The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham - John Grisham Page 0,58

is pushing sixty and looks more radical with age. His thick gray hair is shoulder length and unkempt. He has added an earring and a small tattoo across his carotid artery. He grew up a brawler in Brooklyn and practices law like a street fighter. He’s fearless and likes nothing more than charging into old courthouses in backwater towns throughout the South and mixing it up with the locals.

“All of this for one lousy pubic hair?” he laughs. “I could’ve loaned you one of mine.”

“More than likely it would be too gray,” I reply.

“Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.” We enter the courthouse and walk upstairs to Chad’s office. The sheriff is waiting with two deputies, one of whom is holding a camera. In a show of real hospitality, the locals have agreed to go through the motions in the courthouse and avoid the jail, for now anyway. I sent them a set of my fingerprints two days ago. I pose for my mug shot, thank the sheriff, who seems bored with it all, and wait for Chad. When we are finally shown into his office, no one makes even the slightest effort to shake hands. Rosenberg and I thoroughly loathe this guy and he feels the same toward us. As we struggle with the preliminary chatter, it is obvious that he is preoccupied, even nervous.

We soon understand why. At 1:00 p.m., we enter the main courtroom and take our seats at the defense table. Chad assumes the other one with a couple of assistants. The courtroom is the domain of the Honorable Leon Raney, a crusty old fossil who presided over Duke’s trial and never gave the kid a break. There are no spectators. No one cares. It’s just a pubic hair taken by an innocence lawyer from Georgia. Chad’s dream of generating a bit of publicity fails again.

Instead of a grouchy old white man in a black robe, a young and very pretty black lady in a maroon robe appears on the bench, and, with a smile, says good afternoon. Judge Marlowe informs us that Judge Raney has taken a leave of absence because of a stroke last week, and that she will be pinch-hitting until he returns. She is from Birmingham and has been sent in by special orders from the Alabama Supreme Court. We begin to understand why Chad is so nervous. His home-field advantage has been annulled by an honest referee.

Judge Marlowe’s first order of business is my initial appearance and the issue of my bail. She nods at the court reporter, goes on the record, and begins, pleasantly, with “I’ve read the indictment and frankly, Mr. Falwright, there’s not much to this case. Surely you have better things to do. Mr. Rosenberg, does your client still have possession of the pubic hair that was DNA tested?”

Rosenberg is on his feet. “Sure does, Judge. It’s right here on the table and we would like to return it to Mr. Falwright, or whoever has the evidence file these days. My client didn’t tamper with or steal anything. He simply borrowed one of the pubic hairs. He was forced to, Your Honor, because Mr. Falwright refuses to do DNA testing.”

“Let me see it,” she says.

Rosenberg picks up a small plastic bag and hands it to her. Without opening it, she looks, strains, finally sees something, and puts it down. She frowns and shakes her head and says to Falwright, “You gotta be kidding.”

Chad stumbles to his feet and begins stuttering. He’s been the DA here for twenty years, and for his entire career he’s had the protection of a like-minded right-winger with little sympathy for those accused of crimes. Leon Raney was his predecessor in the DA’s office. Suddenly, Chad is forced to play on a level field and he does not know the rules.

“This is a serious matter, Your Honor,” he wails with fake indignation. “The defendant, Mr. Post, admits he stole the evidence from the files, files that are protected, files that are sacrosanct.” Chad loves big words and often tries to impress juries with them, but, reading the trial transcript, he often gets them wrong.

She replies, “Well, if I read the record correctly, the pubic hair in question was gone for over a year before you or anyone else realized it was missing, and it came to your attention only when Mr. Post told you about it.”

“We can’t guard all of the old files, Your Honor—”

She raises a hand and cuts him off. “Mr. Rosenberg, do you