Part 19 (2/2)
”We're prepared to deal with that,” says Tannery. ”The needs of justice take precedence over mere commercial interests. The court can evaluate it and decide whether the witness must answer.”
Tannery already knows the result, a criminal courts judge faced with questions involving a potential life sentence. It is not a close call. He will order Tash to answer the question.
It's a neat strategy, knowing as Tannery does that the papers taken by Kalista Jordan from Crone's office are likely never to be found. He also knows that Tash has made a point about the nature of his work, that it is off-limits, that he would rather go to jail for contempt than answer questions about the center's research. If the state puts Tash in front of the jury, he will no doubt refuse to answer questions regarding his work, thereby raising questions about what he has to hide. No matter what he says, questions of racism are likely to overwhelm any other evidence. Even a bald denial of racially related research, without some indication of what they were working on, is not going to satisfy the jury. And the specter of Tash, Crone's number two, being hauled off in chains to serve time for contempt does not augur well for our case. We are about to be called on the very issue Crone has studiously avoided from the beginning, the nature of his work with Kalista Jordan.
”It's time to cough it up,” says Harry.
We have wasted no time. It is early afternoon, and we have Crone in the little cell off the courtroom. Coats is looking for a way out. He has deferred a decision on whether Tanya Jordan can testify until tomorrow, when he will allow us to voir dire her outside the presence of the jury, put her on the stand under oath and see what she will say. Harry and I are now like blind men wandering through a minefield.
Tannery's position is that it doesn't matter whether racially charged research was involved or not. The mere fact that Kalista Jordan believed Crone was back delving into this field was sufficient to motivate her to take the job. Where the prosecution may fall short is on the second issue. Was it the motive for murder? Without some showing that our client was actually involved in what might be construed as politically volatile research, why would Crone kill her? On this issue Tannery may have to make some showing, link his suspicions with at least some hard evidence.
It is now imperative that Crone tell us what he was working on, so that we can sweep the racial issue off the table.
”I can't do that. I've told you repeatedly . . .”
”Why? Are you telling us that you were working on this?” Harry is in his face.
”No. I'm telling you that my work is not a subject for public disclosure.”
”Trade secrets?” asks Harry.
”If you like.”
”I don't like.”
I tell Crone that the rules have changed. There's a new wrinkle.
”Not as far as I'm concerned.”
He can hide behind the Fifth Amendment, refuse to take the stand. Tash does not have that luxury. ”If he refuses to testify, he's gonna end up in the bucket,” says Harry. ”And his refusal would work against you. The jury would draw conclusions you don't want them to draw. Believe me.”
This slows him down. Crone thinks for a moment. Looks at Harry. ”It had nothing to do with race,” he says. ”Not in a direct fas.h.i.+on. Not in the way that you think.”
”What does that mean?”
”I can't say anything more. You'll just have to trust me,” says Crone.
Harry is now beside himself. ”Not likely.” He's pacing the little room. ”It's been a surprise a minute and you expect us to trust you? I'm telling you, we should have withdrawn.” Harry puts this to me. ”The first time he lied to us.”
”I never lied to you.”
”The argument with Kalista the night before she disappeared?”
”That was an oversight. I forgot. I told you. And besides, the police are making more out of it than it was.”
”Great,” says Harry. ”Fine. We'll tell the jury that. What do you know about Tanya Jordan?” He changes gears.
Suddenly s.h.i.+fty eyes from Crone. Who says you can't read demeanor?
”Nothing.”
”She certainly knows about you,” says Harry. ”According to Tannery, she toted the tar and feathers when they rode you out of Michigan on a rail.”
”n.o.body rode me out of anywhere. I received a better offer out here. More freedom to do my work, so I came. That's the truth.”
”There were a lot of students,” says Harry. ”They had to use tear gas to keep them from storming the walls of your cla.s.sroom building. They didn't like what you were doing.”
”They didn't understand. They didn't have the first clue about academic freedom, the need for free and independent research. A scientist goes where the science takes him.”
”You tell 'em that on the stand,” says Harry, ”and they're gonna hang a great big sign around your neck that says RACIST.”
”I'll have to live with it,” says Crone.
”Perhaps in an eight-by-ten-foot cell for the rest of your life.” I finally come into the conversation, and Crone looks at me.
”You think so?”
I give him an expression that it's anybody's guess. That I would not be surprised.
”Five hundred years ago that same kind of mentality, those same people, put Galileo in front of the Inquisition,” says Crone.
”You're no Galileo,” says Harry.
”Like it or not, it's a political world,” I tell him. ”Offend people at a c.o.c.ktail party, and they'll give you a dirty look and walk away. Offend people on a jury, and they may lock you away for the rest of your life, or worse.”
Crone thinks about this for a moment. Silence, then he offers a distant look, somewhere halfway between here and h.e.l.l. ”That's the price we pay for truth,” he says.
Outside the courthouse, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, wondering whom I represent: the Dr. Jekyll who laid himself on the blocks to help Penny Boyd, or the Mr. Hyde who dabbled in racially charged research.
Crone has been tethered to a line of other jail inmates for the walk back to the county lockup. Whatever it is he isn't telling us may come rolling out of the witness box like a bomb. In criminal law, your biggest enemy too often is your own client, based on the lies they tell or the truths they withhold.
It is verging on darkness, the shortening days of early winter, as Harry and I a.s.sess where we go from here. We have few alternatives. Tomorrow we face Tannery's offer of proof with Tanya Jordan; unable to really prepare for her testimony, we will scramble to take notes and follow up with questions.
Harry is tired, depressed. It has been a while since he's had a client as unyielding as David Crone. Criminal defendants usually see the light, even the most hardened liars. At some point they are forced to deal with the reality of facing stiff time, and the fact that no lawyer can help them unless they come clean. Usually they crack like a clay piata. But not Crone. He may take whatever secret he possesses with him to the joint.
Harry doesn't like it. He thinks we're being used. ”There're a lot of ways to lose a case,” he tells me. ”Our name is out there. New boys on the block in a new city, with our reputation riding. There's a lot of publicity. And don't think I'm not worried about the client. But he's making his own bed.”
Harry getting wound up, moving toward his usual rendition of ”Maybe we withdraw.”
”You know we could tell Coats he won't cooperate with counsel.” I listen under the yellow light haze from the streetlamps overhead. At the curb, a block away a lone blue van is parked across from the steel-gated garage of the county jail, probably waiting to disgorge its pa.s.sengers chained inside.
The conversation with Harry finally starts to run down. Harry has vented his spleen. No resolution, but he feels better. He says good night and heads for his car. I am parked in the other direction. Five minutes later behind the wheel of Leaping Lena, I am lost in the streaming sea of headlights caught in the rush on I-5, inching my way toward the arching Coronado Bridge and home.
Like half of the world, twice each day I am left alone on a crowded freeway with my private thoughts, modern man's equivalent of the religious experience of solitude, eyes straining into the rearview mirror at the headlights blinding me from behind.
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