The Nominee
The arrest of David Shepard, the illegitimate son of U.S. Attorney, Graham Brochette, for possession of cocaine sets off a chain of event that drags criminal defense attorney Lucius White and his investigator, Horse McGee, into the world of drug dealing. The murder of Shepard’s partner, Tom Jackson, shortly after he is released on bail raises the stakes of their investigation. The subsequent determination that Jackson was murdered with Brochette gun further complicates their investigation at a time when Brochette is awaiting Senate confirmation for a new position with the U.S. Department of Justice.
As White’s investigation proceeds, he uncovers a network of corruption involving attorneys and prosecutors throughout Southeast Florida and traces the scheme to a U.S. Congressman who is lobbying to deny Brochette’s appointment to the position that he covets. A string of murders, including that of a mysterious man known only as the Cambodian, are also traced to Brochette’s gun.
Lies and betrayal within the network of corruption between the drug dealers and the officers of the judicial system permeate the story which culminates in the discovery the nothing is as it seems.
SAMPLE CHAPTER
The bailiff knocked twice on the door to the judge’s chambers and boomed, “All rise.”
Judge Jason Caldwell, his black robe flowing behind him, took his place behind the polished walnut bench that occupied half the width of the courtroom.
“Be seated,” the judge instructed as he nodded at the bailiff. On the opposite side of the courtroom, a door opened and the somber-faced jurors filed in. Some of the jurors looked at the judge. Others looked at the floor. None of them looked at the defendant.
A faint smile formed on the lips of State’s Attorney, Paul Parker. Lack of eye contact with the defendant is usually a good sign for the prosecution.
The government’s case was strong, but it was based entirely on circumstantial evidence. The defendant, Howard Marshall, was in financial trouble. He had recently purchased a million-dollar policy on his wife’s life, and he had fought with his wife on the night she was murdered. The murder weapon was never found, but the State’s ballistics expert testified that the gun was of the same make and model as a gun owned by Howard Marshall — a gun the defendant couldn’t account for.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Caldwell asked in a deep voice that echoed in the stillness of the courtroom.
For Paul Parker it was more than just another trial. After a series of losses in high profile cases, Parker needed a conviction. The victim was a prominent from an old family. Old money and a socialite victim meant volumes of press coverage, and, with an election coming up, Parker wasn’t taking any chances. Over White’s objection, Parker had called twenty-seven witnesses to prove what could have been established with five. But that only gave White more opportunities to raise doubts about the prosecution’s case.
The one thing Parker had been unable to establish was the location of Howard Marshall at the time of the murder. In fact, he had an alibi, but jurors tended to be less than sympathetic to his defense: “I couldn’t have killed her because I was with my mistress at the time.” And since the mistress had refused to testify, even defense was of limited value.
The victim, Susan Marshall, was also having an affair, but putting the victim on trial was never a good idea in a brutal murder case, especially when the victim is active in most of the major charities and civic organizations in the county.
For Lucius White, Marshall’s attorney, it had all came down to jury selection. An acquittal seemed out of the question. But, with a little bit of luck, one of the three divorced men, one the victim of a bitter divorce brought by a cheating wife, would ignore the evidence and hang the jury. Then he would have a chance to plea bargain for an acceptable sentence.
White scanned the faces of the jury. Being sequestered in the economy-class hotel down the block from the courthouse, unable to see their families for the duration of the three-week trial and five days of deliberation, could not have been what they expected when the trial began. White could see that the deliberations had taken their toll. The jurors were tired, maybe even angry, and wanted to go home
“Yes, Your Honor,” the jury forepersons said, so quietly that the judge and gallery had to strain to hear her. She was a small, unimposing woman in her mid-sixties. She had gray hair and wore a floral pattern dress that made her look like everyone’s grandmother.
For White, she was the ideal foreperson — unlikely to have much influence over the other jurors and lacking in the strength to force a divided jury to reach a verdict. Three times the jury asked for portions of the testimony to be reread, and several they asked the judge for further instructions. Some of their concerns seemed to favor the prosecution, but the majority of them appeared to favor the defense. Those were the makings of a hung jury and a mistrial. White remained cautiously optimistic. But he also knew what it meant when a jury did not look at the defendant.
