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

by Jeanne Winer

  “Come on, Barry,” Carla muttered. “Don’t stand me up.”

  A few hours earlier, Carla had wandered in, her sixth time in three months, and asked the bartender, whom she didn’t recognize, if he’d worked there the previous summer. No, but his friend Barry had. Carla then asked for Barry’s number and called him. Barry had been asleep but was happy to speak to an unknown female trying hard to sound playful and mysterious.

  It took an interminable amount of foreplay, but ultimately she was rewarded for her efforts. Barry had occasionally filled in for the regular bartender, his cousin, when he was too hung over to work. After a bit more prodding, Barry remembered serving two young skinheads but couldn’t remember much about them. To him, he admitted, they all looked alike. So Carla offered to buy him a beer if he’d drive over and look at some pictures—she would be “extremely grateful”—and he’d finally agreed to meet her at ten.

  Carla then called Lee, who was at Mark and Bobby’s house watching a new documentary about American climbers that included interviews with both her friends. Halfway through the movie, the filmmaker asked them about Paul’s death on Nanga Parbat and their subsequent decision to quit climbing. It was a natural question, which they’d obviously anticipated, and if you didn’t know them well, you would have thought they’d completely recovered from the trauma. Lee, however, did know them well and was grateful when her phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” she told them as she answered it.

  “This could be nothing,” Carla began, “or it might be the break we’ve been waiting for.” After she’d finished explaining, Lee decided to join her in Denver.

  “Sorry, guys,” Lee announced, looking for her jacket. “I’ll watch the rest of it later.”

  “You don’t have to,” Bobby offered.

  “Of course she does,” Mark said.

  “I want to,” she told them, “and I will.” But she’d watch it by herself.

  After surveying both rooms of the bar, they picked a booth facing the bar’s entrance. The lighting was dim and cave-like. In the past few minutes, a noisy group of bikers had entered and were greeted by the bartender. One of the bikers, a big swarthy man wearing a black leather vest and chaps, was heading straight for their booth.

  “Oh great,” Lee muttered.

  “It’s okay,” Carla said wearily. “I know him.”

  “Carla baby,” the biker said. “Give me some sugar.” His arms were covered with brassy tattoos featuring buxom, cartoonish-looking women. Better than racist slogans, Lee decided. If you had to choose.

  Carla pursed her lips and gave him an air kiss.

  “Hi, Elliott. I thought you hung out at Willie’s Tavern.”

  The biker stopped a few feet away from them and adjusted himself.

  “Willie’s got shut down by the IRS.”

  “Bummer,” Lee said.

  “Yeah, so now we’re here. Any luck tonight?”

  “We hope so,” Carla replied, holding up two crossed fingers. “We’re meeting someone in a few minutes.”

  Another biker at the bar called, “El, what do you want to drink?”

  “Milk,” Elliott yelled back, “if they have it.” He leaned in closer and confided, “My ulcer’s acting up on me.”

  “Ah,” Lee said.

  “Yeah.” He grimaced. “Well, I hope your person shows.”

  “Thanks,” they said.

  When they were alone again, Carla pulled out her compact, checked her reflection in the mirror and, a few seconds later, put the compact away. She took a sip of her whiskey sour, then set the glass down hard.

  “I love my job, Lee, but this Colfax bar scene is getting old. I need a break.” She shook her head and sighed. “You see that cowboy near the jukebox?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, in another minute, he’s going to play ‘Crying,’ by Roy Orbison. Which I used to love but now I hate. And then he’s going to ask if I’d like to dance with him.”

  “Really?” Lee tried to keep from looking amused.

  A moment later, Roy Orbison’s plaintive voice filled the room and a cowboy in a huge black hat walked over and asked if Carla wanted to dance.

  “Not tonight, honey.”

  “You sure?” He had a gravelly voice and a sweet, irresistible smile.

  “We’re waiting for someone.”

  “The mystery witness?” the cowboy asked.

  “God, I hope so,” Carla told him. “I really hope so.”

