The Devil's Advocate (10 page)

"Fine," Kevin said, looking down at Dave. "Morning." Both Ted and he responded.

Paul took the seat to the right of Mr. Milton and put on his reading glasses as he opened the folder.

"We're just about to begin," John Milton explained. "I'm glad you could make this.

Nothing formal, but we do have these meetings periodically so we can all be aware of what everyone's doing."

"Coffee?" Carla asked softly.

"No thank you. I've already had too many cups this morning."

She retreated quickly to the chair behind Mr. Milton, where she had a pad and pen.

Then she looked up, poised.

"Ted, why don't you begin?" Mr. Milton said. Ted McCarthy gazed down at his folder.

"All right. Martin Crowley lives on the second floor of an apartment house on Eighty-third and York. He's a short-order cook at Ginger's Pub on Fifty-seventh and Sixth.

He's had this job for nearly four years. The owners and the manager have only good things to say about him: hard worker, responsible. He's been a bachelor all his life, no family in New York. He's stout but keeps his hair short, about as short as Dave's," he added, looking up at Dave and smiling. Dave did not smile.

"Go on," Mr. Milton said softly, his eyelids closing as though Ted's words gave him a sensual pleasure.

"Anyway, his neighbors, other than the Blatts, of course, don't have much to say about him. He's a loner, friendly, but keeps to himself. Has a hobby . .. model airplane construction. His place is literally inundated with them."

"How old is he?" Dave asked.

"Oh. He's forty-one."

"Get to the girl," Mr. Milton commanded.

"His next-door neighbors, the Blatts, have two children, a boy ten and a daughter fifteen. The daughter, Tina, came home one night hysterical, claiming Martin had invited her into his apartment to show her his model planes and while she was there, subdued her and raped her. They called the police."

"Was she taken to a doctor?"

"She was. When no semen was found, she claimed Martin wore a condom." Ted looked up. "She said that even though he was raping her, he told her he was concerned about AIDS."

"Getting it or giving it?" Dave quipped.

"She didn't say."

"What do they have, then, besides the girl's testimony?" Mr. Milton demanded, his tone of voice pulling everyone back on track.

"Well, there were some abrasions on her shoulders and arms. Her panties had been ripped. A subsequent search of Martin's apartment produced a pearl hair comb Tina's mother claimed was Tina's."

"Even if it were hers, that only proves she was in the apartment, not that she was raped," Paul commented.

"Martin said nothing incriminating?" John Milton asked.

"He was smart enough to refuse to answer any questions until he had an attorney."

"Was he home at the time she alleged she was attacked?"

"Yes. And alone, claiming to be working on a new model plane."

"What else?"

"Well..." Ted looked at his notes. "About six years ago, he was accused of raping a twelve-year-old in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It never went to trial."

"No problem. Even if you put him on the stand, they can't ask about prior accusations, only prior convictions."

"I don't think we have to put him on the stand. I did some digging around at the girl's school today. She has a reputation for being sexually promiscuous. I found two high school boys who would be willing to testify. I can discredit her quickly. In fact, I'm leaking that to the family now. Maybe we won't even go to trial."

"Very good, Ted." Mr. Milton's smile trickled down from his eyes, trembled through his cheeks, and reached the corners of his mouth. "Very good," he repeated softly. "I'd like to read the details of the Tulsa incident, though," he added and made a small gesture with his right hand that started Carla scribbling on her pad. "Dave?"

Dave Kotein nodded and opened his folder. Then he looked up to preface his remarks. "Looks like I'll have the headlines this week."

"Good, we could use the publicity," Paul said. Mr. Milton turned to him and they exchanged a look of satisfaction.

"Dave has a rather highly publicized case, Kevin," Mr. Milton said. "Perhaps you've read about it: a number of coeds have been raped and viciously murdered, their bodies mutilated, the murders covering an area from the upper Bronx, through Yonkers and into Westchester. A man has been arrested and charged."

"Yes. Wasn't a victim found just last week?"

"Tuesday," Dave said. "At a corner of the parking lot at the Yonkers race track.

Wrapped in a plastic garbage bag."

