“Shiiiiit, you barely know how to draw up a legally binding divorce decree, let alone find the clerk’s office at the courthouse. Why in the hell would any federal judge appoint you to such a muy importante’ case?”
“Before I got an office here, I spent two years working as a law clerk on death penalty cases at the federal courthouse. I did nothing but that type of work every day. I worked side-by-side with all three federal judges in the Northern District of Oklahoma Courthouse.” Steve’s back straightened and chest involuntarily swelled as he listed off the details of his previous work with growing confidence, “So, although I have only handled divorces for two months, I dealt exclusively with death penalty jurisprudence for two years and I know it inside and out.”
“That’s nice, but don’t they usually appoint attorneys who have been doin’ this shit for several years to those cases?”
“Yes. But all three presiding judges at the federal court decided my work experience there qualified me for appointments. And now one of them has appointed me to be the only thing standing between Scottie Pinkerton and death.” He smiled proudly as he said this last sentence, thinking of all the times Carol had made him feel ignorant and unqualified over the last 134 days.
She turned without another word and brusquely walked out of the room.
Ever since Steve started practicing at the office, she had treated him like a moron. In the beginning, she did know more than he did about divorce procedure and other simple tasks, like how to file a pleading at the courthouse. Yet even when he gradually learned how to do this work himself, her attitude remained unchanged. But for once, he was able to show that his legal training and experience meant something in this world, whether she believed it or not. Steve wondered why he should even care about Carol’s opinions as he hummed the theme song to Alice to himself. “There’s a new girl in town…”
As he basked in his small victory against Carol, the realization that he had just been given a highly important appointment crept back into his psyche. Steve was now Scottie’s last chance at avoiding the execution table. Scottie’s life was dependent on Steve’s legal acumen and diligence; he knew that he would have to put every ounce of his energy and intelligence into the fight before him. He closed the Bohannon file and took a another swig of his coffee.
When he called Parker’s office to find out when he could get the case file, her assistant answered the phone. “Oh, the Scottie Pinkerton file… yeah, that’s a tough one. You’re taking that on? Good luck to you. I’ll give Sam the message.”
Steve hung up and started searching the internet for background information about the case. He entered “Scottie Pinkerton murder Rogers County Oklahoma” into the search engine, and within seconds, several links to news articles filled his screen. He selected a few and read them over. The facts looked to be as helpful as a mace in a tickling contest.
To be exact, it may have been the worst facts for a defendant Steve had ever read since he’d started in the death penalty business.
The articles painted the picture of an abusive husband who finally went too far. It was a classic tale of despair and heartbreak. One article laid out the amount of uncontroverted evidence against Scottie in twenty-three bullet points; the worst of which stated that, according to all reports, 911 received a call approximately five minutes before Ashley Pinkerton was found dead by a local sheriff’s deputy wherein she reported that her husband had just hit her and he was still in their home.
Thirty minutes after her lifeless body was found in their living room, Scottie was arrested with scratches on his face apparently caused by his wife in self-defense. DNA reports confirmed the skin under her fingernails belonged to him. Additionally, there were bloody footprints in the house. The tread matched a pair of his tennis shoes. The shoes were found covered in blood in a field nearby. If that wasn’t enough, Ashley’s brother and her best friend had testified to a history of abuse in the household.
Several stories included a picture taken by a neighbor shortly after the police arrived. It depicted a sheriff’s deputy, covered in blood, holding the couple’s ten-month-old baby outside the home. For a while, Steve remembered, the picture had received national attention; the haunting image became iconic nationally - like the child running, naked, from the horrors in Vietnam or New York City firefighters raising the flag after 9/11.
Steve settled back in his chair with a solemn look. I need to call Frank.
CHAPTER 2
Almost every prosecutor and criminal defense attorney in the state considered Frank Ackerman to be the best trial lawyer alive. He was a second-generation practitioner who now handled nothing but first-degree murder cases. Anytime a judge in Oklahoma needed a lawyer to represent an indigent defendant facing the death penalty, said judge’s first phone call always went to check Ackerman’s availability.
