Enemy Combatant Read online

  With the exception of the frenetic scratching of reporters’ pens and pencils against paper, the courtroom became deathly silent. Gomez lowered his hands, and just stood there, as if not quite sure what to do next. Then, abruptly, he sat down, and declared, “That’s it. I’m done, Your Honor. I need a new lawyer.”

  Apparently, it was time for someone else to talk.

  Yet it was not clear that poor Steve Temilow was up to the task. He had managed to keep his back to the defendant for the entire tirade, but Gomez had failed to dematerialize. Worse, the unpleasant fellow had added a sound track to his heretofore silent performance.

  So Temilow did what he did best—he hoisted a white flag.

  “Um, Your Honor, if I might attempt to address the court. With deepest personal apologies, of course, for the unusual nature of this situation….”

  However, Judge Klay was not so easily assuaged. “Your apology is not accepted, Mr. Temilow,” she snapped, glaring at the defendant. “I rather think that it is Mr. Gomez who needs to address this court. Mr. Gomez?”

  The defendant rose from his seat before speaking. “Yes, Judge?”

  “Am I to understand that despite the fact you stand trial for multiple counts of murder and for conspiracy to commit murder as well as a number of other extremely serious crimes, you wish for me to discharge Mr. Temilow from the case?”

  “Well, Your Honor, I don’t know about no discharge. All I want is a new lawyer. This one ain’t doing nothing for me. He sounds like all he wants to do is give up, but I didn’t do nothing wrong, so I don’t want him representing me.”

  The judge took a deep breath. She glanced over the defendant’s head at the courtroom crowded with people, reporters, a television camera, the governor and his wife, even those members of the victims’ families who had made the trip down to see this fiend get what was coming to him. Then she looked at the prosecutor. Of course I don’t know exactly what was going on in Rhonda Klay’s mind at that moment, but I would have bet you a stack of pancakes that she was thinking there was no way in the world she was going to be shown up in her courtroom, in front of millions of Americans, on the first day of the slam-dunk trial of a mass-murdering terrorist.

  She looked down at some papers that were laid out in front of her on the bench, and then she looked back up at the defendant with her coal black eyes, a clever smile squeezing her narrow face. I knew, right then, that whatever the judge was going to say, it was going to be bad news for Mr. Gomez.

  “Very well, sir. Here is my ruling. You are entitled to have an attorney appointed to represent you, and according to the case file, you have had not just one, but three lawyers assigned to your case. And you have chosen to find fault with each one of the three.”

  She slapped the file shut, rather melodramatically, I thought, and then gave her ruling in a clipped staccato. “I find that this is nothing more than a pattern of behavior designed to delay the trial. You have had ample time to prepare, and ample representation. I will not indulge your behavior any further. Here are your choices, Mr. Gomez. You will either withdraw your request to have Attorney Temilow removed from the case and accept him as your lawyer, or you will proceed without any representation at all, and serve as your own attorney for the remainder of the proceedings.”

  It didn’t take a legal expert to analyze that pair of options. There was no way in the world that Juan Gomez, shipping manager for Desert Furniture Warehouse, could possibly defend himself in a multiple murder trial before Judge Klay. And using Steve Temilow on a case like this was like trying to stop a freight train with a butterfly net.

  But to Gomez’s credit, he did not back down. “Your Honor, you talk about a choice, but that ain’t no choice. I don’t want Mr. Temilow as my lawyer, and I don’t want to represent myself. All I’m asking for is an attorney that will stand up for me here. They are saying I did this terrible thing, but I didn’t do it. I need someone who will tell that to the jury.”

  While this exchange took place, Steve Temilow was standing off to the side of the defense table, looking less like the attorney of record, and more like an over-dressed spectator at a sporting event who had mistakenly walked out onto the field of play.

