Chương 802: 4
Chapter Three
"Oh great, it's you," the man at the Clerk's desk said as I approached, a half-smirk on his face. "Alright, which one am I in for, entertainment or tinnitus? And who's the newbie?"
"Hello again Jeremy," I said with a sigh. "In order: if I knew, I'd let you know, and this is my summer associate, Matthew Murdock."
"Pleasure to meet you sir," Matt said, offering a respectful nod.
Jeremy V. (who was apparently so embarrassed of whatever his last name was that he had some strings pulled to get it abbreviated even on his court ID) was one of the many clerks of court. Note the difference between clerk and Clerk: the latter is the one in charge, while the former is just an employee. These are the bureaucrats who make the judicial system work. They handle the scheduling, appointments, filings, and everything else you could think of. If you got a clerk of court on your side, you'd have smooth sailing. If they didn't like you? Enjoy being made to wait for your courtroom assignment until your case is three minutes from being next on the docket.
Now, if it wasn't already abundantly clear, I'd managed to accrue a reputation by this point. I was perfectly happy to chance a contempt of court charge if it meant the jury heard what I wanted them to hear, but judges don't like that kind of grandstanding. In the past two years, several people in the office of the Clerk started setting up betting pools for how long until I got my first warning that contempt of court was on the table.
Seven years ago, when I was about thirty minutes away from giving my first closing argument (and panicking just as much as you'd expect), Jeremy went out of his way to get me a drink of water when he saw me pacing and near-hyperventilating in the hall. He'd been my go-to clerk for filing and requests since then, and I also helped him with the "when's the first contempt threat" pool.
I was pretty sure the count to date was… had it broken $300 yet? Whatever, I'd ask another time.
"So you got stuck with the charity case for LL&L, huh?" Jeremy frowned as he said this, tapping and typing at the computer in front of him. "Looks like… conference room seven upstairs, and then arraignment in courtroom C3 at five pm. And you didn't hear it from me," he added at the end, leaning in and keeping his voice low. "Young was in and out of Andrews' chambers all this week, early morning and late night."
Oh. That was… that was a problem.
"Thanks for the heads up Jeremy. I owe you," I told him.
"Just keep me posted," he said, waving me off. "Good luck with this one Noa, you're probably gonna need it."
"God I hope not," I muttered, putting a hand on Matt's arm as I steered him away from the desk. "Conference rooms one through five are on the ground floor here, six through ten are up one. Criminal courtrooms are also up on the second floor, on the west end of the building. Unless you have to use the elevator to get countless sheafs of paper and evidence exhibits upstairs, just use the stairs." I thought for a second. "Actually in your case the elevators might be fine. You weigh more than a hundred pounds."
"Why is that a concern?" Matt asked as I guided him up the stairs, and I was treated to the sight of everybody in the hall and on the stairwell hurriedly getting out of his way.
"Well," I started, slowing my pace a bit. "Imagine it this way. Most of the people going in and out of those elevators are wheeling a fifty-pound suitcase, carrying a twenty-pound briefcase, consider themselves the most important person in the room… and even teetering on three-inch heels, you're still lucky to come up to their shoulders."
Matt was silent for a bit as we walked down the hall, past conference rooms ten and nine. When we got past conference room eight, he finally offered his response: a quiet, almost sheepish, "oh."
We arrived in front of conference room seven, and I saw a paper on the door.
CC 89-214782: People of the State of New York v. S.J. Allerdyce
"Here we are," I said to Matt. "Chin up, head high, shoulders back. Make sure to look confident, because believe me, they need to see some confidence right now."
Then without further ado, I knocked on the door before opening it and stepping inside.
Seated at the conference table were three people: a clear husband and wife pair at least ten years older than I was, and a blonde teen in an orange jumpsuit, a nasty gash all stitched up on his left temple above a fading black eye, staring down at his hands with a look of utter despondency and hopelessness. The father wore a rumpled suit, one that he clearly hadn't dug out from the back of the closet in a while, coupled with a brand new polyester tie that clearly wasn't willing to take a knot yet. His hair was a blonde into gray gradient, to the point I wasn't sure where the gold ended and the silver began, though I was fairly certain there'd be a lot more silver by the end of this ordeal. The mother, on the other hand, had a full head of blonde hair, though I could recognize a dye job when I saw it, given the solid half-inch of grey around the roots. She had on a formal skirt and blouse combo, along with a jacket on the back of her chair, which a quick glance told me probably didn't fit her anymore, and hadn't for several years.
