I tell him about the conversation I’ve just had with my team and with my client in the conference room, excluding the part where Rob Jacobson has promised to flat-out lie on the stand. I’m unwilling to breach privilege, even with this client, honoring my profession even though it means protecting him.
Horton gives me a long look and says, “There’s not a chance in hell that I’m allowing this.” His eyes narrow. “No shit.”
“Your Honor, I can’t in good conscience continue to defend him under these circumstances.”
“You mean because he wants to break up with you?” Horton says. “Get over it.”
“No,” I say. “It’s because I’m charged with giving him the best defense possible, and he’s about to make itimpossible for me to do that.”
“Thomas McGoey is an accomplished trial attorney.”
“He doesn’t know this man the way I do!”I’m shouting again, just like that. So I take a deep breath and sit down in one of the chairs across from his desk, doing that before I fall down, I am suddenly that exhausted, by just about everything.
“And yet,” Horton says placidly, “you have now represented this man in two murder trials for which, I am guessing, you didn’t hire yourself.”
“Things have changed,” I say. “There’s simply too much conflict for me to live with.”
“Get over that, too,” Horton says. The smile has disappeared that quickly. “We both know you’re not a quitter and never have been and never will be.”
“I know,” I say quietly, getting myself under control, aware that yelling at this man will get me about as far as it just did with Rob Jacobson. “Iknow. That’s why it was so difficult for me to come in here and even make this request.”
“And even if you really wanted to quit, which I believe you don’t, there aren’t enough grounds or enough conflict for me to consider this request,” Horton continues. “Is there some ethical issue I should know about?”
It won’t bother Thomas nearly as much as it would bother you when I get up there and lie my ass off.
“Not that I’m at liberty to share,” I say.
“Then we’re done here,” he says. “And let me just add that you’re too good a lawyer to have thought even for a New York minute that I was going to open the door even a crack for a mistrial at this stage of the game,” he says.
He comes around the desk, reaches down to help me out of my chair without being asked, begins to walk me to his door.
“And if you ever mention quitting to me again I will hold you in contempt,” he says.
And in that moment, I shrug off Michael Horton and step back and look at him and say, “Do it.”
“What did you say?”
“Do it,” I say.
“You’re on very thin ice here, Ms. Smith.”
“Deal with it,” I say. “I’ve been living on thin ice for a while.”
Then I tell him what I just told my client, minus the language, not sure if he can cite me for contempt right here.
“I quit,” I say, and walk out of his chambers.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
Jimmy
JIMMY CUNNIFF IS STANDING with Danny Esposito in the living room of the Carson house, listening as Esposito continues to complain about having to drive from East Farmingdale to be here, and for what?
“You’re aware that this is a complete waste of my time, right?” Esposito says. “And I’m gonna admit something to you, even as long as I’ve been at this kind of work: There’s something about this place that gives me the creeps.”
“Poor baby,” Jimmy says.
“Tell me again what we’re doing here, just so I have it clear.”