  And the ball was in Judge Klay’s court, so to speak, which Her Honor did not like one bit. It came whizzing back at the defendant with quite a bit of attitude. “Sir, you have heard my ruling.” Pulling back the sleeve of her robe, the judge took a look at the watch she was wearing. “If you do not withdraw your request that I discharge Mr. Temilow from the case in the next fifteen seconds, I will discharge him. Consider your decision carefully. You now have…eleven more seconds.”

  It was at that very moment that some long-winded fool from the gallery jumped out of his seat, and shouted, “Your Honor, that’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard in nearly ten years of practicing law! You know full well that there has been no attempt to delay these proceedings—the record will reflect that while represented by his second attorney, the defendant filed at least three separate requests for a speedy trial. Hardly the kind of thing one does when one wants to drag his feet. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Gomez spent more time being held without an attorney, and tortured by the United States of America—six months, thank you very much—than the five months he spent between the time he was finally put in the criminal justice system and the beginning of this trial.

  “Fifteen-second countdowns belong on television game shows, not in this courtroom—or in any other American courtroom—especially in a trial which is so important. A man’s life is at stake here, not to mention the fact that this is supposed to be about finding some kind of justice for the hundreds and hundreds killed and injured in Denver last year. If the case against Mr. Gomez is as strong as everyone seems to believe, then it will not be long before he suffers the consequences he so richly deserves. But, for the record, the court’s response to the defendant’s perfectly reasonable reaction to Mr. Temilow’s behavior today is nothing short of shocking. And because the defendant’s attorney seems incapable of doing so, I emphatically and strenuously object.”

  Less than two and one half minutes later, I was appointed as the fourth and final attorney for Juan Abdullah Gomez.

  Because, as you must have surmised by now, that long-winded fool was me.

  TWO

  THERE IS A RITE of passage that every young attorney must face after he or she makes the decision to represent criminal defendants. Mine was that cold moment eight years ago, when Uncle Fred, at Thanksgiving dinner, took the mashed potatoes from me and asked in front of the entire family, “So, Tom, why in the world would you want to represent murderers and rapists? Especially considering what your father does for a living.”

  I should have been ready for it, but I was not. I was thinking about the turkey my mom had made, and how different my cousin Brittany looked without her braces, and whether her older brother, Drew, was a compulsive gambler.

  And as the Detroit Lions kicked off, en route to their annual holiday thrashing, twenty-three pairs of eyes turned toward me, Mr. Big Shot Who Had Just Passed The Arizona Bar And Who Wanted To Represent Murderers And Rapists.

  I froze. Uncle Fred. When I was thirteen and wanted to try out for the middle-school baseball team, he was the guy who had hit ground balls to me. And now he had just turned into this gray-haired, scowling inquisitor. He knew that I was a good person, that I would never hurt anyone intentionally. Shoot—I used to baby-sit all the time for his kids before he and Aunt Jane moved to Los Angeles.

  But here he sat, putting me on the spot, implying I had some kind of affection for violent, dangerous felons. He blinked at me from behind his thick black glasses. He wasn’t smiling.

  The silence grew.

  Suddenly, from the head of the table, my father spoke. “Okay, Fred. You got me. I admit it. It was my fault.”

  Everyone turned to face the lifetime prosecutor.

  “I was the one who encouraged Tom to go into criminal defense. Because the
system only works when law enforcement and civil liberties are balanced by both prosecutors and defense attorneys. We need good, honest defense lawyers, Fred. They help make our civilization one of the most advanced in history. They’re the reason we don’t have to worry about secret police breaking down our doors in the middle of the night.”

  My father paused, as if to let Uncle Fred speak. But we all knew that there would be no reply. Henley Carpenter had no patience for shallow thinking, and in fifteen seconds my dad had revealed Uncle Fred’s attack to be based on nothing more than that.

  Then he continued, “Of course I was a little disappointed when Tom said, ‘The heck with the Constitution, Dad. I’m going into the toughest and least popular job in law because I just love murderers and rapists.’ But, what are you going to do? Can you please pass the gravy, Heather?”

  And with that, Thanksgiving was back.

