43

There was a hum of excitement as the justices called the next case. James stormed out of the courtroom without shaking hands with the prosecutors. Caleb Tate followed on his heels. I waited for both of them to leave and then followed at a distance, barely able to contain my excitement. I lingered in the hallway and thanked Andrew Thornton.

“That didn’t exactly go down the way I anticipated,” he admitted. “But I think we’ll get the right result.”

“There’s no chance they’ll order a new trial,” I said. “And I appreciate you taking a bullet in there to make sure justice was done.”

Thornton shrugged. He came across as self-effacing and likable, but I would still rather have Bill Masterson as Georgia’s next attorney general. Masterson inspired confidence; Thornton inspired sympathy.

“Does this mean I can count on your vote?” he asked with a sly smile.

I smiled back. “Only if you win the Republican primary without me.”

Following the court media rules, the reporters asked Thornton and me if they could interview us outside the judicial building. I told them I wouldn’t be answering any questions and slipped away to the elevators. I rode to the first floor and was walking across the lobby when I saw Caleb Tate out of the corner of my eye. He veered toward me and I continued walking, eyes straight ahead.

“Jamie, you got a second?”

I didn’t slow down. “Why? So you can bait me again and misquote me in the press?”

He fell in next to me. “I need to talk about my case. There’s something you need to know for your own good. You don’t have to say a word—just listen.”

I had almost reached the door before I stopped to face him. “Forgive me, but when someone who lies about what I said before wants to have another conversation, I’m a little skeptical. And I also have a lot of work to do thanks to your influence on the other inmates when you were in the Milton County jail.” I turned and pushed open the door.

“It’s about your father,” Tate said, stopping me in my tracks. He pulled a microcassette recorder from his suit pocket and held it out to me. “Here. You can record every word of the conversation and keep the tape. That way you don’t have to worry about me allegedly misconstruing what was said.”

I considered this for a moment. There was an old saying that any lawyer who represented himself had a fool for a client. The reason was simple—lawyers thought they were too smart for their own good. They believed the rules didn’t apply to them. And one of the main rules is that no criminal defendant should ever talk to a prosecutor without a lawyer present.

“You’re represented by Mace James,” I said, standing in the doorway. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

A couple walked through the door I was now holding open, and Tate took a step closer, turning on the recorder. He gave his name as well as the date and location of our conversation. “I waive my right to have counsel present, and I have specifically requested that Ms. Brock listen to what I have to say. She has informed me that I have the right to have my lawyer present, but I have emphatically told her that I want to speak to her without my lawyer.”

He turned the tape off and rewound it so I could hear his voice. “Good enough?” he asked. He handed the recorder to me, and this time I took it.

“Let’s go over there in the corner,” I said.

We walked silently to the far side of the lobby. I did a couple of dry runs to make sure the machine was recording properly. “Go ahead,” I said.

Tate cleared his throat and looked at me, watching my expression as he talked. “This is Caleb Tate, and I’m innocent. I loved Rikki, and I would never have done anything to hurt her.”

I shifted my weight onto my right leg, left hand on hip, right hand holding the tape recorder between us. I knew Tate could read my impatience. I’m not impressed.

“Jamie, we both know you can’t make the case against me without Rafael Rivera. And he’s got more credibility problems than you realize. Because I served as his attorney, I can’t tell you what those problems are right now. But if Rivera takes the stand and testifies against me, he waives the attorney-client privilege, and I’ll be able to testify about every conversation we’ve ever had.”

“So what’s your point?”

Tate looked past my shoulder and then turned back to me. “Let me speak hypothetically for a moment—just so you’ll understand the import of what I’m trying to say. Let’s say that hypothetically my client came to me and told me he wanted me to bribe a certain judge so he could get acquitted. Let’s say he explicitly mentioned Cynthia Snowden, a judge who has a reputation for being on the take. Let’s say I refused, and my client threatened me, saying I would regret it. Let’s say that same client later came to you and offered to provide false testimony against me.”

Tate looked at me as if lightbulbs should be going off in my head. But none of this seemed to torpedo our case. It was still Rivera’s word against Tate’s.

“That’s it? You did all this cloak-and-dagger stuff to tell me that?”

“We’re still speaking hypothetically, right?”

“Sure,” I said, playing his game. He had already revealed part of his strategy for the cross-examination of Rivera. Maybe he’d tell me more.

“What if I could prove that Judge Snowden was on the take? That would help corroborate my version of events, would it not? What if I gave you the names of three defense lawyers who had achieved uncommonly good results in front of Judge Snowden? Would you still put Rivera on the stand?”

I sensed that Tate was leaving a lot of things unsaid. And I knew better than to answer questions coming from a sleazeball like him. “Maybe you just heard rumors that Judge Snowden was dirty and concocted a story that would allow you to use those rumors to bolster your own credibility. As to whether I would still call Rafael Rivera as a witness—I guess you’ll have to show up the first day of trial and find out.”

“Clever . . . but maybe this will change your mind.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, handing it to me. “These are the names of three criminal-defense attorneys who have had results in front of Judge Snowden that are inexplicable. Check them out for yourself. I think you’ll see that the judge is definitely playing favorites.”

I put the piece of paper in my pocket without looking at it. “Is that it?”

“You can keep the recorder,” Tate said. “Have a good day.”

I smirked at him. “In case you’ve forgotten, I already did.”

I waited until I got to my 4Runner in the parking garage before I unfolded the paper. The first two names were defense lawyers who had been around Atlanta for a long time and were known to get stellar results. They were Tate’s competitors, and seeing their names on the list did not surprise me. But the third name sent my head spinning. The roller-coaster ride that was my life had just taken a breathtaking drop. I stared at the paper in disbelief. I knew it couldn’t be true, but I was shocked at Caleb Tate’s audacity for even suggesting it.

The man I despised more than any other man in the world had written in neat block letters the name of my own father: Robert James Brock.