Confessions of a Trial Lawyer

© 2010 Wilson Carlisle. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/30/2013

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008904231

ISBN: 978-1-4343-8584-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-2125-2 (e)

Contents

Book I Opening Statement

Part I – Five Days In August

Chapter 1 Flight Risk

Chapter 2 The Great Escape

Chapter 3 Home Alone

Chapter 4 Traffic

Chapter 5 Home Alone Ii

Section Ii – Five Fridays In December

Chapter 6 The Game

Chapter 7 Scar Face

Chapter 8 Rules Of Engagement

Chapter 9 Man Without A Country

Chapter 10 National Treasure

Book Ii Closing Argument

Part Iii – Winter Days

Chapter 11 Clear And Present Danger

Chapter 12 Thunderheart

Chapter 13 Buffalo Soldiers

Chapter 14 Last Of The Samurai

Part Iv – Three Sundays In April

Chapter 15 Disclosure

Chapter 16 Sum Of All Fears

Chapter 17 Sixteen Blocks

Book Iii Deliberations

Chapter 18 True Lies

Appendix:.

The Author

To my children, folks and friends, wherever they may be in the world.

BOOK I

OPENING

STATEMENT

PART I – FIVE DAYS IN AUGUST

CHAPTER 1 Flight Risk

Lakeland, Maine

August 18, 2006

Evening

My summer house was within 30 feet of the shore of a small lake. A wood of evergreens surrounded the lake, small cottages dotted the shoreline. On the far side, more building had been done, a beach belonging to my uncle had been cleared, - year-round houses with foundations built. Our side of the lake was steep, on the mountain’s edge. The far side flattened into a valley before the land rose sharply again. I was in my kitchen, picking-up from an evening meal. The sun was setting, the lake reflected the blues and greys of the clouds and sky.

At around 7:30pm my phone rang. As with all calls, I allowed the machine to answer, hoping it was Natasha.

It was my mother, Willie you have–

I picked-up, Yeah I’m here.

A sheriff was just here looking for you. He said he had something for you from Florida. She sounded worried.

I said, Don’t worry about it. I’m an agent for companies in Florida. They get sued all the time and I’m registered to accept the papers for that. I lied – I wasn’t getting served for a client – it used to happen a lot, - but not anymore, - my law office had been closed for a while. I wasn’t sure what it was, - but it was for me.

Are you in trouble? Mom said.

No. I told you.

You’re in trouble. She was more accusatory this time.

This used to happen all the time at my office in Florida – some client is getting sued. Or maybe I am. You non-lawyers are always scared when I get mail from The Bar, or from court or when some sheriff has a summons...but that’s who I deal with, where my mail and legal papers come from.

He said ‘warrant’,Mom shot back.

It’s all the same. I lied again – the difference between summons and warrant was the difference between being sued and being in jail. But what could I do? I already felt bad putting my parents through this, - the least I could do was lie about how serious things might be.

He asked us if we knew where you were.

What did you tell him? I tried to say evenly.

We said go right-up to the lake and get him.

Did you? I tried to mask my distress, speaking as calmly as possible. It was believable. But I didn’t think so.

No, we said we didn’t know where you were.

And you didn’t. I relaxed a little, once I realized my 76 year old mom was just screwing with me, - about sending the sheriff to the lake. Still, I reminded her not to feel guilty. She didn’t lie to the sheriff. Nor did my dad, the current Chairman of the Town Council and former fire chief, and retired teacher and superintendent of schools...

...And a sheriff had just been standing in his living room with a warrant for his lawyer son? I bet Dad just loved that. I heard that all my 75 year-old father said after the sheriff left was, He lives differently than we do.

I think the sheriff got the impression my folks meant I was in Florida – they said he said he’d send the paperwork back. But I didn’t think it would work like that – I assumed I was on a computer now, - every computer maybe – at least most law enforcement computers. I wondered about airport security or customs people in countries I planned on going to in just three days, - maybe I should leave sooner? Like now!

The sheriffs could have this address and that sheriff at my folks could be on his way here, - that would mean I had ½ hour or less. And if the deputy sheriff at my parents radioed ahead to another deputy sheriff – the second one could be here any minute.

I turned off the radio and the fan and the lights. I always had a small black bag packed and ready to go. And I had been sorting stuff for my trip which was supposed to start in three days. So I gathered that stuff and locked the door behind me. I went out to and off the back deck my dad built, down a short flight of temporary stairs he also built at the same time – about 10 years before.