"Mr. and Mrs. Allerdyce, I presume?" I said as I entered the room, letting Matt take the door and close it behind him.
"Are you the lawyer?" Mr. Allerdyce asked, standing up from his seat and coming over to greet me at the door. "They told us a lawyer said they'd help and was on the way."
"I am she," I said, extending a hand. "Noa Schaefer, senior associate with Lewin, Lieberman, and Loeb. The young man behind me is my summer associate, Matthew Murdock."
"Jonathan Allerdyce," he said, taking my hand, then reaching to take Matt's own extended hand. "This is my wife Linda, and our son St. John."
"Would that we had met under better circumstances." I pulled a chair out from the table for Matt, then took another one for myself. I opened my briefcase, pulled out a contract of retainer, pro bono agreement, a legal pad, and a pen, then sat at the ready. "Now before we begin, there are a few formalities I need to go through."
And so, I spent the next ten to fifteen minutes explaining everything that accepting me as an attorney would mean – the attorney client privilege, the duty of care, what I would need from them, what they could ask of me, etcetera. I did make sure to exclude a mention of how much I would normally have cost per hour, but not just because this was pro bono.
It was also because I didn't want them getting any unrealistic expectations.
Once that was done, everybody involved signed the contract of retainer, as well as the contract that allowed Matt to work on their case as a student attorney under my direct supervision.
"Now that the paperwork has been handled, at least for the moment…" I took the signed contracts and put them away into a manila folder, which I would have to get copies of and file in triplicate. "St. John—"
"Just John, please," the teen interrupted.
"Of course," I said. "John. Can you tell me what happened?"
"Y-yeah," he said, licking his lips before he started. "Yeah. Uh, about… I guess, what, a week ago? Mom, it was a week ago, yeah?"
"Yeah, last Tuesday," his mother, Linda, said, a clear Australian twang in her words. "He got home from school right bloody, got him to the hospital and sewn up."
"Give me one moment?" I asked, reaching into my briefcase to pull out a Polaroid camera. "Show me the wound, please," I said, then snapped a few photos of the wound while I had it in front of me. The photos came out of the camera, and I quickly took a pen to record the exact date and time they were taken. "Good; odds are your stitches will be out before you ever get into the courtroom, so these photos and ER records are how we prove how bad this was." Once I had the Polaroids developing and the camera away, I gestured to St. John. "I'm sorry about that, please continue."
"Uh, s-so I was on my way home from school that day," he said. "I uh, I got a scholarship to one of those private schools in Manhattan, gotta walk a few blocks to the subway so I can get back out to Brooklyn. It's, uh, five or six blocks walking? Uh, on my way back I usually go past this corner store, pick up a snack or a soda, you know? And there's these four guys who usually hang out there, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer. You know, just… those guys you try to keep away from, yeah?"
"I know the type," Matt murmured.
"Yeah, I bet," St. John said, his tone commiseration. "So, uh. Usually I just walk past them real quick, don't look that way or anything. But I popped the tab on my soda can, and I guess I must have shook it a bit cause it sprayed at me and I kinda yelled in their direction. And, uh… they started following me, I guess. I ducked into an alley so I didn't have to go around the block, and next thing I know I hear footsteps behind me, then someone grabs me by my backpack and tosses me against the dumpster."
I reached into my briefcase again and pulled out a map of New York City, flipped it open to Brooklyn, and set it in front of St. John along with a pen.
"Could you draw on the map for me which way you went, and circle the alley for me?"
"Right, uh, sure, okay." A moment later, I had an exact location, and I knew I'd have to block off some time tomorrow so I could get down there with my Polaroid. Because only a lazy, incompetent, or overworked defense attorney doesn't do their level best to visit the scene of the crime. And given the wound on his head, and that this was New York City, there was a very real I'd find his blood still there.
Regardless, I gestured for him to continue telling me what happened.
"I pushed myself off of the dumpster, and tried to swing at them with my backpack. But there were four of them, and one of me, and they had like, four inches on me, at least. They said some stuff, how I was disrespecting them on their turf or something, and then one of them swung at me with a beer bottle."
"Is that what caused your injury?" I asked, pointing at his temple.
"Yeah, it was that," he said. "So after that, I, uh, well, I…" he trailed off. I could tell that whatever had happened next, it was both the most important part, and the bit that he was not going to tell me. "I, uh, fought them off." Yup, there it is: lie of omission. "They, uh, ran. Across the street, and one of them turned around to look, make sure I wasn't following him. And well, some work was being done across the street, and this guy fell into a pit."
