CHAPTER THREE

Dillon Michigan

January 12, 2016

I woke early and drove to Dillon. The trip was just ninety miles from Detroit but took longer than I expected because of a late night snowstorm that had turned into freezing rain. When I finally reached Dillon, my first impression was that I had driven back in time. The town felt almost like a movie set meant to depict the bygone charm of the 1950s or ‘60s. Downtown, a few blocks of brick storefronts lined the street, with old-timey signs advertising a few cafes and a hardware shop. Classic automobiles and rusty pickup trucks filled the parking spaces along Main Street as I looked for a place to park near the town’s main feature; in the center of town, an imposing courthouse and surrounding grounds stretched over an entire block.

A human-scale crèche stood on the lawn outside the courthouse. Christmas was four weeks past, but the holiday lights strung along its angel-topped roof were still lighted. I guess the city leaders didn’t quite absorb the Supreme Court’s message about religious displays on public property. I drove around the block a second time searching for a parking space. Finally, I found a spot a block away in front of a hunting and fishing store. A Confederate flag hung in its front window.

A dose of reality? In my excitement and quest to prove myself, maybe I hadn’t considered what I was really walking into. I’d read last night about how conservative Dillon was. To see those values on display in person, though, was a different matter.

I reminded myself why I was here. This was about justice and my burgeoning career in drug-related litigation. This was about my showing I could do this as well as, or better than, anyone else. I took several deep breaths to refocus and stepped out of my car purposefully. At the status conference, I was going to meet with both Judge Arnold Mossberg and Ed Foster, the Assistant Attorney General from Lansing, who had replaced the local prosecutor when the State took over the case shortly after Mrs. Brandenburg died. Mossberg was the only circuit judge in Dillon County. After the status conference was over, Dan Douglas and I would meet with Brandenburg in the jury room.

I walked into the lobby of the courthouse, checked the directory, the courtroom was on the third floor. The click of my heels echoed throughout the towering space as I ascended the three flights of the central marble staircase. I found Dan pacing outside the courtroom. His face brightened when he spotted me. He sighed.

“I’m glad you decided to do this. The judge has a hearing on a divorce case, and we’re up next,” he said, reaching out to shake hands. “Let’s go in and watch, and you’ll get a feel for Mossberg.”

In the courtroom, we took seats in the front row of the large galley for spectators. I looked around and felt my mood elevate. The spacious room was magnificent with its high curved ceiling and marble floor. Dark mahogany covered the walls, the jury box, and chairs. The judge’s bench perched high above the floor. I’d seen courtrooms like this in movies, but never in real life.

I spotted Ed Foster at the other end of our row seated next to a big handsome guy with a blonde crew cut. I knew that the blonde guy was Gary Somers, the Michigan State Police detective who pursued Brandenburg over the last seven years. I watched him last evening on the taped Unsolved Mysteries segment that Dan had left with me at our meeting. Somers was the hardboiled hero, the star of the program – and Steve Brandenburg, of course, was portrayed by an actor who played the evil villain role with mastery.

Foster looked to be in his mid-forties, overweight a good forty pounds, and had the puniest comb-over I’d ever seen; two long strands of hair made an unsuccessful attempt to mask his shiny bald head. His clown-like physical appearance made me smile, but I knew he was no buffoon. I’d Googled him last evening, and his credentials were impressive. He’d graduated from Harvard Law School, clerked for the chief judge on the federal Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals, and was the top trial lawyer in the office of the Michigan Attorney General for the past ten years. He’d won a number of high-profile trials that left no doubt in my mind he knew what he was doing. He was the “go-to” guy in the Attorney General’s office when a major case was to be tried. He will be a challenge, someone to not take lightly. I turned my attention to the proceedings in the courtroom.

In front of the bench, a man and woman stood apart from each other. The man’s lawyer stood next to his client. The woman had no lawyer.

Judge Arnold Mossberg, a thin, wiry man, with a narrow, wrinkled, unsmiling face, perched high above them. He had to be around sixty, and his pasty complexion suggested that most of his time was spent indoors.

Mossberg scowled at the small group and didn’t waste any time getting to business.

“What brings you this time?”

The lawyer said, “Judge, we’re back here to resolve a new issue that causes my client a great deal of concern. You may remember that my client’s wife – .”

“Ex-wife,” the woman interjected in a small voice.

Mossberg turned to the woman and glared at her. “Lady, don’t interrupt.” He pointed his index finger at her. “You’ll get your turn. Now let your husband’s lawyer say what he wants to say.” He turned back to the lawyer and nodded for him to continue.

“Thank you, Judge,” he said. “This is my motion to reconsider your disposition of the marital assets. You may recall that my client’s wife was awarded physical custody of the two minor children, as well as the use of the marital home as long as she remained single. It’s been brought to my client’s attention that his wife has a man living in the house.”

Mossberg looked at the woman reproachfully. “Is that true?” he prodded. “With children living in the home?”

The woman’s head and shoulders drooped, and she stared down at the floor. “I did have a friend stay over last weekend,” she answered. “The children were at my ex-husband’s house for their required visit.” She looked up to meet the judge’s eyes. “I’m a single woman, and I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The judge jerked upright. “I decide what is right and what is wrong in this courtroom. The house is in your husband’s name, right?”

“We bought the house together when we first married,” the woman answered in a shaking voice.

“That’s not what I asked you,” the judge scolded. “The house is in his name. Am I right about that? And where is your attorney?”

The woman bit her lip. “You ordered my ex-husband to pay my attorney fees…and he hasn’t. My lawyer says he can’t afford to work for nothing. My ex is also seven months behind in support payments. I can hardly feed my kids.”

