by R. D. Cain
“Use your best guys,” Koche relented.
“Just like old times, boss. Except this time, if you fuck me over I’ll saw your hands off, then light your face on fire with gasoline. It would be worth the twenty-five years I’d get. Be the easiest time of my life reliving your screams every night. I’d even videotape it and put it on YouTube.”
Koche tried to gulp, but his mouth was too dry.
“So, it’s a deal, then. Here’s his current picture. He’ll be coming out in the next twenty minutes or so.” Koche pressed Send on his phone to email a picture of Nastos and Carscadden to North. “That’s his lawyer. He’s going to be staying at his place for a while. I’ll send the address by text. Like I said, five grand. Sound good?”
“Good enough for now.”
WITH THE DEAL DONE, KOCHE left north to sip at his coffee and consider the direction of his life. And North did that for a little while. Then he took out his cell phone and called the most irrationally dangerous goons who worked for the company. They often referred to themselves as the Inhumane Society. They were self-aware enough to know that they lacked any vestige of conscience. Their names were Shawn Eade and Michael McCort.
5
CARSCADDEN LED NASTOS PAST A security kiosk to the court services department. Nastos’ arms and shoulders ached as he walked, still stiff from being bound behind him for so long. They stopped at the bullet-proof glass wall, the kind with thin wire running through the panes. Shielded from the public view and with no government workers in sight, it made for a quiet place to talk.
Carscadden was certainly making every effort to be a no-bullshit guy, getting right to the point. He must be getting antsy for a drink.
“Okay, Nastos, I’m going to make this really easy for you, okay?”
“Sure thing, Carscadden, what?”
“Did you do this thing?” He looked right in Nastos’ eyes, searching for any eye movement, any wavering of confidence.
“What the hell do you think?”
“That’s a bullshit answer, Detective. I’ll give you one more chance at it.”
Nastos tried not to shout. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”
Carscadden took a deep breath and exhaled, glaring at the ground. He began nodding to himself, agreeing with whatever the hell he was thinking. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do for you,” he said. “I’ll do what I said in there. I can help you get a decent lawyer suitable for the kind of client you are. I’ll even start the procedural foot-dragging to buy you some time out of jail.”
“What do you mean, more suitable for the kind of client I am?”
“One who doesn’t care if you win or lose, one who doesn’t care if you co-operate. I defend co-operative clients because I don’t want to make a fool of myself in there.”
Nastos sounded madder than he intended to. “Hey, I need you, I’ll pay. What else do you want from me?”
“Co-operation. I can only help if you’re honest,” Carscadden pleaded. “That’s the only way to make things as good as they can get. The last miracle I worked was paying my credit card.”
Nastos tried to be as convincing as he could. “I didn’t do it. If I did, I would just say so. Everyone knows I wanted to kill the asshole, but I didn’t. Looks like I’m going to be the next David Milgaard, the next wrongly convicted. I’ll rot in jail for a decade before this all gets sorted out. By then Josie will be in university and I’ll be a stranger to her. When I heard he was dead, I was elated. I watched the tv footage every chance I got. I even wanted to call CityTV and get a copy of the newsreel. Then out of nowhere it came back on me.”
Carscadden replied out of his vast legal experience. “Well, of course you’d at least get asked about it. They’d go through the whole patient list searching for red flags.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get asked anything until I was arrested. Koche and whoever else, Clancy Brown I guess, they started working the evidence to meet the theory instead of the other way around. And once somebody gets arrested, investigations stop cold.” He slammed his hand against the wall. “Bang, it’s over, I was the guy.”
Carscadden didn’t respond verbally; he just let out a breath. Nastos observed his young face, soft, boyish. He needed a better lawyer, but that wasn’t going to happen. He got another idea. He said, almost in a whisper, “I’m going to have to sort this one out myself.”
“Pardon?” Carscadden asked.
Nastos made the decision. It’s the only way out. “I said I’m going to have to solve this one myself.”
