“Because I don’t like being in jail. What kinda stupid question is that?”

The bailiff leaves and Kaufman says, “I’m vacating the contempt order, okay, Mr. Rudd? I figure one night in the slammer is enough for your behavior.”

I say, “Well, it’s certainly enough for a mistrial or a reversal.”

“Let’s not argue that,” Kaufman says. “Can we proceed?”

“You’re the judge.”

“What about the hearing in federal court?”

“Are you asking me for legal advice?” I fire back.

“Hell no.”

“Ignore the notice at your own risk. Hell, Judge Samson might throw the both of you in jail for a night or two. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

12.

We eventually make it back to the courtroom, and it takes some time to get everyone settled. When the jury is brought in, I refuse to look at them. By now they all know I spent the night in jail, and I’m sure they’re curious about how I survived. So I give them nothing.

Judge Kaufman apologizes for the delays and says it’s time to get to work. He looks at Huver, who stands and says, “Your Honor, the State rests.”

This is an amateurish ploy designed to make my life even more miserable. I rise and angrily say, “Your Honor, he could’ve told me this yesterday or even this morning.”

“Call your first witness,” Kaufman barks.

“I’m not ready. I have some motions. On the record.”

He has no choice but to excuse the jury. We spend the next two hours haggling over whether or not the State has presented enough proof to keep going. I repeat the same arguments. Kaufman makes the same rulings. It’s all for the record.

My first witness is a scraggly, troubled kid who looks remarkably similar to my client. His first name is Wilson; he’s fifteen years old, a dropout, a druggie, a kid who’s basically homeless, though an aunt allows him to sleep in the garage whenever he’s sick. And he’s our star witness!

The Fentress girls went missing around 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. They left school on their bikes but never made it home. A search began around 6:00 and intensified as the hours passed. By midnight, the entire town was in a panic and everyone was outside with a flashlight. Their bodies were found in the polluted pond around noon the following day.

I have six witnesses, Wilson and five others, who will testify that they were with Gardy on that Wednesday afternoon from around 2:00 until dark. They were at a place called the Pit, an abandoned gravel pit in the middle of some dense woods south of town. It’s a secluded hideout for truants, runaways, homeless kids, druggies, petty felons, and drunks. It attracts a few older deadbeats, but for the most part it’s a haven for the kids nobody wants. They sleep under lean-tos, share their stolen food, drink their stolen booze, take drugs I’ve never heard of, engage in random sex, and in general waste away the days while sliding closer to either death or incarceration. Gardy was there when someone else abducted and murdered the Fentress girls.

So we have an alibi—my client’s whereabouts can be vouched for. Or can it?

By the time Wilson takes the stand and is sworn in, the jurors are suspicious. For the occasion he’s wearing what he always wears—grimy jeans with lots of holes, battered combat boots, a green T-shirt proclaiming the greatness of some acid-rock band, and a smart purple bandanna looped around his neck. His scalp is skinned above the ears and yields to a bright orange Mohawk roaring down the center. He’s displaying the obligatory collection of tattoos, earrings, and piercings. Because he’s just a kid without a clue and is now being dragged into such a formal setting, he instantly retreats behind a smirk that makes you want to slap him.

“Just be normal,” I told him. Sadly, he is. I wouldn’t believe a word he says, though he’s telling the truth. As rehearsed, we walk through that Wednesday afternoon.

Huver annihilates him on cross-examination. You’re fifteen years old, son, why were you not in school? Smoking dope, huh, along with your pal here, that’s what you’re telling these jurors? Drinking, and drugging, just a bunch of deadbeats, right? Wilson does a lousy job of denying this. After fifteen minutes of abuse, Wilson is disoriented, afraid he might be charged with some crime. Huver hammers away, a bully on the playground.

But because Huver is not too bright, he goes too far. He’s got Wilson on the ropes and is drawing blood with each question. He’s grilling him about dates—how can he be certain it was that Wednesday back in March? You kids keep a calendar out there at the Pit?

Loudly, “You have no idea what Wednesday you’re talking about, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson says, politely for the first time.

“How?”

“Because the police came out there, said they were looking for two little girls. That was the day. And Gardy had been there all afternoon.” For a kid without a brain, Wilson delivers this perfectly, just like we practiced.

Evidently, when there is a crime in Milo slightly more serious than littering, the police rush out to the Pit and make accusations. Harass the usual suspects. It’s about three miles from the pond where the Fentress girls were found. It’s blatantly obvious none of the regulars at the Pit have any means of transportation other than their feet, yet the police routinely show up and throw around their considerable weight. Gardy says he remembers the cops asking about the missing girls. The cops, of course, do not remember seeing Gardy at the Pit.

None of this matters. This jury is not about to believe a word Wilson says.

Next, I call a witness with even less credibility. They call her Lolo, and the poor child has lived under bridges and in box culverts for as long as she can remember. The boys protect her and in return she keeps them satisfied. She’s now nineteen and there’s no way she will see twenty-five, not on this side of the bars. She’s covered in tattoos, and by the time she’s sworn in the jurors are already disgusted. She remembers that particular Wednesday, remembers the cops coming out to the Pit, remembers Gardy being there all afternoon.

On cross, Huver can’t wait to bring up the fact that she’s been busted twice for shoplifting. For food! What are you supposed to do when you’re hungry? Huver makes this sound like she deserves the death penalty.

We plow ahead. I call my alibi witnesses, who tell the truth, and Huver makes them look like criminals. Such is the lunacy and unfairness of the system. Huver’s witnesses, the ones testifying on behalf of the State, are cloaked with legitimacy, as if they’ve been sanctified by the authorities. Cops, experts, even snitches who’ve been washed and cleansed and spruced up in nice clothes, all take the stand and tell lies in a coordinated effort to have my client executed. But the witnesses who know the truth, and are telling it, are discounted immediately and made to look like fools.

Like so many, this trial is not about the truth; it’s about winning. And to win, with no real evidence, Huver must fabricate and lie and attack the truth as if he hates it. I have six witnesses who swear my client was nowhere close to the scene when the crime was committed, and all six are scoffed at. Huver has produced almost two dozen witnesses, virtually all known to be liars by the cops, the prosecution, and the judge, yet the jurors lap up their lies as if they’re reading Holy Scripture.