"I remember. It was particularly gruesome."

"You only read half of it." He pulled out a sheaf of papers and held them toward him. "Here's the rest. The coroner's report reads like a detailed description of a Nazi torture chamber, which, by the way," he said, turning to Mr. Milton, "the prosecution intends to point out."

"Why's that?" Kevin asked. He couldn't help his spontaneous interest.

"My client, Karl Obermeister, was in Hitler's Youth Corps. Claims he was just a child, of course, and did what he was told, but his father distinguished himself by being a guard at Auschwitz."

"Doesn't matter. His family's not on trial here," Mr. Milton commented, waving off the references.

"Right," Dave said and turned to his documents again.

"What else was in that coroner's report, though?" Mr. Milton inquired. "Perhaps Kevin should hear it."

Kevin turned, surprised. "Well, that's okay, I. . ."

"Besides being sliced across the breasts, a heated rod was inserted in the woman's vagina," Dave began quickly.

"So much for semen as evidence," Ted said.

"Christ," Kevin said.

"We've all got to have strong stomachs, Kevin. We'll be dealing with gruesome crimes as well as white-collar crimes in this firm," Mr. Milton said. His voice was tight, hard. It was as close to a reprimand as Kevin imagined it could be.

"Of course," he said softly. "Sorry."

"Go on," Mr. Milton commanded.

"Obermeister was stopped in the general vicinity. A patrolman became suspicious. He seemed too anxious to accept a speeding ticket. In the morning after the body had been discovered, this patrolman remembered Karl Obermeister. They went to his apartment to question him, only an overly ambitious young detective went a lot further. He searched his place without a warrant and found wire fasteners similar to the ones used to bind the victims. They took Karl in and kept him in a holding tank for five hours, questioning him until he confessed."

"So he confessed," Kevin muttered.

"Yes," Dave said and smiled, "but I scrutinized everything the police had done. We're going to get it thrown out of court for sure. All that time they held him at the station, they never gave him an opportunity to phone an attorney. He wasn't properly Mirandized, and the alleged evidence the detective found is all inadmissible. They don't have anything, really. Karl will soon be walking," he added and turned to Mr.

Milton, who smiled at him. Dave closed and opened his eyes as though he were receiving a benediction.

"Very, very good, Dave. That's good work; that's really good work."

"Congratulations, Dave," Paul said.

"Beautiful," Ted added. "Absolutely."

Kevin stared at the associates, all of whom looked so content. It flashed through his mind that Dave Kotein was Jewish and that successfully defending someone with a Nazi background should have bothered him. But there was no sign of it. If anything, his eyes radiated pride.

"Even so," Mr. Milton said, "I'd like to go over that coroner's report. Have a copy made for me, Carla," he said without turning to her. She made a note on her pad.

He looked at Paul and then at the rest of them. "And now Paul has a biblical case for us to consider."

Ted and Dave smiled.

"Biblical?" Kevin queried.

"Cain and Abel," Paul said. He looked at John Milton.

"Precisely. Describe it, please, Paul."

Scholefield opened his folder. "Pat and Morris Galan are both in their late forties.

Pat's an interior decorator. Morris owns and operates a small bottling works. They have an eighteen-year-old son, Philip, but when Pat was forty-one, they had a second son, Arnold. It was one of those should we, shouldn't we decisions. From what they say, they couldn't make up their minds and time ran out. They had the child, but a baby at their ages seemed burdensome. Pat wanted to keep working and eventually resented the new child."

"She admitted to this?" Mr. Milton asked.

"She was seeing a psychologist and is open about her feelings concerning the baby because she feels that contributed to it all. The Galans had marital problems, too," he continued. "Each didn't think the other was doing enough when it came to caring for the new baby. Pat accused Morris of resenting her work. Eventually they both went into counseling.

"In the meantime much of the responsibility for Arnold fell to Philip, who, being an active teenager with a life of his own, resented the burden, too. At least this is the picture I see."

"Describe the crime," Mr. Milton directed.

"One night while bathing his younger brother, Philip lost control and drowned him."

"Drowned him?" Kevin asked. Paul had said it so nonchalantly.

