Attorney-Client Privilege (2 page)

S
how no fear.

That was my mantra whenever I walked into a courtroom.

For the past eight days, I’d been sitting at the defense table in Department 26 of the L.A. Superior Court, wearing my game face like a coat of armor. When my nerves threatened to flare up, I straightened my back, gritted my teeth and mentally squashed them like ants.

Show no fear.

Every eye in this media-infested tinderbox was now riveted on my opponent, Girlie Cortez, who was winding down her closing argument.

A salacious mix of Filipino and Caucasian, Girlie was a junior partner at the litigation firm, Donaldson, Watson and Barkley. Petite and slender with dark, ominous eyes, her shiny black hair spilled down her back like a curtain of silk. Born Lourdes Amelia Cortez, Girlie had legally adopted her childhood nickname and wore it like her personal marquee.

Any opponent who judged Girlie based on her feminine appearance would live to regret it. A tigress of a lawyer, she had a reputation for doing whatever it took to win—no matter how unscrupulous, unethical or just plain scandalous. I learned
that
from personal experience.

The Honorable Rafael Pedrano nodded in my direction as Girlie returned to her seat at the plaintiff’s table. “Ms. Henderson, you may address the jury.”

I slowly stood up, my facial expression confident, my stance relaxed.

Show no fear.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” I began with a respectful smile. “As you know, I’m Vernetta Henderson and I represent Lamarr ‘The Hero’ Harrison, the Los Angeles Legends’ star wide receiver.”

At five-eight, my height was ideal for commanding attention in a courtroom. My shoulder-length hair was parted on the side and conservatively swept back behind my right ear. My navy blue, pinstriped suit conveyed both self-assurance and power.

“I’d like to commend Ms. Cortez for that spectacular story she just told you. But this is a court of law. Stories are of no value here. To carry her burden of proof, Ms. Cortez must present you with credible evidence. She hasn’t done that because she doesn’t have any.”

I took a moment to make eye contact with a few of the faces in the jury box. Juror number six, a dental assistant with perfect teeth, gave me an encouraging nod. I was already counting on her vote, having caught her giving Lamarr a seductive smile that bordered on flirting.

“There were only two people in that hotel suite on the morning of June twenty-fifth when the plaintiff alleges that my client sexually assaulted her. So only two people—Lamarr and the plaintiff—know what
really
happened.”

Using her name would make her human. Human was not what I wanted her to be.

“When you head back to the jury room to begin your deliberations, I’d like you to ask yourself one question: Who’s the
real
player here?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Lamarr was sitting up straight, just as I had instructed, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He was 26 years old, ten years my junior, with a boyish face and deep-set dimples. A tall, sturdy 230 pounds, Lamarr traversed the football field with the speed and grace of a prized race horse.

“My client plays games for a living,” I told the jury. “That’s his job. The plaintiff plays games too. The one game she plays best is manipulation. She manipulated my client and she’s been trying to manipulate all of you by walking into this courtroom day after day with her conservative suits, her mousy demeanor and her crocodile tears. But let me remind you who she really is.”

I took four short steps over to the defense table and pressed a button on my laptop. A life-size picture of Tonisha filled the screen to the right of the witness box. She was wearing purple eye shadow, ruby red lipstick, and a thick auburn wig that fanned out across her shoulders. Her long legs were shamelessly snaked around a shiny brass pole. She was also butt naked.

Extending my arm, I pointed up at the screen like it was my smoking gun. “That’s the
real
player in this courtroom.”

Although the jurors had seen this photograph when I cross-examined Tonisha, they still seemed jarred by it. Juror number nine, the computer geek, leaned forward and blushed. Juror number two, the Lutheran minister, averted his eyes.

“The plaintiff,” I continued, “is an admitted sports groupie who was on a mission to
hook up
with a professional football player—any football player. But Girlie Cortez wants you to believe that the plaintiff only accompanied Lamarr to his suite at the W Hotel so they could
talk and get to know each other
.”

I dramatically rolled my eyes.

“She wanted to
talk
? At two-fifteen in the morning? We all know the real reason we’re in this courtroom.”

I raised my left hand and slowly rubbed my thumb back and forth across my fingertips. “So that the plaintiff can collect.”

Point by point, I meticulously reviewed the evidence, then reminded the jury that the plaintiff changed her story so many times, that the L.A. District Attorney’s Office elected not to file criminal charges against Lamarr. By the time I finished recounting
my
version of the facts, I hadn’t exactly come out and called Tonisha a dishonest, opportunistic skank who didn’t deserve a dime, but the jury got my drift.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not here to convince you that Lamarr Harris is a choir boy. He’s not. But he’s also not a rapist. His only mistake on June twenty-fifth was failing to recognize that he was being played by the plaintiff.”

