Corbin stood in the lobby of the old Tribune Building. It had seen better days. The marble floor was cracked, the wallpaper dingy, and the brass fixtures lost their luster years ago. Few tenants remained. Beckett had arranged to borrow an office on the seventh floor while they worked on Beaumont’s case. The elevator ride to the seventh floor took a long two minutes. As Corbin stepped off the elevator, he found himself face to face with Beckett, who was pulling on his jacket and straightening his frayed tie.
“Hey, Alex,” Beckett greeted Corbin as if nothing unpleasant had ever passed between them. “The court just called. They moved up the hearing. I’m going there now.”
“Let me set my bag down, and I’ll join you,” Corbin replied as nonchalantly as he could manage; his rage remained, but he suppressed it. “Nice building by the way, was the morgue booked?”
“You try finding an office free of charge in downtown Philly.”
“Free of charge? How did you swing that?”
“I called in an old favor.”
“Must’ve been a small favor.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. Also, the office itself isn’t so bad, it’s been renovated.” Beckett showed Corbin to the conference room, which would be Corbin’s temporary office. Then they set off on foot to the courthouse.
The Alfred E. Hackman Courthouse, located a long four-block walk from the Tribune Building, was old and gray, like much of the area. At one time, the courthouse had been a magnificent structure, a testament to noble dreams, but neglect and indifference robbed it of its glory. To divert attention from the encroaching decay, someone years ago, erected a modern sculpture of the scales of justice outside the courthouse. This sculpture consisted of a large steel spike and three misshapen scales. The highest scale contained an elongated globe of the Earth. The next contained a Botero-like sculpture of a dove. The third scale rested at ground level to allow passersby to stand within it. The sculpture lacked subtlety and grace.
Beyond the sculpture, an oversized concrete stairway led to the courthouse entrance, which stood six feet above sidewalk level. A row of second floor windows surrounded the building just above the entrance and three more rows of windows stood above those. Just inside the entrance, two deputies ran a metal detector. Beckett identified himself and Corbin and gave the reason for their visit. He placed his bag on the X-ray machine and walked through the detector. Corbin followed.
Corbin and Beckett made their way to the second floor main courtroom, where Judge Judith D’Amato held court today. The main courtroom was large, with an extremely high ceiling. Everything was ornately decorated in cherry wood. Portraits of retired judges hung around the room. Judge D’Amato, a smallish woman with a large voice, marked up a file as she listened to the colorful testimony of a police informant. A disheveled attorney in a cheap suit stood at the podium before Judge D’Amato. His feeble efforts to poke holes in the informant’s testimony kept falling flat. The disheveled attorney’s client, sitting at the defense table in an orange jumpsuit, with his wrists and ankles shackled, seemed resigned to his fate. Standing at the prosecution table, ready to pounce, was Hillary Morales, a stern-looking young Hispanic woman in a navy pantsuit. The jury box, to the right of the defense table, sat empty.
Corbin and Beckett slipped into the courtroom and sat on the wooden benches at the back. Several other attorneys sat nearby, waiting to be heard.
“I’m sorry. . I don’t understand. What. . what did he say?” the disheveled defense attorney asked the informant. He was struggling.
“He said, ‘he jacked his shit,’ counselor,” the judge interceded without any trace of humor. “Move on.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the attorney replied. “But he didn’t say he actually saw my client steal anything?” the attorney asked the informant.
“I said ‘move on,’ counselor,” Judge D’Amato warned. “We covered this already.”
The attorney slumped his shoulders and looked at his client. “Nothing further.”
Almost before the attorney left the podium, Morales took his place. If he hadn’t ducked at the last second, Morales would have elbowed him.
“Your Honor, the people renew their motion.-”
Judge D’Amato held up her hand to stop the young woman. “I’m inclined to agree, the case will stay docketed. But, I will allow bail. I’m setting bail at $15,000. Anything else?”
“No, Your Honor,” said both Morales and the disheveled attorney in unison.
“Very well, next case: People v. Beaumont.”
As Judge D’Amato rearranged her files, two deputies came to the defense table and took the orange-jumpsuited defendant back to a hidden room behind the witness box. They immediately returned with a bald, muscular black man, also wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles on his wrists and ankles. The deputies brought the shackled man over to the defense table, where Corbin and Beckett waited for the disheveled attorney to clear out.
“Good to see you again, Beaumont,” Beckett said to the black man.
“Who’s this,” Beaumont demanded, trying to point at Corbin, though the shackles kept him from raising his hands above his waist.
“This is the guy I told you about. He’s going to help. Alex, let me introduce Washington Beaumont. Beaumont, Alex Corbin.”
Corbin nodded, but Beaumont eyed him suspiciously. By the time Beckett first read about Beaumont’s case, Beaumont was already assigned a public defender. To convince Beaumont to drop the public defender and let Beckett represent him instead — and to explain why he wouldn’t charge Beaumont — Beckett told Beaumont that he works for a foundation which represents people who are unfairly targeted by the police. Beaumont accepted the explanation, primarily because his long association with the criminal justice system taught to distrust public defenders, but he remained suspicious, as he’d never heard of the foundation. He was particularly suspicious of Corbin, who dressed much more sharply than Beckett or the other people who normally worked for public interest organizations. Indeed, Corbin’s well-tailored, single-breasted, black suit, with his starched, French-blue, pure-cotton dress shirt, his dark-red designer tie, and his perfectly shined shoes, stood in stark contrast to Beckett’s dated and ill-fitting gray suit, his frayed, white, polyester shirt and paisley tie, and his un-shined shoes, which were breaking along the creases which appeared after years of hard use. Compared to Corbin, who looked like a professional, Beckett came across like a struggling solo-practitioner, who may or may not be living in his car.
