by Betty Bean

Greg Isaacs was 30 when Herb Moncier asked him to be co-counsel in the quadruple murder trial of Thomas Dee Huskey. Since the state is seeking the death penalty, Huskey, who is indigent, is entitled to two lawyers, and Isaacs joined up.

In the ensuing six years, he has become a father, moved to Cherokee Boulevard, and handled some of the highest-profile cases in this city. He was the first local lawyer to hit Court TV, when he represented church organist Michael Frazier in the infamous "Love Triangle" case. He invented a bizarre new defense doctrine for that case and persuaded the jury to buy it, thereby getting Frazier a short prison stay on an attempted voluntary manslaughter verdict even though most observers expected him to be smacked with attempted murder. Isaacs represented the young woman who was driving the car that was struck by Knoxville Beer Board inspector David McGoldrick, and he pushed the city to uncover a cover-up in progress. He represented the Swedish relatives of little Peter Lillelid, the only survivor of the horrendous rest stop murders in Greeneville, and he did it pro bono. These were cases that attracted varying degrees of public sympathy. The Huskey case does not.

One of the most troubling aspects of being appointed to represent an infamous client, in Isaacs' view, is the Knoxville News-Sentinel's demand to make the cost of defending Huskey public. He can't say so directly, since he and other officers of the court are under a gag order, but a commentary Isaacs wrote for an online public affairs site he contributes to makes his position very clear:

"Thirty-five years ago, in Gideon V. Wainwright, the United States Supreme Court recognized, for the first time, that poor people accused of non-capital crimes were entitled to a court-appointed lawyer...

"Money for the defense of criminals, who cares? Everybody should.... How much justice does an indigent man or woman deserve?"

He is troubled by a bill sponsored by Rep. Tim Burchett and Sen. Randy McNally in the General Assembly making "the amount of money spent in defense of the indigent client a public record. Conversely, the amount of money the non-poor spend on their legal defense is privileged."

He knows that he and Moncier have become almost as controversial as their client. He doesn't seem to care. Mindful of the gag order, he speaks generally about practicing criminal law.

"The thing I've realized in 10 years of practice is that there's a certain underlying element of conformity—judges, lawyers and the media want to fit nice, neat round pegs into round holes. You see cases in Knox County where people are charged, tried and sentenced to death within a year. How hard should you fight if someone's trying to kill your client?"

Early in his career, he represented another death penalty defendant, Ernest J. Walker, who was charged with killing stockyard owner Gladys Houston.

"Two guys got the chair, and we hung the jury," Isaacs says with palpable satisfaction.

"I cross-examined a state snitch, Speck Elliott, and during the break, he was perspiring so much he had to go home and change clothes. My guy got out with time served, and has learned to read and write and gotten into drug and alcohol rehabilitation and is doing very well. It has been proven that innocent people have been killed by the justice system."

He quotes from To Kill A Mockingbird, and takes comfort from the story of Atticus Finch, a white Southern lawyer who defied public opinion by taking on the case of a black man accused of rape.

"I'll bet people were asking Atticus Finch, 'Why are you representing that black guy?'"

Last week, Isaacs stood for two hours and tried to persuade Judge Richard Baumgartner to recuse himself. While Baumgartner didn't make an immediate ruling, it was pretty obvious that he wasn't buying it. Isaacs returned to his seat, next to the defendant.

Tom Huskey reached over and patted his shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispered.

One of the few points of agreement between Thomas Huskey's defense team and the prosecutors who want to send him to the electric chair is this: Larry Johnson is a prince.

Not that this will prevent Isaacs and Moncier from beating up on him on the witness stand; but he'll know and they'll know that it's just business. At 54, Johnson is a long, lean, snowy-haired drink of water, who, in his own words, has been "shot, stabbed, kicked, run over, spit on, spit at" more times than he can remember during his 32-year law enforcement career. He stands 6'3", and his nickname is "The Silver Fox."

From 1976 until 1981 he did undercover narcotics work for 15 district attorneys general in 23 East Tennessee counties, piling up 2,500 felony indictments and turning more than 1,000 criminals into convicts. Amazingly, this lanky country boy who's never seen a need to purge his Bulls Gap raisings from his rusty bass fiddle of a voice passed himself off as a New York drug dealer named Nick Olivia, and pretty much got away with it, most of the time.

In November 1992, at the same time the strange circumstances of the Huskey case were causing a media frenzy, Johnson's exploits were featured on the nationally syndicated TV show America's Top Cops. He and the guys in his unit watched the show at Hoo-Rays.

It was about his years as an undercover cop, and it dramatized the night a thug he'd jailed in another town spotted him in a bar and decided to even some old scores. The punk and his friends followed Johnson into the parking lot, and, after beating him, took Johnson's Beretta automatic away from him and put the barrel between his eyes. And pulled the trigger. Twice. And twice the gun jammed. So the thug settled for administering a good beating.

"He about wore my head out," says Johnson, who sports a hairline to eyebrow scar.

Having also worn out his welcome as an undercover narc, he came to Knox County in 1981 and went to work for the sheriff's department. Three years later, he and detective Jim Kennedy drove out to a West Knoxville motel to check on a call. Telling this affects the gizzard-tough Johnson more than any of the other war stories.

"We'd been trying to get County Commission to give us a raise, and as we were getting out of the car, Jim said 'I'd hate to get killed for $13,000 a year.'"

The call came in as a domestic and a stolen car. The guy's name was David Bryan Young and he was shacked up at the Prime Way Inn, Room 113. Johnson has a photographic memory, a trait that has served him well these many years.

The sheriff's department was chronically understaffed in those days, and Kennedy, who was off duty, volunteered to go out with Johnson.

"We ride down there, and stop at the desk to verify that there's a woman there. Robert Lee pulled up in a marked unit and backed us up... We knock on the door, a woman answers and stands there holding the door. I'm standing there leaning against the door frame telling her 'Come on out. We need to talk to you...'

"Jim, who was about 5'9," ducks under my arm and steps in front of me. Just then, the man inside the room says 'I'm sick and tired of you sons of bitches!' And I see holes start opening up in the door, Styrofoam flying everywhere. I can't get to my gun and Young's holding the door, and Jim goes in like a linebacker. I see Jim falling...

Thirty seconds later, I hear a single shot and a real low moan. 'That son of a bitch's shot himself.'"

Jim Kennedy was hit five times outside the door. While he lay on the floor inside the door, before Young shot him two more times, Johnson could hear him yelling "Police officer. Put the gun down."

He clears his throat.

"That's why I always keep his picture in my office where I can look at him every day. The good County Commission gave us a 10 percent raise that year, Lord love 'em."

Johnson is on light duty, working in the attorney general's office preparing the Huskey case for trial. Nichols says having Johnson around increases his comfort level.

"It was always wonderful when you picked up a file and Larry Johnson had done the case," he says. "You knew there weren't going to be unanswered questions in a Larry Johnson file."

But there's probably another reason Johnson is, in his own words, "laying on the porch."

Rendered 70 pounds leaner during the past year by a recurrent battle with bladder cancer and other ailments (he had a lung removed due to lung cancer years ago), his friends are worried about him. But the deal is this: they don't bring it up and he doesn't let on that he notices them noticing.