In Self-Defense Read online

  IN

  SELF-DEFENSE

  by

  A. W. GRAY

  Copyright © 1995 by A. W. Gray

  First ebook Copyright © 2014 by Blackstone Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Trade: 978-1-4821-0183-6

  Library: 978-1-62460-647-2

  “And so we hold that a defendant’s right to counsel in any criminal prosecution, much more than a procedural right or an instrument of orderly legal process, is the very bedrock on which our system must stand; and that anything other than the unabridged granting of that right, no matter the evil alleged to the accused, is an evil far greater still.”

  —Tall Deer v. Oklahoma, from the 1917 majority opinion by Justice Learned Hand

  “Man, it’s just like any other business, they tell you all this shit just to get your money. Then they go buddy around with all them DA’s, and whatever the DA wants to do to you is what gets did. After they get our money and then get us in the courthouse, us guys just don’t matter anymore.”

  —Texas death row inmate John Earl Bandy, in interview prior to execution, November 11, 1988

  With special thanks to Ruth Kollman,

  Who, tired of being Della Street,

  Went back to school in a phone booth,

  And came out as Perrietta Mason

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The examining trial depicted herein is, technically, contrary to Texas law. Under the statutes, examining trials are conducted only prior to indictment. Exceptions are made, however, one peculiar to Dallas County, where the procedure is permitted post-indictment when the arresting officer wasn’t available for testimony prior to the convention of the grand jury. In the case of a minor certified to stand trial as an adult, such an exception might be possible because, prior to certification, the evidence against the minor is withheld by law. It’s never been done, but it might be. Consider this as poetic license, whatever, or if you choose, courtroom purists may now gleefully point the finger. Writers’ skins are thick.

  Other than this one exception, legal events described here are pretty much as they’d probably come down.

  Prologue

  The woman cringed against the headboard in a robe of lime green silk, the folds parting to reveal tensed, flawless thighs. She clutched satin-covered pillows to her breast, her mouth twisting in sensuous disgust as flying droplets of blood spattered the quilted spread and smooth rose-patterned sheets. There was sudden wetness on her cheek. She touched the damp spot, then stared dumbly at the red smear across her fingertips.

  The two teenage man-boys ignored the woman. One youth, a hulking, deep-chested redhead in jeans and a waist-length khaki jacket, stood with his back to the bed, hands on hips, his head inclined arrogantly as he watched the man on the floor writhe and twist in vain to dodge the blows. The man held out his hands in silent pleading. The husky redhead showed a toothy grin.

  The other boy, tall and thin with hints of dark peach fuzz on his cheeks, raised the steel lug wrench to strike again. The man’s eyes widened in agony. He raised his arms in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow. The wrench glanced off purple satin-covered forearm to land solidly against the man’s lacerated forehead. There was a sound as if a bat had struck a ripe melon. More blood flew. A crimson flood drenched the redhead’s jeans. His grin broadened.

  In minutes it was over. The man’s body lay twitching on its side, the purple robe soaked in redness, one foot bare, the other foot encased in a fur-lined slipper. The thin boy’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he stood over his prey, the steel wrench dangling loosely from his fingertips. As one the teenagers turned to face the woman.

  Long-lashed eyelids softly closed as she cast the pillows aside. A sob escaped her lips. She moved quickly, her robe riding up to expose one bare hip as she slid across the mattress to stand. The boys stared at her. They stood rooted in their tracks as she circled them, stepping carefully to avoid the dead man’s outstretched hand as she made her way warily over to the bathroom door. One splotch of red clung to her honey blond hair. She reached behind her, grasped the knob to open the door, and started to go inside the bathroom. Only then did the tall, thin teenager move.

  He took one long step and halted the closing door. The woman’s eyes widened slightly as she faced him through the crack. She looked up at him, the top of her head on a level with his chin. Woman and man-boy stood speechless. The boy looked down at the blood-drenched tire tool as though seeing it for the first time.

