Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

of another felony, murder of a police officer. A few veteran lawyers specialized in court-appointed capitals, since the fees averaged a decent $750 for every day's appearance in court, even if it took only an hour's time to plea-bargain with whoever was the assistant district attorney on the case. But sometimes a judge gave an opportunity to a promising young lawyer. That Judge Lou Parker would do that for
him,
Warren thought, seemed unlikely.
    "Who's the victim?" he asked Bourne-Smith.
    "Some Vietnamese. Shot in the parking lot on Wesleyan. It's a nothing case, it'll go real fast. Just let me get the judge's okay."
    "I'll be here at noon," Warren said. "Thank you."
    Outside the 299th a chain gang of eight prisoners emerged from one of the courthouse elevators. All wore thin brown cotton jumpsuits with the words HARRIS COUNTY JAIL stenciled on the back. All were young, all but two were black. To a man they looked as if hope and freedom were dead issues. They were led by a woman deputy sheriff in tight taupe uniform, who said politely, "Gentlemen handcuffed by the right hand, place your hands over the chain like this. Now y'all follow me." The prisoners marched off in a file toward Judge Parker's holding cell. Warren wondered if Hector Quintana was among them.
    Warren left the anteroom through the back door into the eighth-floor main hallway, then headed down the stairs to the fifth floor and the domain of Judge Bingham's 342nd District Court.
    Three or four lawyers in ill-fitting suits and ties were lounging in Bingham's handsomely furnished jury box, guffawing and back-slapping at the latest courthouse gossip. They, like Warren, were waiting for the largess of the court coordinator.
    "Morning, your honor. How's business?"
    Judge Bingham glanced down from the bench, a shade startled. Then he said warmly, "Warren… you devil."
    Warren sometimes wondered if Bingham confused him with his father, or if there was a natural assumption about a chip off the old block.
    "How's the wife, son? Saw her on the TV a few evenings ago. Looking peachy."
    "She's fine, Judge. And how's your garden?"
    The widowed judge, mocha-colored and slightly pink-eyed, looked preoccupied. "Can I do anything for you?"
    "Whatever's available, Judge. My wife likes to shop at Neiman's."
    "With what I imagine your wife makes, she can afford it. But you go see LuAnne. Tell her to give you next up."
    Warren went back toward chambers to talk to LuAnne, Bingham's veteran court coordinator. A sign on her desk said: OLD AGE AND TREACHERY WILL OVERCOME YOUTH AND SKILL. Obeying the judge's order, LuAnne gave Warren the file folder for an escape case. The defendant, J. J. Gillis, had been under arrest for a DWI on the western edge of Harris County. When no one was looking he walked unmolested out of the local jail. He was picked up fifteen minutes later in a bar down the street.
    Warren talked to Gillis, a black workingman of about forty with gnarled hands, one of them now shackled to a steel bolt on the bench outside Bingham's holding cell. Then he sought out Bob Altschuler, whose job required him to plea-bargain for escapes and DWIs as well as prosecute headline murders. Altschuler was talking quietly to the tall, curly-haired court reporter Maria Hahn. She stepped to one side when Warren nodded.
    "The Gillis case, Bob. Man was still drunk when he walked out of the jail. You can't call that an escape. What kind of an offer will you make?"
    Altschuler said sourly, "Intoxication doesn't negate the crime. A deuce," he said, meaning two years in TDC, the Texas Department of Corrections, in the Huntsville prison complex.
    "I can do better in trial," Warren said.
    Altschuler raised a bushy eyebrow. "Maybe you can, but if you keep Bingham from a few afternoons tending his zinnias, you'll never get appointed in this court again except to sweep it."
    Warren said, "How about thirty days jail time and five years probation?"
    "No way. Six months and ten years."
    Warren took the