Past Due

Chapter 11

SHE WAS DRESSED for the part of the woman trailing trouble, a tight, bright dress, hair done just so, lips painted dark, a mad glint in her eye. I noticed her in the back of the courtroom noticing me. I noticed her noticing me and I liked it.

We are popinjays, all of us, we trial lawyers, puffing out our chests and playing to the crowd, even when the courtroom is empty of all but a strange woman in the back row. I glanced her way, caught her smile in my heart, and turned back to the cop on the stand and the business at hand, a motion to suppress.

Rashard Porter was a good kid, talented and sweet-natured, none of which precluded him from driving around in a stolen car with a joint the size of a megaphone on the front seat. The car was lent to him by his cousin, he explained to me. He didn’t know it was stolen, he explained to me. And the spliff was something he bought to impress this girl he had a thing for, he explained to me. His explanations might have been true, but they didn’t mitigate that he was driving around in a stolen car with a joint the size of a megaphone on the front seat. He had been stopped, the joint had been spied, the car had come up on the computer as stolen, and Rashard was neck-deep in the outhouse.

But that’s what I do. I’m a lawyer. I shovel crap.

“Now your testimony, Officer Blackwood,” I said to the cop on the stand, “was that you were parked on Parkside when you saw the defendant drive by.”

“That’s right.”

“And he was driving the Lexus, right? Silver. Sharp.”

“He was driving something.”

“Did you recognize it as a Lexus when he drove by?”

“I suppose.”

“How far from Wynnefield Avenue were you parked when you saw him?”

“About fifteen yards.”

“Forty-five feet back, so the passing cars couldn’t see you until it was too late.”

“That’s right.”

“Sitting there in your stakeout, looking for scofflaws.”

“That’s right.”

“And you testified you noticed my client because of his high rate of speed.”

“Yes.”

“How fast was he going exactly?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Did you have the radar on him?”

“No.”

“No radar?”

“I was working on something else at the moment.”

“Wiping the powdered sugar off your uniform, no doubt. And then you saw him run the red light.”

“That’s what I testified to, yes.”

“From forty-five feet back, you saw him run the stoplight not on Parkside, but on St. George’s Hill.”

“That’s right.”

“How far away was that light?”

“About forty yards.”

“One hundred and twenty feet? And wasn’t there a tree in your way, a big old sycamore?”

“There was a tree, but I could see around it.”

“It’s a big tree, isn’t it? Thick?”

“It’s a tree.”

“A big old sycamore. And from forty-five feet back on Parkside that big old sycamore was blocking your view of the intersection. I have photographs that will show this to be the case.”

“So maybe it wasn’t exactly forty-five feet.”

“Oh, so maybe not exactly forty-five feet. But whatever it was, as he drove by your stakeout, you could see my client’s face through the window, right?”

“I suppose.”

“A young black man driving by in a fancy silver Lexus.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“And that’s why you chased after him, not because of the high rate of speed or because of the traffic violation, which you couldn’t possibly have seen, but because of his color and because of the make of the car?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “This question is at the heart of our motion. The officer couldn’t see the intersection but he could see the driver, a young black man driving a fancy car, and that’s why he zoomed out of his stakeout and chased my client.”

“The officer testified he could see the intersection,” said Judge Wellman, a large round man with a small head and a high tinkling voice.

“It’s a big tree, Your Honor. My investigator, Mr. Skink, who is in the courtroom and ready to testify, has all kinds of photographs showing that big old tree blocking Officer Blackwood’s line of sight. The reason he stopped my client was that my client fit a certain profile, which the Supreme Court of this state has repeatedly called an improper basis for a stop, violating my client’s Fourth and Fourteenth Amendment rights and making the seizure of the stolen car and the drugs found therein fruit of the poisonous tree.”

“I understand the argument, Mr. Carl.”

“Obviously not, Judge, if you’re sustaining the objection.”

“Let’s wait a moment,” said Judge Wellman. There was a long pause. “Do you know what I’m doing now, Counselor?”

“What’s that, Your Honor?”

