at the clinic since becoming a lawyer. Most of his clients were guilty, but somebody had to be an advocate for mercy. And when there was the possibility of innocence, the stakes were even higher.

Caleb Tate had passed a lie detector test. That had to count for something. From what Mace knew about the facts, he couldn’t rule out Caleb’s being just an innocent victim of a rush to judgment by prosecutors. He called Tate at 5 p.m. on Monday. “I’m in,” Mace said.

He spent Tuesday morning regretting those two words, but he couldn’t make himself pick up the phone and call Caleb again to retract. The guy needed help. He wasn’t the most sympathetic client, but that didn’t mean he was a killer. And Mace was brash enough to believe that Caleb was right in assuming that Mace would work the case harder and smarter than just about any other lawyer out there. Still, he wasn’t quite feeling it. He had prayed about it but had no clear answer.

By three o’clock Tuesday afternoon, it no longer mattered. Caleb Tate’s sources had confirmed a grand jury indictment. Expect the cops in thirty or forty minutes. Mace hustled over to Caleb’s office, where he found his client dressed in an expensive dark-blue Armani suit as if he were ready to argue a case before the US Supreme Court. Mace had on jeans, a white T-shirt, a John Deere hat, and flip-flops.

The two men watched out the front conference room windows, thirty-five floors above street level, as squad cars and TV vans lined the curb. A young detective with unruly blond hair led the charge into the building.

“Game on,” Tate said.

When the cops stepped off the elevators, Tate was there waiting. He held out his hands for the cuffs. “You can skip Miranda,” he said.

Undeterred, the detective started reading loudly from his Miranda card while the cops jerked Tate’s arms behind his back and slapped on the cuffs.

“Do you understand those rights?” the detective asked.

“Not really,” Tate said calmly. “I’m a little confused by Justice Kennedy’s opinion in Berghuis v. Thompkins, where he talks about whether the mere act of remaining silent is sufficient to invoke the privilege and render inadmissible subsequent voluntary statements, absent an explicit invocation of the right. Could you explain that to me?”

The detective grabbed Tate’s arm and pushed him toward the elevator. “Get in,” he said.

Mace tried to follow, but the same man held out his palm toward Mace’s chest.

“I’m his attorney,” Mace said.

“Fine. You can talk to him at the jail in a few hours.”

Standing in the elevator, Tate looked at Mace and tilted his head to the side—What can you do? The elevator doors closed, and Mace pushed a button for the next car down.

He made it to the front plaza a few seconds behind the Tate perp walk entourage. Most perps hung their heads and tried to shield their faces, but Tate looked right at the cameras and provided a running commentary. “I told the police I would come down to the station anytime—day or night. I told them I would take a lie detector test. I told them they could look through anything in my house or office. But this is how they want to spend the taxpayers’ money.”

When they reached the squad car, the detective pushed Tate into the back and closed the door so the suspect would stop talking to the cameras. That was Mace’s cue.

“Hey! I’m Caleb Tate’s attorney. Any of you guys want an interview?” he yelled. Three camera crews scurried over to the steps where Mace had positioned himself.

“Are you ready?” he asked one of the cameramen.

The guy nodded.

Mace introduced himself and reminded the world that Caleb Tate had passed a polygraph and had gone to extraordinary lengths to cooperate with the authorities.

“We will not waive our right to a speedy trial,” Mace said. He and Caleb had already agreed on this strategy. A Georgia defendant was not entitled to a preliminary hearing on a case initiated through a grand jury indictment. The first chance to prove Tate’s innocence would be at trial. “We want the first available trial date. In fact, if the DA is ready to go next month, my client and I will be there. And I’m assuming the DA wouldn’t have indicted Mr. Tate if they weren’t ready.”

The media ate it up. They were used to suspects cowering into police vehicles, their lawyers proclaiming that they would do their talking in court. But here was a defendant anxious to fight back! And a lawyer wearing a John Deere hat!

Inspired, Mace decided to weave in a subtle reference to Jamie Brock’s remarks about lynching. “The DA’s office has it in for Caleb Tate because he’s had the audacity to represent criminal defendants the way the framers of our Constitution envisioned it. He had the guts to fight hard for his clients, and now he’s paying the price. But fortunately for Mr. Tate, lynch mobs have been replaced by juries. And the quicker we can get his case in front of one, the quicker we can restore my client’s reputation and allow him to grieve in peace.”

It seemed like a good place to end, so Mace thanked everyone, did a one-eighty, and headed back into the building. It wasn’t exactly riding off into the sunset, but it was the best alternative available.

How did I get myself into this mess? he wondered.

At 6 p.m., I walked out the front door of the DA’s office to find LA waiting at the curb next to his sports car. It was either a big coincidence or he had paid off the receptionist to tell him when I left. He opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said. He had a serious look on his face, and I sensed that something was wrong. My elation from Tate’s indictment became a sinking feeling.

“What’s up?”

“Just get in.” He glanced nervously around. “I don’t want to talk about it out here.”

I tossed my father’s briefcase behind the seat and climbed in the passenger side. I closed the door and watched LA as he climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb.

“What’s going on?”

“Can you call the neighbors and have them take Justice outside?” LA asked. “We’ve got a problem, and I need your help for a couple of hours.”

I gave him a curious look. He was going through the gears like a madman, more serious than I had ever seen him. “What kind of problem?”

“Just call the neighbors.”

I did and then demanded an explanation from LA. We were on the ramp for Interstate 400, heading south toward Atlanta.

“You’re losing way too much weight,” LA said. “I’m afraid you won’t make it to trial at this rate. We’re going to Ruth’s Chris, and I’m going to force you to eat some steak.”

I was not happy. “Are you kidding me? After what I’ve already been through today, you make me think we’ve got some kind of crisis just to get me into your car so we can go out and eat? What if I had plans?”

“Did you?”

“That’s beside the point. I don’t like being misled. And kidnapped.”

“So noted.” LA smiled, and I could tell he wasn’t taking my protests seriously. Which was okay because dinner at Ruth’s Chris was starting to sound pretty good. And it was hard to stay mad at a guy who claimed I was losing weight when in fact I was putting it on.

Thirty minutes earlier, I had been looking forward to a night at home without the pressure of the grand jury hanging over my head. But home was a lonely place, and there was no telling when the ghost of my father would cause me to break down. I was hungry, and I could think of worse men to look at than this quirky detective with the shaggy hair. Plus, he had done well on the stand. He deserved a reward.

“I’ll go on one condition,” I said.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be negotiating.”

“I’m paying for my own meal.”

This brought out a broad white grin. “I never said you weren’t.” He glanced at me, the blue eyes playful. “You didn’t think this was a date, did you?”

“Just drive.”