  Finally the woman stepped forward. She raised on the balls of her feet, slid both arms around the boys neck, and planted a long, lingering kiss on his lips. He responded, their mouths twisting hungrily, their pelvises grinding together. They held the embrace for a full thirty seconds while the burly redhead stood by and shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. She finally placed her hands on the thin boy’s shoulders and pushed gently away from him. “You must hurry,” she said. Then she stepped onto the bathroom carpet, pulled the door to behind her, and secured the lock with a soft click of tumblers.

  1

  Russell Black, firm of jaw and rugged of countenance, thoughtfully considered the résumé of applicant Sharon Jenifer Hays. The résumé, presented just that morning in bold letter-perfect format, exhibited the following highlights: UT School of Law, Class of ’86. Six years as a Dallas County ADA, fifty-one felony trials. Seven capital cases, all won; three men dead by the needle, four more on appeal. A former Texas Lady Longhorn with a hang-’em-high attitude.

  Finally Black set the résumé aside. His expression softened, deep leather creases around his eyes relaxing as he considered now the personal appearance and demeanor presented by the selfsame Sharon Hays: poised finishing-school posture in a high-backed leather chair, elbows on armrests, manicured nails showing a clear lacquer polish, dark hair short and razored at the neckline with fluffed-out, flippant bangs in front. Light blush makeup glowed on soft cheeks, lip rouge casting a faint rose tint, her mouth full, her nose slender. Showcase legs confidently crossed, her ankles delicate above gray high-heeled pumps. Homecoming queen candidate, dressed for the walk down the fifty-yard line with the Longhorn band playing “Eyes of Texas” in the background. Perhaps just a bit of uncertainty in her look, a woman with a whole lot more going for her than her beauty, but still not sure whether being female was a strike against her in Russell Black’s eyes. She’d be hoping that her record spoke loudly for itself. Which, Black had to admit, it did.

  Black gently closed the folder containing the résumé. “I never met you,” he said. “But I make it my business to know who’s who over at the DA’s office. You leavin’ was kind of sudden, wadn’t it?” His voice was deep, his accent straight from East Texas piney woods, same vibrant quality as a tree-stump evangelist.

  She met Black’s gaze with steady brown eyes. “Zero days’ notice,” Sharon said. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me. The circumstances were pretty different.” Her tone was soft and cultured, low notes on a xylophone.

  Black swiveled in his chair to face away from her, concentrated fleetingly on his own framed law degree where it hung on the wall—University of Houston, Class of ’69—then gazed out his first-floor window across Jackson Street, toward the rear entry to the George Allen Courts Building, formerly the main courthouse and renamed for a county commissioner. As Black watched, two young men in three-piece suits hustled side by side up the steps and disappeared through the revolving door with attaché cases banging against tailored dark pants legs. SMU grads, Black thought, that or some Ivy League school. Since the criminal courts had relocated a couple of miles to the west, on the other side of the Stemmons Freeway underpasses, attorneys from white-collar civil fir
ms were about all that frequented the old white brick courthouse anymore. Black had liked things more in the old days. Back then he could cross the street, go down to the George Allen building’s basement cafeteria, and drink coffee and shoot the bull with other criminal lawyers like himself, guys in cowboy boots who knew what life on the streets was all about. Now it was two miles in traffic to the new Crowley Courts Building, not worth the drive just to sit around and shoot the bull.

  “There’s rumors goin’ around, Sharon,” Black said, his gaze out the window. “I guess you already know that.” He went directly to a first-name basis, letting her know that his wasn’t a formal operation. The DA’s people called each other “Mr.” and “Ms.” until the cows came home, which Black personally considered a lot of horseshit.

  Sharon cleared her throat. “Since they’re about me, I haven’t heard any of them. Just ask me what you want to know, and I’ll do my best to fill you in.” If she minded his using her first name, you’d never know it from her tone of voice. Black liked her answer and manner of presenting it, and mentally placed two marks in the plus column for Sharon Hays.

