Rogue Lawyer (26 page)

At midnight we're in a pizza dive, tucked into a narrow booth and sitting very close together. There has been some touching and hand-holding and there seems to be a mutual attraction. I certainly hope it's mutual. She nibbles on a slice of pepperoni and prattles on about the main event, a heavyweight blood-fest that ended with a vicious choke hold. The loser stayed on the mat for a long time. Eventually, she gets around to the kidnapping and wants to know how much I know. I explain that the FBI is digging and I can't say anything.

Was there a ransom demand? I can't say. A suspect? Not that I know of. What was he doing at that truck stop? Eating ice cream. I'd like to give her the details but it's too early; maybe later, when everything is settled.

As we drive back to her place, she says, “It might be difficult to have a relationship as long as you're wearing a gun.”

“Okay. I can lose it. But it will always be close by.”

“I'm not sure I like that.”

Nothing else is said until I park outside her condo. “I had a great time,” she says.

“So did I.” I walk her to the door of her condo and ask, “So when can I see you again?”

She pecks me on the cheek and says, “Seven tomorrow night. Right here. There's a movie I want to see.”

Partner picks me up in another rental, a shiny new U-Haul cargo van with “$19.95 a Day—Unlimited Mileage” splashed on both sides in bright green and orange paint. I look at it for a minute or so before finally getting in. “Nice,” I say.

“I thought you'd like it,” he says, grinning. His bandages are hidden under his clothing; there's no evidence of his wounds. He's too tough to admit soreness or pain.

“I guess we'd better get used to it,” I say. “The insurance company is dragging its feet. Plus it'll take a month to get a new one customized.” We're moving through downtown traffic, just a couple of delivery boys with a van full of furniture. He stops in front of City Hall and parks illegally. A U-Haul van with such vivid colors is bound to attract a swarm of traffic cops.

“I chatted with Miguel,” he says.

“And how did that go?” I ask, my hand on the door handle.

“Okay. I just explained things, said you were getting squeezed by some tough guys and needed a little protection. He said he could take care of it, said it was the least he and the guys could do for you and all that happy crap. I emphasized that no one gets hurt, just a friendly hello to Tubby and Razor so they'd get the message.”

“What do you think?”

“It'll probably work. Link's gang is pretty thin these days, for obvious reasons. Most of his muscle is gone. I doubt if his boys want to mix it up with a drug gang.”

“We'll see. Back in thirty minutes,” I say as I get out.

Woody canceled his trip to Washington and is waiting in his office with Moss. Both look as though they've had a bad weekend. It's Monday and my goal is to ruin the rest of their week. There are no handshakes, no forced pleasantries, not even the offer of coffee.

I jack up the tension with “Okay, boys, do we have a deal? Yes or no? I want an answer now, and if I get the wrong answer I'll leave this building and walk down the street to the
Chronicle
. Verdoliak, your favorite reporter, is waiting at his desk.”

Woody stares at the floor and says, “Deal.”

Moss slides across a document and says, “This is a confidential settlement agreement. The insurance company will pay the first million now. The City will kick in half a million this fiscal year, same for next. We have a litigation reserve fund we can manipulate, but we need to split the two payments between this year and next. It's the best we can do.”

“That'll work,” I say. “And when will the chief and the SWAT boys get the ax?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Moss says. “And that's not in this agreement.”

“Then I won't sign the agreement until they are terminated. Why wait? What is so difficult about getting rid of these guys? Hell, the whole city wants them canned.”

“So do we,” the mayor says. “Believe me, we want them out of the picture. Just trust us on this, Rudd.”

I roll my eyes at the word “trust.” I pick up the agreement and read it slowly. A phone buzzes on the mayor's imposing desk but he ignores it. When I finish reading, I drop it on the table and say, “Not one word of apology. My client's wife is murdered, he gets shot, then he gets dragged through a criminal trial, faces prison, goes through hell and back, and not one word of apology. No deal.”

Woody utters a bitter “Shit!” and jumps to his feet. Moss rubs his eyes as if he might start crying. Seconds pass, then a full minute, with nothing said. Finally, I glare at the mayor and say, “Why can't you man up and do what's right? Why can't you call one of your press conferences, just like you do for every other minor crisis, and start with an apology to the Renfro family? Announce a settlement in the civil case. Explain that after a thorough investigation it's now clear that the SWAT team disregarded all rules of procedure and safety and that the eight cops are being terminated, immediately. And their boss goes with them.”

