Her Kind of Case: A Lee Isaacs, Esq. Novel

by Jeanne Winer

  Finally, she opened her eyes.

  “So that’s it. I never heard from him again. I knew he went to Peggy’s and that she gave him money, but after that, until the police called, I had absolutely no idea where he was or what he was doing. How can you both not judge me?”

  “That took a lot of courage,” Carla said. “We’re proud of you.”

  “But it doesn’t help him, does it?” Mary asked, looking first at Carla and then at Lee.

  No one said a word. Probably not, Lee thought. If anything, it was the missing motive. The reason her client behaved the way they said he did. Internalized homophobia. Self-loathing.

  Carla was thinking hard but reaching the same conclusion.

  “We don’t have to tell the DA. They’ll never find it out on their own.”

  “True,” Lee said. “But I need to talk to Jeremy. Make sure it all went down the way he said it did. Maybe they threatened him and he’s been too ashamed to tell us.”

  Suddenly, both Carla and Mary looked hopeful. Lee didn’t bother to remind them that duress was not a defense to murder. At best, it was a mitigating factor, something she could use to get a better deal. Not that Jeremy had ever intimated he’d been threatened. Why would he change course now? He’d been living with men who openly hated gay people. He obviously detested himself. From the very beginning, he’d wanted to go to prison. Welcomed it. Was it because he was gay or because he was guilty? If she asked, he’d probably say both. Great. So Mary’s disclosure was irrelevant—just another sad fact about a sad boy whose life would soon be over.

  No, she thought, Dan can’t win again. And Jeremy couldn’t lose; he was simply too young. And Lee? Lee was simply too old. There had to be something else. Something more. Lee would just have to jumpstart her aging mojo and find the missing information. Their futures were totally intertwined, hers and Mr. Frozen’s.

  Forty-eight hours later, Lee was standing on the stairs leading up to the juvenile detention facility. Yesterday, in an all-day trial before a judge, she’d successfully represented a client who’d answered the door with his penis hanging out of his boxer shorts. The victim, a female FedEx employee, said it was intentional; her client, an investment broker, claimed it wasn’t, that he’d just woken up (it was two in the afternoon). Lee argued reasonable doubt, and after she won, privately advised her client to seek counseling.

  She’d been on the stairs for at least ten minutes. It was a cheerless winter day. A pale weak sun was vainly trying to keep things from freezing. If Paul were alive, she might have driven home later and suggested they spend the weekend in Puerto Vallarta, holed up in a cheap hotel on the beach. They’d had fun there, even fantasized about buying a condo in the Old Town when they were eighty. “We’ll eat and drink whatever we want and let ourselves go,” Paul joked. Two fat, old, alcoholic expats sitting on a bench overlooking the sea. It might not have been so bad.

  But it wasn’t her own future that worried Lee. It was Jeremy’s. The kid was starting to get to her. Like most lawyers, Lee tried not to get emotionally involved with her clients, but sometimes she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t fatal; it just made the job harder. The more she cared, the more she had to make sure it didn’t affect her judgment or advice. Mary’s revelation had struck her as incredibly sad, and for the past two days she’d wavered about whether to confront Jeremy with his sexuality or to ignore it. He’d kept it a secret for a reason, but secrets between a client and his lawyer were never good; they often backfired or, at the very least, prevented the two from bonding. Jeremy and Lee clearly hadn’t bonded yet. Ergo, she ought to confront him no matter how ashamed he felt. Except the secret in this case was either irrelevant or harmful, so why put her client through it? Because—she repeated the mantra—secrets between a client and his lawyer were never good.

  Fine, she’d go inside and wing it.

  As she entered the room with the couch and the two metal chairs, she noticed that the large dead plant had finally been carted off. There was a new poster on the wall depicting a teenager turning down a bag of drugs. It was hard to tell what race he was, something that was no doubt intentional. The words above his head were simple: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Lee approved. It was much more sophisticated than the usual depiction of a teenager in handcuffs who’d already made the wrong decision.

