is your value on the lecture circuit.” I knew that Kim worked the circuit for all it was worth, knocking down between seven and ten grand per speech. “We’re looking at a New York trial here. With New York publicity.” I ran on before he could interrupt. “Don’t give me an answer now. What I’ll do is fax the forensic material out to you as soon as I get it. You don’t like what you see, I can always find some pro bono jerk to say Byron was about to run the hundred yard dash. Maybe the jury’ll believe it. And maybe they won’t care.”
Ever the entrepreneur, Kim responded without hesitation. “And maybe,” he reminded, “they’ll convict an innocent woman.”
The mid-week period went by in a blur. I got the details of Priscilla’s indictment early Tuesday morning. Her crime having lacked any of the special circumstances necessary for a charge of murder in the first degree (and a possible death sentence), she’d been charged with second degree murder. This in addition to drug possession in the first degree, criminal use of a firearm in the first degree, and criminal possession of a weapon in the first degree. The homicide and drug possession charges, both A1 felonies, each carried a maximum penalty of twenty-five years to life. The others were all B felonies and, given Priscilla’s repeat offender status, carried seven year minimums.
I remember gathering my troops that evening and reading the charges and penalties out loud, adding, “If the sentencing judge strings them out consecutively, Priscilla Sweet’s gonna go from prison directly into the ground.” This time there were no wise guy remarks. Caleb went back to his desk and continued to laboriously enter his interview notes. Julie returned to the motion she was writing while I pored over a rough draft of our demand letter.
We were riding a high generated by the evening news. All three networks had run with a press conference held by the Sweet family. Sebastian, Rose, and son William, along with Reverend Mathias Silverstone, had been perched on stiff, high-backed chairs that looked to have been dragged out of somebody’s dining room. Their attorney, on the other hand, Henry Lee Thompson, had been seated just off to the left on a cushioned armchair. Thompson, tall and impossibly wide-shouldered, had delivered a passionate, rapid-fire speech on the vilification of black males, adding a homily on victim’s rights that contradicted every other speech he’d given in the course of a long, successful career. Then he’d ducked the matter of Byron’s abuse by accusing a reporter (black, by the way) of harboring racist sentiments. Thompson’s face was all forehead, cheekbones, and jaw. His nose and lips, small anyway, seemed to fade away beneath a pair of black eyes angry enough to loosen the bowels of judges, jurors, and hostile journalists alike.
Thompson and I shared a number of traits. We were, the both of us, mindless advocates, belligerent to a fault and as committed to personal victory as champion pit bulls. The difference was that Henry Lee’s advocacy extended beyond himself and his client to a political agenda that interested me not at all.
On the other hand, what did interest me was that Henry Lee’s diatribe was certain to provoke a response from members of the community with political agendas of their own. That response wasn’t long in coming. The phone rang about 8:30 and I picked it up without thinking.
“Kaplan.”
The woman on the other end identified herself as Rebecca Barthelme, chairwoman of the New York Women’s Council’s advisory board.
“Oh, right,” I said, interrupting. “I believe you’ve already been in touch with my client.”
“That’s correct.” Her delivery was tight, her voice almost breathless with tension. “Before you came into the picture.”
“I see. Well, what can I do for you?”
“The Council is considering an offer of aid to Priscilla. But we need a little more information before we can
Ever the entrepreneur, Kim responded without hesitation. “And maybe,” he reminded, “they’ll convict an innocent woman.”
The mid-week period went by in a blur. I got the details of Priscilla’s indictment early Tuesday morning. Her crime having lacked any of the special circumstances necessary for a charge of murder in the first degree (and a possible death sentence), she’d been charged with second degree murder. This in addition to drug possession in the first degree, criminal use of a firearm in the first degree, and criminal possession of a weapon in the first degree. The homicide and drug possession charges, both A1 felonies, each carried a maximum penalty of twenty-five years to life. The others were all B felonies and, given Priscilla’s repeat offender status, carried seven year minimums.
I remember gathering my troops that evening and reading the charges and penalties out loud, adding, “If the sentencing judge strings them out consecutively, Priscilla Sweet’s gonna go from prison directly into the ground.” This time there were no wise guy remarks. Caleb went back to his desk and continued to laboriously enter his interview notes. Julie returned to the motion she was writing while I pored over a rough draft of our demand letter.
We were riding a high generated by the evening news. All three networks had run with a press conference held by the Sweet family. Sebastian, Rose, and son William, along with Reverend Mathias Silverstone, had been perched on stiff, high-backed chairs that looked to have been dragged out of somebody’s dining room. Their attorney, on the other hand, Henry Lee Thompson, had been seated just off to the left on a cushioned armchair. Thompson, tall and impossibly wide-shouldered, had delivered a passionate, rapid-fire speech on the vilification of black males, adding a homily on victim’s rights that contradicted every other speech he’d given in the course of a long, successful career. Then he’d ducked the matter of Byron’s abuse by accusing a reporter (black, by the way) of harboring racist sentiments. Thompson’s face was all forehead, cheekbones, and jaw. His nose and lips, small anyway, seemed to fade away beneath a pair of black eyes angry enough to loosen the bowels of judges, jurors, and hostile journalists alike.
Thompson and I shared a number of traits. We were, the both of us, mindless advocates, belligerent to a fault and as committed to personal victory as champion pit bulls. The difference was that Henry Lee’s advocacy extended beyond himself and his client to a political agenda that interested me not at all.
On the other hand, what did interest me was that Henry Lee’s diatribe was certain to provoke a response from members of the community with political agendas of their own. That response wasn’t long in coming. The phone rang about 8:30 and I picked it up without thinking.
“Kaplan.”
The woman on the other end identified herself as Rebecca Barthelme, chairwoman of the New York Women’s Council’s advisory board.
“Oh, right,” I said, interrupting. “I believe you’ve already been in touch with my client.”
“That’s correct.” Her delivery was tight, her voice almost breathless with tension. “Before you came into the picture.”
“I see. Well, what can I do for you?”
“The Council is considering an offer of aid to Priscilla. But we need a little more information before we can
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