  He turned back around in his chair, lifted his leg to rest his ankle on his knee, and pressed his shin against the edge of his desk. His suit was blue with a tiny gray pinstripe, his boots gray hand-tooled lizard. “I’ll do that before we’re finished,” Black said. “First I want to get a couple of other things out of the way. Why you quit the DA falls in the category of none of my business, unless you’re goin’ into practice with me.”

  Nylon whispered as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs. She raised an expectant eyebrow. She didn’t say anything, no challenge in her look, just a no-nonsense young woman understanding that Black’s last comment didn’t call for any response. Plus number three, Black thought.

  “First of all …” He picked up a gilt letter opener by its handle and placed the blade across his palm. “I think we can eliminate a lot of unnecessary talk if I find out what you already know about my operation, okay?”

  Sharon thoughtfully bit her lower lip, then smiled. “Every lawyer in Dallas County knows a little bit about you. You pick your clients. Don’t try a case but every couple of years or so, and when you do you generally win. You don’t advertise. I only know you’re looking for someone because I heard it over coffee the other day.”

  Black shrugged broad shoulders. His waist had expanded some in the past twenty-four years, but he still jogged and did sit-ups to keep from growing a full-sized beer gut. “I got an opening every three or four years,” he said. “Youngsters come along and work with me awhile, get to know a few pimps and dope peddlers, get ’em a client base and go out on their own. Hell, I don’t blame ’em, I did the same thing myself a long time ago.” He scratched his head through thick, graying hair, then held the letter opener once more in both hands. “As for me winnin’ cases, there’s a reason for that. It’s because I don’t handle but one case at a time, haven’t for years. Allows me to put the blinders on and concentrate on nothin’ but the one case. There’s advantages to that for a young lawyer throwin’ in with me, too. He gets to take on whatever cases he wants—or she wants, I’m not used to interviewin’ ladies, tell you the truth—and that takes care of my overflow. The fees for the other cases you’d get to keep for yourself, free overhead while buildin’ up your own stable of clients. As you know, in this fair county every Criminal Bar member’s got to take on court appointments, includin’ me. Any indigent case would be your baby. You’d get to keep the court-appointment fee, o’ course.” Black scratched his chin. “Let’s see, Sharon. Six years with the DA, you made felony prosecutor, you’re makin’ what, fifty thousand minimum?”

  She shrugged padded shoulders in a gray suit to match her shoes. “Close,” Sharon said. She wore an off-white summer-weight blouse buttoned to her throat.

  “Close enough, anyhow,” Black said. “Here, as a base salary you’d be makin’ barely more than half of that. With the fees you’ll take in on your own cases, you’ll wind up with double your DA’s income, but it takes time. Be a year or so before you could get back to what you were makin’ with the DA. So how would that sound to you?” He folded his arms, holding the letter opener in his right hand, its blade pointing toward the acoustical ceiling.

  She hesitated, likely choosing her words, her smile just a little timid now, not the look of a young woman who’d stood in the courtroom more than once and asked a jury for the death penalty. Finally she said, “The money’s about what I expected, Mr. Black.”

  “Russ. Nobody’s called me Mr. Black since my law school profs.”

  Her lips formed the word Russ, then apparently she couldn’t bring herself to say it, and said instead, “I’ve prepared myself to cinch up my girdle for a while. The deal you’re talking beats working for a big firm, where you’d get nothing but a salary and maybe a partnership after ten years or so. I like what you’ve said so far.”

  “So far you’ve only heard the good parts. Now for the bad. I may be easy to get along with, but I’m not exactly runnin’ a springboard for young lawyers to get rich off of. On my one or two cases a year, you’d be my cocounsel. Which really translates to bein’ my gofer, nothin’ more. My cases would take precedent over anything you were workin’ on, and that could cost you some clients. You’d do all my legal research. Hell, I always hated books, even in law school. You could make suggestions on my cases, but I’d be runnin’ the show. My cases would generally take up about half your time.”

  She bit her lower lip. “I confess I might have a problem with not making any decisions. I do know the law.”