"He was washing his hair; Arnold is ..." He looked at his papers. ".. . five years old at the time. He puts up resistance, complains . .. Philip loses his temper and holds the boy's head under water too long."

"My God. Where were their parents?"

"That's just it, Kevin. They were out on the town, as usual, pursuing their own lives. Anyway, Mrs. Galan has asked us to defend her son Philip. Her husband doesn't want anything to do with him."

"Does Philip have history of violence?" Dave asked.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Some fighting in school but no previous police involvements. Good student, too. Generally well liked. The thing is, he's not very remorseful."

"What do you mean?" Kevin asked. "Doesn't he realize what he has done?"

"Yes, but..." Paul turned to John Milton. "He's not sorry. It's so clear that he has no regrets that the prosecution is going for premeditated murder. They're trying to create the scenario that he wasn't told to give his brother a bath. He did it just to kill him. Under questioning, the mother admitted she didn't tell him he had to bathe Arnold.

"I don't want to put him on the stand. The way he talks about his dead brother ... if I were on the jury, I'd convict him, too."

"Could he have planned it?" Kevin asked.

"Our job is to show that he didn't," John Milton said quickly. "We're defending him, not working for the prosecution. How are you going to handle it, Paul?"

"I think you were right about the parents. I'll work them over, show them for what they are, and illustrate that the boy was put under enormous pressure. Then I'll bring in Dr. Marvin to confirm his unstable mental state ... confused roles, all this at a time when he's undergoing other adolescent pressures, the kind of pressures that have turned teenage suicide into an epidemic."

He turned to Kevin.

"I don't know if he could have planned it, Kevin. As Mr. Milton says, Mrs. Galan hired me to defend him, not prosecute him. Besides, even though he's still hard-nosed about what he has done, I really think he has been twisted and victimized by his parents and their attitudes.

"When they returned that night, he was asleep in his bed. They didn't even look in on Arnold. It wasn't until the next morning that Mr. Galan found his five-year-old son in the tub."

"Jesus."

"After you're with us a while, Kevin," Mr. Milton said, "you'll stop saying that."

Kevin looked confused. "It shouldn't surprise you that the world is full of pain and suffering. And Jesus doesn't seem to be doing much about it these days."

"I know. But I just don't see how you can get used to it."

"You do, or at least you grow tough enough to do your job well. You know a little about that already," John Milton said, smiling. His insinuation was a clear reference to Kevin's defense of Lois Wilson. Kevin felt himself blush. He looked around to see how the others were gazing at him.

Paul looked as serious as Mr. Milton. Dave wore a look of concern. Ted was smiling.

"I guess it just takes time," Kevin said, "and more experience."

"That's so true," John Milton replied. "Time and experience. And now that you've heard about the firm's present workload, you can begin to think about your own case."

John Milton slid a folder to Dave, who passed it on to Kevin. Despite his desire to get started on something exciting, he felt icicles slide down his back. All eyes were on him now, so he smiled quickly.

"It's going to be an exciting case, Kevin; you will be baptized by fire," John Milton said. "But there isn't a man here who hasn't, and just look at them now."

Kevin turned from one to the other. Each had the intensity of an Ahab searching for his Moby Dick. He felt as if he were joining more than a law firm; he was joining some kind of fraternity, brotherhood of blood, advocates of the damned. They made fortresses out of the law and procedure; they made weapons out of it. Whatever they chose to do, they were victorious, successful.

Most importantly, they were eager to please John Milton, who now sat back, contented, satiated by their stories and plans for court battle.

"Next time we
meet,
Kevin, we'll be listening to you," John Milton said and stood up. They all stood up and watched him leave, Carla right behind him. As soon as they were gone, Dave, Ted, and Paul turned to Kevin.

"I thought he was going to get angry there for a moment," Dave said. "When you said 'Jesus. . .'"

"Why would that anger him?"

"If there's one thing Mr. Milton can't tolerate, it's an attorney feeling sorry for a victim when he has a client to defend. That has to be first and foremost," Paul explained.

"It's especially true for Dave's case," Ted said.