  I mention that story only because I want to make it very clear that my outburst in Judge Klay’s courtroom had nothing to do with any warm feeling that I had for Mr. Gomez. As far as I was concerned, he was as loathsome a character as any I’d ever met in my life, and I had absolutely no desire to have any association with him whatsoever.

  It was just that I truly cared about how criminal trials were run, and what Judge Klay was doing was so contrary to everything that I had been taught, both at law school and by my father, that I simply couldn’t sit there without saying something.

  The last thing in the world I was thinking about as I was shooting my mouth off like that was getting appointed to the Juan Gomez case.

  And then suddenly, I was watching the situation unravel right in front of my eyes as if I weren’t the tall, dark-haired idiot standing in the third row of the gallery.

  The defendant was saying, “Him, Judge. That’s what I’m talking about. I want this man to be my lawyer. I want someone who will object to this bullshit.”

  The prosecutor was looking back and forth between me and the judge, finally saying, “Your Honor, I object. I object to this entire situation.”

  Sarge, who had risen from his station on the far right of the courtroom, was unreadable. All I could see was that it looked like he had gotten his bright white uniform shirt newly starched for the big trial.

  But finally my attention returned to Judge Klay, where another nasty little smile was twitching its way onto her face. She pulled her beady stare away from the defendant and fixed it on me. “Attorney Carpenter, isn’t it? Thomas Carpenter? Please approach the bench, sir. Immediately.”

  As I squeezed past the USA Today reporter, I felt him put something in my hand and heard him whisper, “We’ll pay for an exclusive.” The television camera had swung around, and was now tracking my progress as I clumsily made my way over the people sitting between me and the aisle. I would learn later that three million viewers watched me accidentally step on the right foot of Governor Hamilton’s wife, Eulalia.

  Yet even during my unceremonious catapult onto one of the biggest stages in American criminal justice, I wasn’t thinking about Juan Gomez, or press coverage, or Mrs. Hamilton’s sore toes.

  I was thinking that Judge Klay was going to throw me in jail for contempt. And while, of course, it was going to be bad enough to be humiliated like that on national television, what was worse was that it was going to happen on a Tuesday.

  For the past three years, I had had an arrangement with my sister-in-law, Amy. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, she and her daughter—my five-year-old niece, Erica—would come over to my parents’ place on Payson’s Ridge. On Saturdays, Amy would cook. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, it was up to me.

  And on this particular Tuesday, I had promised Erica that I would discuss with her—in detail—my impressions of her truly outstanding performance as the big green turtle in the Oak Canyon Elementary School kindergarten musical.

  Before I arrived at the trial that day, I had stopped to attend the only public performance of Our Earth, Our Home. Since Erica’s mother was a fourth-grade teacher at the school, and her dad, my brother Dale, had died in Afghanistan before she was even born, I always felt an obligation to show up for Erica whenever I could at school plays, athletic contests, dance recitals, whatever would normally have been attended by a father. It just seemed like something an uncle should do under the circumstances.

  It was the second such event that I witnessed—Erica’s first soccer game; she was four, and no one came close to scoring a goal—which transformed completely my sense of obligation into a feeling of anticipation and delight. I loved my niece, and I really loved watching her grow up.

  So that morning I’d stood with pride at the back of a small auditorium filled with an army of video-recorder-wielding stay-at-home moms, while forty-four five-year-olds dramatically costumed as various flora and fauna sang songs honoring the environment.

  I realize that I was not an objective observer, but I am confident of my opinion that Erica was by far the most talented of the four-legged creatures in her class.

  By this I mean no disrespect to the other members of the vertebrate family. I am merely commenting on Erica’s ability to carry a tune, and the other cast members’ rather nonchalant attitude toward such mundane considerations as melody or pitch. Not to mention the red-haired giraffe who obviously felt comfortable only when his index finger was snugly inserted into his left nostril.

