Another sleepless night and another crying jag in the shower. It was now close to nine a.m. and Sean gazed out of the cab’s window. The E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse was crowded with television reporters holding microphones and burly men with heavy cameras balanced on their shoulders. The front of the blocky gray building also was lined with protesters. Some held signs while others chanted—“Free Ma-lik Montgom-ery! Free Ma-lik Montgom-ery!”—in the fresh air of the spring morning. A handful of U.S. marshals kept watch.
As Sean and Emily climbed out of the cab, everyone on the plaza seemed to descend on them at once. Sean put his arm around Emily to shield her from the onslaught, but she wriggled her shoulders away. She reached for Sean’s hand and led him toward the entrance, moving resolutely through the crowd and camera flashes, ignoring the aggressive questions shouted at them. Halfway to the entrance they were met by Cecilia. She pushed them through the reporters and into the courthouse.
They journeyed through the metal detectors, to the elevators, and through the doors of Courtroom 4. Cecilia took them to their reserved spots in the front row of the gallery. Sean peered over his shoulder. Every seat was filled. He saw familiar faces from both the Supreme Court press corps and the national morning shows. A court officer walked the center aisle shushing, but the place was abuzz. Sean faced the bench and watched as the court reporter adjusted her equipment and a law clerk nervously shuffled some papers. Patti Fallon sat in front of Sean and Emily at the prosecution table, her hands folded. Calm. Poised.
Sean always admired trial lawyers, the soldiers on the front line. They dealt with real people—people who had something to lose, whether it be their money, their kids, their freedom. In his entire career he’d never participated in a trial. He’d read a lot of trial transcripts, the bloodless record on appeal. But his search was not for the truth. An appellate lawyer’s search is for legal errors made along the way. And were there ever errors. Real trial work isn’t pretty. But most mistakes and shortcuts aren’t enough to reverse a judge or jury’s decision. And by the time a case made its way to the Supreme Court, it was in a pretty little package—after years working through the meat grinder of the system, everything usually boiled down to a single legal issue. Sean’s job wasn’t to stoke the passions of twelve jurors in the heat of trial, but rather to convince nine smart people through a civilized ritual of briefing and thirty minutes of oral argument.
Fallon occupied the space like she owned it. Sean and Emily were there as props for the media. Fallon had called the night before to say she didn’t need Sean as a witness. She didn’t say why, but perhaps Sean’s questions had spooked her.
The gallery grew quiet, and Sean turned to see what had captured the room’s attention. Blake Hellstrom walked down the aisle in his scuffed shoes. His left hand clutched a worn barrister’s bag, his right a soft guide on his client’s back. Malik Montgomery, dressed in a conservative suit and tie, looked younger than Sean remembered him. Hellstrom and Malik strolled through the swinging gate and took their station at the defense table. Malik’s father, a handsome man in his sixties in a gray business suit, moved to a seat in the gallery behind his son. Hellstrom approached Patti Fallon and they shook hands. Fallon did not look intimidated, though the lawyers on her team each seemed to swallow hard at the sight of Hellstrom.
A loud chime echoed from the ceiling and everyone stood as the Honorable Mara Chin entered the courtroom. As she took her seat behind the bench, she waved for the lawyers and gallery to follow suit. Emily squeezed Sean’s hand, and he pushed himself closer to her on the uncomfortable wooden pew seats in the gallery. Sean had read about Judge Chin in the Almanac of the Federal Judiciary, which contained her bio and anonymous comments from lawyers who appeared regularly before her. Chin was in her late fifties, an Obama appointee, liberal-leaning, no bullshit. The consensus: tough but fair.
Judge Chin had dark hair that touched her shoulders and deep smile lines. Her gaze cut to the lawyers and she began.
“Good morning. The court will hear case number 1-2-2-9-9-8, United States versus Montgomery. Before the court is defendant’s motion to suppress evidence. Counsel, please make your appearances.”
Fallon stood. A clear of the throat, then from the diaphragm: “Your Honor, I’m Patricia Fallon and I represent the people.”
Blake Hellstrom rose slowly, his chair scraping against the courtroom floor. No straightening of the tie, no preening. He held a slight smile as did the judge, as if they were old friends pretending to act formally. “I’m Blake Hellstrom, Your Honor.” Hellstrom looked toward Fallon and added, “I also represent the people—just one at a time.”
Laughter filled the gallery. The old lawyer had effortlessly broke the tension in the room. The judge gave an exasperated shake of the head.