The Brass Verdict

judge had to break there to give the stenographer the proper spellings of all the names. He spoke in an authoritative voice that a decade on the bench often gives a jurist. The judge was a handsome man with a full head of bristly gray hair. He was in good shape, the black robe doing little to disguise his well-developed shoulders and chest.
    “So,” he then said, “we’re scheduled in this matter for voir dire next Thursday – a week from today – and I notice, Mr. Haller, that I have received no motion from you to continue the matter while you get up to speed on the case.”
    “We don’t want a delay,” Elliot said.
    I reached over and put my hand on my client’s forearm and shook my head.
    “Mr. Elliot, in this session I want you to let your lawyer do the talking,” the judge said.
    “Sorry, Your Honor,” I said. “But the message is the same whether from me or directly from Mr. Elliot. We want no delay. I have spent the week getting up to speed and I will be prepared to begin jury selection next Thursday.”
    The judge squinted his eyes at me.
    “You sure about that, Mr. Haller?”
    “Absolutely. Mr. Vincent was a good lawyer and he kept thorough records. I understand the strategy he built and will be ready to go on Thursday. The case has my full attention. That of my staff as well.”
    The judge leaned back in his high-backed chair and swiveled side to side as he thought. He finally looked at Elliot.
    “Mr. Elliot, it turns out you do get to speak after all. I would like to hear directly from you that you are in full agreement with your new attorney here and that you understand the risk you run, bringing in a fresh lawyer so close to the start of trial. It’s your freedom at stake here, sir. Let’s hear what you have to say about it.”
    Elliot leaned forward and spoke in a defiant tone.
    “Judge, first of all, I am in complete agreement. I want to get this thing to trial so I can blow the district attorney here right out of the water. I am an innocent man being persecuted and prosecuted for something I did not do. I don’t want to spend a single extra day as the accused, sir. I loved my wife and I’ll miss her forever. I didn’t kill her and it pierces my heart when I hear the people on TV saying these vile things about me. What hurts the most is knowing that the real killer is out there someplace. The sooner Mr. Haller gets to prove my innocence to the world, the better.”
    It was O.J. 101 but the judge studied Elliot and nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention to the prosecutor.
    “Mr. Golantz? What is the state’s view of this?”
    The deputy district attorney cleared his throat. The word to describe him was telegenic. He was handsome and dark and his eyes seemed to carry the very wrath of justice in them.
    “Your Honor, the state is prepared for trial and has no objection to proceeding on schedule. But I would ask that, if Mr. Elliot is so sure about proceeding without delay, he formally waive any appellate redress in this regard should things not go as he predicts in trial.”
    The judge swiveled his chair so that his focus could go back on me.
    “What about that, Mr. Haller?”
    “Your Honor, I don’t think it’s necessary for my client to waive any protections that might be afforded to-”
    “I don’t mind,” Elliot said, cutting in on me. “I’ll waive whatever you damn well please. I want to go to trial.”
    I looked sharply at him. He looked at me and shrugged.
    “We’re going to win this thing,” he explained.
    “You want to take a moment in the corridor, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.
    “Thank you, Judge.”
    I got up and signaled Elliot up.
    “Come with me.”
    We walked out into the short hallway that led to the courtroom. I closed the door behind us. Elliot spoke before I could, underlining the problem.
    “Look, I want this thing over and I-”
    “Shut up!” I said in a forced whisper.
    “What?”
    “You heard me. Shut the fuck up. You understand? I am sure you are quite used to talking whenever you want and having everybody listen to every brilliant word you say. But you are not in Hollywood anymore, Walter. You aren’t talking make-believe movies with this week’s mogulito. You understand what I’m saying? This is real life. You don’t speak unless you are spoken to. If you have something to say otherwise, then you whisper it into my ear and if I think it is worth repeating, then
I
– not you – will say it to the judge. You got