Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(40)
“How long will it take you?”
“I can have it to you in a couple of days.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Dr. Kershaw. I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up the phone and pounded the desk.
“Gotcha again,” I said out loud. “I’m going to make you look like the fool you are, Mike Armstrong.”
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 9
I pulled up to the Judicial Center in Jonesborough in a foul mood. The bones in Caroline’s legs, especially her knees and hips, were causing her a great deal of pain in spite of all the medication she was taking. She’d developed another urinary tract infection and was semi-delirious. I left her in the hands of a new home health care nurse and wasn’t the least bit happy about it.
But I had to be in court at 9:00 a.m. Kevin Davidson, a player named Demonte Wright, and a third player named Evan Belle were being arraigned. They’d been indicted two days earlier by the Washington County Grand Jury, arrested the day before, charged with aggravated kidnapping and aggravated rape, and had spent the night in jail. The magistrate who signed the arrest warrants hadn’t set a bail amount, so besides the arraignment, we’d be arguing over bail.
The courtroom was packed with members of the media, and there were at least eight television cameras scattered around. The judge was Gwen Neese, a sixty-year-old, attractive woman who had been a judge for six years and hadn’t yet managed to develop what I called “black robe fever.” She treated people, including defendants and their attorneys, with dignity and respect, and she knew the law cold, which was refreshing after having dealt with men like Leonard Green and Ivan Glass for so many years. Their IQs were lower than most of the people I defended.
Judge Neese walked into court at 9:00 a.m. sharp as the bailiff called the proceeding to order.
“I’d like to take up the case with the three defendants who have been charged with kidnapping and rape first,” she said. “Bring them in.”
Four uniformed bailiffs flanked the three young men as they walked into the room. They were wearing the orange jumpsuits provided to inmates at the Washington County Detention Center, and they were handcuffed, shackled and waist-chained. It was the kind of treatment reserved for the worst of the worst, and I thought it was over the top.
“This is ridiculous, your Honor,” I said as I walked to the podium where the arraignment would take place. “Would you please order the bailiffs to remove the shackles and waist chains?”
“I take it you’re representing one of these defendants,” Judge Neese said.
“Kevin Davidson,” I said. I reached out and put my hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “I’m representing him along with my associates, Jack Dillard and Charleston Story.”
Jack and Charlie were sitting in the jury box with several other attorneys. The judge looked over at them and nodded. She turned back to me.
“Courtroom security decisions are made by the sheriff’s department, Mr. Dillard. You know that. These men are all charged with two Class A felonies. I can’t speak for the sheriff or whoever made the decision about the waist chains and shackles, but I would imagine it’s just standard operating procedure for these charges.”
“The charges are completely baseless,” I said. “There isn’t enough evidence to have probable cause for an arrest.”
“The grand jury obviously disagreed with your assessment,” the judge said.
“You and I both know how grand juries work. They hear one side and they rubber stamp what the prosecution puts in front of them.”
Mike Armstrong was sitting at the prosecution table. He stood quickly.
“I take offense to that remark,” Armstrong said. “We’ve investigated this case thoroughly, we have a positive identification from the victim, and we intend to hold these men accountable for the serious crimes they committed.”
“I tried to show Mr. Armstrong a video we obtained that was taken at the party where my client and his teammates allegedly kidnapped and raped this so-called victim. It clearly shows that none of what she is saying is true. Mr. Armstrong refused to look at the video. When I tried to talk to him, he covered his ears like a child and wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. The line-up that produced the identification of which Mr. Armstrong speaks was illegal. Totally bogus. And we can prove it. On top of that, we have an expert who will testify that the alleged victim had such a high concentration of drugs in her system—one in particular called gamma hydroxybutyrate—that she wouldn’t have been able to remember what happened the night this alleged assault took place.”
“And I’ll cross-examine this so-called expert and discredit him in front of the jury,” Armstrong said.
“That’ll be interesting, since he’s testified for the state dozens of times,” I said.
“Gentlemen, please. We’re not here to try the case,” the judge said. “We’re here for arraignment.”
“I realize that,” I said. “I just want the court to be aware that this case has been brought on the flimsiest evidence I’ve seen in my entire career. I have no idea why, but I’ll eventually get to the bottom of it. And when I do, there will be severe ramifications.”
“Excuse me,” Armstrong said. “Did Mr. Dillard just make some kind of veiled threat?”