  When Jeremy was finally brought into the room, she asked what he thought of the poster.

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of irrelevant, I guess. But it’s also sort of depressing, like they’re rubbing it in.”

  “Hmm. Well, have a seat. There are all kinds of things for us to talk about.” As he headed for his usual seat at the far end of the couch, she said, “No, not there. A little closer.”

  He hesitated, and then sat down in the middle. The act spoke volumes about their relationship, which hadn’t progressed much in the three months she’d been courting him. He no longer glared at her, which was nice. Sometimes he even smiled. They’d arm wrestled and joked, but he’d never let her into his world. He’d revealed a couple of things but never what truly mattered. That he was gay, for instance, and obviously wished he wasn’t, that he’d surrounded himself with men who would have killed him if they’d known his secret. What had that felt like? Maybe she’d ask him, maybe she wouldn’t.

  “There’s a new jail snitch in the case,” she began.

  Jeremy was studying the boy in the poster, the boy whose future was still in his hands. The boy who still had a future.

  “Sam’s roommate,” she continued. “He’s willing to testify that your three co-defendants found out Sam was gay about a week before the boot party. He’ll say they were outraged and were planning to kill him.”

  “Yeah, Sam’s roommate was a real creep. Sam was going to move out as soon as he had the money.”

  “Well it’s too bad he didn’t move out sooner,” Lee said.

  “How did they find out anyway?” He turned to face her. “Did-did his roommate know?”

  “Why do you care?” Come on Jeremy, she thought, tell me what’s in that head of yours. I’m tired of pulling teeth.

  “I don’t really,” he said. “I’m just, you know, kind of curious.”

  “They found some paperwork in Sam’s bedroom—a summons to appear in court for soliciting an undercover male police officer.”

  “Okay, I was just wondering.”

  “So you obviously didn’t know beforehand that they planned to kill him?” She moved her chair a little closer, hoping to create more intimacy.

  “No, but they never told me anything. I-I was just a kid. No one but Rab paid any attention to me.” He was studying the poster again.

  Lee stared at it too. Her client was right. It was kind of depressing. But it didn’t have to be.

  “Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Jeremy. Do something to affect it.”

  He smiled at her, sad as always.

  “How? By changing my story? You never give up, do you? Okay, fine, I didn’t know it was going to happen beforehand, but once they started kicking him, I just kind of went along with it.”

  They were circling the drain. What did she have to lose?

  “Because you were afraid you might be next?”

  “Why? Because I’m a faggot just like Sam was?” He jumped to his feet, more angry than embarrassed. “I knew my mother would tell you. She probably thought she was helping, but it doesn’t, does it? They’ll think it’s why I did it.” He flicked his hand in the air. “Fuck it. Who cares?”

  Lee stood up as well. They were face to face, just a couple of inches between them.

  “I do.”

  For a moment, she thought she had him, but then he took a few steps backward. Waved his hand again as if to dismiss her.

  “Stop trying to save me, Ms. Isaacs. I’m not worth it. Whatever the DA offers is fine. I’ll take it.”

  Suddenly, she felt exhausted. She’d spent thirty-four years engaging with thousands of lost and unhappy
clients. Freeing them if she could, plea-bargaining if she couldn’t. But either way, she’d always tried to steer them in a better direction, away from the oncoming cars.

  “I would never use the term ‘faggot,’ Jeremy. It’s demeaning. Like calling someone a nigger or a kike.”

  “What’s a kike?”

  “A derogatory term for a Jew.” She paused. “Like your friend, Mrs. Weissmann.” Like me.

  Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

  “Mrs. Weissmann?” He looked genuinely concerned. “Have you seen her? Is-is she okay?”

  Use this, she thought. Use anything.

  “She’s fine, but she misses you.”

  “I miss her too. Yeah. She was a very nice lady.”

  “She doesn’t think you’re guilty, Jeremy.” And then Lee surprised herself. “And frankly, neither do I.”

