By Mark Werbner

          “This is Debbie in the 194th Court. How are you, Mark?”
          “Fine, Debbie, what’s happening down there where all the real action is?”
          “The usual: rapes, murders, drugs; nothing special. Judge Entz has appointed you to another case. You still want them, right? The Judge said that you are really going to love this one—” 
          “Great,” responding with enthusiasm, but thinking, I hope my firm doesn’t mind another pro bono criminal case so soon after the last one. 
          “Just FYI; bragging about winning the last case that the Judge assigned to you might explain the big grin on the Judge’s face when he handed me this file and told me to appoint you.”

          My firm’s managing partner, James E. Coleman, had been supportive from the beginning. Bored with civil cases only a few years out of law school, I wanted to add criminal matters to my docket to spice things up a bit. My dream of being a lawyer—which started in Mr. Walker’s 6th grade class—was founded on the belief that being a lawyer and being a criminal defense lawyer was one and the same. No one told me that my career wasn’t going to be just like Perry Mason’s. 
          Fortunately, at a terrific law firm where the great trial lawyers believed that real trial lawyers could try any kind of case, my mentors allowed me to pursue my dream. Hoping to be the first Dallas lawyer among the downtown civil firms to be certified in both Civil Trial Law and Criminal Law, I needed just a few more felony trials to qualify. Somehow I had obtained enough federal felony trials and state court misdemeanors to take the test in Criminal Law, but my goal couldn’t be achieved without more state court felony trials. It wasn’t hard to snag the phone calls coming into the firm to handle DWIs or to be the go-to lawyer in the firm for the federal criminal appointments; however, not many people called my prestigious firm requesting counsel for their aggravated assault or burglary charges. 
          Harold Entz, presiding judge of the 194th Court, a Dallas County felony court, was one of the many jurists who sought the reliable counsel of Jim Coleman: the two became friends and would often lunch together. I had asked Mr. Coleman to see if his friend would appoint me to defend indigents accused of felony offenses so that I could qualify for the certification test. I never imagined that there might be more to it—some plan to tame the cocky trial lawyer. Judge Entz and Mr. Coleman decided that the judge would hand-pick the cases because, like civil cases, a majority pled out. This seemed reasonable when Mr. Coleman explained it to me.

          Summertime at Carrington Coleman meant a flock of eager law clerks at the firm. Wanting to impress one of the students with my switch-hitting talents, I went to the library to grab a summer clerk to join me on the mission that Debbie’s phone call prompted. Admittedly, there was an element of secret delight in taking one of the overpaid, pampered clerks down to the dingy courthouse and even bleaker jail. Some of that contemptible attitude just may have been a reaction to the way my old law school friends greeted me on my rare appearances at the criminal courthouse: “What are you doing down here Werbner? Are you lost? Didn’t think that your silk-stocking law firm would let its high-priced talent down here to slum with the rest of us.” 
          So, perhaps I laid it on a little too thick when I asked Michelle Spears—number one in her class at Harvard or Yale or whatever fancy-schmancy school she was from—if she wanted to go to the jail with me to meet a new client. “Michelle, this is what’s up,” explaining why I was appointed to the case; even working in a little recruiting spiel about the firm’s commitment to training, notwithstanding some firms’ emphasis on minimum billable hour requirements. “First we’ll go up to the courthouse to review the court’s file.” 
          “Not usually much in here to go on,” continuing my tutoring as we waited at the clerk’s counter for the jacket to be retrieved from the wall of other pending court cases all styled State of Texas v. Some Poor Creature. “Most criminal cases in state court begin with a cop on the street making an arrest, and the indictment comes only later. What you really want to look for and read is the affidavit filed at the book-in by the arresting officer.” 
          Sounding like a big-shot, experienced criminal defense lawyer, I expounded the value of going to meet the client only after learning what you can from the file—many of these court- appointed defendants are hardcore and the more you know, the more effective you can be at cutting through the bull they invariably try to throw at you, especially when they sense that you are a greenhorn. 
          We leaned over the counter and eagerly read the saga together in silence, looking up simultaneously at the end of the police account, staring at each other with eyes wide open. DeMarcus Henderson aka Doughboy, age seventeen, murdered Leonard Peyton, age nineteen, the prior Saturday night. He seemed too young, we thought, to be involved in a murder case; apparently the young men had some sort of dispute—the affidavit said it was related to their crack cocaine business. The problems started, according to the cop’s version, when a group was “hanging out” in an apartment complex parking lot. About three o’clock in the morning, a dark-colored car with tinted windows pulled up, rap music thumping loudly, as two people emerged and confronted Peyton. Our defendant was said to be carrying an AK-47 assault rifle; the other armed merely with a handgun. The autopsy report was not yet complete, but the detectives had reliable information from the medical examiner that the victim died of multiple gunshot wounds; probably not one of the more difficult postmortems that the pathologist had to conduct that week. The police retrieved twelve rifle cartridges and several nine millimeter casings from the scene.