I walked a path along the lake, - the area was thick with evergreens. Then I passed through an unimproved, but tree filled lot that we owned. Up above, a steep hill and another house owned by a friend. Then I climbed up steep concrete steps, - my kids had told me 47 of them. And the stairs were wide, - 1 and ½ steps, - not one, not two, - every step uncomfortable for some reason. (Actually, I knew the reason – 60 or 65 years before, my grandfather built the steps for my grandmother. For her stride they were perfect two steppers. She wanted time to rest since the climb was so long and steep.) Once at the top of the stairs I also stopped to catch my breath. Then I continued along a pine needle covered path that winds through the woods for a hundred paces or so. Then out to a logging trail that gives way to a dirt road. My rusty little green truck was parked there.

So I loaded my truck and parked it even further away from the house – if the sheriff saw my truck he wouldn’t connect it to my house on the lake for double sure. A sheriff couldn’t even see the house from the roads through these woods. And if he didn’t know about the foot trails, or which foot trails to take through the woods he wouldn’t find my house. And it was growing darker by the minute.

The truck wasn’t in my name either. That way if the police found pot in the truck, for example – and not in plain view, - they couldn’t presume it was mine. Which meant they had to prove I knew it was there – they can’t unless they get my prints off the bag – something they almost never do, and getting prints off those plastic bags is hard – and I wiped them down anyway.

If the car were in my name, then a court could presume that I knew the pot or whatever was there and it would be almost impossible to overcome the presumption. I would need to prove I didn’t know the pot was in a truck I was driving and registered to me. It is hard to over-emphasize how important presumptions can be in courts of law. I would need a believable mechanic who would swear he worked on my little pick-up and swear the pot was his and he left it there by accident. I would need work orders with the same date.

We did that when I got arrested for possession of marijuana in Miami during law school. We had the fact the car wasn’t in my name. We had a mechanic and paper work read to go, - but we had another defense – a better one. That was back in 1985.

Back in ‘85, my second year at University of Miami Law School, the Dade County Sheriffs stopped me for speeding and ultimately arrested me for possession of marijuana. While I was getting booked , they weighed the pot they found in my car, - it was borderline felony vs. misdemeanor weight (20/21 grams) – the cops lied and wrote the weight-up to try for the felony – dicks!

At the same time, my roommate’s dad, The Fatman, the bail bondsman, was already at the Kendall Sheriff’s Station to bail me out. He was yelling in his thick Brooklyn accent for the cops to Hurry-up booking Jimmy [one of my nicknames] because we got things to do.

The Fatman got there fast because I called my roommate Bud while handcuffed to a chair. I was just begging Bud to have his father, the bail bondsman, get to the police station and bail me out before I got transferred downtown to central holding. That place was scary. I’d seen it while clerking at the Public Defender’s Office. A hundred or more people in one not so large cell. All the night’s arrests in Miami, from murder to drunk driving.

Really Buddy. I got arrested. This is my phone call. Call your Dad. Quick, I said. I’m sure it was the panic in my voice that finally convinced him.

As the Fatman and I were leaving, some fat dumb desk cop noticed the car’s registration was in my grandmother’s name. He joked the pot was probably my grandmother’s. Little did he know that under the law, - that was the legal, - although absurd presumption (not quite, but they couldn’t presume it was mine, that was the point). As the Fatman used to say, You gotta’ love it!

And, because the cops lied about the weight, the case got tossed out of felony court and down to misdemeanor court. That meant the sheriffs had 6 months to serve (not re-arrest, just serve) me again – different courts: felony and misdemeanor, - therefore, new formal notification was required. So I never answered the door when the sheriffs knocked. It was that simple, - not getting served – just look-out the upstairs window and if it’s the sheriffs – don’t answer the door. And that’s what I did. So with the defense of a lack of service of process, the County Court Judge dismissed the case. And I got to play lawyer ever since.

So, some 20 years later, on that August night in 2006, I sat in my little old truck and looked over my lake in Maine, wondering if the Cabot County Sheriffs were close by. I sat there knowing the value of NOT getting arrested with a warrant, or even served with a summons in a timely fashion. So to be safe, I walked through the woods a ways so I could see clearly if any sheriff ( or anyone else for that matter) came up on the one and only access road.

After an hour of sitting and watching and hiking through the woods a little, - I felt relatively safe and returned to the lake house. But as I went to a not-so-restful sleep, I thought my trip should start a day or two earlier. I almost got back-up to go pay cash at a hotel and probably should have. This bit of laziness in staying at the lake house could have put an end to it all. I was getting sloppy and the trip hadn’t even started.

