The State vs. Low Ball Smith

by Gary Clifton

“Now, Detective, uh... McClain,” Defense Counsel Clarence Rusk stammered, peering over his half glasses.

“McCoy, Counselor... M-C-C-O-Y. Like it says on that report you’re waving around.” McCoy was the lead homicide investigator in the case against Waverly Monroe Smith, a pimp, charged with murder by firearm of Cletus Ray Savage, also a pimp.

“Ah, yes, McCoy.” Rusk began again. “You just testified for the prosecution that you entered the residence of my client.” He gestured at Smith, who slouched in a chair at the defense table, doing his dead level best to hate-stare McCoy to death.

“That a question or an answer?”

“Question.”

“Yes.” Husky, graying, McCoy held the flamboyant attorney steadily in his cold, blue eyes, pondering if he disliked Rusk any more than a hundred other lawyers he knew.

“Prosecution neglected to ask you, sir, if you in fact had a search warrant in hand when you entered my client’s abode, or did you ignore the Fourth Amendment... again.”

“Objection. Badgering, relevance,” Assistant District Attorney Debra Ruckle snapped to her feet at the prosecutor’s table. McCoy had spent the night before with Ms. Ruckle, while strategizing. He wondered if the judge would object.

“Overruled.”

“Search Warrant?” Rusk continued. “Please explain your actions to the jury.”

“As I said previously, sir, with detectives Harper and Williams, we knocked on Mr. Smith’s door, announced we were police officers with an arrest warrant for the murder of Jingles... I mean, uh, Cletus Ray Savage, and demanded he open the door. I heard movement inside. Fearing for the lives of the other two officers, and sworn to execute the arrest warrant, I tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered. Found ol’ Low Ball — er, I mean Mr. Smith — hiding under a bed with two naked men and a white poodle with pink toenails.”

“Unlocked? Photos showed the door was smashed to smithereens.”

“I saw that, counselor. That’s how I knew it was open. Somebody musta kicked it in. Crime is rampant in that area.”

“Two naked men?” Rusk asked. “Why didn’t you try to float that fiction under direct examination?”

“Nobody asked.”

“Objection, relevance,” ADA Ruckle interjected.

“Overruled.”

“You should write fairy tales, McClain. Naked men, indeed.”

“It’s still McCoy, counselor.”

The judge barked. “Get on with this, McCoy.”

“So you admit you had no search warrant?” Rusk semi-shouted.

“We entered the premises to arrest your client on authority of a warrant of arrest issued by Judge Silver. Did they tell you in law school, Mr. Rusk, that no search warrant is required to enter premises to arrest a murderer? We were legally authorized to look anywhere Mr. Smith could hide.”

Judge Wilma Silver, regularly ill-tempered, glared down reproachfully at McCoy. “Interpretation of the law is the purview of the Court, not you.”

“Could he hide in a kitchen drawer, where you allege you found the murder weapon?” Rusk continued.

“As I testified earlier, I witnessed Detective Williams seize a .45 caliber Colt pistol, loaded with five rounds, in full view, from an open kitchen drawer. The lab determined it was the murder weapon.”

Rusk puffed up like an Easter balloon. “Your honor, this officer has just admitted an illegal entry. Does he even know the Fourth Amendment exists? He cannot violate my client’s Fourth Amendment rights against illegal search by trumping up some fairy tale that the kitchen drawer was open.”

McCoy cleared his throat. “Matter of fact, counselor, I have the Fourth Amendment memorized. Can I recite it for you? I also know a few Christmas carols.”

“Enough, McCoy,” the judge said sternly.

Rusk wailed, “I don’t believe he has it memorized.”

“Mr. Rusk, the court will take judicial notice that Detective McCoy is familiar with search and seizure procedures. And, McCoy, don’t even think about spouting parts of the Constitution in my courtroom.”

“Your Honor,” Rusk rustled a sheath of papers, “the Exclusionary Rule, Mapp v. Ohio, 1961 in addition to a hundred other decisions, declares that evidence seized in violation of the Fourth Amendment is inadmissible. We demand the pistol be excluded and my client set free. This wiseacre cop has no further evidence.”

McCoy sighed. “Mr. Rusk, if you can read, perhaps you should examine the report in front of you and my earlier testimony. Even you oughta know the eye cannot trespass. If Low Ball left the pistol in plain sight, that trumps the Fourth Amendment. We entered lawfully to make a felony arrest, saw the pistol, and he’s locked up for murder.”

Judge Silver said, “McCoy, the court will explain the law.”

“I don’t think Mr. Rusk fully understands that, your Honor.”

“Objection,” Rusk blurted “We demand a mistrial. No way that drawer was open.” He turned and pointed at Smith. “Nobody’s that stupid.”

“Counselor,” McCoy said, “if you’re gonna testify like that, shouldn’t the Judge swear you?”

“McCoy!” the Judge snapped.

“Well, Mr. Rusk, if that’s a question regarding how I gauge stupidity, I’d have to say if he’s dumb enough to keep the murder weapon, he’s dumb enough to leave the drawer open.”

At that, Waverly Monroe “Low Ball” Smith sprang to his feet at the defense table and shouted, “That damned drawer wasn’t open no more than three inches! No way them cops coulda’ seen that gun.”

“Great Scott,” Rusk collapsed in his chair.

“Holy biscuits,” Judge Silver said at volume. “Sit your ass down, Mr. Smith. The circus is postponed until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. McCoy, I want to see you in my chambers.”

McCoy grinned. “Yes, Judge.” As he stepped down from the stand, he whispered to Rusk, “She’s callin’ me in there to tell me to hurry the hell up so she can give ol’ Low Ball the needle. It was you requested non-jury trial, judge only. You did get paid up front, I hope?”

“Objection!” Rusk exclaimed.

“Too late, Clarence. Judge is back there, fixin’ me’n her a martini.” McCoy brushed by.

“McClain, do you really have the Fourth Amendment memorized?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”