Until I Saw Your Smile (18 page)

Matthew polished away. “And on the day La Estrella had its grand opening. What do you know about that?”

He glanced at Angela and found her smiling.

“It's only because you overcharged Bet,” Angela said.

“Oh,” Matthew said. “I'm sure
that's
the reason.” He leaned on the counter.
I want to ask her out so badly, but she looks so tired.
“Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow.”

Matthew stuck out his hand. “Thanks, partner.”

Angela shook his hand once and dropped it. “I'm still not exactly sure how you did that to me. I'm not normally manipulated that easily.”

“Do you regret taking me on?” He untied his apron and took it off.

“No, and don't you ever give me a reason to regret it,” she said.

“I won't.”
I have the overwhelming need to hug her, but there's a counter between us.
“Good night, Angela Simone Smith.”

“I never should have told you my middle name,” she said softly. “Good night, Matthew Mark McConnell.”

“Will you walk me to the door?” Matthew asked.

Angela came around the counter and went straight to the door. Matthew had to hustle to catch up. She opened the door, Matthew stepped out, and she shut and locked it rapidly behind him.

“Good night,” he said.

Angela nodded.

Matthew watched her walk back to the counter, bag her money and receipts, and turn off the lights before disappearing into the kitchen. A few moments later, the kitchen light winked out.

Matthew's heart sank as he looked into the darkened shop.
Why am I feeling this? I know I'll be back tomorrow, but there's something. . . sad about a dark coffee shop.

“Good night, Angela,” he whispered.

Chapter 14

M
atthew had barely sat down in his booth and was about to devour a stack of pancakes and crispy bacon early Saturday morning when a middle-aged black woman wearing an oversized overcoat and carrying a huge purse burst through the door, yelling, “You the lawyer I read about in the
Daily Eagle
this morning?”

The story is out. But how? The
Daily Eagle
only comes out Monday through Friday.
“You read it in the
Eagle?
”

“Yeah, the online one,” the woman said. “It was the first story on the page. So are you the lawyer or aren't you?”

Thank you, Felisa.
Matthew put down his fork. “Yes, ma'am. I am Matthew McConnell, attorney-at-law. Please sit. Would you like some coffee?”

“I'm good.” She sat across from him. “You don't look like a lawyer.”

I knew I shouldn't have worn plain gray sweats and my Chucks today.
“It's Saturday.”

Mrs. James blinked.

“How may I help you?” Matthew asked.

“The police have my son,” she said.

I should be taking notes. Why didn't I bring my briefcase or any legal pads? I should have had more faith.
“One sec.” He went to the counter. “Angela, do you have a pen and some paper I can borrow?”

Angela handed him an order pad and a pen. “And you call yourself a lawyer,” she whispered.

“Thanks.”

He picked up the order pad and pen, and as he slid into the booth, he snatched and ate a slice of bacon. “Forgive me. I'm hungry. What is your name, ma'am?”

“Toni James, with an I.”

Matthew wrote it down. “And your son's name?”

“Xavier.”

Matthew wrote it down. “What is he being charged with?”

Mrs. James looked side to side and whispered, “Assaulting a policeman.”

He wrote it down. “How exactly did he assault the policeman?”

“They
said
Xavier spit in his face,” Mrs. James said, “but the only thing my boy does is spit rhymes. He goes by XS. Everybody around here knows him by that name. He's only eighteen.”

Angela brought over a mug of coffee.

“Thank you, Angela,” Mrs. James said.

“You're welcome, Mrs. James,” Angela said. “It's been a while, huh?”

Mrs. James sipped her coffee. “Mmm. Your coffee is still as good as gold. How's your mama doin'?”

“She's fine,” Angela said. “How's Mr. James?”

“Same ol' badass as always,” Mrs. James said.

Matthew blinked at Angela, and Angela rolled her eyes and returned to the counter.

“Mrs. James, you say Xavier spit in an officer's face,” Matthew said.

“That's what they
said
he did,” Mrs. James said. “He was over at Artist and Fleas on North Seventh with his boys free-styling, you know, rapping, two nights ago. They get a big crowd most nights. Sometimes people even give them money. Tourists, mostly. Two nights ago, two cops got too close to my son. Xavier ain't a bad kid. He would never do such a thing on purpose.”

“Do they have any evidence?” Matthew asked.

“They
say
they got Xavier's DNA and two eyewitnesses, one of them the cop's partner,” Mrs. James said. “I couldn't afford the bail, and his court-appointed lawyer wants him to plead guilty and get eighteen months. Can you believe that shit?”

