Johnny Wraith Stories

An attorney must do all he legally can for his clients. He must keep his clients' secrets at all costs. He cannot even tell the police, or anyone else for that matter, that his client has killed someone. He cannot disclose his client is a serial pedophile that has maimed and raped little girls or boys. If you want to confess a crime of the worst kind, tell a lawyer, not a priest. In some cases, a priest must squeal, but never a lawyer. There is only one exception to when an attorney may voluntarily blow the whistle, and that is when his client is clearly planning to murder or cause serious injury:

"Rule 3-100. Confidential Information of a Client [California Rule]

(B) A member [lawyer] may, but is not required to, reveal confidential information relating to the representation of a client to the extent that the [lawyer] member reasonably believes the disclosure is necessary to prevent a criminal act that the [lawyer] member reasonably believes is likely to result in death of, or substantial bodily harm to, an individual."

Otherwise, the lawyer keeps his mouth shut at all times. He must do his client's bidding to the full extent of the law. This is his oath. To violate the sacred lawyer's oath is to subject the lawyer to disbarment, disgrace, and unworthiness.  Don't talk, and use every available trick. That is it in a nutshell. Granted, you just can't overtly lie to a judge, but you can usually stay quiet.  

A lawyer is a Court Officer, one of the most trusted and sacred representatives of Justice in the United States of America. A lawyer is the last sanctioned assassin society permits outside the permission granted to soldiers to murder during acts of warfare. Only Judges may order executions. Judges are lawyers.

Johnny Wraith is a Lawyer. I am a Lawyer.  I am Johnny Wraith.

***

I was just a young man. Six months into the practice of Law. I spent most of my time defending criminals, or to put it properly - I defended the accused. The cases usually started with a visit to the county jail. Go through a metal detector, walk down several windowless hallways, through a half dozen electric gates that slammed shut behind you, then enter a long room with concrete benches facing thick, glass windows. A dozen phones hung from the walls by each window. After standing and waiting in the corner for a few minutes, one of the guards would show you to a seat, you'd take up a phone, look through the glass, and introduce yourself to your client.

"Hello, my name is Johnny Wraith. I'm your lawyer," I said through the phone to get through the glass.

"Yous a dumptruck lawyer?" asked a voice that seemed a mile away, though through the glass I could see he was only 3 feet from me. His face was big and square, his body the same. Big, thick hands, full head of hair and sunken eyes.

"No, I'm not with the Public Defender."

"Hows I get yous?"

"Conflict of interest."

"Huh? Whut dat?"

"The judge didn't think a Public Defender would be right for you."

"Dat's right! Dum fuckin' Dumptruck lawyer got me da prison last time."

"I'm going to do all I can for you."

In about 30 minutes, I was outside again, sitting with Liz Jacobs, a fellow but seasoned attorney. She often offered me support and guidance during my first year of practice, and for that I was thankful. We were sitting under a tree, on a concrete bench, the four-story jail looming behind us, rising above us. No one else was around. Liz was usually a serious-mannered brunette, close to 30, single, and always wore a suit with 3 inch heels. Her skirts were always on the short side, but were just long enough to keep her from being thrown out of court, usually. Except for one time, when Judge Diane Anderson was in a bad mood. Anderson said "That's too much leg for my court Ms. Jacobs. Come back when you feel like dressing like an attorney."  Thereafter Liz wore pants, at least to Anderson's court. She kept them in her car in the court parking lot and would change out of her skirts and slide them on just for appearances before Judge Anderson. While intentionally uncrossing and crossing her legs for me outside the jail, she said: "The guy judges give me better terms when I show some leg." I answered: "You have good legs. I'd do the same."

"So, Johnny, I miss you coming over. I miss you!" Liz proclaimed. 

"Me too. Too bad you're with James."

"He's gone."

"Since when?"

"About a week ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I had to cry a lot."

"Sorry."

"Naw. I was just being a girl. I'm over him now. I really didn't like him anyway."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"How come?"

Liz uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. Her bare knee touched my panted knee. "Let's just say he didn't do enough for me."

"Enough what?"

She leaned forward to my ear and pressed into me with a shoulder. Her hair dropped over her face. "You don't want to know," Liz whispered.

"I do. Really," I whispered back.

"He wouldn't go down on me."

"That's too bad."

Liz quickly sat back up and fixed her hair with a sweep of hand. "You think I'm a tramp now, don't you? I really shouldn't have told you that."

"Naw, think nothing of it. We're friends."

"Really? You mean it?"

"Yeah, really."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

"Good," stated Liz. She looked at her watch, picked up her files and purse, and stood up.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"You should come over tonight, and hang out."