I pressed my lips together and paused for three long beats. “Please don’t let her play you too.”

Even before I was settled in my seat, Lamarr leaned over to whisper words of praise. “That was tight, counselor!”

It felt great to have such a satisfied client. I just hoped he still felt that way
after
the jury’s verdict.

Girlie Cortez took to the floor again and was about to begin her rebuttal. She abruptly stopped and turned to the judge. “Your Honor, could you ask Ms. Henderson to please remove her exhibit?”

I tried not to smirk as I took my time fiddling with my computer. I’d watched other opponents complete their entire rebuttal with a damaging photograph or document looming in the background. I didn’t think Girlie would be that sloppy, but it was worth a try.

Recognizing that the jury was antsy, Girlie didn’t speak long. “Ladies and gentlemen, I won’t waste your time rehashing facts you already know. I just want you to remember that the defendant is a handsome, wealthy young man who’s used to getting what he wants, whenever he wants it, no matter what the consequences. And Lamarr ‘
The Hero’
Harrison wanted Tonisha.”

She made a show of gazing over her shoulder at Lamarr, which drew the jury’s attention his way.

“My client is a naive young woman who was infatuated with a celebrity football player she’d just met. Please—”

Girlie’s voice cracked and her eyes started to water. It was an act I’d witnessed before.

“Please don’t punish her. Punish the man who raped her and make him pay for his brutal crime.”

When I saw Lamarr’s hands curl into tight fists, I firmly tapped my foot against his and his thick fingers instantly sprang loose. I’d repeatedly warned him not to show any sign of aggression in front of the jury.

In just over an hour, the judge finished the instructions to the jury and dismissed them to begin deliberating. Lamarr walked toward his friends huddled in the back of the courtroom while I stuffed papers into my satchel.

“Nice closing,” Girlie said, breezing past me. “Maybe the third time’ll be the charm for you.”

I didn’t bother to respond. I’d lost my last two cases against Girlie and it still smarted. The fact that we were both minority women in a profession dominated by white males should have created some level of camaraderie between us. But Girlie wasn’t the collegial type.

As I closed my satchel, I felt a hollowness that had nothing to do with my disdain for my conniving adversary. I’d done a good job, but the verdict, I knew, could go either way. And even though I’d love a win against Girlie, I wasn’t sure my client deserved one.

When you spend close to a year prepping a case for trial, you see sides of your client that no one else ever will. Not their wives or girlfriends, not their parents, not even their life-long homies. And the man I’d come to know wasn’t the stand-up guy I’d just presented to the jury.

Despite his celebrated nickname, as far as I was concerned, Lamarr Harris was nobody’s hero.

D
etective Dean Mankowski stepped across the threshold of the two-bedroom home where Judi Irving had been viciously attacked. He grimaced as his eyes took in the chaos. Overturned chairs, ripped cushions, a cracked coffee table, and a bucket of blood spatter on the door and wall.

“I think my gut’s already got a line on this one,” he announced to his partner.

Mankowski was tall and solidly built. A committed bachelor in his mid-40’s, his wavy, dirty-blonde hair and TV cop’s swagger enhanced his raw good looks.

Detective Mitchell Thomas scratched his head, then exhaled. “Okay, let’s hear it. What’s your gut saying this time?”

Mankowski smiled. “It’s the boyfriend.”

Upon their arrival almost thirty minutes earlier, the two detectives received a quick recap from the first officer on the scene, then briefly spoke to Phillip Peterman. Mankowski’s dislike for Peterman was instantaneous. One, the guy didn’t have a real job. Two, he was an actor. And three, he waxed his eyebrows.

“Man, you go with your gut way too much,” Thomas complained. “We haven’t even interrogated him yet.”

A few inches shorter than his partner, Thomas had skin the color of almonds, an angular nose and pencil-thin lips. He was a married father of three with a salesman’s demeanor.

Mankowski took a step back to allow an officer carrying two large plastic bags to walk by. A female crime scene tech hovered near the front door, snapping pictures of the blood spatter. A man on his knees dusted the coffee table for prints.

An hour earlier, paramedics had rushed Judi Irving to St. John’s Medical Center in Santa Monica. Their hysterical housekeeper had discovered Judi bleeding and unconscious on the living room floor.

“I just hope the woman makes it,” Mankowski said. “Then
she
can tell you how right I am.”

His gut wasn’t always on the money, but it had racked up enough hits for him to still confidently rely on it.

Thomas let out half of a chuckle. “Here we go again. We’ll probably spend the next three months going after the boyfriend only to find out it was a burglary gone bad. Look at this place.”

Mankowski shook his head in disagreement. “This is a staged scene. Somebody just wanted us to
think
this was a burglary. And that somebody is Phillip Peterman.”

