Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion (38 page)

Hofstra winces.

“We both acknowledged we felt guilty because of my family. We agreed that we would think about it over the break after summer school. That was the last time we spoke. I haven’t seen or talked to her until today.”

This last comment seems false. Either she is protecting him, or he is protecting her. Even if he is telling the truth, one of them would have wanted more closure than that. I glance over at Judge Franklin to see how much of this he is buying. His expression, detached but alert, tells me nothing.

“You’re asking the court to believe,” I say, pre tending incredulity, “that neither of you said a word to the other after you agreed to go home and think about it for almost two weeks?”

He shifts uncomfortably in the witness chair.

“There was nothing left to say.”

I make a show of wrinkling my nose at this answer but decide to let it go. Franklin surely has gotten the point by now that I think his answer stinks.

“Dr. Hofstra, did Robin tell you at any time during the summer that she was in love with you or that she loved you or words to that effect?”

Hofstra swallows hard.

“Yes.”

“And you, sir, did you tell Robin that you loved her or words to that effect?”

Hofstra studies his hands but says in an audible voice, “Yes.”

I stand by the lectern, feigning more amazement. I know what I’d be saying on closing argument to a jury:

Ladies and gentlemen, can you really believe that after a gloriously exciting summer of twice a week office visits, sneaking off to a motel on six separate occasions and a mutual declaration of love, these two just ended it and never even said another word to each other?

“Your witness,” I tell Binkie.

Binkie, to my surprise, declines to question Hofstra, who sighs audibly as he leaves the witness box. I say more dramatically than I intend, “I call Lauren Denney.”

Lauren, who practically swaggered out of the restaurant when I met her less than two weeks ago, seems considerably less sure of herself today and walks almost on tiptoe to the witness box. Rehearsing her story earlier this morning at Barton’s office, I had sensed she was nervous, but now she won’t even look me in the eye. Judge Franklin tells her twice to speak up, and I have a terrible premonition she is going to change her story. Wearing a red skirt that comes down to her ankles, and her hair in a French braid down her back, Lauren looks about twelve.

Where is the sexy vixen who seemed so eager to testify?

As a Razorback cheerleader she has pranced around in front of a national TV audience; today she looks like Little Orphan Annie. I have no choice but to act as though I don’t have a care in the world as I take her back through the summer.

“Did you ever have an occasion to meet Dr.

Joe Hofstra?” I ask after I have gotten through some preliminary questions.

Her voice tight, she says, “I met him last summer once in our apartment, but he left almost immediately.”

Lauren timidly recites her story more or less as we have rehearsed it twice now, and finally, about to burst, I ask her, “Did you have a conversation with Robin after the football season began about Dr. Hofstra?”

Lauren stares right past me.

“No.”

No? Damn it to hell! I want to walk up to this girl and grab her by the throat. Judge Franklin is practically falling out of his chair to hear her.

“Didn’t you tell me again just two hours ago that Robin Perry had admitted in October that she was still having intercourse with Joe Hofstra?”

“Yes, but that’s not right. She never told me that,” Lauren says, her voice trembling.

I feel like the biggest idiot on the face of the earth.

“It’s not right?” I repeat stupidly.

“Wasn’t that the second time in less than two weeks you told me about Robin Perry and Joe Hofstra?”

“I don’t know,” she says in a little girl’s voice, looking directly at Binkie.

“All I know is Robin didn’t tell me she was still having an affair with him after summer school ended.”

Somebody has been applying the screws to Lauren.

“Have you been talking to somebody to make you change your story?” I ask, barely able to keep my voice under control. I have begun to sweat profusely. I take a wadded up tissue from my pants pocket and wipe my face. I’ve never had a case blow up this badly. I look back at Dade, who has a confused look on his face. Join the club, I think, as I wait for this girl’s answer.

“No,” Lauren replies, breathing hard now.

“I just realized how wrong it would have been to say that. I took an oath to tell the truth, and that’s what I’m doing.”

If this girl has had some kind of attack of scruples, then I’m Billy Graham. I grip the lectern to keep my hands from shaking.