"It's a long drive. We both have court tomorrow."

"Bring your toothbrush and your suit, just like you used to."

"Okay. 7 sound good?"

"How about 6?  I can barbeque."

"Okay."

"And, by the way, I still have one of your ties, the yellow one with blue dots."  Then Liz smiled, as if a burden had been lifted, turned and quickly clicked her heels down the sidewalk. I watched her bare calves carry her away.

I looked at my watch. It was 12:50pm. I had to pick up a court order from the clerk and get back to the office, Garner Law Offices.

I walked in the door and little bells rang. Not the electric kind, but real little bells. My boss, Roger Garner, liked it the old-fashioned way. We were still using Dictaphones too, and Marge, the office manager and old-fashioned secretary, typed all our recorded words for us, on the office's only computer. It was 1995. And in 1995, I was the only lawyer I knew, other than Roger, and his son Ron, that didn't use his own computer for word processing.

"Johnny!" Yelled Marge in her always-hoarse voice.

I hustled down the hall to her door. She was sitting at her desk, a burning cigarette hanging from her mouth, phone on her shoulder to her tilted head, keyboard at her hands. We were the only office in town that still allowed smoking. Marge insisted on it, and she always had her way. She'd been working with Roger, at Garner Law Offices, for decades, before I was born. She may have been right about allowing smoking. We had a constant flow of return clients, and most of them smoked. Marge always made sure to keep the ashtrays scattered about the office for anyone wanting to light up.

Marge squinted her wrinkled face at me. "Where the hell have you been? How many times have I told you to call before you come back to the office from court?"

"Sorry."

"All it costs is a quarter."

"Actually, it's a quarter and a dime now."

"Somebody's getting rich," puffed Marge. Then she spoke into the phone: "I gotta go Clarisse - need to set Johnny straight. Alright. Bye. Yeah, steaks at Triple T tonight. Draft beers on special. 50 cents. Yeah. Bye."

Click.

Marge swiveled to face me and offered me a cigarette. "I heard you were sitting outside the jail, yapping all morning with that tramp, Liz."

"How did you know?"

"I've been in this county for 60 years."

It was true. Marge did know every assistant and secretary in the county. They called her from the police stations, the court clerk's office, the jail, the post office, you name it.

"Liz isn't a tramp."

"That's not what Dorothy says."

"How would Dorothy know?"

"She's Donna's mom, and Donna is married to Hank, and Hank and James are best friends."

"Yeah, Liz says she and James broke up."

"For good reason."

"What reason?"

"That Liz is a tramp."

"How so?"

Marge took a long drag, blew smoke out her nose, and shrugged. "It isn't ladylike for me to say, but let's just say that that girl is perverted. She tried to get James to do really awful things, and broke up with him when he wouldn't play along. It's bad enough you kids don't get married first these days."

"Don't worry Marge. Liz and I are just friends."

"Boys and girls can never keep it that way. Anyhoo. The reason I'm scolding you for not calling is that we just took a new case. If you'd called first, you could have gone straight to the Old Jail. Not driven all the way back here just to go back."

"Old Jail?"

"Yeah. Eddie Johnson is locked up there. His girlfriend, Ella Lampton, came in and put $200.00 down on his defense. He's your client now."

Marge looked troubled with the situation somehow. She lit another cigarette and didn't look up at me. "So get down to the Old Jail and see Eddie."

"What's wrong?"

"I didn't want to take the case, but Roger insisted."

"Why not?"

"You should have seen Ella. She had a swollen lip and two black eyes. That god-damned Eddie Johnson needs to stay in jail."

"You think Eddie beat her up?"

"Yes. Everyone knows he beats her."

"Is he charged with domestic violence?"

"I don't know."

"And why is he being held at the Old Jail? I thought they didn't use it anymore. Everyone's detained at the sheriff's office, the County Jail, now."

"Johnny? Are you that dense?"

"Um... I hope not. Marge, what am I missing?"

"Eddie is Harold Johnson's nephew."

"No kidding? I've already had a few cases in his court. Harold Johnson's been the Justice of the Peace for 20 years, right?"

"Yep. You got it."

"So what is Eddie charged with?"

"You'll find out as soon as you go talk to Eddie."

I hopped back in the car with a yellow pad, 8.5 by 14 inch, a pencil over my ear, and drove down to the Old Jail. I didn't have to sign in, was met by a jailer named Tom, and was led to a holding cell. Eddie was the only guy in the place, and there were plenty of cells and bars. When Eddie saw me, he hopped up and reached out from between the bars. He was a young kid, like me, but he looked a little ratty. Long hair and a Metalica concert t-shirt. We shook hands.

