by Paul Levine
“That was my impression.”
“And I’d be blamed for her murder?”
“Jesus, Jake, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing further,” I said, like the old pro I was.
Judge Cohen-Wang seemed to sigh before addressing Emilia Vazquez. “I assume the state wishes to question the witness on re-direct.”
Which was sort of like saying, I assume Pope Francis is Catholic.
“Your Honor, we wish first to declare Mr. Samchick an adverse witness so we can cross-examine. Second, we ask the Court to admonish the witness on the penalties for perjury.”
“Objection!” Both Willow and I were on our feet simultaneously.
The judge smiled tolerantly in our direction. “One of you sit down. I’ll leave it to the two of you to decide which one.”
Being the gentlemanly type, I took my seat, and Willow said, “The prosecutor’s self-serving statement was intended both to intimidate the witness and prejudice the jury. It is she who should be admonished.”
The judge sighed, checked the clock on the wall, which read half-past-five, and said, “It’s been a long, trying day. No pun intended. We’ll recess now. Everyone get a good night’s sleep, and the state can begin its re-direct tomorrow. The jury is excused with the same admonitions as always. Counsel, when the jury has left, please approach the bench.”
We all stood. The jury filed out. Emilia, Willow, and I sauntered up to the bench. “I asked for counsel,” the judge said. “Why are you here, Mr. Lassiter?”
“Oh, I just presumed…”
“I run a courtroom, not a circus. Now I have no idea if you and the witness cooked up that little story or if you were just winging it…”
“Flying by the seat of my pants, Your Honor.”
“Either way, when we resume tomorrow, you keep those pants stuck to your chair, you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Now, anything else? Ms. Vazquez?”
“We renew our objection to the witness’s statement that Mr. Novak committed the murder. As Mr. Lassiter’s own questions revealed, the witness saw nothing and Mr. Novak admitted nothing. The witness was left with ‘impressions.’ Needless to say, ‘impressions’ are not evidence, certainly not evidence of the commission of murder. It therefore follows that all of the witness’s testimony about what may have happened in the suite should be stricken. The witness wasn’t there. His testimony was entirely speculation and hocus-pocus.”
It only took the judge a moment. “Objection sustained. I will instruct the jury tomorrow to disregard the testimony. Currently, there is no evidence before the jury that Mr. Novak, a third party to these proceedings, admitted the killing, either directly or by inference.”
I stifled my un-lawyerly urge to shout, “Are you nuts? I just elicited reasonable doubt, evidence that Some Other Dude Did It.”
“Have a good night, everyone,” the judge told us, before standing and fleeing the bench, her black robes sailing behind her.
32
La Verdad
On the way out of the courthouse, I ran into Detective George Barrios. “Nice job, shyster,” he said to me.
“If that’s a compliment, thanks.”
“I mean it. If I’m ever rightfully accused, I’ll hire you.”
“You mean wrongfully accused.”
“If I’m innocent, why would I need a slick-as-owl-shit shyster like you?”
“You know Novak is gonna skedaddle, don’t you?”
“Not my problem.”
“He killed my girlfriend.”
“Your cheating, thieving girlfriend, you mean.”
“A living, breathing human being.”
“Why don’t you go make a citizen’s arrest?”
“I wouldn’t arrest him. I’d beat him to a pulp.”
“Good. We’ll add that to the charges against you.”
“Something else you gotta do, give Barry Samchick protection.”
“What do I look like, a bouncer at a South Beach club?”
“Carlos Castillo is gonna be unhappy with him. Does that register with you?”
“I’m a homicide detective, Lassiter. Call me if you’ve got a body, preferably one within the city limits of Miami Beach.”
“Don’t be a dick, Barrios.”
“Look, your pal Samchick wanted to be in business with Novak and Castillo. Now, he’s gotta deal with it.”
