Cross Examination

Assistant United States Attorney Oliver Hatchett dressed more like a corporate in-house lawyer than a trial attorney. He was six feet tall, stood ramrod straight, took care of himself by exercising and eating properly. He wore deep- blue suits, crisp, light- blue shirts, bold red ties. His dress tie shoes were shined brilliantly. He wore prescription designer eyeglasses with round tortoise-colored frames by Oliver Peoples. He kept his hair close cropped like he was former military or CIA trained. He had the whitest teeth any lawyer ever possessed that you would notice the minute he opened his mouth to speak. And Hatchett smoked Kool cigarettes by the carton. Hatchett left a large prominent law firm to join the US Attorney’s Office to get some trial experience. After the mandatory training at the Department of Justice Advocacy Institute, he was assigned to the major crime squad where he handled routine gun possession cases, federal gun law violations, gun show buy-busts where undercover ATF agents bought firearms from dealers without any background checks. Hatchett got into court often with these cases; he knew his way around a gun case just about as well as anyone else. But gun prosecutions rarely go to trial. They are disposed of by plea bargains for the most part. Hatchett longed for one trial where he could convict one of these felons and draft a sentencing memorandum that would convince even the most lenient federal judge to impose the maximum sentence on the offender. Hatchett was likeable enough, but he was a skirt chaser. He thought he was above the Hollywood headlines claiming sexual harassment. No matter where you were, Hatchett could be seen chatting up a pretty woman. If you met him in a bar after work hours, Hatchett was on the prowl for a new conquest. If you were talking to him one -on -one standing at the bar, his eyes were constantly darting around the room, looking over your shoulder, turning his head constantly while sipping a drink always surveying the crowd. He wasn’t really listening to you or participating in the conversation, he was like a rattler coiled up on the desert tundra hiding beside a cactus waiting to strike his unsuspecting prey. If you had to deal with Hatchett in a professional context, you were always on guard that he held something back that he didn’t tell you about the case. He was the snake. All you had to do was ask a few of the women attorneys around the courthouse about him. He’d be lucky if all he was called was a snake. Jamie Carson stopped by the Marshall’s clerk’s office to pick up a copy of the federal criminal complaint against Herbie Jones that Hatchett had left for him. Carson asked Doreen Byers, a deputy U.S. Marshall, who was standing at the desk, if she would put Jones into the interview room where he and Carson could meet before the hearing. Byers was a middle- aged woman wearing her blonde hair pulled up tight on the top of her head; wore no discernable make-up and a blue, standard issue, paramilitary uniform that was two sizes too small for her hefty frame. She wore the black equipment belt all police officers wore with a pair of nickel- plated handcuffs tucked in the belt, and shiny black high ankle boots with steel toes with her pants legs tucked in. You never knew which way a Marshall would respond to your request to meet with your client. Most of them never smiled at, let alone talked to a defense lawyer. To the Marshalls, the defense lawyers were just as bad as the defendants. “I’ll check to see if the room is available,” Marshall Byers responded in an icy tone. “Thank you,” responded Jamie. What else could he say to her, he thought? He wanted to say to her, get off your ass and put my client in the interview room. But experience taught him, if those words actually came out of his mouth, he’d never get to meet with a prisoner in lock-up again without a judge intervening. In the hallway outside the clerk’s office, Jamie waited next to the steel door with a thick glass center window for the familiar sound of the buzz of the electronic lock being opened allowing him access into the interview room. He entered and sat down at the metal table and chair waiting for Jones. A security camera with its red indicator light shining was positioned on the wall to capture and record everything that went on in the room. He opened the envelope containing the criminal complaint and began reading. Jones was charged in a one count complaint only with a violation of 18 U.S. C. 922(g) being a felon in possession of a firearm. Attached to the complaint was an affidavit of ATF Agent Damien Smith that sketched a bare bones outline of the elements of the crime Jones was charged with. The government would likely call Agent Smith to testify before the Magistrate Judge who routinely handed first appearances and bail matters to lay out the minimum amount of evidence to satisfy the court that there was cause for the charge in the complaint to proceed. As he was reading Smith’s affidavit, Jamie heard a second buzz of an electronic lock and Herbie Jones was brought into the interview room by Marshall Byers handcuffed and shackled. “Can you take off the restraints?” asked Jamie. “No can-do counsellor,” replied Byers. “Not enough time, we’re due in court in a few minutes.”