  “Well, you’re both wrong.” The light in his eyes was gone. Extinguished. He turned his back on her and headed for the door. He was leaving her the same way he left his parents: for good. There would be no miracle. Nothing would make him change his mind. Lee imagined how his mother must have felt. Desperate and then resigned.

  “Jeremy,” she said.

  He was knocking for someone to come.

  “What?”

  For once in her long career, the great Lee Isaacs was speechless. Nothing, she thought. Her shoulders sagged. No more trying to manipulate him. She’d hold out for thirty years, plead him out, and wish him well. Maybe she’d take another murder case, or maybe it was time to stop. The universe had sent this sad little boy as a messenger: You’ve used up the last of your mojo. Stop trying to save every dying thing around you; there are just too many of them.

  A couple of seconds later, a young Hispanic guard showed up to escort Jeremy back to his cell. She could hear their footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.

  Going, going, gone.

  It was snowing again. Hard. Which meant the skiing would be great for weeks. A good reason to cheer up, Lee thought. She was staring out the picture window in Mark and Bobby’s living room. Thick white snow blanketed the landscape, making parts of it, including the long steep driveway down to Old Stage Road, completely invisible. There was at least a foot of new snow since she’d arrived at six. It was almost ten-thirty now. She yawned surreptitiously and gave up any hope of leaving that evening. Even a large 4Runner wouldn’t make it down the driveway without getting stuck. She knew because she’d tried three or four times before under similar conditions. With this much snow, her truck always slid to the left and ended up in a ditch that ran along the driveway.

  So she might as well accept the fact she’d be spending the night in Mark and Bobby’s well-appointed guest room. Charlie had plenty of dry cat food and could survive for weeks on the extra fat he’d gained from the Fancy Feast he’d convinced Lee to add to his diet.

  Earlier, they’d gorged on turkey, mashed potatoes, and green beans, one of Lee’s favorite winter meals. Now, they were seated in the living room drinking peppermint tea in a fruitless effort to digest Mark’s decadent mashed potatoes. Bobby had disappeared a few minutes earlier and was just returning.

  “Your suite has been made ready for you,” he announced, bowing slightly in Lee’s direction. “The covers have been turned down, a blue bathrobe is hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door, and the pink fluffy slippers you hate so much have been set on the floor beside your bed. Will there be anything else, Wooster?”

  “I don’t believe so. Thank you, Jeeves.”

  Bobby bowed again and then dropped down beside her on the couch. Mark, as usual, was sitting in his rocking chair. They were like an old married couple, except there were three of them: two gay men and a widow (but not, at least tonight, a very merry one).

  “How about if we go snowshoeing in the morning?” Mark asked. “The plow won’t arrive before noon.”

  “Sure,” Lee said, glancing at her watch. “Is breakfast included?”

  Mark pretended to look offended.

  “Of course. On Sunday, we always have pancakes and bacon.”

  “Pancakes and bacon? Yikes. How come you guys aren’t fat?”

  “We’re gay. It’s not allowed.” But Lee knew they both worked out daily at an expensive gym on 30th Street.

  Lee smiled but felt tired and sad. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jeremy, how she’d lost him. All through dinner, she kept picturing the boy in the poster, the one who still had a choice: What’ll it be, heaven or hell? Her client had already decided, but she wondered when. On the night of the murder, the day his parents threw him out, or even earlier, the moment he finally stopped praying and acknowledged who he was?

  There was silence for two or three minutes before Lee suddenly realized both men were staring at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You seem a bit down,” Bobby said, “that’s all.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “No, it’s more than that. Something’s going on.” He moved even closer to her and tried to take her hand. She rubbed her eyes instead, wondering for the hundredth time whether she needed glasses. She’d spent the afternoon reading back issues of the Colorado Lawyer. She hadn’t learned much, but it filled the time. And kept her from thinking.

  “And when we asked you to consider trekking with us in April,” Mark continued, “you actually said you’d consider it.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s not like you. And your murder trial is set for the end of May. You’d never leave before a major trial.”