CHAPTER 2 The Great Escape

August 19th (The next day)

Cabot County Train Station

Afternoon

I was 44 at the time. An old 44, with the type of weather beaten face you get from years of tennis under the hot Florida sun and cold windy Maine winters to go along with. I was tired. Tired of thinking. ...tired of thinking What if this? ... What if that? ... I hadn’t been sleeping well... Wake and worry... Its just thinking I’d tell myself. But it was driving me crazy.

My ex-wife and my teenage kids had moved to the Carolinas and I didn’t see my kids enough. Businesses had failed in Westfield, Florida and one was sputtering in Cabot County, Maine. I had a dozen people that owed me over $50,000 total and I just couldn’t seem to get myself to start collecting it. I was never good at collecting money owed to me. Owed to someone else no problem; but not for me. I read that General Grant (and I’m not comparing myself to him – just trying to establish how difficult collecting money for yourself can be) – But Grant, the butcher of the Civil War; he couldn’t collect rent for his family’s property – but he is famous for being able to send troops to their deaths more readily than any other general at the time.

At least one business of mine, in Coral Gables, was paying me a mostly monthly dividend that helped support me, - but wasn’t making me rich by any stretch. My old law school roommate, the bondsman’s kid, was running the office that I helped set-up twenty years before. I also received a small monthly check from a disability case I settled – my own – for rheumatoid arthritis and a failed back surgery. I was living at one of my two cabins on a lake in Maine. They had been in my family for 3 generations. I informally bought them from my dad by paying the taxes for 10 years or more and making improvements equal to the tax assessed value.

A taxed assessed value that had tripled since then. Which was a good thing because I was mortgaging one of the two cabins to pay off my back taxes. A big back tax bill - $40,000 in principle alone, - twice that with interest and penalties and still growing. I figured the IRS had to be the cause of the arrest warrant I was running from.

So now I was at the Cabot County Train Station and dressed for travel. The plan was a train to Boston and a flight to Amsterdam. When I entered I looked around and didn’t see any uniformed cops, or sheriffs or other law enforcement types.

I was wearing off-white/light grey cotton pants, - very American but not khaki at least. And just a bit dressier than my jeans (In case I got arrested I wanted to be better dressed; although I had intended to wear a suit.). I enjoyed my new thick black Ping golf socks. I appreciated them for protecting my feet from my grey Ellesse walking shoes. I bought them at a salvage type store in rural Maine, the last stop for un-loadable merchandise. How the socks ended-up there I didn’t know. But the socks were nice. I had been drinking the last two weeks and when I was drinking; I wouldn’t wear socks – and it hurt, causing blisters and cuts on my feet. Cheap plastic shoe horns I stole from hotels and kept around, helped me work my shoes past my blisters.

I thumbed my waist-band. The boxers were new too, perhaps the first new ones since my ex-wife bought me some in Coconut Grove in 1998. But I should’ve bought a size bigger. My white T-shirt, even though a V-neck, poked-up over the top of my blue pinpoint oxford. The white T not stylish but functional. I tended to perspire heavily and needed the undershirt. I was always soaking it through and even through my dress shirt on warm days or at times of stress as well. And I was more nervous now than at any other time I could recall.

My sports jacket was a relatively heavy blue cotton Hugo Boss window pane affair, - showing its age a bit more than I would have liked to admit. A black back-pack was slung over my left shoulder ; and in my right hand I carried a small black suitcase designed to be small enough to be taken on planes although I usually checked it.

A Masonic brother who saw my Masonic ring (it had been my Grandfather’s and I wore it proudly) happened to be a conductor on the Amtrak Down-Easter as it was called. He let me head down to the train and board 10 minutes or so before boarding was announced, - even ahead of first class. It was a nice luxury – an extra few minutes to get situated, order a drink if I liked, - and most of all, not have to queue-up early in the terminal.

Most New Englanders, and Mainers in particular, seem to always be standing-up and lining-up 15 minutes before the boarding is allowed. I don’t know whether to tell you it is bad form to be otherwise, - because, in Maine at least, - to do otherwise wasn’t even considered. It was somehow ingrained in us, - probably because we were taught by the same type of no- nonsense school teachers as my parents. Teachers who spent their lives lining up kids for buses and field trips, harping on them to line up, pay attention, shut-up and keep your hands to yourselves! Whatever the reason, everyone was up standing quietly, in an almost formal single file line, staking out territory and edging towards the double glass doors – like we didn’t all have a seat or some of us would get to Boston faster this way.

