Free Rogue Lawyer by John Grisham

could vote for the craziest federal judge in the land, Arnie Samson would win in a landslide. But he’s my crazy friend, and he’s freed me from jail before.
    Kaufman says to the bailiff, “Tell the marshal to get lost. If he starts trouble, tell the sheriff to arrest him. That’ll really piss him off, won’t it? The sheriff arresting a marshal. Ha. Bet that’s never happened before. Anyway, we’re not leaving. We have a trial to resume here.”
    “Why’d you run to federal court?” Huver asks me in all seriousness.
    “Because I don’t like being in jail. What kinda stupid question is that?”
    The bailiff leaves and Kaufman says, “I’m vacating the contempt order, okay, Mr. Rudd? I figure one night in the slammer is enough for your behavior.”
    I say, “Well, it’s certainly enough for a mistrial or a reversal.”
    “Let’s not argue that,” Kaufman says. “Can we proceed?”
    “You’re the judge.”
    “What about the hearing in federal court?”
    “Are you asking me for legal advice?” I fire back.
    “Hell no.”
    “Ignore the notice at your own risk. Hell, Judge Samson might throw the both of you in jail for a night or two. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

12.
    We eventually make it back to the courtroom, and it takes some time to get everyone settled. When the jury is brought in, I refuse to look at them. By now they all know I spent the night in jail, and I’m sure they’re curious about how I survived. So I give them nothing.
    Judge Kaufman apologizes for the delays and says it’s time to get to work. He looks at Huver, who stands and says, “Your Honor, the State rests.”
    This is an amateurish ploy designed to make my life even more miserable. I rise and angrily say, “Your Honor, he could’ve told me this yesterday or even this morning.”
    “Call your first witness,” Kaufman barks.
    “I’m not ready. I have some motions. On the record.”
    He has no choice but to excuse the jury. We spend the next two hours haggling over whether or not the State has presented enough proof to keep going. I repeat the same arguments. Kaufman makes the same rulings. It’s all for the record.
    My first witness is a scraggly, troubled kid who looks remarkably similar to my client. His first name is Wilson; he’s fifteen years old, a dropout, a druggie, a kid who’s basically homeless, though an aunt allows him to sleep in the garage whenever he’s sick. And he’s our star witness!
    The Fentress girls went missing around 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. They left school on their bikes but never made it home. A search began around 6:00 and intensified as the hours passed. By midnight, the entire town was in a panic and everyone was outside with a flashlight. Their bodies were found in the polluted pond around noon the following day.
    I have six witnesses, Wilson and five others, who will testify that they were with Gardy on that Wednesday afternoon from around 2:00 until dark. They were at a place called the Pit, an abandoned gravel pit in the middle of some dense woods south of town. It’s a secluded hideout for truants, runaways, homeless kids, druggies, petty felons, and drunks. It attracts a few older deadbeats, but for the most part it’s a haven for the kids nobody wants. They sleep under lean-tos, share their stolen food, drink their stolen booze, take drugs I’ve never heard of, engage in random sex, and in general waste away the days while sliding closer to either death or incarceration. Gardy was there when someone else abducted and murdered the Fentress girls.
    So we have an alibi—my client’s whereabouts can be vouched for. Or can it?
    By the time Wilson takes the stand and is sworn in, the jurors are suspicious. For the occasion he’s wearing what he always wears—grimy jeans with lots of holes, battered combat boots, a green T-shirt proclaiming the greatness of some acid-rock band, and a smart purple bandanna looped around his neck. His scalp is skinned above the ears and yields