Matthew circled Xavier's age. “Has he ever been in trouble before?”

“No.”

“Before we go any further, Mrs. James, you have to know that I don't have a lot of experience with criminal cases,” Matthew said.

Mrs. James sat back. “You got some serious charges dropped over in Queens, didn't you? And that girl broke a cop's nose.”

News travels fast. Thanks, Jade.
“I was really lucky with that case.”
The cop luckily grabbed Jade's ass.

“Well, I need some more of your luck,” Mrs. James said. “And besides, anyone is better than the lawyer he's got. The man didn't even read Xavier's file, just told Xavier to take the deal.”

“What's his attorney's name?” Matthew asked.

“Marty Kowalski.”

Farty Marty “Take the Deal” Kowalski is still at it. Xavier doesn't have a prayer if Marty's “working” the case.
“Mrs. James, you enjoy your coffee while I consult with my business partner.”

Mrs. James squinted. “Okay.”

Matthew rose and went to the counter. “What do you think? I know you were listening.”

“You're the lawyer, not me,” Angela said.

“I know that, but you know them,” Matthew said. “I just want some family background.”

“They're good people,” Angela said. “I know Xavier, too. Not a bad rapper either. He calls himself a street poet. He can really flow.”

“Good kid?”

“He never gave me any trouble,” Angela said. “I let him sweep up one summer when he was maybe ten. He was saving up for a turntable.”

Matthew turned toward Mrs. James. “Mrs. James, did Xavier graduate high school?”

“A semester late, but he did it,” Mrs. James said. “But what you talking to Angela for?
You're
the lawyer, right?”

Matthew returned to the booth. “I needed Angela to vouch for your son. He worked here once, didn't he?”

Mrs. James nodded.

“We may need Angela as a character witness,” Matthew said. “Is Xavier gainfully employed now?”

“He was,” Mrs. James said. “As soon as he was arrested, Metropolitan Rec Center let him go. He was a lifeguard.”

Her son has never been in trouble, didn't drop out, and has a job. Eighteen months is no deal at all.
“Where are they holding him?”

“The jail over on Union,” Mrs. James said.

The Ninetieth Precinct, the precinct that rarely answers the phone. That brings back bad memories from Brooklyn Legal.
He gulped the rest of his coffee and inhaled another strip of bacon. “I need to go meet my client.”

“Now?” Mrs. James said. “It's Saturday.”

“They won't keep a lawyer from his client, Mrs. James,” Matthew said.

“But you aren't his lawyer yet,” Mrs. James said.

“I will be.” He carried his plate to the counter. “I can finish this later, can't I?”

“I'll put it in the fridge,” Angela said. “Where are you going?”

“To meet Xavier,” he said with a wink. He returned to the booth. “Ready?”

“I can't,” Mrs. James said, “um . . . afford . . .”

“Don't worry about it,” Matthew said. “I think Xavier can work it off here, maybe even tonight.”
I'd really like to hear him spit some rhymes at . . . Angela's Arts Adventures. That has a nice ring to it.

Angela looked up, shaking her head. “You're just trying to get out of cleaning up tonight. A bet's a bet, man.”

“I am an opportunist.” He smiled at Mrs. James. “Mrs. James, let's go get your son.”

Mrs. James struggled out of the booth. “You really think you can get him out today?”

“Yes.”
I don't know exactly how yet, but it will come to me.

Matthew held the door for Mrs. James, who stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped, pointing at an old Buick LeSabre.

“Is that your car?” she asked.

“We're going to walk,” Matthew said. “It's a nice day.”

“It's over a mile to the police station,” Mrs. James said. “Where is your car?”

“I don't have one,” Matthew said.

Mrs. James blinked. “You don't . . .” She sighed. “What kind of a lawyer are you?”

“One with
very
low overhead,” Matthew said.

Matthew and Mrs. James made relatively good time in getting to 211 Union and the 90th Precinct, arguably the grayest building ever built. Once inside, Matthew recognized the desk sergeant, a tiny black woman with a huge voice.
Babs is still here. Some things never change.

“Barbara, right?” he asked.

Barbara, all 4-11 and ninety pounds of her, leaned back in her chair, her uniform still too big for her. “Well, if it isn't old three-M.”

“I don't use that nickname anymore,
Babs,
” Matthew said.

“You know I hate to be called that,” Barbara scowled. “Why are you here?”