All eyes remained on the jury as the bailiff retrieved the verdict form from the foreperson and delivered it to the judge.
After five days of deliberations, the media had the odds for a hung jury at seven to five. The announcement that the jury had reached a verdict wasn’t a good sign for the defense. A few reporters had exchanged excited whispers. White put a hand on his client’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. His client frowned and lowered his head.
In the first row of the gallery, the parents and sister of Susan Marshall clutched hands. Her sister said a silent “Yes.” Her father stared at Howard Marshall. His eyes showed a mixture of contempt and revenge.
Judge Caldwell glanced at the verdict form, without giving any indication of its contents, and returned it to the bailiff. Judges shouldn’t care who prevails in any case they provide over, and Judge Caldwell took that mandate to an extreme. He had a reputation for neutrality and formality.
The courtroom echoed with the click of the bailiff’s heels on the polished wood floor as he crossed the room and returned the verdict form to the foreperson.
The gallery grew hush.
“The defendant will please rise and face the jury,” Judge Caldwell said. The words were so familiar to the judge that he said them with no emotion and no recognition that the rest of the defendant’s life was about to be determined.
Lucius White rose. At the other end of the defense table, Harry Harris, White’s partner, sat up straighter in his wheelchair. Between them, the defendant bowed his head and said a short prayer before standing.
If the old adage, “juries vote for the attorney they like the best,” was true, White’s client had a chance. At six-feet-two-inches tall and one-hundred-ninety pounds, White too slender to be considered a physically imposing figure. Nor would he be described as handsome. His leathery face was creased and weathered with angular features. His nose, broken in a childhood accident and reset by his father, was uncentered beneath his dark eyes. His walnut brown hair, now graying at the temples, was worn long and unkempt, in a rugged western way reminiscent of his formative years in Ketchum, Idaho. But he had an intangible presence, a don’t-tread-on-me look, and a voice, deep and resonant, that couldn’t be ignored. Clients never doubted that they were in good hands, and juries knew he could be trusted.
“Madam foreperson, will you please read the verdict.”
“We the jury. . .” she began before pausing and coughing. “In the matter of State of Florida v. Howard Marshall, on the charge of second-degree murder, find the defendant …”
The forewoman coughed again and cleared her throat.
Silent tension consumed the courtroom.
The pause seemed to continue forever as the forewoman looked around nervously at the gallery.
“… not guilty.”
The gallery erupted, and the spectators immediately began debating the verdict.
Marshall dropped to his seat in relief.
Harris reached around their client and pumped White’s hand.
Parker dropped his head, stared vacantly at the legal pad on the table in front of him and crumpled the sheet of paper that held the notes for his intended victory press conference. His assistant put a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Parker pursed his lips and shook his head.
The reporters who filled the courtroom rushed for the exit, ready to position themselves with their camera crews for the post-trial interviews on the courthouse steps.
“Order,” Judge Caldwell demanded, pounding his gavel.
The juror’s looked at each other in bewilderment. None of them seemed to know what they were supposed to do now.
“Order,” Judge Caldwell demanded again.
Slowly, the remaining spectators returned to their seats. Judge Caldwell surveyed the gallery, glaring fiercely at anyone who wasn’t moving fast enough to satisfy him.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Caldwell said. ‘the Court thanks you for your service. The defendant is released and free to go.”
Another swing of the gavel and it was over. A year of preparation, three weeks of trial and five days of jury deliberations, and just like that it was over.
The empty feeling of finality that always overwhelmed White at the conclusion of a grueling trial, like the feeling of Christmas morning after all the presents had been unwrapped, would come later. It always did. For now, he was all smiles as he received the renewed hugs of his client and the congratulations of well-wishers.
As the crowd cleared the courtroom, Parker walked to the defense table and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Lucius. It was a good fight.”
“Thanks, Paul. You did a good job.”
“Apparently not good enough,” Parker said without humor. “Maybe next time.”
“Maybe,” White said. There was no emotion in his voice, just a polite acknowledgment of what Parker had said. Parker turned and headed for the door.