Wednesday afternoon they ventured for the first time into the Judiciary Square neighborhood, home to the various courthouses that handled the District’s legal matters. The hub was the District Courthouse, a massive, 1970s-style concrete edifice where those accused of all manner of criminal activity were dealt with. Its jungle of courtrooms sprawled over six levels. Its hallways were crowded with lawyers ducking in and out of hearings and defendants free on bail loitering nervously with their loved ones. Court was open to the public; admission was free and easy, after the obligatory security with metal detectors and body scans. They watched jury trials in progress. They watched first appearances where inmates in jumpsuits were hauled before judges for quick paperwork, then sent back to jail. They watched motion hearings in which prosecutors and public defenders argued back and forth. They studied the dockets and collected as much paperwork as possible. They roamed the hallways, watching carefully as lawyers huddled with frightened families. Not once did they hear anyone ask a lawyer if he or she actually had a license to practice. Not once did they see anyone they recognized.
That night, they worked until ten serving drinks and food at The Rooster Bar, then retired to their grungy apartment upstairs, where they spent hours online navigating the maze of the D.C. court system. Criminal law was their future, primarily because the fees could be paid in cash and the clients would have no interest in stopping by their office for consultation. Such meetings would take place either at jail or in court, just like Darrell Cromley’s.
They skipped classes again on Thursday and opened new checking accounts. There were six Swift Bank branches in the D.C. metropolitan area. Mark went to one near Union Station and deposited $500 in the name of Mark Upshaw. Todd Lane did the same at a branch on Rhode Island Avenue. Together, they visited another Swift Bank branch on Pennsylvania Avenue and opened a law firm checking account with a bogus taxpayer ID number. Thursday afternoon, they were back in court, absorbing the circus.
They skipped classes on Friday and stopped thinking about Foggy Bottom. If possible, they would never see the place again, and that in itself was exhilarating.
Gordy’s DUI citation required him to appear in courtroom 117 in the District Courthouse on Friday afternoon at 1:00. At 12:45, Mark and Todd arrived outside the courtroom and tried to appear as nervous as possible. A crowd was gathering. Mark held the citation and looked as though he needed help. Both wore jeans and hiking boots and were sufficiently scruffy. Mark also wore a John Deere cap. A guy with a briefcase arrived and spotted them. He walked over and said to Mark, “You here for a DUI?”
“Yes, sir,” Mark replied. “Are you a lawyer?”
“Yep. You got one?”
“No, sir.”
“Can I see your citation?”
Mark handed it over and the lawyer frowned as he read it. He then pulled out a business card and gave it to Mark. Preston Kline, Attorney-at-Law. “You need a lawyer for this,” Kline said. “My fee is a thousand bucks, cash.”
“Really, that much?” Mark asked, shocked. Todd stepped beside him and said, “I’m his friend.”
Kline said, “It’s a bargain, son. I can save you a lot of money. If you’re found guilty, you’ll lose your license for a year but before that you’ll spend some time in the slammer. I can probably get that suspended, though.”
Kline wasn’t nearly as smooth as Darrell Cromley, but at the moment that didn’t matter. Mark said, “I got four hundred cash. I can get the rest later.”
Kline said, “Okay, but it’s due before your court date.”
“What court date?”
“Okay, we’ll walk in and see the judge, name’s Cantu, a real hard-ass. I’ll do the talking and you don’t speak unless I say so. Cantu will go through the motions, all routine stuff, and you’ll plead not guilty. He’ll set the case for a hearing in a month or so and that’ll give me time to do my work. I’m assuming you actually blew 0.11?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got the cash?”
Mark reached into a pocket and removed some money. He handed over four $100 bills and Kline snatched them. “Let’s go inside and do the paperwork.”
Todd asked, “Can I go too?”
“Sure. The zoo is open to the public.”
Inside, lawyers milled about beyond the bar as a dozen or so spectators watched them. Kline directed Mark to a spot in the front row and removed some papers from his old briefcase. “This is a contract for legal services between you and me,” he said, pointing. He scribbled in the sum of $1,000. “It’s also a promissory note to pay the balance. Look it over, fill in your name and address, sign at the bottom.”
Mark took his pen and wrote Gordon Tanner’s name and his old address. He and Todd were banking heavily on the chance that no one would recognize Gordy’s name from the news covering the suicide. And, they seriously doubted that anyone in the vast court system had removed Gordy’s name from the DUI docket. If so, and if Mark was questioned, they planned to simply walk away. Or run.
Mark read the contract and tried to memorize as much as possible. He handed it back and asked, “You do a lot of these?”
“All the time,” Kline said smugly, as if he were a high-powered litigator.
Todd said, “Say, my brother got in a fight at a Caps game and is charged with assault. Do you handle those?”
“Sure. Simple or aggravated?”
“Simple, I think. How much do you charge?”
“A thousand bucks if there’s a plea. If he goes to trial then it’s far more expensive.”
“Can you keep him out of jail?”
“Sure, no problem. If he’ll plead to a disturbance, he’ll walk. Later, I can get it expunged, for another thousand. That is, if there’s nothing else on his record.”
“Thanks, I’ll tell him.”
At 1:00, Judge Cantu assumed the bench and everyone stood. The assembly line began as one DUI defendant after another walked through the gate when his or her name was called by a clerk. Only about half had lawyers. Each was asked to plead either guilty or not guilty. Those admitting guilt were handed papers by a prosecutor and asked to sit in a corner and fill in the blanks. Those pleading not guilty were assigned return dates in February.
Mark and Todd watched every move and heard every word. They’d be in the business soon enough.
When Gordon Tanner was called, Kline said, “Take off your cap.” He led Mark to the bench and they looked up at the judge. “Hello, Mr. Kline,” Judge Cantu said. They had watched him work for twenty minutes and the guy was Santa Claus, with a smile and kind word for everyone who appeared before him. Though traffic court was the lowest rung on the ladder, he seemed to enjoy it.
“First offense?” Judge Cantu asked.
“Yes, sir,” Kline responded.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Mark with a pleasant look. Mark had a knot in his stomach that felt like a bowling ball, and he half expected someone, perhaps one of the assistant prosecutors, to blurt out, “Hey, I recognize that name. Thought Tanner jumped off the bridge.” But there were no surprises.
Judge Cantu said, “May I see your driver’s license, Mr. Tanner?”
Mark frowned and said, “Well, Judge, I lost my wallet. Credit cards, everything.”
“Well, you won’t be needing your license. I’m assuming you’re pleading not guilty.”
Kline quickly said, “That’s correct, Your Honor.”
The judge scribbled here and there and said, “Okay, your court date is February 14. Should make for a nice Valentine’s Day.” He smiled as though he’d said something humorous.
Kline took some papers from a clerk and said, “Thanks, Judge. See you then.”
They backed away from the bench, and as they started to leave the courtroom Mark whispered to his lawyer, “Say, is it okay if we hang around and watch things?”
“If you’re that bored, sure.”