"I'm Johnny Wraith. You must be Eddie."

"Yup, I've been waiting for you."

 The jailer brought me a small steel stool to sit on.

"Thanks Tom," I said to the jailer.

"No problem," said the jailer. Then he just stood there.

I looked at Eddie, then up at the jailer from my stool.  

"Tom, we'll need some privacy."

"Sorry, can't do that. Judge Johnson said I gotta stay."

"What! I'm an attorney! My client and I have the right to communicate in private."

"Sorry, I'm just doing my job," said the jailer. He seemed sincere. "I can take you to see the Judge if you want. He says you should come talk to him after you talk to Eddie anyway."

I was quite surprised. It was the law for police and jailers to allow an attorney and client to communicate in private.

"Is the prosecutor coming too? After this, when I'm supposed to talk to the Judge?"

It was also the law for an attorney to never speak with a judge without other side's attorney present, and in this case it should have been a county prosecutor. In legal practice, it is assumed that for a judge to deal fairly with two conflicting parties, both must be present, or at least their attorneys, when discussing a case in dispute. The legal system presumes that this rule best allows both parties equal opportunity to assert their cases and to defend them, and prevents collusion. Lawyers and judges can lose their jobs by violating this rule.

"Nope," answered the jailer. "Just you."

I looked at Eddie. He was just sitting there, on a stool like mine, on the other side of the bars.

"It's ok," said Eddie. "We can talk. I have a case we can't lose."

"What are your charges?"

"There aren't any."

"Then how are you sitting here?"

"Judge Johnson is my uncle. He thinks this is good rehab for me. It's bullshit. That's all," Eddie explained. His manner was surprisingly calm. He was very detached given the circumstances.

The jailer sighed.

"No complaint, no charges were filed?"

"Nope."

"The sheriff just brought you here and locked you up?"

"That's it. All you have to do is insist on my release with my uncle. Tell him you'll involve a prosecutor and he'll let me out fast."

"That's true Eddie. I know most the prosecutors. They are straight shooters. If one of them found out your uncle locked you up like this, all hell would break loose. Your uncle would lose his job. A judge can't have people arrested like this. The police have to charge them first. Your uncle can't even talk to me without a prosecutor there.  This is the worst case of judicial misconduct I've ever seen."

"I don't want my uncle to lose his job. He'll let me out. You just have to go talk to him."

Again the jailer sighed.

"Go on and talk to him," insisted Eddie.

I got up and followed the jailer. Out the jail, across the street, through the doors of the Justice Court, down a hallway, and into the office of Judge Johnson.

I was sweating cold sweat. I could envision my license being yanked, receiving a written censure in the mail from the State Bar, or being put on trial or probation for misconduct.

"Sit down Johnny," said the Judge.

I plopped down into a cool, leather chair. It was a dark room with the shades down. The Judge was a big man. Maybe in his sixties, white hair, a rotund belly. He was wearing a plaid sport jacket, bolo tie, and his cowboy boots were standing alone at the side of his broad, polished desk. He was reclining, almost lying down, in an enormous padded chair that slowly rocked. Standard form for a judge in the Wild West movies. And we were in rural Arizona. Surviving in the wasteland between Phoenix and Tucson. Meting out the Law, Justice.

"I heard a lot about you, young man," said the Judge as he clasped his thick fingers together over his belly.

"Um... Judge... I'm a... little worried about talking to you without a prosecutor here."

"Nonsense! We're here to talk about other things. I just wanted us to meet.  I hear you are from Missouri."

"Yeah. I'm from Jeff City."

"St. Louis here."

"I was born and raised there. Jeff City."

"Good place. Good place. I think guys like us have an advantage growing up in the Midwest. Makes us more real. Makes us focused on what's important. We care about the right things. Loyal friends, taking care of family. Doing the right thing."

"That's true." I said, though I didn't know if I really agreed.

"So, you see, Johnny. I know my family. Now this is off the record. Alright?"

"Yeah. I won't say anything. I already feel that we've gone too far."

"I'm glad to see you have a conscience. I thought you would. That's why I asked to talk to you, just man to man, not judge to lawyer."

"Alright."

"I'll get right to it. Johnny. That nephew of mine beats his girlfriend. He's almost killed her a few times. And she won't ever call the Sheriff or do anything about it. Now it is really serious. Ella just cheated on Eddie with some fella that works at the Texaco on Main and 6th.  When Eddie found out, he was on the phone with her. Luckily, he couldn't find her, and he ended up at Mikes Corner Pocket, passed out. When I got a call from Mike himself, I immediately phoned Sheriff Gephard.  I've known Gep for years, and we've been through a lot together. So, a deputy picked up Eddie and brought him down to the Old Jail. I'm hearing that Eddie is having tantrums in there. He's been shouting about how he's going to kill Ella when he gets out."