"And after that you went home?" I asked.
"And after that, uh. Nothing. I didn't see those guys at all for the rest of the week, and then last night, police just… break down our front door and drag me out," he said. "I, I don't even know what's going on, really."
"I see," I said, tapping my pen on my legal pad.
This was one of the most difficult, delicate moments of handling a client. When you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they are not telling you something crucially important, you have to get that information out of them. If you don't have that information, you can't do your job. Now, I had a feeling that whatever it was he didn't want to say, it would come out at the arraignment.
But I didn't want to walk before the Honorable Phillip Andrews and not know something that everybody else did.
"Well, based on what I'm hearing from you," I said, "this is all sounding like a very cut-and-dry self-defense case. The one problem is I can't see the reason for the disproportionate police response. If all you did was fight back, then the police should have just picked you up the next day, rather than breaking down your door." I sighed, and put my pen down. "John, you say you fought back. Regardless of what happens during the arraignment, I will be going to that alleyway tomorrow to try and reconstruct what happened for myself, and hopefully find any blood left behind from that head wound of yours. But in order to do that, I need to know exactly how you defended yourself: what you did, who you did it towards, and where in the alleyway you were."
The room was silent for a good half a minute. The adult Allerdyces exchanged glances with each other, and I could see Jonathan's face flush a little before he cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair, sitting up as tall as he could with both hands flat on the table.
"I'm not sure what you're trying to say here," Jonathan said, standing up. "But it sounds like you're accusing my son of—"
"Jonathan!" Linda admonished. "She's here to help us! You should—"
"I'll tell her."
Both Jonathan and Linda Allerdyce turned towards their son, twin expressions of concern on their faces.
"St. John," Linda started, "if it's too—"
"N-no," St. John interrupted her. "I-it's okay, I just, I…" He took in a deep, shaky, rattling breath, and I could see his hands trembling on the table. "I-I, uh… I-I'm a mutant," he said. "I, u-used my powers. N-not to hurt them!" St. John nearly leapt out of his chair as he tried to clarify what he was saying. "Just to scare them, that's all! I never even got close to hurting them, I swear!"
And there it was, I thought.
"Okay," I said, picking my pen back up. "Let's go back to the alleyway. After one of them hit you with a beer bottle, what did you do?"
"Next case on the docket," the clerk read out. "CC 89-214782: People of the State of New York v. S.J. Allerdyce."
The gallery of the courtroom was mostly empty at this time of day, but worryingly, it was still comparatively festooned with reporters. I could recognize a good seven of them, several of which only showed up for high profile cases, which gave credence to the narrative that I was pretty sure was forming. Lieberman had mentioned back at the office that Lou Young was up for reelection; Jeremy told me that Lou Young and Judge Andrews had been meeting throughout the week; and now, several of the highest-profile courtroom reporters in New York City were the only real occupants of the courtroom gallery.
I was getting a very good idea of what was happening here, and to be quite frank, it stank to high heavens.
"We are here today for the arraignment of St. John Allerdyce," Judge Andrews said from his raised position on the bench. "Attorneys, come forward and announce your names for the record."
I stepped up from counsel's table, and if I hadn't been watching for it, I would have missed the sneer that crossed the judge's face.
"District Attorney Louis Young, representing the People of the State of New York." Lou Young, a man with a receding hairline whose lips looked like they'd been reclaimed by his teeth, stood beside me before the bench. I could smell the cologne that he'd used altogether too much of, which he used in an attempt to hide the horrid mixture of scents that I would lovingly call New York Sewage and hair of the dog. And on top of that was the cloying scent of menthol hanging off of him. I had a feeling that my client's powers were the only reason I wouldn't have to deal with his smoking his cigarettes in the courtroom itself. Worst of all, this lack of smoking would just play further into the narrative he was trying to build.
"Noa Schaefer, on behalf of St. John Allerdyce."
"You got that?" Judge Andrews asked the court stenographer, who nodded at him. "Very well, you may be seated. And let me say from the outset, I want no funny business. That means you, Schaefer," he said, singling me out right from the start. "St. John Allerdyce."
I reached a hand under St. John's shoulder and pulled him up, until he took over and finished standing for himself.
"Mr. Allerdyce," Judge Andrews continued once St. John was standing. "You are being charged with three counts of criminal assault in the second degree, and one count of criminal assault in the first degree. How do you plead?"
