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Kelli Peters has yet to collect any of the $5.7 million she was
awarded in her civil case. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
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She was the PTA mom everyone knew. Who would want to harm her?
Framed: Chapter 6
A tall, lanky man sat alone on a bench outside Courtroom 62. He was
absorbed in the yellow legal pad balanced on his lap, silently mouthing
what he had written there.
He was recognizable to many of the attorneys who passed through this third-floor wing of the Central Justice Center in Santa Ana. By now he was accustomed to the stares of curiosity and contempt. The white-shoe rainmakers in the $1,000 suits, the personal-injury guys hustling a living on slip-and-falls, the overworked public defenders — they knew his mug shot from the news.
Until recently Kent Easter had been one of them, a member of the
tribe in good standing, a sworn Officer of the Court. He sat atop the
roiling, competitive heap of Orange County’s 17,000 practicing lawyers —
a $400,000-a-year civil litigator, an equity partner in one of the
county’s biggest firms.
His career had been a trajectory of prestige schools and status gigs, from Stanford to UCLA Law to a big Silicon Valley firm, and finally to a 14th-floor office in a Newport Beach tower overlooking the Pacific.
This was before the arrests and the trials and the cameras, before his pedigree became a cudgel with which to flog him, before strangers were writing him letters urging him to kill himself. Now he sat alone in the din of the courthouse hallway wearing ill-fitting pants and a homely purple sweater.
Read the rest at the LA Times.
He was recognizable to many of the attorneys who passed through this third-floor wing of the Central Justice Center in Santa Ana. By now he was accustomed to the stares of curiosity and contempt. The white-shoe rainmakers in the $1,000 suits, the personal-injury guys hustling a living on slip-and-falls, the overworked public defenders — they knew his mug shot from the news.
|
Kent Easter was vague in describing his
role in
planting drugs in Kelli Peters'
car. (Marcereau & Nazif)
|
His career had been a trajectory of prestige schools and status gigs, from Stanford to UCLA Law to a big Silicon Valley firm, and finally to a 14th-floor office in a Newport Beach tower overlooking the Pacific.
This was before the arrests and the trials and the cameras, before his pedigree became a cudgel with which to flog him, before strangers were writing him letters urging him to kill himself. Now he sat alone in the din of the courthouse hallway wearing ill-fitting pants and a homely purple sweater.
Read the rest at the LA Times.
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