  Yet despite its imperfections, the entire experience was quite moving. These feelings are not unusual for me, and I have been gently teased about them by Erica’s mom, Amy, especially on those occasions when I get a little emotional at school concerts. I understand that as a single mother, Amy needs to look at the world in a very practical way. And I respect her choice to view elementary school musicals as a bunch of kids running around in funny-looking outfits, singing vaguely recognizable songs with almost no regard for the desperate accompaniment of a single, completely overmatched, upright piano.

  But I know the voice of God when I hear it.

  Before I reached Judge Klay’s bench, however, she quite effectively derailed my train of thought about dinner and Erica’s chorus. I was standing immediately to Steve Temilow’s left, a few feet from the defense table, when the mean little woman changed my life forever. “You can stop right there, Attorney Carpenter.” She signed a piece of paper, thrust it at her clerk, a nice guy named Manny Estrada, and turned back to face us. “Mr. Temilow, thank you for your service. Effective immediately, you are discharged from this case. You may file your withdrawal of appearance with the clerk.” I heard a flurry of murmurs behind me. Five reporters had gotten up from their seats and were scuttling toward the exits. Most of the others were writing as fast as they could move their pens.

  The judge continued. “Mr. Carpenter. Normally I am loath to reward the kind of outburst you just favored us with, but your presence here has given me a unique opportunity to solve several problems at once. I am hereby appointing you as attorney of record for the defendant in this case. Please file your notice of appearance with the clerk immediately. After the prosecutor exercises his challenges to the jury, we will be ready for opening statements. I suggest you take a moment to confer with your client and review Mr. Temilow’s files.”

  You probably know by now that I have an excellent memory. Remember when I told you a little while ago that about a quarter of Arizona’s population was Hispanic? If I had wanted to, I could have said that twenty-five point three percent of Arizona’s population was Hispanic. How do I know this? I remember it from reading it in a magazine last year. The Southwest Law Journal. I’m pretty sure it was in the August issue.

  This is not a sign of intelligence, nor is it anything that I can claim credit for. It’s just something that I was born with. I seem to automatically retain a great deal of what I’ve read and experienced. When I was a kid, I got a kick out of reading almanacs, especially when I found that I could remember most of the sports records. It helped in both college and in law school—I went through accelerated programs at eac
h. And when I became an adult, I could be counted on to recall, with considerable accuracy, conversations and events—at least important ones—for years.

  But try as I might, I cannot remember anything about what transpired next at Juan Gomez’s trial. It was like any flow of intelligent thought in my mind had become instantly blocked by a massive dam of panic.

  One minute I was watching the biggest trial in the country from the courtroom gallery, and the next I was on the verge of giving the opening statement for a defendant accused of murdering one hundred thirteen people in a terrorist attack.

  The transcript of the case indicates that I raised some protest to the judge’s actions, but there was no question that she had the authority to appoint me. I was a member of the bar, and I was on the list of attorneys who would accept appointments to cases such as Mr. Gomez’s murder trial. I managed to stammer out an objection or two, but for the most part, I sounded like I felt—completely stunned.

  The transcript then reflects that the prosecutor challenged two of the jurors. Both were immediately replaced with acceptable substitutes. It reveals that the judge next spoke to the fourteen jurors for a few moments about their responsibilities.

  And I have absolutely no memory of any of that, either. For all I know, the first five minutes of my appointment to the case of Arizona v. Juan Abdullah Gomez featured a courtroom full of dancing flamingoes doing an encore from Our Earth, Our Home.

  What I do remember is that in the moments before the prosecutor’s opening statement, I was desperately looking through the files that Steve Temilow had left on the defense table, hoping to find a concise description of Gomez’s planned defense against the charges. Unfortunately, this strategy consisted of little more than my fumbling vainly through piles and piles of unfamiliar and unhelpful folders and documents while my new client was thrusting pieces of paper in front of me on which he had written things like I didn’t do this. You got to believe me when I tell you I didn’t do this. And Why would I blow up Denver??? I never even been to Denver.