The judge was unmoved. “The house is in your husband’s name?”

“The house is in my ex-husband’s name only because he wanted it that way.”

“Nevertheless, the house is in his name. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And you had a man over to spend the night in your husband’s house. Is that right?”

“While the kids were gone,” she pleaded.

Mossberg looked at the lawyer, unable to mask his irritation. “What do you suggest? What are you looking for?”

The lawyer cleared his throat and spoke. To me, he sounded like a preacher. “Judge, my client is concerned about the lesson this behavior, living in sin, teaches his children. I think you should make it clear to his wife that this type of conduct is unacceptable. If she wants to cat around, let her do it someplace else, but not in my client’s home. She has violated the spirit of your divorce decree. If she persists, I’ll have no choice but to come back and ask you to remove her from the house.”

Mossberg sneered at the woman. “He’s right. This type of conduct, sleeping around, is unacceptable. This is a warning. Next time, you lose the house. Is that clear?”

It took the woman a moment to recover from the judge’s verbal slap in the face. I watched as she helplessly tried to collect herself. She opened her mouth to speak a few times before she could find the right words.

“Judge,” she said, “the reason we got the divorce in the first place is that I caught him with a girl in our bed.”

Mossberg smirked. “You mean the bed in his house?”

The woman clenched her hands into two small fists at her side. Helpless. “The bed in our house, Judge.”

Mossberg ignored her comment. “I really don’t care what a husband does in his own home. If he wants to bring in the entire Miami Dolphins cheerleader squad, it’s his home. He paid for it, worked for it, and he can do what he wants. You should have your attorney here to argue for you.”

“I clean houses.” The woman’s voice hitched in her throat. “Everything I make goes to pay for my children’s food and clothing. I can’t afford to pay my lawyer. Can you tell my ex-husband to pay my attorney the money he owes him? As well as what he owes me?”

I couldn’t look away from the woman, but in the corner of my eye, I saw the ex-husband leaning to whisper in his lawyer’s ear. The lawyer nodded and then looked up at Mossberg.

“Judge,” he said, “my client has had some unexpected expenses. He recognizes he is behind on payments, but these expenses have made it difficult.”

The woman’s hands flew up in frustration. Her response came automatically: “This unexpected expense my ex-husband is crowing about is a brand new sixty-thousand-dollar Corvette.” She paused before she continued, struggling to keep her voice calm. “That damn car is taking food out of the mouths of my children, his children.”

Mossberg reeled back in fury. “Lady, you will not raise your voice or use that kind of language in my courtroom. You need someone here to represent you that won’t get quite so hysterical. If you can’t afford a lawyer, borrow the money. Understood?” He waited expectantly.

The shamed divorcee shook her head in disbelief.

Mossberg considered her, tapping his bone-thin fingers in a row and shaking his head. Disgust spread over his face with his final command. “I’ll hear this again in one month, lady. Get yourself a lawyer.”

What the hell is this? I could hardly process what I had just witnessed. What kind of hell is this?

I couldn’t just sit and watch this attack, not a second longer. I stood and approached the bench.

“Judge, I’m this woman’s lawyer,” I said, unflinching. “If my client and I could just take a few moments to confer, we can arrange for something immediately.”

Mossberg looked questioningly at the woman whose lawyer had just materialized out of nowhere.

“Is she right? Is this young woman your lawyer?”

The divorcee looked over at me in surprise, and I nodded at her. The wounded look in the woman’s eyes shifted from desperation and confusion to a flash of hope. The woman pulled in a deep breath and turned to the judge.

“Yes,” she said, regrouping. “Your Honor. This is my lawyer. I can’t take time off work to do this again. Can we please deal with this right now?”

“We will just need a few minutes, your Honor,” I added.

Mossberg leaned forward and examined me for a long moment that made my skin crawl.

“Who are you?” he said. “I’ve never seen you in this courtroom before. I don’t even know if you’re a lawyer.”

I straightened my shoulders. “Your Honor, I’m Katie Hornsby. And I’m appearing on behalf of…my client.” I should have known the woman’s name before I jumped into this. Too late for that now.

I shook off the thought and continued, letting my anger at the injustice be my guiding light: “I have just a few quick questions for the ex-husband about the purchase of his sixty-thousand-dollar Corvette while his children are going without food. I can do that even before I confer with my client. She shouldn’t have to wait another month before she can properly feed her children.”

The woman reached over and touched my hand. I saw tears shining in her eyes and smiled tenderly. What I want to do is give her a hug.

The man’s lawyer interrupted the moment.

“Judge,” he said, sounding shocked. “This is highly irregular. I haven’t had time to prepare my client to give testimony. I can discuss some type of temporary arrangement with her lawyer who has decided to show up, but we need at least a month…”

Mossberg pursed his thin lips together in a line and then nodded. “I’ll put your motion over one month, and I’d like to see you both back here…with lawyers. “Meanwhile,” he said, wagging his pointer finger like a stick at the lawyer, “you talk with her lawyer and have your client take care of his children for the next month as I ordered in the first place.”

Without pausing for a breath, Mossberg glanced down at his clerk and ordered her to call the next case.

The clerk stood: “People versus Steve Brandenburg.”

Mossberg rose to his feet in one swift motion. “I’ll see the lawyers on the Brandenburg case in my chambers in ten minutes.”

After the judge left the bench, I negotiated weekly payments to my new client for the next month. The man’s lawyer had twice called me ‘girl.’ The woman, Mollie Evans, wept and hugged me when I told her about the agreement. We exchanged phone numbers, and I promised to continue helping her.