  Lee started to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” Carla said, but she was already beginning to smile.

  Over the next thirty minutes, they spoke with six more cowboys, a couple of locals, and a group of rowdy biker chicks wearing the tightest jeans Lee had ever seen. Nobody remembered two skinheads sitting alone in a bar the previous summer.

  They had just ordered another round of drinks when a sad-looking man in an orange sweatshirt and black slippers entered the bar. His thin blonde hair was tied in a ponytail.

  “That’s him,” Carla said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “How do you know?” Lee asked.

  “I just know.” Carla stood up and waved. “Barry, we’re over here.”

  As he approached the booth, his shoulders sagged.

  “I thought you’d be alone.” He looked around fifty but might have been younger.

  “I thought so, too,” Carla replied, “but I called the lawyer I work for and she wanted to meet you, too.” She turned to Lee. “Lee, this is Barry Simmons.”

  Lee stood up and stuck her hand out.

  “Pleased to meet you, Barry.”

  “Yeah,” he said, offering a limp hand in return.

  “Thanks so much for coming. What would you like to drink?”

  “Um, I’ll have a Coors Banquet.” He’d turned sideways and was gazing at the bar’s entrance as if he might make a run for it.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Carla said, nudging him toward the table. “Lee can explain what we’re looking for.”

  “Have a seat, Barry.” Lee pointed to the space across from her. After he slid in, she added, “Carla says that you served a couple of skinheads last summer.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember much about them.” He looked tense and uncomfortable.

  “Sure. Carla also said that you weren’t officially working here, that you were filling in for your cousin.”

  “Yeah, just when he needed me. The owners didn’t know.”

  “So your cousin paid you?”

  He smiled weakly. His two front teeth were missing.

  “Well, he was supposed to pay me, but he got robbed. I’m still, you know, kind of waiting.”

  “That’s a drag. So where do you work now?”

  “Um, right now I get unemployment, but that’ll run out in a week.”

  Carla returned with a beer for Barry and a bowl of Cheez-its.

  “I don’t know about you,” she told Barry, “but I’m starving.” She slid into the booth beside him, close enough so that their shoulders were touching.

  “So you served a couple of skinheads last summer,” Lee continued, “but you don’t remember much about them.”

  “Right,” Barry said, taking a long swig of beer. “Hmm, that’s good.” He took another swig before elaborating. “The older one ordered shots of tequila and the younger one drank Coke.”

  “How many times did you serve them?” Lee was beginning to feel excited.

  “Two or three times. They always sat at the table over there.” He pointed to a small table in the corner. “I thought maybe they were cousins, like me and Clark.”

  “Really? How come?”

  “I don’t know. Just the way they sat together. Like they were close. Plus, they kind of looked alike.” He took another swallow of beer.

  “Did they hold hands?” Carla asked.

  “Are you shitting me? They were skinheads.”

  “Anything else you remember?” Lee asked.

  “Just that they were real quiet
. Skinheads don’t usually come here. Neither do bikers, until recently. Times are changing, I guess.” He smiled again.

  “Barry, what happened to your teeth?” Carla asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Barry put a hand up to cover his mouth.

  “It’s kind of a long story, but Clark and me owed this guy some money. The guy got impatient and one night he just punched me.”

  “Ouch,” Lee said. If he ended up being their witness, he’d need new teeth. It wasn’t fair, but the middle-class jurors in Boulder would dismiss him as a loser—someone they wouldn’t easily trust. If Peggy couldn’t swing it, Lee would have to pay for it herself. A haircut wouldn’t hurt either.

  “Should I show him the pictures?” Carla asked Lee.

  “In a minute. Barry, listen, we don’t want you to lie. If you don’t recognize them, just tell us. But if you do, you could end up saving a young boy’s life.”

  “How?” Barry asked, grabbing a handful of Cheez-its.

  “The younger one is accused of murdering the older one.”

  “No shit! So like, what? You guys represent the younger one?”

