Hubbard to a chair opposite Ryan. “Please, sit, Mo. You want some water or anything? Coffee?”
“No thanks.” Hubbard unbuttoned the top few buttons of his fleece to reveal an old-school blue work shirt, then sat down heavily. “How can I help you?”
“Well,” Jake said, sitting down at the head of the table, “before I explain the situation—”
“Excuse me, I thought it was your son who contacted me,” Hubbard interrupted, turning to Ryan. “Who am I here for, you or your father?”
“Both of us,” Jake answered quickly. “My son Ryan is a minor, sixteen years old, and I can explain why we wanted to meet with you.”
“Fair enough.” Hubbard folded his pudgy hands in front of him on the table. He made no move to take notes or reach for one of the fresh pads and pens from the center of the table.
“First,” Jake began, “am I correct in assuming that anything we tell you in this consultation is privileged and confidential?”
Hubbard nodded. “Yes.”
“Does that mean, if you were to hear information from us that might be incriminating in some way, you couldn’t go to the authorities and tell them what you heard. Is that right?”
“Correct. Not only am I not obligated to do so, I am obligated not to do so. Let me explain something.” Hubbard cocked his curly head, seeming to address Ryan, mainly. “The way I think about this is simple. My job is to help you. There are rules about how far I can go in helping you. For example, I can’t ethically assist you in covering up wrongdoing, and I wouldn’t. But the way the American system works is that the prosecution has to prove that somebody did something wrong. That person, called the defendant, doesn’t ever have to help them do that. You get to remain silent, just like they say on TV. That right is guaranteed to you by the Constitution. Understand?”
“Yes,” Ryan answered, his tone quiet.
“I represent people accused of crimes. My job is to represent my clients fully and zealously, to the best of my ability. I don’t involve myself with their guilt or innocence. I don’t even ask my clients if they’re guilty. You understand?”
“Not really.” Ryan frowned. “Doesn’t it matter to you if they’re guilty or not?”
Listening, Jake felt secretly proud of his son. Ryan didn’t understand because he expected the law to lead to justice, not thwart it.
Hubbard nodded, acknowledging the question. “It doesn’t matter to me because I’m not the judge. I’m the defense lawyer. My job is to represent you. I make sure that you have the array of protections the law affords you. The Commonwealth has a lot of resources at its disposal that you’ll never have, no matter who your father is. Or your mother.”
Ryan blinked, and so did Jake, both of them getting the message. Hubbard was telling them he knew who Pam was, and he had probably already guessed that they had called him about the hit-and-run on Pike Road. And Hubbard’s subliminal message—whether Ryan was getting it or not, Jake couldn’t tell—was that he distinctly did not want to be told who was driving the car that night, so he could maintain deniability. In fact, Jake realized that Hubbard could be assuming Ryan was alone in the car.
Hubbard turned and faced Jake, his eyes small and dark blue behind his glasses. “Now, would you like to fill me in?”
“Certainly.” Jake chose his words carefully. “To make a long story short, we left the scene of a car accident, without calling the police or 911, after we had ascertained that the pedestrian was dead and unresponsive to CPR. We were wondering what our legal obligation was, at this point.”
“Are you asking me if you have a legal obligation to turn yourselves in?”
“Yes.”
“No, you do not. You have no such legal obligation.”
“I see.” Jake shot Ryan a glance. He had guessed correctly that there was no legal obligation, only a moral one, which paradoxically, wasn’t the same thing.
“As
“No thanks.” Hubbard unbuttoned the top few buttons of his fleece to reveal an old-school blue work shirt, then sat down heavily. “How can I help you?”
“Well,” Jake said, sitting down at the head of the table, “before I explain the situation—”
“Excuse me, I thought it was your son who contacted me,” Hubbard interrupted, turning to Ryan. “Who am I here for, you or your father?”
“Both of us,” Jake answered quickly. “My son Ryan is a minor, sixteen years old, and I can explain why we wanted to meet with you.”
“Fair enough.” Hubbard folded his pudgy hands in front of him on the table. He made no move to take notes or reach for one of the fresh pads and pens from the center of the table.
“First,” Jake began, “am I correct in assuming that anything we tell you in this consultation is privileged and confidential?”
Hubbard nodded. “Yes.”
“Does that mean, if you were to hear information from us that might be incriminating in some way, you couldn’t go to the authorities and tell them what you heard. Is that right?”
“Correct. Not only am I not obligated to do so, I am obligated not to do so. Let me explain something.” Hubbard cocked his curly head, seeming to address Ryan, mainly. “The way I think about this is simple. My job is to help you. There are rules about how far I can go in helping you. For example, I can’t ethically assist you in covering up wrongdoing, and I wouldn’t. But the way the American system works is that the prosecution has to prove that somebody did something wrong. That person, called the defendant, doesn’t ever have to help them do that. You get to remain silent, just like they say on TV. That right is guaranteed to you by the Constitution. Understand?”
“Yes,” Ryan answered, his tone quiet.
“I represent people accused of crimes. My job is to represent my clients fully and zealously, to the best of my ability. I don’t involve myself with their guilt or innocence. I don’t even ask my clients if they’re guilty. You understand?”
“Not really.” Ryan frowned. “Doesn’t it matter to you if they’re guilty or not?”
Listening, Jake felt secretly proud of his son. Ryan didn’t understand because he expected the law to lead to justice, not thwart it.
Hubbard nodded, acknowledging the question. “It doesn’t matter to me because I’m not the judge. I’m the defense lawyer. My job is to represent you. I make sure that you have the array of protections the law affords you. The Commonwealth has a lot of resources at its disposal that you’ll never have, no matter who your father is. Or your mother.”
Ryan blinked, and so did Jake, both of them getting the message. Hubbard was telling them he knew who Pam was, and he had probably already guessed that they had called him about the hit-and-run on Pike Road. And Hubbard’s subliminal message—whether Ryan was getting it or not, Jake couldn’t tell—was that he distinctly did not want to be told who was driving the car that night, so he could maintain deniability. In fact, Jake realized that Hubbard could be assuming Ryan was alone in the car.
Hubbard turned and faced Jake, his eyes small and dark blue behind his glasses. “Now, would you like to fill me in?”
“Certainly.” Jake chose his words carefully. “To make a long story short, we left the scene of a car accident, without calling the police or 911, after we had ascertained that the pedestrian was dead and unresponsive to CPR. We were wondering what our legal obligation was, at this point.”
“Are you asking me if you have a legal obligation to turn yourselves in?”
“Yes.”
“No, you do not. You have no such legal obligation.”
“I see.” Jake shot Ryan a glance. He had guessed correctly that there was no legal obligation, only a moral one, which paradoxically, wasn’t the same thing.
“As
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