  “Hell, yes, you know the law. Five’ll get you ten you know it a damn sight better’n I do. Everybody at the DA’s office knows the law. But face it, you’re used to workin’ for the government. When you’re a prosecutor, the court’s generally on your side, but where we come from, the judge is liable to say to hell with the law and rule against you just ’cause he thinks your client’s an assho—” He expelled breath, then said, “One of the bad guys.

  “What you’ve got to learn is,” Black said, “and this dudn’t have anything to do with the law. You got to know what prosecutor’s lazy, might make your client a good deal just to make his own job easier, and which prosecutor’s out to hang your boy come hell or high water. Which judge will let you maybe get away with a few shenanigans in court, and which judge is liable to slap you with a contempt citation. That kind of stuff you don’t learn in law school, and you sure don’t learn it down at the DA’s office. So that’s why, in any case I’m handlin’, you can make suggestions, but the final call’s up to me. At least ’til you get some practical experience under your belt.”

  She sat up straighter and smoothed her skirt over one rounded thigh. “Criminal law is all I’m trained for, Russ.” She cocked her head slightly as though she were thinking: Russ, there, I’ve said it. “And since I’m suddenly out of a job and can’t go to one of the white-collar firms with my experience, well, criminal law it is. So whatever you want, I’ll have to accept that even though I might not like it. What I might not like would be worth it if some of your reputation were to rub off on me. That and your style. I sneaked away from the office every day last year to watch you when you defended the Martins.”

  Black nodded. Ed and Patricia Martin had gone to trial for poisoning Patricia’s father, who’d owned a national cosmetics firm. Black had won an acquittal, and to this day he wondered every time he saw a bottle of Random on the men’s cologne counter whether Ed and Pat had been leveling with him. Sure had been a convincing pair.

  “Your closing argument was the best I ever heard,” Sharon said. “Every lawyer in the DA’s office, every defense attorney I know, they all say Russell Black is the best. I never went up against you myself, of course. Only the superchiefs get to try cases against Russell Black.” She favored Black with a look of respect.

  In spite of himself, Black felt like stickin
g out his chest. If this young lady was trying to butter him up, she sure knew which buttons to push. He looked at the ceiling. “Superchiefs. Sounds like a railroad, dudn’t it? Only in Dallas County do they call ’em that, DA’s specializin’ in cases that get a lot of ink in the newspapers.”

  “I always thought it was a little silly myself,” Sharon said. “But superchiefs they’ve been since whenever, before I was born. I’ve been around enough to know that as a woman practicing criminal law, I’m not going to get many clients other than court appointments until I can prove myself. And working with Russell Black is the best way in this county to do that.” Visible beyond her were photos on Black’s paneled wall, one of him on horseback, another of him wearing a western shirt, jeans, and a red bandanna around his neck, grinning in front of a steaming pot at the Terlingua Chili Cookoff.

  Black dropped the letter opener, put both feet on the floor, and leaned forward with his forearms resting on his desktop. “Now I got to ask you why you’re leavin’ the DA to begin with. The rumors we mentioned a minute ago. I’m not nosy, so nutshell it if you want to.”

  There was a downward shift to her gaze, an intake of breath as she prepared to talk about something in which she was emotionally involved, and she did her best to compose herself. Sharon Hays watched her own crossed knees as she said, “There’s no way to nutshell it.”

  There was a small twitch at the corner of his eye. His tone gentle, he said, “Take your time, then.”

  Sharon sighed. “Sexual harassment. A dirty word, huh?” She lifted her eyes, her gaze once again calm and steady, all of the hesitancy gone. “You’ll know Milton Breyer.”

  Black pictured Milt Breyer, tall and lean, a big, ugly bastard but with a pretty-boy way about him, married to big money. To Black’s way of thinking, Breyer was the number one offender in the DA’s office when it came to spouting half-cocked statements to the newspapers. Black almost said, Yeah, I know the sonofabitch, but then thought better of it. Russell Black hadn’t survived nearly a quarter century of practicing law, Dallas County style, for nothing. Better to keep your opinions to yourself, particularly about members of the DA’s staff. Never knew when your own words would come back to bite you in the ass. Black merely nodded. “I’ve tried a few cases against him,” he said.