“I’m counting, quietly, to myself. My doctor has told me my blood pressure is too high and my wife has been teaching me to restrain my temper by counting to ten. I am now at twenty-four and my temper is not restrained. My wife will be very disappointed.”

“She’s not the only one, Judge.”

“Here’s some advice, Mr. Carl. Be quiet, be very quiet. Don’t say another word while I am still counting. And as for you, Miss Carter, does the District Attorney really want a potential profiling issue running up to the Superior Court on appeal? Is that what the District Attorney wants to see in the papers, knowing, as you do, Mr. Carl’s penchant for free publicity?”

“The one thing, I like to say, that money can’t buy.”

“Didn’t I tell you something, Mr. Carl.”

“I’ll zip it, Judge.”

“There you go. Now, I’m going to take fifteen minutes and continue counting in my chambers. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to take a pill and go home. While I’m gone, see if you two can take care of your business. Ms. Templeton?”

The judge’s clerk, a short squat woman with weight lifter’s arms, stood and said, “Yes, Judge.”

“Wait here with our friends, please. When they settle their differences let me know.”

“Oh, I certainly will,” said Clerk Templeton, turning toward us, crossing her arms, giving us the look. You know the look, what lunchroom ladies give to fifth graders who complain about the mystery meat.

After Judge Wellman fled the bench, I had a conversation with the Assistant District Attorney and then sat down beside my client. Rashard Porter was tall, handsome, with his hair shaved so flat on the top of his head you could shoot pool on it.

“The DA’s willing to drop all the charges having to do with the stolen car if you plead to misdemeanor drug possession.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you probably won’t go to jail. She promised to make a no sentencing recommendation to the judge. Judge Wellman acts like he’s a hard guy, but he’s not likely to give you more than probation. It would be a lock without your priors, but still I think you’ll stay out of jail.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“I know.”

“I thought you said it was a bad stop.”

“I said I’d argue it was a bad stop. The cop says he saw you go through the red light and the judge appears willing to believe him, no matter what my investigator says. If we lose this motion you’ll get rung up on the auto theft felony in addition to the drug thing and jail time is a real possibility. We can appeal, but you’d be in jail while it’s argued.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“I know you don’t, Rashard. Did you get that application you sent away for?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to fill it out?”

“We don’t got no typewriter or nothing.”

“Bring it to my office. I’ll have my secretary type it up for you.”

“I don’t know, bunch of geeks talking about a bunch of dead guys.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of higher education, except the students at Philadelphia College of Art aren’t geeks and they spend most of their time drawing and painting, not talking. You like to draw, don’t you?”

“Sure, yeah, but, you know, that ain’t real.”

“Who says? Are you letting your boys on the corner tell you what’s real? I’ll do what I can to help you out with the school. They have scholarships. You’re talented, Rashard, you should be doing better things with your life than driving around in stolen cars and buying drugs to impress girls.”

“I told you, I didn’t know it was stolen.”

“You know they have nude models at that school.”

“Get out my face.”

“It’s the truth, Rashard.”

“What do you think I should do, Mr. Carl?”

“Take the plea, apply to school, take a chance on yourself.”

“You think I can do it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Aiight, Mr. Carl. Aiight.”

I walked over to Clerk Templeton to give her the news.

“It took you long enough,” she said.

“The wheels of justice are not always swift.”

“And from what I can tell, neither are the lawyers. I’ll tell the judge.”

Judge Wellman nodded as he took the plea, sending Rashard home on his own recognizance, setting the sentencing date for three weeks hence so the judge could get a full presentencing report. By that date, with any luck, Rashard would have some good news to tell the court. No judge would send a kid to jail on a drug misdemeanor when he had solid plans for the future. I explained all this to Rashard and made him promise to show up at my office first thing next week so that my secretary could help him with his application.

As I watched Rashard saunter out of the courtroom, my eye, like a shirtsleeve on a nail, caught again on the woman in the back. She tossed me a smile, stood, and began walking toward my place at the defense table. Her head bowed forward seductively, her arms swung freely, leather portfolio rising and falling, her smile inched wider. She was like a model on a catwalk until she stumbled in her shiny high heels and fell onto her face.