"My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor," I said, keeping a hand on St. John's arm.
"Your plea has been entered." Judge Andrews turned to Lou Young. "DA Young?"
"Your Honor, the People move to deny bail and remand the defendant into custody in juvenile hall until his trial," the DA said, his tone one of smug satisfaction as he said this. "Due to the violent nature of the crimes, and the threat the defendant poses to the general public, the People believe that it would be irresponsible to have him out on the street."
"Mhmm," Judge Andrews said with a smile and a nod, which quickly turned into a frown when he looked towards me. "Ms. Schaefer."
"Your Honor, the defense requests that Mr. Allerdyce be released into parental custody," I said. "St. John Allerdyce is a high school student, maintaining a 3.6 grade point average and attending a Manhattan private school on a merit scholarship, and has no past criminal history to speak of. Furthermore, as my client has never been convicted of a crime, it would be a grave injustice for the court to sabotage his education so close to the end of his sophomore year, especially when the pace of the court means he is likely not to see a trial date until—"
"Until I say so," Judge Andrews interrupted, "and right now, I'm leaning towards July."
It was only through long hours of practice dealing with this judge in particular that kept me from openly gaping. Matt, on the other hand, did not have this experience, and so did enough gaping for both of us.
"Since the trial will be over and done with before your client would start his junior year, he will have plenty of time to get caught back up should he find himself acquitted, especially with a 3.6 GPA. Defense's request is denied, the defendant will be remanded into custody of juvenile hall until his trial date."
"Your honor," I snuck in as I saw him reaching for his gavel, "at this time the defense also moves to remove this case to family court and try Mr. Allerdyce as a minor. Once again, I will reiterate that Mr. Allerdyce has no criminal record, nor has he had so much as a warning from the law up until this point. Given that this is a first offense, he—"
"Ms. Schaefer, I frankly don't give a damn that your client is a minor," Judge Andrews interrupted. "He's being accused of assaulting four people with a mutant power, causing severe injuries in the process. Your motion is denied, court is adjourned." The gavel came down.
"That was… quite something."
I looked from my seat in the back of the car over towards Matt, who still seemed a bit shell-shocked by what had happened in the courtroom. It may have sounded like exaggeration, but to my perspective, it really wasn't: he'd been listening very intently to my heartbeat, the judge's heartbeat, and all the reporters' heartbeats, and that was more than enough to know that what had happened was highly irregular.
"That it was," I replied, sighing. "What are your thoughts?"
"I…" Matt seemed to not have the words. I waited a good thirty seconds before he said anything else. "How is what happened even legal? That, I don't understand how… I'm sorry, it was wrong. He'd already made his decision before you ever started talking, I could hear it. He probably already has a trial date picked out!"
"He absolutely does," I confirmed. "Matthew, one thing you have to understand is that when dealing with prosecutors, you're also dealing with politics. These people have an agenda they want to push, and the criminal justice system is one of the ways they do it. Unfortunately for us, and especially for our client, Lou Young has a lot of friends in very high places, and very few compunctions about calling favors to get what he wants. Mark my words, he's going to try and leverage this into his reelection, then to mayoral candidate, then to senate, and possibly a presidential run."
"And what?" Matt asked, voice heated. "He's just going to ruin a kid's life to do it?"
"Do you really think our client is the first kid he's railroaded into prison?" I asked. "I guarantee you, he isn't. Maybe he's the first white kid," I added, at which Matt frowned, "but I doubt he'd be the last."
"That's… everyone's heart skipped when the judge announced that our client was a mutant. I mean, I know people don't like them, but…" Matt trailed off.
We drove in silence (or, well, in as much silence as heavy traffic on a Manhattan street allowed) for another ten to fifteen minutes. I could see from the set of his jaw that Matt was turning something over in his mind, thinking over what came next. To his credit, I was genuinely looking forward to seeing what he came up with.
"So what's our next step?" he asked, and I was very glad that this was the first thing he said. Too often I'd seen summer associates come up with these grandiose plans of action for a case, only to realize that maybe ten percent of what they thought up ever actually occurred. Usually because cases settled or clients wanted to plead out, but still.
"First thing's first, we need to pay a visit to that alleyway," I told him. "From there, we really only have a few things we can do. There's four alleged victims that we need to follow up on, but we also should try and scour the neighborhood, see if we can't get somebody to back up John's claims that these were the four local hooligans."
"State of mind?" Matt asked.