But I got to get up and slip through the doors and down to the train while my buddy got ready to let everyone else onto the walkway. I say My buddy, I didn’t know him at all – save we both wore Masonic rings (and knew the secret handshake).

The early drink part of this little luxury of early seating I hesitated about. The good news was that it was no longer a given that I would automatically have a few. Most times these days, - when flying to Europe especially, I did not, - to be all the fresher once there. The last time I drank on the flight over I also took ¼ xanax at the start of the flight. It worked and I slept through the whole flight. But the next day, I saw my favorite girl twice, apparently. She says I completely forgot that I had already seen her earlier in the evening, - when I came around for the second time.

The young Kennedy congressman from Rhode Island had nothing on me.

But today, now on the train, I remained nervous. Nervous and paranoid, - but perhaps with good reason. I decided a few drinks couldn’t hurt too much – which was not my original intent. Quite the opposite. I had felt that being totally sober was very important for this trip. I may have to make decisions about talking to law enforcement, or trying to avoid extradition etc. But now, alone, at the bar in the Train Café Car it didn’t seem so important to not drink. Not important at all.

I asked for two vodkas and one orange juice, collected the nippy bottles, can of OJ and plastic cup of ice and headed back to my seat. As usual, the alcohol did nothing to stop the latest free flow of fears and hesitations but rather accelerated them. A few trips to and from the bar didn’t seem to help me relax. Neither did the clicking of the tracks, nor the passing of the cluttered back yards, - cluttered of broken plastic pools, hanging laundry, and pathetic little fences separating one dirty green patch from another. These shabby back yards gave way to trailer parks and the backs of shady apartment buildings, abandoned warehouses and shoe factories. The people who lived and worked around railroad tracks didn’t build mansions; they didn’t work in office parks; and their back yards were not manicured.

I felt the plush cotton terri of my new Ping socks and regretted drinking so much the 8 or 9 days I just had had with my kids. On the way to picking-up the kids at the airport, - I made the mistake of stopping to check my mail, which contained tax liens and nasty demand letters from the IRS, all of which, knocked me off my beam, and out of my routine. Without the routine of prayers and Bible reading, and with the pressure I always felt with my kids – well, whatever the reason – I drank too much on their most recent visit of about a week before . I regretted it and as I slowly got drunk the reasoning as to why I regretted it became less clear; but the regret more intense.

But when I finally had enough trips to the cafe car and my head was swimming in vodka it finally didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. I wasn’t even sure what it was that was bothering me. But whatever was bothering me, - I knew there had been something, - but it wasn’t bothering me anymore.

I was a bit tipsy walking from the train to the subway that took me to Logan Airport. Once I got to Logan I double checked and searched all my pockets and back pack for contraband. Once I was sure I didn’t accidently bring any bits of pot, lighters or scissors with me I put on cologne – a lot of it, and chewed some gum. I tried not to look nervous or suspicious when I went to get my boarding pass and check my bag. I did see police and sheriffs this time. But nobody seemed to notice me.

I got my boarding pass without incident. Next the security checkpoint. Again, I tried to act like I wasn’t nervous – so I played the role of a busy lawyer, but otherwise care-free man. As George Costanza said, It’s not a lie if you believe it. It’s all role play. And it worked. I wasn’t arrested when I got to the other side of the x-rays and metal detectors and such. As I walked down the concourse to my gate I noticed two military policemen from some National Guard Unit were stationed at every gate. A startling sight in US airports. Full military uniform, large billy clubs on polished white leather belts, the boots and gaiters, big MP arm bands and helmets. This additional security due to the latest foiled terrorist plot – the liquids on flights from London.

Once through security, I felt better but I did notice that a police officer seemed to follow me from the x-ray machine/security area. He drifted out from behind security as I went through. He had been behind me on the concourse; then he moved to behind the airline girls at my gate. That was unusual. When did I ever see a cop standing behind the girls like that? Do I try to leave now? He’s right there. What else could he be there for? But if he’s onto me what good would leaving the airport do? And why hasn’t he stopped me yet? Well, there is only one way to find out. I got in line to board. I was sweating now. A Boston cop and two MPs; all I needed was a US Marshall and a guy with an FBI windbreaker. Maybe I had to attempt to board the international flight to be arrested.

But no, I wasn’t surrounded by special agents nor did I have trouble when I passed the cop, nor the MPs. The cop didn’t seem to notice me at all. I went out of my way to make eye contact and nod a hello even.