“I'm here to meet with a client,” Matthew said. “Xavier James.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “You back at Brooklyn Legal?”

I almost wish I was.
“Don't you read the online version of the
Daily Eagle
? I'm on my own now.”

“Thank God,” Barbara said. She nodded at Mrs. James. “He used to wear me out with his whining. I put up with him for three long years.”

Matthew smiled. “This is Mrs. James, Xavier's mother.”

“I figured it wasn't
your
mama, McConnell,” Barbara said. She clicked some keys on a keyboard. “This says Xavier already has counsel, and it isn't you.”

“It will be,” Matthew said. “You have Farty Marty Kowalski's home number handy? Please say you do.”

Barbara sighed. “You're wise to convince Xavier to change counsel, Mrs. James.” She clicked some more keys and recited the number.

Matthew dialed Marty. “Marty? Matthew McConnell.”

“You're still alive?” Marty asked.

You still have gas problems?
“Yes, Marty, and I'd like to make your life easier. I'd like to represent Xavier James.”

“Why?” Marty asked.

“I'm a friend of the family.” He smiled at Mrs. James, who winced more than smiled back.
We'll take a cab back to Angela's, I promise.
“I'm at the Ninetieth now. May I confer with your client until we can get the Consent to Change an Attorney form signed?”

“You can
have
the kid, McConnell,” Marty said. “Anything to lighten my load. Just fax it to my office once you get Xavier's signature.”

“Sure, Marty,” Matthew said. “Who's lead prosecutor?”

“O'Day.”

My luck is holding out. Patrick “Paddy” O'Day and I go way back.
“Is he still the PO'ed one?”

“Yep,” Marty said. “He makes a beet look pink.”

Paddy is still a heart attack waiting to happen. Everything about Paddy's face is red except his lips, which are unusually gray.
“You have his cell phone number handy?”

“It's on this phone,” Marty said.

“Could you text it to me, Marty?” Matthew asked.

“Um, sure,” Marty said.

“Thanks. I'll have that fax to your office within the hour. Thanks for everything, Marty.” He closed his phone. “Barbara, would you happen to have a consent form handy?”

Barbara groaned. “Ain't a damn thing changed, McConnell.” She smiled. “I figured you wouldn't have anything handy, so I already printed one out.” She slid off her chair and went to a copier, returning with the form. “You need a pen, too?” She handed the form to Matthew.

Matthew patted his empty hoody pocket. “Well, what do you know? I am in need of a pen.”

Mrs. James groaned. “He was using an order pad to take notes earlier at Smith's Sweet Treats.”

Barbara flipped Matthew a pen. “Don't let his clueless act get to you, Mrs. James. Though he acts stupid, this man is really very sharp.” She looked him up and down. “Sweatpants and Chucks? Seriously?” She picked up a phone. “I'll let them know you two are coming.”

“I'd like to use an interview room, Barbara,” Matthew said. His phone buzzed.
O'Day's cell phone number has arrived. My ducks are lining up.

“Why you got to be so pushy, McConnell?” Barbara asked. “You haven't changed a bit. I'll see if an
interrogation
room is available, okay?”

“Come on, Barbara,” Matthew said. “At least get us a room with chairs from this century. Comfortable chairs. A room with some windows would be nice, too.”

“Regulations, McConnell,” Barbara said.

“Thank you for trying so hard, Barbara,” Matthew said.

“Whatever,” Barbara scowled.

Matthew turned to Mrs. James. “Ready to see your son?”

“I can't go back there,” she whispered.

“It'll be okay, Mrs. James,” Matthew said. “I have a good feeling about this. I'm sure your son will be glad to see you.”

“No, I
really
can't go back there,” she whispered. “The judge said I couldn't visit Xavier because of a little possession charge three years ago. One measly ounce of weed.” She shrugged. “I don't mind waiting,” she said, taking a seat.

While he waited for a guard to take him see to Xavier, he stared at Barbara.

“What?” she asked.

“Have you gotten taller?” he asked.

“Shut the hell up,” Barbara said.

“The place seems spiffier than the last time I was here,” Matthew said. “Smells lemony fresh.”

“You know we keep this place clean,” Barbara said.

“You just don't answer your phones,” Matthew said.

“I
do,
” Barbara said. “Just not all the time.”

A guard appeared, and Matthew followed him.
Going “behind the lines” for the first time since my work at Brooklyn Legal. It's still a scary maze. Buzz this, click that, lock this down. I'm glad I'm only visiting.