“Maybe,” Thomas said, rubbing his dimpled chin, “maybe not. A back window was jimmied open. Somebody also went to the breaker box out back and shut off the electricity. Sounds like a burglary to me.”

Mankowski grinned like a proud papa. Thomas had only a fraction of his partner’s two decades of chasing down criminals, but he was on his way to becoming a solid detective.

When they’d first been paired up, everyone expected friction because Mankowski was a cowboy and proud of it. But Thomas had learned how and when to rein him in, so it worked out well. Mankowski also liked having an easy-going black guy for a partner. Most of the youngsters coming out of the Academy were too headstrong to appreciate the importance of listening to their elders.

“Nice analysis,” Mankowski said, “but this is overkill.” He stopped and surveyed the room. “Every piece of furniture in here was turned over, even the coffee table. Every cabinet opened, every drawer pulled out. What burglar takes the time to search the linen closet? This is a sloppy setup by somebody who wanted us to think his intent was to rob the place.”

“Maybe the burglar was searching for something,” Thomas said, resisting his partner’s theory. “Let’s wait to hear what Peterman has to say when we take him downtown.”

Mankowski exhaled. Interrogations at the station had to be videotaped. “I’d rather talk to Actor Boy here first.”

Thomas grunted, then followed his partner outside.

They found Peterman standing near a patrol car. He jumped to attention when he saw them approaching.

“Can I go now?” The words rushed out of him. “I need to get to the hospital to find out how Judi’s doing.”

Mankowski gave Phillip a quick once-over. His hair was uncombed, his sweater wrinkled, his eyes were swollen and bloodshot.
Definitely booze
, Mankowski thought.
Not grief
.

“We need you to tell us what happened,” Mankowski said.

“I already told you that.” Phillip’s voice was a smidgen short of surly. “I don’t know what happened. I have to get to the hospital. I don’t even know if Judi’s still alive.”

Mankowski zeroed in on what appeared to be scratches on the side of Phillip’s face. He’d done a piss-poor job of trying to cover them up with makeup.

“We won’t keep you long,” Mankowski said. “We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

Mankowski hated having to be polite. He missed the good old days when you could slug a suspect and get away with it. Rodney King and camera phones screwed up everything. People actually thought they had rights.

Phillip perched himself on the hood of the patrol car.

“So how did you learn about the attack on your girlfriend?” Mankowski asked.

“I got a call from Imelda, our housekeeper.” Phillip rubbed his forehead. “We can only afford to have her clean once a month. I’m just glad this was her day to come.”

“When did she call you?”

“Just after eight this morning.”

Mankowski and Thomas had already questioned the distraught housekeeper, who was of little help.

“So what kept you out all night?”

Phillip stared down at his laced fingers. “I…uh…I had a meeting with my agent in the Valley. I left home around ten. We didn’t finish talking business until after midnight, so I stayed at his place instead of driving home.”

Mankowski nodded. The guy didn’t look gay, but you could never tell these days. “Do you spend the night at your agent’s house very often?”

“Every now and then,” Phillip sniffed.

“How’d you get those scratches on your face?”

Phillip’s hand absently flew to his cheek. “I…uh…I was doing some yard work a couple of days ago and got swiped by a tree branch.”

“Which tree?” Thomas asked.

“The one out back.”

“I only saw one tree in your backyard,” Thomas pressed. “It didn’t have any branches?”

“The gardener trimmed it.”

“I thought you just said you did the yard work,” Mankowski said.

“I do. Sometimes.” Phillip’s eyes darted left, then right. “But we have a gardener too. What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Those scratches on your face look pretty fresh to me,” Mankowski continued. “You sure it wasn’t your girlfriend who scratched you?”

Phillip jumped to his feet, his nose inches from Mankowski’s. “This is ridiculous. Why are you treating me like a suspect? I don’t have to take this.”

“Yes, you do.” Mankowski pressed his palm flat against Phillip’s chest and pushed him back against the car.

“You can’t treat me like this,” Phillip protested. “I know my rights.”

“Rights? You don’t have any rights.”

Detective Thomas stepped between them. Thomas rarely thought it was a good idea to piss off a person of interest. It made it harder to get what you wanted. But Mankowski preferred to lay it on with a heavy hand.

“Mr. Peterman, let me apologize for my partner.” Thomas emitted a friendly smile. “He’s a little worked up this morning because he really wants to find out who attacked your girlfriend.”

“I don’t care how worked up he is. He can’t talk to me like this.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Thomas agreed.

“I’m leaving.” Phillip tried to brush past Detective Thomas, who took a step sideways, blocking his path.

A smile eased across Mankowski’s lips when he saw his mild-mannered partner’s jawline go taut. Thomas was always Mr. Congeniality. Until a perp pissed him off.

“Yep, you are leaving,” Thomas said. “And you’re coming to the station with us for further questioning.”