Rogue Lawyer (11 page)

My cell phone rings at 6:45. I'm staring at an impossible bank shot to sink the 9 ball in a corner pocket and run the table. I've been drinking strong coffee and missing too many shots for the past hour. I grab the phone, look at the ID, and say, “Good morning.”

“Are you awake?” Partner asks.

“Guess.” I haven't been asleep at 6:45 in years. Neither has Partner.

“Might want to flip on the news.”

“Okay, what's up?”

“Looks like our toy soldiers just botched another home invasion. Casualties.”

“Shit!” I say and grab the remote. “Later.” Wedged into one corner of my den is a small sofa and a chair. A wide-screen HD television hangs from the ceiling against a wall. I fall into the chair just as the first image appears.

The sun is barely up but there's enough light to capture the mayhem. The Renfros' front yard is swarming with cops and rescue personnel. Lights flash in the background behind the breathless and stuttering reporter. Neighbors in bathrobes gawk from across the street. Bright yellow police crime scene tape is strung high and low and in all directions. It's a crime scene all right, but I'm already suspicious. Who are the real criminals? I call Partner, tell him to get to the hospital and start snooping.

Sitting in the Renfros' driveway is a tank, with an eight-inch barrel, thick rubber tires instead of treads, a camouflage paint job, and an open turret where, at the moment, a warrior cop is sitting, his face hidden behind biker sunglasses, his expression one of extreme readiness. The City's police department owns only one tank and they're proud of it. They use it whenever possible. I know this tank; I've dealt with it before.

Several years ago, not long after the terror attacks on September 11, our police department managed to bilk Homeland Security out of a few million bucks so it could arm up and join the national craze of ETF—Extreme Terror Fighting. Never mind that our city is far away from the major metropolitan areas, or that there has been absolutely no sign of any jihadists around here, or that our cops already had plenty of guns and ninja gear. Forget all that—we had to be ready! So in the arms race that followed, our cops somehow got a new tank. And once they learned how to drive it, then, hell, it was time to use it.

The first victim was a rather rustic old boy named Sonny Werth who lived at the edge of the city limits in a part of town that realtors tend to avoid. Sonny, his girlfriend, and a couple of her kids were asleep at 2:00 a.m. when the house seemed to explode. It wasn't much of a house, but that really didn't matter. The walls shook, there was a roar, and Sonny at first thought a tornado had hit.

No, only the police. They would later claim that they had knocked on the door and tried the doorbell, but no one inside the house heard anything until the tank plowed through the front window and stopped in the den. A mixed spaniel mutt tried to escape through the gaping hole but was gunned down by a brave warrior. Luckily, there were no other casualties, though Sonny spent two nights in the hospital with chest pain, after which he went to jail for a week before he could post bond. His crimes: bookmaking, gambling. The cops and prosecutors claimed Sonny was part of a ring, thus a conspirator, thus a member of organized crime, and so on.

On Sonny's behalf, I sued the City for “excessive force” and got a million bucks. Not one dime of which, by the way, came out of the pockets of the cops who planned the raid. As always, it came from the taxpayers. The criminal charges against Sonny were later dismissed, so the raid was a complete waste of time, money, and energy.

As I sip my coffee and watch the scene, I think to myself that the Renfros were lucky in that the tank was not used to bust up their house. For reasons we'll never know, the decision was made to keep it in the driveway, just in case. If the eight soldiers were not enough, if the Renfros had somehow managed a counterattack, then the tank would have been sent in to destroy the den.

The camera closes in on two cops standing beside the tank, each with an assault rifle. Both weigh over three hundred pounds. One is wearing a uniform of green-and-gray camouflage, as if he were hunting deer in the woods. The other is wearing a uniform of brown-and-beige camouflage, as if he were hunting insurgents in the desert. These two clowns are standing in the driveway of a suburban home, about fifteen minutes from downtown, in a well-developed city of a million people, and they're wearing camouflage. The sad and scary thing about this image is that these guys have no idea how stupid they look. Instead, they're proud, arrogant. They're on display, tough guys fighting bad guys. One of their brethren has been hit, wounded, fallen in the line of duty, and they're pissed about it. They scowl at the neighbors across the street. One wrong word, and they might start shooting. Their fingers are on the triggers.

The weather comes on and I go to the shower.

Partner picks me up at eight and we head to the hospital. Doug Renfro is still in surgery. Officer Keestler's wounds are not life threatening. There are cops everywhere. In a crowded waiting room, Partner points to a huddle of stunned people, all sitting knee to knee and holding hands.