“So your testimony is that absolutely no one has approached you about your appearance here today?”

“I talked to Mr. Cross on the telephone after Christmas,” Lauren says.

“He just told me to tell the truth, and that’s what I’m doing.” Lauren has begun to recover her composure.

“What else did he tell you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says.

“He just wanted to know what I was going to say today. I told him I couldn’t talk to him right then, but mat I’d call him back, but I never did.”

“Has anyone in this case offered you something,” I ask, searching her face fruitlessly for clues, “or threatened you in regard to your testimony?”

“No” “Do you realize you could go to jail for perjury,” I say, my voice harsh, “if you’re not telling me the truth?”

Binkie is on his feet, objecting.

“Your Honor, Ms.

Denney is Mr. Page’s witness, not mine. He can’t try to impeach her testimony.”

Disgusted, I say, “No more questions,” and sit down.

Something stinks, and I don’t need to go to Denmark to find it out. What makes this a no-win situation is that Lauren, I realize, may now be telling the truth. What the hell happened? Unless she admits she was bribed or coerced there is nothing I can do.

I barely listen as Binkie makes clear through his questioning of Lauren that in no way did he act improperly. I have no proof that he did, but damn, do I feel snookered!

As soon as Binkie finishes with Lauren, I ask the court if we can take a recess and confer about this case in chamhers. Without batting an eye, he says formally to the empty courtroom that we’ll be in recess for five minutes.

“Something is going on,” I tell the judge once we’re all seated in his office, “that I don’t know about. Somebody is leaning on Lauren Denney, Your Honor. That much is clear as day. We shouldn’t have the trial until I’ve had an opportunity to get to the bottom of this.” The judge has picked up a three-inch model of a Labrador retriever from his desk and is examining it. I can’t tell whether he is paying any attention to me or not.

Binkie, seated on my right, crosses his long legs.

“Judge, all this says to me is that some people take the oath more seriously than others. This girl just happens to be one of them.”

Judge Franklin looks at me unsympathetically.

“I take it that you’re out of witnesses.”

I admit that I am. Franklin stands up and says coldly, “You certainly can request a continuance, but I suggest you make it on the record, because I’ll tell you right now that I’m going to deny it and deny your motion today. I think this Denney girl is telling the truth, and I just hope you didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she apparently was about to lie to the court. The only thing we’re going to do right now is go back into the courtroom and say this for my court reporter.”

In five minutes the hearing is over. Things have happened so fast that I feel as if I’d been hit on the head by a sledgehammer. As Dade and I begin to walk out of the courtroom, Binkie calls me over and asks if I can come by his office in fifteen minutes. Thinking he will give me a clue as to what has happened here today, I say that I’ll be over after I’ve visited with my client. He nods, and Dade and I go outside, only to be accosted by a couple of reporters who have gotten wind that something was going on in the case.

“It was a closed hearing,” I say, telling them what they already know.

“We have no comment.”

A young bearded guy taps a pocket-sized notebook against the palm of his hand.

“We just looked at the pleadings filed with the court and know this hearing concerned the rape shield law. Is it safe to assume,” he asks without sarcasm, “that you must have lost?”

I must look as if I’m about to cry. What happened in there? I put my game face back on and say, “It’s best not to make any assumptions in this case.”

In the parking lot next to his ten-year-old Pontiac, I tell Dade not to worry. Panic won’t do either of us any good.

He nods, without changing his expression. There is no point in his staying up here for the next three days.

“You might as well drive back home,” I add, sounding like a doctor who advises his patient to start getting his affairs in order.

“There is nothing you can do here.”

“I’m going to go to jail, aren’t I?” he says, wrenching open the rusty door that has been through at least two paint jobs and is now a strange salmon color.

I turn up my overcoat collar. According to the radio, there is a thirty percent chance of snow. It is not supposed to get above twenty-five degrees up here today.

“Not necessarily,” I say uncertainly.

“It depends on how good a witness you make.”

“They’ll believe her,” Dade says, bitterness creeping into his voice.