Carscadden mentioned the obvious. “You’re on bail, you have a curfew. You breach, you’re in jail.”
“And what if I don’t breach, where am I then? In jail.” Carscadden didn’t seem to have an answer. “If I just sit around and do nothing, I’m essentially losing my life. Worse, I’m giving it away. Madeleine, Josie, gone. I’m not the suicide type.”
“That’s what’s wrong with you cops — with your high school education, you still think you know as much as lawyers. I’ll tell you, at no time did any of my law professors tell me to listen to the cops because they have their grade twelve diplomas mounted on their wall so they really have their shit wired tight. If you’re innocent, I can win this.”
Nastos wasn’t convinced. “I know it sounds stupid, but I just don’t think anyone is going to look out for me better than me. I’m facing life in jail.”
Carscadden shook his head. “If you’re innocent, we can win; if you trust me, co-operate.”
Nastos was barely listening as he consciously stopped the circular loop of but I didn’t do it and began running through last night’s interrogation. What did they ask me, what did they not know about the murder? He noticed Carscadden staring at him, wanting an answer. He knew he was going to need a lawyer, and there wasn’t a line-up begging for the job. “I can’t promise anything when my family is on the line. But I’ll try my best to co-operate and tell you everything I’m doing.”
Carscadden didn’t seem too happy with the answer. “I’ll tell you what is about to happen. I’m going to go out and deal with the media. You stay here. When I’m done and the coast is clear, I’ll come back in and get you. We need to go to my office before we go back to my place. I have some stuff to do there. It won’t take long.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll stay here.”
“But one thing, Nastos. Why the hell did they bring you right in the front of the courthouse? They could have brought you in the back like everyone else.”
Nastos shrugged. “Just to embarrass me, I guess, turn it into a circus. They have a lot riding on my conviction. Maybe give me a taste of how bad it can get if I decide to fight this.”
“Who?” Carscadden asked. “Who would make that decision?”
“I already mentioned Detective-Sergeant Koche. The other is Jeff Scott, the chief prosecutor.”
Carscadden stood there, appraising him. He sounded like Clint Eastwood when he said, “Well, it looks like you pissed off the wrong guys.”
“At least I got a decent judge. At least it gives me some hope.”
Carscadden seemed a little confused. “You mean Ryan?”
Nastos thumbed toward the courtroom. “Yeah, you just saw him.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you missed it, pal. Ryan passed it off. He got promoted to the Appeals bench, so he’s clearing his schedule. I heard Dewar say Montgomery is taking it as a favour. He’s retiring afterwards so he doesn’t give a shit about who he pisses off.”
Nastos felt his face turn pale.
“What?” Carscadden asked.
“Montgomery. He’s got a nickname — the hanging judge.”
CARSCADDEN STOOD OUTSIDE THE COURTHOUSE, his back to the wall and a semi-circle of reporters standing on the steps just below him. In his past life as a corporate lawyer, he never had to deal with media. Reluctantly, he decided to select from the id
iotic reporters shouting at him, to avoid tougher questions. The closest reporter, a young woman of maybe twenty-five, held out her microphone to him like it was a fistful of free candy, like she was doing him some kind of favour. This poor girl, Kevin thought. So young and pretty — she probably lives in a bubble where every guy treats her like gold, patiently patronizing her till they get her pants off. This should be an easy one.
“Mr. Carscadden, Mr. Carscadden,” she began. “Last month your previous client, Mr. Kalmakov, was acquitted of multiple murders. Now you’re defending a police officer also charged with murder — are you trying to set a reputation as a last-chance lawyer?”
“Did I hear you right?” Kevin said incredulously.