Not for the first time, I ask myself the obvious question: Why didn't the cops simply ring the doorbell at a decent hour and have a chat with Mr. Renfro? Two cops in plain clothes, or maybe just one in a uniform? Why not? The answer is simple: These guys think they're part of an extreme, elite force, and they need their thrills, so here we are in another frantic hospital with casualties.

Thomas Renfro is about forty. According to Partner, he's an optometrist out in the suburbs. His two sisters do not live around here and are not yet at the hospital. I swallow hard and approach him. He wants to wave me off, but I say over and over it's important that we talk. He finally steps away and we find privacy in a corner. The poor guy is waiting on his sisters so they can go to the morgue and start arranging things for their dead mother; meanwhile, their father is in surgery. I apologize for intruding but get his attention when I explain that I've been through this before with these cops.

He wipes his red eyes and says, “I think I've seen you before.”

“Probably on the news. I take some crazy cases.”

He hesitates, then, “What kinda case is this?”

“Here's what will happen, Mr. Renfro. Your father is not coming home anytime soon. When the doctors are finished with him, the cops will take him to jail. He'll be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer. Carries a max of twenty years. His bond will be set at a million bucks or so, something outrageous, and he won't be able to make it because the prosecutor will freeze his assets. House, bank accounts, whatever. He can't touch anything because this is how they rig prosecutions.”

As if this poor guy hasn't been hit with enough crap in the past five hours. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but he's listening. I go on: “The reason I'm bothering you with this is that it's important to file a civil lawsuit immediately. Tomorrow if possible. Wrongful death of your mother, assault on your father, excessive force, police incompetence, violation of rights, et cetera. I'll throw everything at them. I've done it before. If we get the right judge, then I'll have access to their internal records right off the bat. They're covering up their mistakes as we speak, and they're very good at it.”

He breaks down, fights it, gets some control, and says, “This is too much.”

I hand him a card and say, “I understand. Call me as soon as you can. I fight these bastards all the time and I know the game. You're going through hell now, but, unfortunately, it will only get worse.”

He manages to say “Thanks.”

Later that afternoon, the police stop by and have a chat with Lance, the shiftless kid next door to the Renfros. Just three cops, in plain clothes, bravely approaching the house without assault weapons or bulletproof vests. They didn't even bring their tank. Things go smoothly; no one gets shot.

Lance is nineteen, unemployed, home alone, a real loser, and his world is about to change dramatically. The police have a search warrant. After they grab his laptop and cell phone, Lance starts talking. He's in the den when his mother comes home, and he's admitting everything. He's been piggybacking on the Renfros' Wi-Fi system for about a year. He trades on the Dark Web, on a site called Millie's Market, where he can buy any quantity of any drug, illegal or prescription. He sticks to Ecstasy because it's accessible and the kids, his customers, love it. He does his business in Bitcoin, current balance valued at $60,000. All the details pour out in a torrent, and after an hour he's led away in handcuffs.

So at 5:00 p.m., or about fourteen hours after the raid, the police finally know the truth. But their cover-up is already in play. They leak some lies here and there, and early the next morning I'm reading the
Chronicle
online and see the front-page news. There are photos of Douglas and Katherine Renfro, she now deceased, and Officer Keestler. He sounds like a hero; the Renfros sound like outlaws. Doug is a suspect in an Internet drug-trafficking ring. Shocking, a neighbor says. Had no idea. The nicest people. Kitty just got caught in the cross fire when her husband fired upon peace-loving officers of the law. She'll be buried next week. He'll be indicted shortly. Keestler is expected to survive. There's not one word about Lance.

Two hours later, I meet Nate Spurio at a bagel shop in a strip mall north of town. We can't be seen in public, or at least identified by anyone who might be a cop or know a cop, so we alternate our secret meetings between A, B, C, and D. A is an Arby's roast beef joint in the suburbs. B is one of two bagel shops. C is the dreadful Catfish Cave, six miles east of the City. D is for a donut shop. When we need to talk, we simply choose a letter from our little alphabet game and agree on a time. Spurio is a thirty-year veteran of the police force, a genuine, honest cop who plays by the book and despises almost everyone else in the department. We have a history, which began with me as a twenty-year-old college boy who got too drunk in a beer hall and found myself outside on the sidewalk getting roughed up by the cops, one of whom was Nate Spurio. He said I cursed him and shoved him, and after I woke up in jail he stopped by to check on me. I apologized profusely. He accepted and made sure the charges were dropped. My broken jaw healed nicely, and the cop who punched me was later dismissed. The incident inspired me to go to law school. Over the years, Spurio has refused to play the political games necessary to advance and has gone nowhere. He's usually hanging around a desk, filing papers, counting the days. But there is a network of other officers who have been ostracized by the powers that be, and Spurio spends a lot of time tracking the gossip. He's not a snitch by any means. He's simply an honest cop who hates what his department has become.