“When it comes right down to it, people stick together. I saw how that works today.”

I look out into the street. There isn’t a single car going by. Despite its prosperity, without the students, this place, like all college towns, is dead.

“I’m not so sure she didn’t tell the truth, Dade,” I say, and recount my trip to Heber Springs to talk to Jenny Taylor.

He gets in the car.

“White folks stick together,” he mutters again.

I ‘don’t have the energy to argue with him right now, but I have the feeling that Lauren’s about-face wasn’t re lated to Dade’s skin color.

“I want you to let me ask the prosecutor if you can still take the polygraph.” It is probably too late now.

“Huh,” he says stubbornly, “after what I saw today, I don’t trust anybody.”

Including his lawyer, obviously. I bite my lower lip to keep from blowing up at him. I grab the door handle, and before pushing it shut against him, I tell him I’ll see him and his parents at the Ozark Motel Sunday afternoon. It’s in the Cunninghams’ price range, too.

I watch him drive off and then walk in the cold on Col lege two blocks to the prosecutor’s office, thinking how I’ve been spinning my wheels in this case. I can imagine how a doctor feels treating a patient with a terminal illness. No matter what I do, I can’t escape a sense of doom.

Five minutes later, Binkie follows me into the reception area of the Washington County prosecuting attorney’s office. He motions me to accompany him back to his office, and, after taking off my overcoat, I take a seat across from his desk.

“Want some coffee?” he asks as if we were now old friends instead of combatants. He points at a tray beside him containing a full glass pot, a sugar bowl, and ajar of nondairy creamer.

I nod, eager to take the chill out of my bones.

“I’ll take a little whitener in it,” I say, watching him fuss with the spoons and cups. His hands, I notice for the first time, are arthritic and swollen. He keeps them in his pockets when he is in court.

“Do you know what made Lauren Denney change her mind?” I ask, impatient to get this conversation going. Binkie, however, doesn’t seem the type to rub it in.

Binkie hands me a cup decorated with Razorback insignia The red lettering below a picture of a pig dribbling a basketball reads “National Champions 1993-94.”

“I have no idea,” he say offhandedly.

“But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. What I’d like is for Dade to plead guilty to a charge of carnal abuse and take a six-year sentence You know under the new sentencing statutes if he kept his nose clean he could conceivably be eligible for parole after only one-sixth of that. He could be home in a year.”

Astounded by his offer, I sip at the coffee. It tastes amazingly good. Given the circumstances, it is an incredibly generous offer.

“Would the Perrys go for that?” I ask, my mind racing. Dade is already on his way back to St. Francis County. I’ll have to call his parents.

Binkie lifts his cup to his mouth and swallows.

“Regardless of what they’ve said, they don’t want a trial even though now I’ll be able to keep out any mention of Robin’s relationship with Dr. Hofstra. I got them to agree before the hearing this morning that I’d make this offer to you regardless of how it turned out.”

I feel an enormous sense of relief. Dade could easily get twenty years or even more. His football career is probably over, but so what?

“I’ll talk to his family as soon as I can. Dade’s already on the road back to Hughes, but I should be able to get back to you late this afternoon or the first thing in the morning.”

For, a response, Binkie writes a number on the back of his card.

“This is my home phone number,” he says, handing it to me.

“You can reach me there or here.”

Why is the guy doing this? As far as I am concerned, he’s in the driver’s seat. Yet, maybe he believes that Dade will be giving up enough. I stand up, eager to get out of here and get on the phone. I offer him my hand.

“The judge won’t have any trouble with six years?”

Binkie stands and despite the condition of his hands crushes my fingers with a grip I couldn’t come close to if I worked out for the next decade.

“I don’t think so. It’s not as if he hurt her, too.”

“I should be able to sell his parents,” I say, reasonably optimistic. Once they hear about this morning’s results, they’ll have to be realistic about the chances of going to trial.

“I hope so,” he says, his face suddenly gloomy.

“May be we ought to be caning criminals like they do in Singa pore. Locking kids up and throwing away the key isn’t the answer. Something the hell’s wrong with this country.