          A breezeway connects the Crowley Criminal Courts Building to the enormous jail towers that confine Dallas County’s finest citizens. As we walked to the joyless jail to meet with our new client, I pondered a strategy for the interview. “What do you think, Michelle?” 
          “Cool! My friends at other firms will never believe this. This is awesome.” 
          Locked now in the cramped, dirty interview booth, hearing the clanging of heavy metal as a guard dressed in his dark navy uniform removed the shackles from the prisoner, I astutely explained what would happen next. “They’ll bring our client in from the other side through that big steel door.” 
          I tried not to show my discomfort as I took it all in: the narrow, menacing eyes, the small ears on a large, scared face, the gold tooth with a star design, and all the strange looking tattoos. I could have been wrong, but I had a hunch that the new client might be something of a gangster, unless he was just trying to play the part. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested that a few murder cases would be fun; it must have been the Perry Mason thing again. 
          The last client I had, courtesy of Judge Entz, was accused of murder, and despite the chilling circumstances of the matter, she turned out to be a very pleasant young lady. The eighteen-year-old woman was accused of killing her newborn child when giving birth over a toilet, stuffing the body in a trash bag, and hiding it under her bed. My wife was pregnant at the time, and Judge Entz personally selected the case to test the conviction of my aspirations or at least to interject a dose of reality into my shallow notion of being a practitioner of the dark art of criminal law. It turned out that the client was actually not a crazed crack fiend like many assumed, but instead she was a very soft-spoken, polite, and even religious young woman. My hope for a similar client in DeMarcus Henderson was dashed: Judge Entz apparently had other plans. 
          Henderson’s scary, gang-banger attitude was palpable, even through the thick security glass that separated us in the interview booth. Nervously, I retrieved my yellow pad from my expensive leather briefcase and tried to look like a seasoned criminal defense lawyer, hoping that I wasn’t broadcasting my civil lineage. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have brought the young law clerk—now afraid that she added to our out-of-place appearance; she might just be a little too preppy under the current circumstances. 
          “DeMarcus, my name is Mark Werbner. This is Michelle, a law student assisting my firm this summer. I’ve been appointed to represent you on your murder case.” 
          Without hesitation, staring through the glass, he responded: “Which one?” 
          I was taken aback, never having considered that the teenager might have more than one murder case pending against him. “Well, let’s see, now,” fumbling through the notes I had made. “Uh… this is related to the death of uh … Leonard Peyton. Did you know him?” 
          Henderson responded with a steely glare followed by an uneasy silence. “I’m innocent, man. This is bullshit. I had nothin to do with capping that bastard.” Best, I thought, to move on for now; no need to press the issue. I glanced over at Michelle; she was still frozen from the client’s first response. 
          “Well, sir,” believing that some formality would convey a tone of respect, and sensing that my client did not yet fully appreciate how lucky he was to get a very accomplished, top-of-his-class civil lawyer, I then made my second mistake in less than sixty seconds. “Let’s see, here it says the assailant fired an AK-47 multiple times, killing Peyton. An AK-47, that’s pretty distinctive; I hope you don’t mind me asking, but, do you own an AK-47?”
          “Guard, come get me!” he yelled. “I want another damn lawyer. You don’t believe me!” 
          “I’m just trying to get an understanding of the facts; but . . . perhaps you’re right,” I said, standing to indicate the interview was over. “I’ll convey your request to the Judge.”

          Judge Entz summarily rejected my request to withdraw, so I had no choice but to remain on the case. I decided, though, that I could “get up to speed” using a little different approach: no reason to bother the client; the young man was under enough pressure, facing not one, but two, hell, maybe more, murder charges. 
          A few days later, the prosecutor handling the case called sounding annoyed. Evidently the lone eyewitness who could identify DeMarcus Henderson in the dark crowd that night had met his own untimely demise two nights before at the Circle Inn on Harry Hines Boulevard: a rough, tough dump known more for its drug dealing than its accommodations. 
          “We are going to take a hard look at whether your client had anything to do with this. If he did, you’ll be able to cut your teeth on a capital case; if not, I’m afraid we’re going to have to drop the current case.”

          “Good morning, Judge Entz. I just wanted to let you know the DA is dismissing the case you appointed me to last week.” I should have known better than to take credit for the dismissal. 
          “I heard, congratulations,” said the roguish Judge happily, “You’re racking up an impressive win-loss record down here.” 
          “It was nothing, Judge, really… maybe just beginner’s luck. Don’t you have any hard cases down here? I need something …just a little more challenging.” Riding down the elevator, I could only imagine what the next phone call from the 194th Court would present.