  “That’s right,” Carla said, pulling out the pictures. “Here they are. Do you recognize either one of them?”

  Barry nodded immediately.

  “Yeah, those are the ones I served.”

  “Are you sure?” Lee asked. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

  “Yeah, it’s them. Um, can you get me some more snacks? I forgot to eat dinner.”

  “Absolutely,” Carla said, standing up. “Would you like another beer?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  After Carla left, Lee asked if he’d ever been convicted of a felony.

  “Nope, my record’s clean. My cousin’s lawyer asked me the same thing.”

  A warning bell went off inside Lee’s head.

  “Your cousin Clark’s lawyer?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “This time it’s serious. He’s charged with vehicular homicide. His lawyer says if I don’t have a felony, I could be his alibi witness. That means—”

  “I know what it means, Barry. Would you be telling the truth?”

  “Well, not really, but the lawyer says it’s important.”

  “Does the lawyer know you’re lying?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t really want to testify, but if I don’t, my cousin will go to prison. So I have to.”

  “Actually, you don’t.”

  When Carla got back to the table, Lee explained what Barry intended to do. Carla nodded slowly.

  “So you and Clark are close?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

  “He’s my only living relative. My parents died when I was nine. Clark’s parents took me in. I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t. Eventually, they died too and now it’s just me and Clark.” He reached back and refastened his ponytail. “I know he’s a fuck-up, but he’s family. You know?”

  “Family’s important,” Carla agreed, “but this time you could get in real trouble. If you weren’t with Clark that night, where were you?”

  “The truth? I was here, working.”

  “For free,” Lee added drily.

  “I sound like a real chump, don’t I?”

  “You do,” Lee said. “But worse than that, there are witnesses who can dispute where you were. Perjury is a class-four felony, carrying two to six years in the penitentiary.”

  “What should I do?” he asked, looking upset.

  Carla put her hand on his arm.

  “Honey, it’s easy. On Monday morning, call the lawyer and tell him the truth.”

  “He’s going to yell at me. I just know it.” He took a huge swallow of beer, and then turned to Lee. “Could you, like, call him for me?”

  “Sure, why not? Do you have his name and number?”

  Barry reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled business card, and handed it to her. On the front, it read “Derek Cooper, Criminal Defense and Debt Relief,” and below it an address in Denver. The phone number had been crossed out and a new one penciled in. On the back was another number.

  “The one on the back is his cell phone,” Barry explained. “He said I could call anytime.”

  Lee glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past eleven. What the hell.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Lee walked outside the bar and sniffed the air, which smelled like Chinese food. She looked around until she spotted a restaurant on the corner. A group of laughing teenagers—the boys in tuxedoes, the girls in long dresses—emerged from the restaurant and headed toward Colfax. Prom night, she thought, smiling. Lee had gone to her high school prom with her friend Michael Perlman, who moved to New York City after graduating. Had he come out in the intervening years? She hoped so. And then she started to laugh. According to Paul, women who habitually hung out with gay or bisexual men were affectionately referred to as fag hags. She’d been one all her life.

  A few moments later, Lee dialed Derek Cooper’s cell phone, expecting to leave a message.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Derek Cooper?”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Hi. My name is Lee Isaacs. I’m an attorney in Boulder.”

  “I’ve heard of you. You did the Eisner case a few years ago. That was a great result.” Barbara Eisner had been charged with suffocating her infant daughter. Lee had convinced the jury to convict her client of criminally negligent homicide, a lesser offense than murder, and then at a highly publicized sentencing hearing, had persuaded Judge Samuels to give her client probation.

  “It was,” Lee acknowledged. “So, I’m calling about a client named Clark Simmons.”

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Yours,” she said. “He’s charged with vehicular homicide. The trial should be coming up soon. There’s an alibi witness named Barry Simmons—”

  “Oh, right. What a sad sack, but he’s all I’ve got. The DA has three eyewitnesses. I’m fucked.”

  “Well, now you don’t even have Barry.”

