My client, Raymond Calder, , is the type of guy a juror makes up their mind about long before he even opens his mouth. At six‑two, broad‑shouldered, and with sleeves of ink climbing from his fingers to his jawline, he unsettles most people without trying. He’s also a Black man—something that shouldn’t matter, but in this city, for some, it absolutely does. They see him and they form an immediate opinion, which will follow him all the way to their verdict despite any exonerating evidence to the contrary.
In this case, however, the bigots would mostly be right about Calder. His criminal record informs a life of making others utterly miserable: robbery, larceny, fraud, theft, threatening, and multiple assaults. He’s a guy who’s lived a dangerous, unrepentant, and unapologetic life, and who has absolutely no interest in abiding by the rules that keep the rest of us warm and safe at night.
Today, he’s on trial for armed robbery. Which, not surprisingly, he claims was all a big misunderstanding. It wasn’t a robbery—it was an attempt to collect on a loan. A loan with no supporting paperwork, of course. And the armed part was a “walking stick” he happened to have in his hand as he kicked open a thin-cored door at three in the morning.
Calder had insisted on taking the stand to “tell his side of the story,” and the junior prosecutor has wasted no time methodically eviscerating him, one embarrassing fact after another, in front of a slightly amused—but increasingly agitated jury.
Armed with a thick file, she’d painfully dragged him through the past four decades of his degenerate life: Five failed marriages, six unsupported kids, chronic unemployment, constant drug and alcohol abuse, and a dozen criminal convictions. I’d objected as much as I could, but one thing was abundantly clear: Calder was a menace to society and a danger to anyone who stood in the way of his uncontrolled impulses. As he endured question after question, he must have known that the jury was never going to believe his version of events. Not in a million lifetimes.
The simple truth was that some people were civilized, productive and amicable members of society and others, well, they were not.
I’d warned Calder not to testify—that was my job as his lawyer—but he’d told me he knew better. He was certain he could convince the jury to see his side of things. But three hours into his testimony, he was glaring at me from the witness stand as if I’d forced him to testify.
Twenty years as a lawyer, and I still make occasional mistakes. And taking on Calder as a client was turning out to be a big one. I had felt bad for him, the day he’d meandered into my office, and told me his sad-sack story of the police arresting the wrong guy. I’d seen through his lies and had told him I couldn’t help him, but he had been adamant that I was his only choice. That I had to fight for him. Fight for what he thought was right. So here I was, battling this dog of a case, with little hope of winning—and with more than an even chance of watching him get hooked up with a long sentence as a habitual offender.
An hour later, when the prosecutor finally sat down, all gloating and triumphant, Judge Halpern looked over her glasses at me, like, why didn’t you plead this one out?
Instead, she says thoughtfully, “Mr. Birmingham, you may redirect.”
I grab my notepad and stand. Not hopeful, but intent on at least doing the job that a defense lawyer is required to do. Zealous representation and all that.
As I turn toward Calder, he rises from the witness seat and cracks his shoulders.
At first, I think he’s misunderstood. He stares at me with a slightly open mouth, his hands flexing by his side, as if he’s not sure what to do next.
Maybe he doesn’t realize I’m going to try to salvage what’s left of his credibility. After all, he does have a few redeeming qualities like riding his motorcycle for charity, and helping his sick mother out when he can.
As I begin to tell him to sit down, I spot the gun and every one of my orderly thoughts vanishes immediately.
It’s a small automatic. The kind you can hide in a jacket pocket. In his hand, it looks like a toy. Probably ceramic or hard plastic, something that he could easily slip past the metal detectors. Small, but still deadly.
As my mind begins to spin out of control, I realize everything is about to go sideways. And I know the next few seconds are going to be the most important ones of my life.
I should ask him for the gun, remind him that he isn’t a murderer, tell him—
Philip J. Puglisi, Esq. Legal Thriller Author 