"Bingo," I confirmed. "We need that to get a good approximation of what was running through John's mind when he used his powers, and what kind of threat he was facing. Also, the ER doc that saw John and stitched him up, any nurses involved with his intake. We also need to see if any of John's friends will go to bat for him," I added. "We're allowed to use character evidence here, and if we can get someone that knows he's a mutant to get on the stand and tell us that he wasn't the type to use his power dangerously, we can maybe sway a juror or two."
"Or two? That's it?" Matt asked, incredulous.
"That's it. Public opinion is against us in this matter, Matthew." I toyed with the strap of my briefcase, thinking. We had very little time to build an entire case. There were a lot of people to interview, witnesses to prep, a trial strategy to work out… let's not forget opening and closing statements… oh, and jury selection. Jury selection was going to be monumentally difficult, especially with anti-mutant sentiment rising higher and higher in recent years, and Magneto had not been helping matters.
"So, what?" Matt turned towards me, just so I could see the frustration on his face. "How are we supposed to win this if we can barely get two jurors?"
"Remember what I just said about politics, Matthew," I said, not able to keep the tiredness out of my voice. "Those reporters in the courtroom? The hour of the day? How abrupt the judge was, the way he expected to get away with it? None of this was an accident. The only part of this that was ever left up to chance was the specific defendant. I guarantee you that they've had something like this in motion for a while, and our client had the bad luck to be… how should I put it? Ah, yes."
I huffed, leaning back in my seat.
"Made an example of."
The next day came bright and early. I reported to my boss's office first thing, sat down in the chair opposite him, and spoke for a solid half an hour.
Uninterrupted.
"… and that's the long and short of it," I said, finally done regaling Lieberman with the tale of yesterday's debacle. "Speaking professionally, I would say that this is going to be an incredibly challenging case, and expectations need to be managed accordingly. Moreover, public sentiment is likely to be an ongoing concern, especially as concerns interactions with the press."
"And personally?" Lieberman prompted.
"Utter shitshow," I said, not bothering to sound polite anymore. "It's all eyewitness testimony and he-said she-said, plus the only witnesses were the supposed victim's fellow hooligans. There's almost no physical evidence to work with, and it's likely any evidence that could help us is long gone by now, or was deliberately tossed." I wanted to flounce down onto the chair, but instead sat in a calm, controlled manner, though I did have to stand back up briefly to readjust my skirt.
"That only tells me about the case itself," Lieberman pointed out, gesturing at me with his favorite pen. "It says nothing about the kind of optics you're looking at handling during both voir-dire and the inevitable trial itself. It's not enough to just say it's a problem, Schaefer, I need to know how much of a problem you think you're dealing with. And don't even lie to yourself about pleading down, it's not happening." I wanted to say something about a possible plea deal, but Lieberman beat me to it. "This is Lou Young we're talking about. He wouldn't offer a plea deal on a case like this, ever."
"How about this, then," I started, formulating my response. "If he were anything other than a mutant, we wouldn't have this issue. Hell, he could have been killing and eating babies, and he'd still be easier to defend. And worst of all?" I worried at the hemline of my skirt, just so that I'd have something to do with my hands other than trying to pull my own hair out in frustration. "Given everything else, trying to sequester the eventual jury would just make things worse than if they could see the papers and talk shows in the first place. I mean, they even have a convenient mutant scapegoat to blame for being stuck in a shitty, run-down hotel while eating bad food and serving extended jury duty."
I frowned as I realized something.
"Speaking of the media, I haven't seen the papers. How bad is the coverage?" I asked.
My boss sat there staring at me for a good five seconds before he started chuckling, eventually growing into a full-on belly laugh.
"Of all the days to not read a paper!" He pulled open the top drawer of his desk, and a moment later I had three different papers in front of me: the Times, the Journal, and the Bugle. "It's your lucky day Schaefer, you barely rated page seven!"
I stared down at today's editions, identical headlines splayed across their front pages, and couldn't keep my jaw from dropping out of shock.
CAPTAIN AMERICA LIVES!
Beloved WWII Hero Thawed & Rescued From Frozen Shipwreck!
Notes:
Welp, this is the end of the backlog I had ready for posting. Chapter 4 is in the works, the rest of the first major arc has been outlined, and things are proceeding apace. The major events of each of the individual chapters for this arc (chapters 2 through 8, so 4 through 8 are the rest of the arc) are set, I just need to decide on character beats and connecting moments.
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