  “Goddamn it! What’s he charged with?”

  “He’s not charged with anything,” she said. “But after consulting with me, he’s decided not to testify for his cousin. He’d be committing perjury if he did.”

  “Oh fuck. Well, in that case, I won’t call him.”

  “Thank you. Can I tell him to ignore his subpoena?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. You know what really sucks?”

  “What?”

  “My client owes me five grand and I’m beginning to think he won’t pay me. The trial is in two weeks.”

  It was none of her business, but she spoke anyway.

  “Maybe you should ask for a continuance? You just lost a critical witness.”

  “Hey, I think I will. Thanks.”

  “Good luck, Derek.” She ended the phone call.

  Back inside the bar, Lee ordered a celebratory shot of Grand Marnier, another beer for Barry, and a whiskey sour for her investigator.

  “Good news,” she announced as she set the drinks on the table.

  “Was he mad?” Barry asked, reaching for the beer.

  “Of course not.”

  Carla put her arm around their witness’ shoulder.

  “So I’ve arranged for Barry to get his hair cut next week and we’re going to buy him some clothes for the trial.”

  “Excellent,” Lee said. “Find him a dentist as well.”

  “I wondered about that,” Carla murmured.

  “Um, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t afford a dentist.”

  “It’s okay,” Carla told him. “We’ll take care of it.” She picked up her whiskey sour. “Here’s to never hearing Roy Orbison sing ‘Crying’ ever again.”

  To settle a domestic violence case, Lee always contacted the victim to see if she, or occasionally he, would be helpful or hurtful to the defense. Half the time, the victim was ambivalent about prosecuting the defendant. Whatever
Lee privately felt about the harm allegedly caused by her client, a reluctant victim was always good news. Prosecutors were understandably hesitant to spend their time and resources on cases where the victim was trying to recant or take responsibility for some or all of the harm. No matter how misguided the victim, it was Lee’s ethical duty to take advantage of her lack of enthusiasm, and she did, often convincing the DA to either drop the case or offer her client a sweeter deal than he otherwise deserved. On the other hand, if the harm was great and the victim had been brutalized before, Lee almost always refused to take the case, a luxury she hadn’t enjoyed as a public defender.

  In Phil’s case, Lee guessed his wife would be somewhat sympathetic to the defense but not a pushover. Her initial anger, Lee hoped, would be tempered now by feelings of guilt and loyalty. From Phil’s description of his wife, Lee expected a strong, intelligent woman finally ready to divorce her husband, who wished, albeit unrealistically, that he would understand and accept her decision.

  “She won’t be vindictive,” Phil had promised. “She’ll be worried about my career. Ask her about Eleanor, our dog. She’ll want to share custody. In a few years, she’ll want us to be confidantes, best friends who tell each other everything. Ugh! But it’ll probably end up that way. She’s been my best friend since college.”

  “Can you continue to leave her alone?” Lee asked. “Can I promise her you’ll comply with the restraining order?”

  “Yeah. I mean I have to, right?”

  “You do.” She’d made herself sound firm. “You can’t save your career unless you agree.”

  “Then I agree.”

  Lee was sitting on a black metal bench outside the entrance to the Boulder Public Library, where Judith Hartman worked. Judith had agreed to meet her at noon. She’d sounded kind on the phone, a good sign. A few minutes past noon, a pretty woman with long blond hair exited the library. She wore a green linen pantsuit that flattered her petite figure. When she saw Lee, she stopped and smiled, managing to look both innocent and sophisticated. Lee was inclined to like her.

  “Are you Lee Isaacs?” she asked. She was carrying a fashionable canvas handbag on her arm.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

  “Not at all. Shall we go find a bench near the creek?”

  Lee immediately agreed. They walked east until they spotted a bench facing the water. It was a glorious spring day, the temperature in the low seventies. Both women took off their jackets and turned their faces toward the sun. A flock of Canada geese waddled past, squawking loudly. Lee had brought two sandwiches from Alfalfas in case Judith was hungry.