Before Beaumont could quiz Corbin, Morales tossed a file onto the defense table. She didn’t say a word. Beckett picked up the file and flipped through it.
“Mr. Beaumont, welcome back,” Judge D’Amato called from the bench.
“Thanks Judge, can’t say I want to be here.”
“I can understand that, Mr. Beaumont, I can understand that,” the judge replied absently, as she flipped though the file. “Mr. Beckett, are you ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor, though I’ve only just received the prosecution’s file, so I really don’t know yet what my client has been charged with or why.” Beckett held up the thick file to emphasize his point.
“Are you ready to enter a plea?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Beckett motioned Beaumont to stand up.
“How do you plead to the charges made against you,” the judge asked, without looking up from her file.
“Not fucking guilty.”
“‘Not guilty’ is enough, Mr. Beaumont. Let the record reflect the defendant entered a plea of not guilty. I’m going to hold the defendant over for trial. Do I hear any motions regarding bail?”
Morales marched up to the podium. “The people ask that bail be denied as Mr. Beaumont is a flight risk. Additionally, given the number of people hurt, the prospects of continued future harm if he’s released, and his prior history-”
“Your Honor, I object!” Beckett exclaimed, shooting out of his chair. “Mr. Beaumont has no prior convictions. Innocent until proven guilty, Your Honor.”
“You are correct, Mr. Beckett, and you may appeal my ruling if you wish,” the judge said in the same measured tone she used from the moment Corbin and Beckett arrived. “I’m going to deny bail. Get out your calendars, counselors. This case will be heard by Judge Sutherlin. Trial will be February 1. Pre-Trial is set for January 30. Expert disclosures no later than thirty days prior. Judge Sutherlin will send out an order identifying all other dates. Any questions?”
“Your Honor, there is another matter,” Beckett replied, signaling Corbin to rise.
“Ah yes, your pro hac vice motion. Granted. Is there anything else?”
“No, Your Honor,” both Beckett and Morales said.
“Next case: People v. Sterling.” The entire proceeding took less than a minute.
As Corbin and Beckett gathered the file from the table, the two deputies replaced Beaumont with another orange-jumpsuited suspect and a new defense attorney appeared behind Corbin and Beckett, ready to take over the table. Before Beaumont left, Beckett promised to visit him that day or the next.
Neither Corbin nor Beckett spoke until they were a little over a block from the courthouse, too far to be heard through any open windows.
“February?” Corbin blurted out. “Whatever happened to speedy trials?”
“Beaumont waived his right to a speedy trial at the arraignment.”
“I thought that was the arraignment?”
“He was officially arraigned twelve hours after his arrest, he just didn’t enter a plea at that time. That’s why we had to go back today.” Beckett pulled the file from his briefcase. “Can you work your magic on this?” He handed the file to Corbin.
“Yes, but you and I need an understanding.” They stopped walking. “I need your assurance you won’t do anything without telling me first.”
Beckett looked at Corbin strangely, as if he didn’t quite grasp Corbin’s meaning.
“I’m serious, Evan. I need to know that I can trust you.”
“What are you getting at?” Beckett sounded confused, hurt and somewhat offended.
“What do you think I’m getting at? You call me from out of the blue to tell me about this,” Corbin said testily, waving the file in Beckett’s face, “and that you signed up to represent this guy without ever consulting me? Then you tell me you’re planning to turn yourself in?!”
“I won’t turn you in,” Beckett interrupted. “You have my word. If I have to turn myself in, I’ll go down alone.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, Evan. If you turn yourself in, you’ll implicate me as well.”
“I won’t.”
“I want to be told before you do anything.”
“Of course, I’ll tell you,” Beckett said sincerely.
“Anything,” Corbin stressed.
Beckett nodded his head. “I will, I swear.”
Corbin stared into Beckett’s eyes, trying to assess his veracity. Beckett shrugged, as if to say he had nothing else to offer, and he awaited Corbin’s response.
“All right,” Corbin finally replied. “But I want to see the wallet. I want to make sure it doesn’t have anything that can lead back to me.”
“What wallet?”
“The wallet, the one you took.”
Beckett shrugged his shoulders and wrinkled his brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about? I never took a wallet.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t keep one of the wallets?”
Suddenly, Beckett’s jaw dropped and his eyes became huge. “From Philly?” he gasped. “Those wallets? I didn’t keep anything, I swear.”
“Then where did it go?!”
“I don’t know, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have any wallet. I never kept anything.”
“So if you turn yourself in, you’re just going to confess? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“Yes. What did you think I was going to do?”
“You’re not holding any evidence you plan to offer to back up your story?”
“I don’t have any evidence,” Beckett replied. His eyes looked at the ground. “I don’t even have the money anymore.”
Corbin recoiled. “What happened to the money?!” he all but screamed.
“I gave it away.”
“To who?!”
“It doesn’t really matter. It’s gone.”
Corbin ground his teeth and his eyes burned a hole into Beckett’s skull.
“I couldn’t keep it,” Beckett admitted. “It was tearing me apart. It was. . it was wrong.”
“Is there anything else I need to know?!” Corbin asked through gritted teeth. His fists clenched.
“I’ve told you everything.”
“Fuck, you better have! This money isn’t going to show up at trial, is it?”
“I don’t see how.”
“What about the wallet?”
“I don’t know anything about a wallet!” Beckett insisted. Beckett looked around and noticed for the first time that people were walking past them. “You know, maybe we shouldn’t be arguing about this here, on the street.”
They returned in bitter silence to the Tribune Building.