“I don't really need your advice when it comes to doing my job,” Woody says, but it's a lame response.

“Maybe you do,” I say. I'm tempted to storm out again, but I don't want to lose the money.

“Okay, okay,” Moss says. “We'll redraft it and throw in some language addressing the family.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I'll be back tomorrow, after the press conference.”

I meet Doug Renfro for lunch in a coffee shop near his home. I explain the settlement, and he is thrilled to be getting two million. My contracted fee is 25 percent, but I'll cut it to only 10 percent. He is surprised by this and, at first, wants to argue. I'd like to give him all the money, but I do have some overhead. After I split with Harry & Harry, I'll net around $120,000, which is low for the time I've spent on the case, but still a decent fee.

As he takes a sip of coffee, his hand starts shaking and his eyes suddenly water. He sets the cup down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just want Kitty,” he says, lips quivering.

“I'm sorry, Doug,” I say. What else?

“Why did they do it? Why? It was so senseless. Kicking in the doors, guns blazing like idiots, the wrong house. Why, Sebastian?”

All I can do is shake my head.

“I'm outta here, I'll tell you that right now. Gone. I hate this city and the clowns who run it, and I gotta tell you, Sebastian, with these eight cops now out of work and pissed off and looking for trouble, I don't feel safe. You shouldn't either, you know?”

“I know, Doug. Believe me, I think about it all the time. But then, I've pissed them off before. I'm not one of their favorites.”

“You're a helluva lawyer, Sebastian. I had my doubts at first. The way you came on so strong while I was still in the hospital. I kept thinking, ‘Who is this guy?' I had other lawyers try and hustle the case, you know? Some real clowns poking around the hospital. But I ran them off. Glad I did. You were great at trial, Sebastian. Magnificent.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Doug, but that's enough.”

“Fifteen percent, okay? I want you to take 15 percent. Please.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. My house sold yesterday, nice profit. We'll close in two weeks. I think I'm going to Spain.”

“Last week it was New Zealand.”

“It's a big world. I might go everywhere, live on a train for a year or so. See it all. Just wish Kitty could be with me. That girl loved to travel.”

“We should get the money soon. I'll see you in a few days and divvy it up.”

I watch the press conference in my apartment. At some point in the last few hours, Mayor Woody has made the calculated decision that groveling might get him more votes than stonewalling. He stands behind a podium, and for the first time in recent history there is no one behind him. Not a soul. He's all alone: no city councilman hamming it up for the cameras; no wall of thick-necked uniformed officers; no grim-faced lawyer frowning as if in hemorrhoidal agony.

He explains to the small group of reporters that the City has settled its legal claims with the Renfro family. There will be no civil trial; the nightmare is over. Terms confidential, of course. His deepest apologies to the family for what happened. Mistakes were made, obviously (though none by him), and he has made the decision to act decisively and bring this tragedy to a close. The chief of police is fired, as of now. He is ultimately responsible for the actions of his officers. All eight members of the SWAT team are also terminated. Their actions cannot be tolerated. Procedures will be reviewed. And so on.

He wraps it up nicely with another apology, and at times looks and sounds as though he's ready to cry. Not a bad acting job for Woody and it might even win him some votes. But any fool can read the polls.

Gutsy move, Woody.

Now, as if my life is not already complicated enough, there are eight more ex-cops loose on the streets mumbling my name and looking for some type of revenge.

The money arrives soon enough and Doug and I do our business. The last time I see him he's getting into a taxi headed for the airport. He said he's still not sure where he's going, but he'll figure it out when he gets there. He said he might stare at the departure board and throw a dart.

I'm hit with a twinge of envy.

Tadeo insists that I stop by the jail for a visit at least once a week, and I really don't mind. Most visits include a conversation relating to his upcoming trial and others that have nothing to do with anything but surviving in jail. There is no gym or place to exercise—he'll have those in prison but we don't talk about this—and he is frustrated in his efforts to stay in shape. He's doing a thousand sit-ups and push-ups each day and looks fit to me. The food is terrible and he says he's losing weight, which of course leads to a discussion about his preferred fighting weight once he gets out. The longer he stays in jail and the more free legal advice he gets from his cell mates back there, the more delusional he becomes. He's convinced he can charm a jury, blame it all on a quick bout of insanity, and walk. I explain, again, that the trial will be hard to win because the jury will see the video at least five times.