Ackerman, a sixty something year old man with a face covered in a snowy white beard and mustache that matched the hair on top of his head, spoke with the eloquence of a Southern gentleman who’d just stepped out of a History Channel docudrama. He would constantly recite legal precedent from memory, as if the case books were in his hand. In the hallways of the courthouse, he could always be recognized by his trademark—a simple, yet elegant, straw cowboy hat with a colorful band around the base. Sometimes, even when you couldn’t see him in the courtroom, everyone knew he was nearby because his hat was resting on the counsel table with a worn leather briefcase underneath it. He was the epitome of class, and his courtroom brilliance was legendary.
Steve had met Ackerman at a fundraising event a couple years ago, and the two formed a unique bond that night. Initially too shy to approach the esteemed lawyer, Steve was startled when Ackerman initiated the conversation.
“So, you’re the new habeas clerk working with the federal judges,” Ackerman had said, smiling.
“Oh yeah, yeah,” Steve stammered. “It’s an honor to meet you sir.”
“I was a habeas clerk once too, though I have to say, at the
time, they were expending a lot less energy trying to give the accused a fair shot. I actually got in trouble for always trying to find a reason to grant relief and let the guys off death row. Those conservative judges didn’t take too kindly to it. Got threatened with losing my job even because I tried to push them too far for the poor suckers sentenced to die . You know, judges are supposed to be impartial and all.”
“Wow,” Steve said, genuinely stunned. “What did you do when that happened?”
“I worked harder, and then, at the end of my term, went to work making sure that the accused had every chance I could provide to prevail against a system that was built against them. That job is why I am doing what I do now, instead of handling corporate matters and hanging out at the country club. Let’s have breakfast next week and visit a bit.”
Steve nodded his head yes.
Over the next sixteen months, Ackerman became not only a mentor, but also a surrogate father for Steve.
Steve knew Ackerman could help him on the case, but his first call was unfruitful. Ackerman was in court and would not be available until later in the day. He sent a text message asking the old warhorse to call him back as soon as possible. Although Steve knew the law, he would need Ackerman’s help to ensure he gave the best possible representation to Scottie.
About a minute later, his phone buzzed. “Mr. Death Penalty Attorney, you have a real lawyer on line three,” Carol called out over the intercom. “I’m glad to see you are getting help from someone who actually knows the difference between his ass and the evidence code.”
Steve did his best to ignore her and reached for the phone.
“Hello, Frank, how are you doing?”
“I’m great, young man. How are you today?” Ackerman asked.
“I was just appointed by Judge Henry to represent Scottie Pinkerton on his federal habeas appeal.”
“Congratulations, that is quite the assignment,” Ackerman said with pride before becoming serious again. “Son, you do realize you are now that poor soul’s last line of defense—the only thing that stands between him and the needle? I assume you plan to work your tail off for that man.” Ackerman’s voice rose. “You must represent him as if he were your own brother. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Steve said. “That is why I called you before I did anything else. I would like to know your thoughts on how to best do this job.”
“Well, this is different from working for the Court, analyzing these matters under the auspice of neutrality. First, the most important thing in any death penalty representation is to gain your client’s trust. You must get him to tell you the truth. You have to know what happened that day, no matter what it is, in order to effectively represent him. You must get his entire version of events and then try to prove it a lie. That way, you know if you need to argue the facts or the law or both, because if he actually killed her, then you are left with just arguing the law. You understand?”
Steve nodded and said over the phone, “Yes. Can you tell me what you know about the case?”
It was common knowledge among local criminal defense attorneys that Ackerman knew all the publicly available facts of every murder case in the area for the past forty years. All you had to do was mention the name, and he could recite the details of the case with ease. Additionally, due to his favorable relationships with the defense bar attorneys, he usually knew information that wasn’t public knowledge.
“Of course, I remember that case; it happened just a few miles from my house. That poor soul had some bad facts. 911 call, DNA evidence, his shoes found covered in blood. I recall he killed his wife while their baby was in the home. I was almost appointed on it. The judge called me when it occurred, but I was in the middle of a double homicide trial in Osage County and couldn’t take it. The court ended up appointing Jason Hixon—a lazy, overconfident son-of-a-bitch not qualified to first chair a jaywalking trial, let alone a capital murder. I’ve always felt bad that I wasn’t available to accept that appointment, although with those facts, I doubt Clarence Darrow could have kept that young man from a death sentence.”
“Yeah, from the little I have read on the internet, it doesn’t look like I’m going to be arguing factual innocence to the court at any point.” Steve paused, considering how serious this situation was
becoming by the minute. “Thanks for your ti—”