“It’s no secret about your past troubles, Mr. Carscadden. About how Mr. Kalmakov and you —”
“Don’t bother finishing that question, don’t bother —” Carscadden held up his hands, stopping the reporter mid-sentence. He hoped to find someone with a legitimate question. “Does anyone else have questions about this case?” With his hands back in his pockets, tightening into fists then relaxing, he took a breath and pointed to another reporter, inviting a question. This older woman pushed her way to the front after the previous woman retreated, satisfied with her soundbite.
“Mr. Carscadden, there is a general opinion out there that you saved a mass-murdering gangster, Kalmakov, from multiple life sentences. People wonder if you’re going to be party to another miscarriage of justice, in this case that of the corrupt cop. Any thoughts on the matter?”
Deep breaths just aren’t enough sometimes. Carscadden considered the question before answering. It was important that he didn’t make any attempt to mitigate the detective’s possible crime. That would be like pleading guilty with an excuse. Saying no comment was worse. He took a moment to get his thoughts straight. He prepared himself, then answered, slowly at first. “Listen, no one thought I would win the Kalmakov case, but I did. I won because the facts weren’t strong enough to convict him. For all of you — and I mean you, and you,” he pointed at certain reporters, “who did not sit in court every day, did not read the transcripts, did not weigh the full set of facts and circumstances in the case, to arbitrarily decide that Mr. Kalmakov was guilty, based on the lampooning that he took prior to the commencement of the trial by other reporters, is repugnant and basically not worth much more consideration than that which you failed to give my client in the first place.
“I should hope, if any one of you were every charged with murder, that the evidence be completely overwhelming and convincing before any of you would want to be thrown in jail for life. The government owes us all that much. Mr. Kalmakov is not a crime boss, he happens to be a Russian guy who inherited his dad’s trash business and bought a restaurant; as cliché as it is, it does not make him a mass murderer. The real story should be that I went fifteen rounds with all of the resources of the prosecution and got a tko. Too bad you, the conspiracy theory contingent, just don’t want the facts to get in the way of a good story. I mean holy, holy crap.”
The reporter carried on like she had not even heard a word he had said. Another shouted another question. “So, is Nastos your client or isn’t he? Are you going to defend the disgraced Detective Nastos in his murder trial?”
“I was the duty counsel today, that’s all. It was just my turn for prelims. I was basically the guy left standing when the music stopped. Let’s try not to taint the jury pool by implying he’s guilty on accusations that have not had the benefit of being tested under oath.
“As far as defending him, the detective is a smart man, I advised him to get counsel that is congruent with the position he plans to take with his case. I told him I just had a long trial with Mr. Kalmakov, which took me away from other clients. A case like Officer Nastos’ is not readily appealing to me. Sorry, but I have to get to my office to finish some work I have here. If I stay any longer I’ll have to bill you my hourly rate.”
The scrum drastically changed direction when another man came out of the courtroom. He was about five-nine, in his fifties, with a pudgy face and a salt-and-pepper moustache. The cameras turned to him and Carscadden waited to see what the fuss was all about. He asked one of the reporters, “Who’s that guy?”
She said, “The spokesperson for Dr. Irons’ other victims. He’s a total hothead.”
A reporter asked, “Mr. Whitmore. How do you feel about a man being arrested for killing Dr. Irons? Does that provide some closure in this travesty?”
Whitmore became incensed. Hs face went red and blotchy. “Closure? That cop deserves a goddamned medal. He’d make a good police chief as far as I’m concerned.”
Another reporter asked, “You don’t think he should be punished at all?”
Whitmore’s eyes darted left and right like he was looking for words. “Well, I guess maybe a reprimand for not televising it. I’m sure there’s a large demographic out there that would pay big money to watch a child molester get beaten to death ’cause our legal system is a fucking gong show.”
The first reporter got another question in. “You’ve had legal problems in the past, have you not, sir?”
Whitmore stood tall. “Two little punks busted the wrong car window. Why don’t you track those kids down and ask them if they’ve ever done that again?” He began pushing his way through the crowd. “That’s it. I’m done.”