After I got on the plane and into my seat, we seemed to be sitting at the gate for what felt like too long. But we pushed off! All I needed then was to hear we were in line for take-off and a wheels- up shortly thereafter and I’d be home free...

...we got the # 1 for take-off announcement , followed by the quick acceleration of take-off. Sometimes I didn’t notice this part – but continued to read through it. But this time, I really enjoyed the acceleration, the drastic increase of speed. We were hurdling down the runway, I felt and heard the thump of the wheels leaving the tarmac, finally the sound of them being cranked into the cargo bay. Strangely enough I didn’t rejoice about having made it, nor lament the fact I may never be back to see my kids again, - I guess because I hadn’t made it into Holland yet. I had a drink and a muscle relaxer which made for an uneventful flight....

...On what was now the morning of August 20th, The plane touched down roughly and even bounced a bit before taxiing to the terminal. The lengthy walk at Schipol Airport – the walk many complain about – I enjoyed it. It gave me a chance to stretch my legs and pass most of my fellow passengers so I did not have to wait to get to the Dutch Immigration officials. I passed by the EU only counters and found the All Others.

Would this be it? So close yet so far? More than anything else, I feared the Dutch immigration official. In particular, I feared the computer he had. I was sure it would say there was a warrant out for my arrest. I could feel drops of sweat slide down my back, one dripped from my left arm pit. I could feel my face redden. Relax I told myself. You’re almost there. Breathe.

The young, blond Dutch customs official was chatting with his colleague as I approached. They laughed about something or other; I handed him my passport and smiled – he didn’t seem to see me, - then he smiled and stamped me in. For all my fears, I honestly think he would have stamped my checkbook if that had been what I handed to him.

I changed some dollars to euros, and smarted at the exchange rate, - a dollar was buying .80 of a euro. A dollar and euro were about the same when it came to what stuff cost, - if it cost a couple bucks in the states it cost a couple euros in Holland. But when I stuffed my cash in my pocket, it was only 80% of the cash I had a few seconds before. Then I grabbed my bag off the belt and headed for the door. But I could see a young female customs girl angling towards me. She came out from behind some 5 feet high temporary barriers. Just 20 feet from the doors to the outside world? I tried to ignore her. Maybe she’d move onto the next guy if I could scoot by her and seem to have not seen her.

But there was no ignoring her away. She lead me to the little area separated by the 5 foot dividers and put my bags on your basic office fold-out table. The same thing was happening to another traveler or two nearby.

She spoke to me in Dutch. And despite years of going to Holland, and most recently months of working on learning the language, I didn’t understand a word. Nor did I say so in Dutch, nor ask in Dutch if she spoke English. All things I assured myself I would start doing immediately upon arrival.

No, I just smiled dumbly until she switched over to English – very American of me. The English demand everyone speak English, Americans simply expect it, and wait. Or announce I’m American. Like the guy at the next table over did. I’m told we are the only people in the world who do that, - announce I’m American. as an introduction.

The young Dutch customs girl asked me if I had any undeclared things I should have declared? I didn’t think so. Is that really what all this is about? If I wasn’t so numb to it all by then, - this stop by customs probably would have made me soil myself.

But seriously, am I smuggling things INTO Amsterdam? That’s what I wanted to ask. She was beautiful. Most Dutch are. Most are tall – but this customs officer wasn’t; most are blonde but this one wasn’t. But she had the full red lips and high cheekbones, and her eyes were sky blue; her skin so smooth and so soft looking, - her hair, a curly light brown.

No tobacco or alcohol? she asked in a friendly way – like she was going to help me avoid a problem if only I’d tell her. I don’t know, maybe a pack of cigs or a bottle of booze could get you in trouble going into Holland?

But no I had none. I did get to identify each and every type of pill I had in a plastic bag of supplements – E, C, Fish Oil, Milk thistle, Ginseng, Garlic, etc....identify them twice. My scripts, including morphine, were in their proper bottles – taking no chances there. While I waited for my second chance to identify my supplements (she went to another room for a minute) I sat-up on the temporary folding table and swung my feet a little. I remembered being told by one US Federal Court Judge that it was far too casual a way to sit when addressing a jury in his courtroom, - but I had been on the jazz at the time. Now, at the airport in Amsterdam I thought it might look casual. But that was an afterthought. Not some clever move.

While sitting there, swinging my feet, I re-resolved to take the train and save the 50E for a cab –if I ever get out of here rather than being lead to some holding cell or interrogation room. The cab stands were