He's also begun to doubt my belief in him, and on two occasions he's mentioned the involvement of another lawyer. This won't happen because he'll have to pay a fat fee to someone else, but it's still irritating. He's beginning to act like a lot of criminal defendants, especially those from the street. He doesn't trust the system, including me because I'm white and part of the power structure. He's convinced he's innocent and wrongly locked up. He knows he can sway a jury if given the chance. And I, as his lawyer, need only to work a few tricks in the courtroom and, just like on television, he'll be a free man. I don't argue with him but I do try and keep things realistic.

After half an hour I say good-bye and am relieved to be away from him. As I work my way through the jail, Detective Reardon appears out of nowhere and almost bumps into me. “Say, Rudd, just the man I'm looking for.”

I've never seen him at the jail before. This encounter is not accidental. “Oh, yeah, what's up?”

“Got a minute?” he says, pointing to a corner away from the other lawyers and jailers.

“Sure.” I don't really want to spend time with Reardon, but he's here for a purpose. I'm sure he wants to drive home the point that our suspended assistant chief of police, Roy Kemp, continues to be deeply concerned about keeping the kidnapping just between us boys. When we're alone, he says, “Say, Rudd, I hear you got in a scrape with a couple of Link Scanlon's thugs in the courthouse last week. Witnesses say you poleaxed both of them, knocked 'em cold. Too bad you didn't put a bullet between their eyes. Wish I coulda seen it. Hard to believe you got the balls to slug it out with a couple of leg breakers.”

“Your point?”

“I figure Link sent word to you that he wants something, probably money. We know about where he is; we just can't get to him. We think he's broke and so he sends a coupla goons to put the squeeze on you. For some reason you don't want to be squeezed. They push, you coldcock them in broad daylight outside a courtroom. I like it.”

“Your point?”

“Do you know these two guys? I mean, their names?”

Something tells me to play dumb. “One is called Tubby, no last name. Don't know the other. Got time for a question?”

“Oh sure.”

“You're Homicide. Why, exactly, are you concerned with Link and his thugs and me having some fun with them?”

“Because I'm Homicide.” He whips open a file and shows me an eight-by-ten color photo of two dead bodies in some sort of trash heap. They're lying facedown, with their wrists tied tightly behind them. The backs of their necks are caked with dried blood. “Found these two stiffs in the city landfill, wrapped in an old piece of shag carpet. The bulldozer shoved it down a small embankment and Tubby and Razor rolled out. Tubby is Danny Fango, on the right there. Razor, on the left, is Arthur Robilio.” He shuffles the deck and pulls out another eight-by-ten. The two bodies have been rearranged and are lying faceup, side by bloody side. The black boot of a cop is in the picture, next to the mangled head of good old Tubby. Their throats have been cut wide and deep.

Reardon says, “Each got two slugs back of the head. That plus a switchblade from ear to ear. Does it every time. So far, clean killings, no prints, ballistics, forensics. Probably a common gang thing, no big loss to society, know what I mean?”

My stomach flips as acid fills my throat. There is a strong urge to vomit, along with a light-headedness that could mean a quick faint. I turn away from the photos, shake my head in disgust, and tell myself to try, if humanly possible, to act unconcerned. I manage to shrug and say, “So what, Reardon? You think I rubbed these guys out because they jumped me in the courthouse?”

“I don't know what I'm thinking right now, but I got these two Boy Scouts on the slab and nobody knows nothing. As far as I know, you were the last person to get in a fight with them. You seem to enjoy operating down in the gutter. Maybe you got some friends down there. One thing leads to another.”

“You can't even sell that to yourself, Reardon. Weak as water. Go accuse somebody else because you're wasting time with me. I don't kill. I just defend killers.”

“Same thing if you ask me. I'll keep digging.”

He leaves and I find a toilet. I lock the stall door, sit on the lid, and ask myself if it's possible.