Partner stays in the van, in the parking lot, on guard in case other cops happen by and want a bagel. We huddle in a corner and watch the door. He says, “Boy oh boy, it's a big one.”

“Let's have it.”

He starts with Lance's arrest, the confiscation of his computer, the clear proof that the boy is a small-time dealer, and his detailed admission about tagging along on the Renfros' router. Their computers are squeaky-clean, but Doug will be indicted day after tomorrow. Keestler will be cleared of all wrongdoing. The typical cover-up.

“Who was there?” I ask, and he hands me a folded sheet of paper. “Eight, all from our department. No state boys, no Feds.”

If I have my way, they'll be named defendants in a lawsuit seeking damages of, oh, I don't know, how about $50 million.

“Who led the party?” I ask.

“Who do you think?”

“Sumerall?”

“You got it. We could tell from watching the news. Once again, Lieutenant Chip Sumerall leads his fearless troops into a quiet home where everybody's asleep, and he gets his man. You gonna sue?”

I reply, “I don't have the case yet, but I'm working on it.”

“Thought you were the best at chasing ambulances.”

“Only the ones I want. I'll catch this one.”

Spurio chews on an onion bagel, washes it down with coffee, says, “These guys are outta control, Rudd. You gotta stop them.”

“No way, Nate. I can't stop them. Maybe I can embarrass them from time to time, cost the City some money, but what they're doing here is happening everywhere. We live in a police state and everybody supports the cops.”

“So you're the last line of defense?”

“Yep.”

“God help us.”

“Indeed. Thanks for the scoop. I'll be in touch.”

“Don't mention it.”

Doug Renfro is too physically damaged and emotionally overwhelmed to meet with me, and since a meeting would have to take place in his hospital room, it's a bad idea anyway. The cops have the only door secured as if he were on death row. Privacy would be impossible. So I meet with Thomas Renfro and his two sisters in a coffee shop down the street from the hospital. The three are sleepwalking through their nightmare, exhausted, stunned, angry, grief stricken, and desperate for advice. They ignore their coffee and at first seem content to let me do the talking. Without the least bit of bluster, I explain who I am, what I do, where I come from, and how I protect my clients. I tell them that I'm not a typical lawyer. I don't maintain a pretty office filled with mahogany and leather. I don't belong to a big firm, prestigious or otherwise. I don't do good works through the bar association. I'm a lone gunman, a rogue who fights the system and hates injustice. I'm here right now because I know what's about to happen to their father, and to them.

Fiona, the older sister, says, “But they murdered our mother.”

“Indeed they did, but no one will be charged with her murder. They'll investigate, send in the experts, and so on, and in the end they'll all agree that she simply got caught in the cross fire. They'll indict your father and blame him for starting the gun battle.”

Susanna, the younger sister, says, “But we've talked to our father, Mr. Rudd. They were sound asleep when something crashed inside the house. He thought they were being robbed. He grabbed his gun, ran into the hallway, then hit the floor when he saw figures in the dark. Someone fired a shot, then he began returning fire. He says he remembers Mom screaming and running into the hall to check on him.”

I say, “He's very lucky to be alive. They shot both dogs, didn't they?”

“Who are these goons?” Thomas asks helplessly.

“The police, the good guys.” I then tell them the story of my client Sonny Werth, with the tank sitting in his den, and the lawsuit we won. I explain that a civil lawsuit is their only option right now. Their father will be indicted and prosecuted, and once the truth is finally learned—and I promise them that we will expose everything—there will be enormous pressure on the City to settle. Their endgame is to keep their father out of jail. They can forget justice for what happened to their mother. A civil lawsuit, one put together by the right lawyer of course, guarantees a safer flow of information. The cover-up is already under way, I say more than once.

They're trying their best to listen, but they're in another world. Who could blame them? The meeting ends with both women in tears and Thomas unable to speak.

It's time for me to back off.