  Lee picked up her cup of tea, cradling it in her hands. It was still warm.

  “Well, I’ve recently decided to settle it. My client doesn’t want to go to trial, and it’s probably just as well since the evidence is overwhelming.” She stared into her cup. “So you’ll be happy to know that ‘the little savage’ will soon be where everyone thinks he belongs. And, as an added bonus, he probably won’t survive there for long.”

  Both men were silent.

  “So, that’s that,” she said, sipping her tea.

  Mark stopped rocking and leaned forward.

  “Wait a minute. Last week, you mentioned that his mother was going to cooperate. That you were finally going to learn why his parents had thrown him out. What happened?”

  “It wasn’t helpful.”

  Bobby nodded, but Mark shook his head.

  “What did she say?”

  “It isn’t relevant and it’ll probably make you mad. I’m too tired to fight tonight. In fact, I think I’ll go to bed now. What time should I be ready in the morning?”

  “Not so fast,” Bobby said, managing this time to grab her hand. His handsome face was creased with concern. “Most cases don’t get to you, but for some reason this one has. Why? What did she say?”

  “It’ll just make you angry, Bobby.”

  “No it won’t. I swear.” He raised his right hand, like a witness promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

  Mark was looking skeptical.

  “All right,” she said. “His parents threw him out because he’s gay.”

  “Goddamn it!” Mark exploded. “We should have guessed. Of course he’s gay. Most homophobic bullies are. Oh, that makes him so much more despicable. J. Edgar Hoover as a teenager.”

  Bobby looked from Lee to his partner.

  “It’s also kind of sad, though.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for him,” Mark warned. “He’s a little traitor.”

  “Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” Lee told them.

  “Hold on,” Bobby said. “Did you ask him about it? What did he say?”

  Lee’s neck had begun to ache. She was sick of being a lawyer, sick of advocating on behalf of mute, downtrodden clients, of explaining their motives and begging for mercy. Tonight, at least, she was done.

  “He acknowledged it. Said he’d take whatever deal the DA offered.” Then, what the hell, she decided to tell them the rest of it. “Not that it makes any difference, b
ut I actually don’t think he’s guilty.”

  “What?” Bobby blurted.

  “He confessed!” Mark said. His expression was three parts furious, one part confused.

  “I know.”

  “What evidence do you have to suggest he’s innocent?”

  “None. Just my gut.” Which, until recently, had never misled her. But it wasn’t infallible. A year ago, it had dragged her off a cliff.

  “Could you be wrong?” Bobby asked.

  “Possibly, but I don’t think so. I’ve spent a lot of time with him. He’s not a killer. He doesn’t have it in him. I’m guessing he just hates himself for being gay and wants to be punished.”

  “Well then, what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. He’s determined to go to prison, where he’ll be dead within a year, or wish he was.”

  “Christ,” Mark said. “That’s awful. I mean if you’re right.”

  “It is awful. And there’s nothing I can do.” She started to rise.

  “Wait a minute,” Mark said. “You sound so calm, so resigned, but you can’t be. You’re a great lawyer, which means you’re a great faker.” He thought for a moment. “Fuck the peppermint tea. This calls for strong whiskey.”

  She turned back to face them: her two best friends who believed her in spite of everything they knew and, when it really mattered, would always take her side. Her brothers who merely wished to comfort her. Suddenly, she decided to let them.

  “You’re right. Fuck the peppermint tea. Bring on the whiskey.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At first, she thought the ringing had to do with the start of the first round in a world championship-boxing match being televised to millions of viewers. Lee, so far unscathed and remarkably calm, was perched on a metal stool in a corner of the ring. Her eyebrows were slathered with Vaseline and she was wearing heavy black boxing gloves that felt like anvils. Considering the weight, skill, and experience of her opponent, Lee figured she’d be face down on the mat in less than twenty seconds. Maybe thirty if she bobbed and weaved like a pro, which she wasn’t. How did she get here anyway?