The Last Alibi

15

Jason

Thursday, June 13

I rise with my client, Billy Braden, as the Honorable Donald T. Goodson enters the courtroom, stumbles on a stair, and tries not to look embarrassed as he takes his seat at the bench.

Billy releases a heavy breath. This is the ruling that will decide his fate. He looks older than his nineteen years, genuinely terrified. I consider mumbling words of encouragement, but there’s no point. We’re going to know soon enough. And it may not be the worst thing for him to have sweated out this whole thing. When I first met him, he was a cocky kid with his hair hanging in his face and one of these rich-kid senses of entitlement, the trust-fund baby who was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. But he buzzed his hair before the hearing a couple of weeks ago, at my insistence, and coupled with his nice blue suit and tie, he actually looks like somebody who could make something of himself if he put forth even minimal effort.

“State versus William Braden,” the clerk calls out, as if there were any other cases up on the call.

Judge Goodson looks out at the attorneys but doesn’t greet us. That’s probably one of the reasons lawyers always give him low marks on the confidential evaluations that the bar associations pass around. If he would just show basic courtesy to the bar, they’d probably give him halfway decent marks, and he could have his own felony courtroom. But some people just can’t get past themselves.

The nausea announces its arrival inside me, weaving through my stomach and drifting upward. I take a shallow breath.

His Honor raises his glass and reads from a prepared text. “This matter comes before the Court on a motion to quash arrest and suppress evidence. The Court has heard testimony from the arresting officer, Detective Nicholas Forrest, and has considered written and oral arguments of counsel. The Court is now prepared to rule.”

Next to me, Billy Braden sucks in his breath and holds it.

“The Court finds that Detective Forrest lacked probable cause to arrest the defendant or to search him for the presence of illegal contraband. Thus, the arrest of William Braden is hereby quashed, and any evidence of the illegal narcotics obtained incident to that arrest is suppressed in any future prosecution of this matter. The Court is filing a written opinion today consistent with this ruling.”

Billy exhales, his posture easing with the flood of relief.

“Mr. Braden,” says the judge. Billy perks back up, back to military posture. “There is not a single person in this courtroom who doesn’t know that you had an eight-ball of crack cocaine on your person when you were arrested. You are free to go, Mr. Braden, because our Constitution is concerned not with individual cases but with the rule of law. It’s a crucial aspect of our system, but it is a technicality no less. You are a very, very lucky young man. I trust that I will not be seeing you back in this courtroom?”

Billy raises his hand as if he’s about to give sworn testimony. “I promise,” he says.

I wouldn’t put money down on that promise. I wouldn’t bet a used napkin. But for now, Billy has a new lease on life. His mother, Karen, gives me a big hug, and his father shakes my hand and covers it with the other. “We can’t thank you enough,” he says. “Really, Jason.”

“My pleasure.”

Billy and I clasp hands, and he does that bump-hug thing against my shoulder. “Hey, man,” he whispers, “I owe you big. Seriously. Fuckin’ seriously.”

“Glad to help, Billy,” I say.

He looks at me for a long moment, winks at me, smacks my arm, and leaves the courtroom with his parents.