"If you'd just arrested him and charged him properly..."

"Johnny. All Eddie did was get drunk. There is nothing to charge him with."

"You said he was dangerous."

"He is very dangerous. I know it, but the law doesn't."

"Our jobs are to follow the Law, Judge."

"Even if this girl's safety is at stake?"

I didn't know what to say.

"Johnny. You are a young man. I don't know what to tell you. Sometimes the Law doesn't cover all the bases. That's when guys like us have to do the right thing. Society has rules that work in most cases, THE LAW we call it, but sometimes we have to make exceptions. Eddie isn't really going to suffer any permanent injury by cooling down behind bars at the Old Jail a few days. But, if he's freed, as he's legally entitled to be, Ella may really get the short end of the stick. I'm worried about that poor girl. She's so misguided."

"But Judge! When I became a lawyer, I promised to uphold the Law at all costs. Eddie hasn't been properly charged. I could be disbarred if I just let him sit in jail without having first been properly charged."

"Young man, sometimes your heart has to truly lead you - take you by the hand - through right and wrong. Law books and rules, THE LAW, are only there in an effort to put into words what the just actions of men should be. But if you are true, your heart will be your best guide, not the books, the ABA, the Arizona Supreme Court, the United States Supreme Court, your Congressman can't always cover every situation."

"I... I..."

"Just give it an hour son. Then you do what you think is right. If you tell me to let Eddie go, I will. If you agree that I'm right, Eddie will get out when he's cooled off."

I stood. The Judge just reached out from his reclined position. I reached over his desk and shook his thick hand.

"I can tell you are a fine young man, Johnny. Even if you do the wrong thing, I'll respect your choice."

It was my first lesson about what the LAW was really about.

***

I knocked on the door at 5:45pm. Liz opened. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing an oversized t-shirt. It was one I'd left before she'd started dating James.

"Johnny, you're early!"

"It's been a long day."

"So, this means you really wanted to see me?"

"Yeah. I feel like I can just put down my guard when I'm over here."

"That's sweet!" voiced Liz as she leaped at me with open arms and bear-hugged me, planted one on my cheek. Smack! "I hope you don't mind. I haven't started the grill and I just got out of the shower."

"I like you best this way."

Liz grinned ear to ear, peeled off the towel, and shook her damp hair straight. Little drops of water hit my face. "That's what I like about you, Johnny. I can just be me, without my makeup or hairdryer."

"We have a real friendship."

"I agree. Whole heartedly. We don't have to follow the rules. We can just be ourselves."

"Let's order a pizza!"

"That sounds good! And do you remember our ritual?" Inquired Liz. "Hmm?"

"I sure do."

"Ok. Let me call Pizza Hut first."

She jumped up, yanked the phone off the hook and dialed the number. "555-1923," said Liz. "Yes, delivery," she spoke into the receiver. "Um yeah. We'll have the same. Thin crust, extra cheese. 40 minutes. O.K. Yes, cash." Then she hung up, went to her purse, pulled out a few bills and laid them on the counter.

"When's the last time you ordered?" I asked.

"The last time you were here."

Then we engaged in the ritual that was only ours. On bare legs and feet, Liz scurried to the freezer and pulled out a bottle of ice-cold tequila. Pepe Lopez, a fifth that hadn't been touched since I'd last been there. It was still two-thirds full, and I remembered drinking the first third. Liz plopped into my lap, popped the cap and took a full swig into her mouth. She didn't swallow but put her lips to mine and made me drink all of it. Her lips were soft and full, and the tequila was cold as ice. It was smooth going down. We almost finished the bottle before the doorbell rang. Pizza.

A bottle of wine, a pizza, the last drops of tequila, lots of laughs mixed with serious chat on the meaning of things, finished off with spending an hour doing what James had refused to do, and sweet slumber was had. Liz had a king-sized bed stuffed with down. It was like sleeping on a cloud.

The next morning, I donned my suit. And around my neck Liz tied the yellow, blue-dotted tie I'd previously left behind.  "See you in court," we both said at the same time and giggled. We kissed goodbye, hopped into our cars, and drove the same roads to the county courthouse.

Shortly after noon, I arrived at the office, Garner Law Offices. It was unusually quiet, and everyone was apparently off to lunch. I went to my office and plopped down in my chair. Sitting smack in the middle of the cherry wood desk was a clipping from the morning's newspaper. The headline read:

"LOCAL GIRL, ELLA LAMPTON, SLAIN BY BOYFRIEND"