Carscadden left the steps of the courthouse, heading back inside to get Detective Nastos.
WHEN THEY LEFT FOR THE office in Carscadden’s car, there was only silence. Carscadden tried to recall very specifically when exactly he’d lost control of his life. Once successful by most standards, he’d had money, what he thought was a happy relationship and a good reputation in his legal community. He blew the whole mess in less than a year. Now he was an alcoholic and a bottom-feeding, last-chance lawyer to gangsters and nobodies, vainly trying to save them from the person they should have feared the most: themselves. Moving here from halfway across the country to reinvent myself was supposed to be better than this. I could use a drink.
With a sideways glance, Carscadden watched Nastos sitting silently in the passenger seat. He must be exhausted. And it has been a long enough day for me too. It’d be nice to get away somewhere warm, some all-inclusive with a poolside bar and just forget everything. But, there’s no way that can happen, not now. Maybe it was the stress of the day, the low blood alcohol or who knew what, but he thought that a car about one hundred metres back seemed to be following them.
6
CARSCADDEN’S OFFICE WAS IN A RED BRICK Edwardian row house in the Garden District, across from Moss Park. It didn’t look much like an office and the area wasn’t the greatest, but Nastos wasn’t complaining. His wife, Madeleine, had been a real estate agent for just over ten years, so it was second nature to consider properties the way she did, as resale. This place seemed to have little hope on its own. It would take the entire strip.
Carscadden led Nastos in the charge through the double front doors. A secretary, maybe forty-five years old, sat at a desk. She had thin brown hair cut just at the shoulders and the square, black-framed glasses that were in fashion these days. The office space was neat and clean, much more her influence than Carscadden’s. He barely even acknowledged her on his way past but stopped in his tracks when she said, “Mr. Kalmakov is waiting in your office, Mr. Carscadden.”
Carscadden turned back to her, eyes wide with surprise. “You said Kalmakov? In my office?”
“Yes,” she said, “he said he’d be more comfortable in there rather than the waiting room. He kind of just walked right in.”
Carscadden eyed the closed door to his office and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “Do you mind having a seat here, Detective? I won’t be too long.”
“Sure, take your time.”
“Thanks. Ms. Hopkins here will bring you a drink if you like.”
Nastos took a se
at across from her. “I don’t need a drink, but thanks,” he said.
Hopkins smiled coyly, speaking to Carscadden but watching Nastos for a reaction. “If I hear a hacksaw, I assume I have the rest of the day off?”
Carscadden replied without missing a beat. “Yeah, just hire a new lawyer and carry on without me.” He walked into his office, trying not to appear terrified.
Hopkins stood up from behind her desk, reaching her hand out to Nastos. “Nastos, is it? Are you a new client?”
Nastos quickly stood up, reaching his hand out and shaking hers. He saw that she was wearing a snug, long dark skirt with a white blouse — conservative choice — but it did show that she was lean and curvy.
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
She smiled broadly. “Is it a divorce?”
“Pardon?”
“Is that what brings you by, you’re getting a divorce?”
“Actually, no, I’m on trial for first-degree murder.”
“So, you’re married then, umm.” She sat back down and went back to her work.
A MAN WAS SITTING ON the corner of Carscadden’s desk, smoking a cigar and flipping through a magazine. He was wearing an expensive suit and an overcoat. He was a little shorter than Carscadden, but was wearing a hat that made him seem taller.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Carscadden.” Kalmakov’s voice was warm and deep, like that of an old friend who knows you better than you know yourself. He smiled, placing the magazine on Carscadden’s desk and reaching out his hand. Kevin took it apprehensively, saying, “You too, Mr. Kalmakov.”
“Viktor,” Kalmakov said, “call me Viktor.” If Carscadden had not been so concerned he might have read Kalmakov’s smile as admiration, but being familiar with the man’s reputation through his colleagues, he was seeing warning signs in the most benign of places. “Well, I’ve got a little something for you, sir.”