***
The murder trial had barely caused a ripple in the news. Sure, there was some local interest in a lawyer accused of killing his lover. The Miami Herald and the local television stations gave sporadic coverage. But now, the national news media and the Internet were blazing. A witness under oath had claimed that Novak Global was a Ponzi scheme and Novak himself might be a murderer. The news media were not burdened by the same rules of evidence that guided Judge Cohen-Wang. My cell phone was ringing with reporters from around the country. CNN had the story within an hour. On HLN, Nancy Grace had broken out in hives.
Within an hour, Novak Global released a statement denying all claims and saying it would produce its audited financial statements within two days. Just enough time, I figured, for Novak to skip to some lovely country with no extradition treaty. It’s not as if the cops were on their way to arrest him, based on the stricken-as-hearsay testimony of Barry Samchick.
The state is loath to ever admit its mistakes. Just ask the plethora of inmates who were later exonerated, despite vigorous attempts by the state to keep them behind bars. As far as the police and prosecutors were concerned, they had their man, and that was me.
After watching the news and fending off phone calls for a couple hours, I got in the old Caddy, fired up the engine, and headed from my house in the South Grove to Barry Samchick’s house in the North Grove. He’d apologized to me in court for helping frame me. With some prodding, he even tried to help me, by pointing the finger at Novak, even if the judge wasn’t having any of it. He’d avoided mentioning Castillo by name, but he did make reference to “a certain dangerous Latin American investor.”
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Castillo wouldn’t care that Samchick made some oblique reference to him and his dirty money. Maybe the Colombian tough guy had too many other problems. But he had to know that the feds would follow up. Maybe they’d take their own sweet federal time doing it, but I could predict a grand jury subpoena in Barry Samchick’s future and an investigation called “In re Carlos Castillo.”
On the way to his house, I formulated my plan. I would tell Samchick to pack everything he could into his Lamborghini and head north on the Florida Turnpike.
Take lots of cash so no one can trace your credit card charges, and let things simmer down a while before deciding what to do.
Naturally, I didn’t tell Willow Marsh what I was about to do. She was still thinking we would re-call Samchick on the defense half of the case. But I was feeling guilty about placing Barry in the bulls-eye, of making my problem his. As for the case, we would have to do without him from here on out.
***
I parked my old Caddy in front of Samchick’s house, and…oh shit. A black Escalade sat next to the Lamborghini. I hurried around to the office bungalow in back. Sure enough, Carlos Castillo was there with two of his bulky thugs in black suits. But this time they weren’t boxing Barry Samchick’s ears. With the thugs off to one side, Samchick and Castillo were sitting on the front steps of the cottage. Castillo had an arm around Samchick’s shoulders.
“Am I interrupting anything?” I asked.
“Jake, Jake, Jake,” Castillo said, almost sadly. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just about to ask you the same thing, Carlos.”
“Go home, Jake,” Barry Samchick said.
“Listen to the man,” Castillo said. “He did you a un gran favor in court today.”
“He told the truth.”
“Ah, la verdad. I almost forgot. You are the man who keeps searching for the truth but seldom finds it.”
&
nbsp; “Barry, why are you even talking to this son-of-a-bitch who had you beaten up?”
Samchick just shook his head.
Castillo said, “Because he is smarter than you, this speaker of the truth. He helped you without once mentioning my name, which is more than I can say for you.” Castillo shook his head sadly, as if I had disappointed him.
“Be happy, Jake,” Samchick said. “You’re gonna get off.”
“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. The judge isn’t helping.”
“I will be truly regretful if you are convicted,” Castillo said. “What you did for my son was an honorable act, though one which I have repaid many times with my business. And Pamela always spoke so highly of you.”
“When? In bed with you?”
“Ah, jealousy. At this late date, let it go.”
“I don’t know who’s a bigger scumbag, Castillo. You or Eddie Novak.”
Castillo barked out a small laugh. “Oh, I assure you that Novak is what you would call a bush leaguer compared to me. Do you know the things I have done to get as rich as I am?”
“I can only guess.”
“Novak’s solution to our problem was to pay bribes. Pay Pamela? What would that solve? She would still know about Novak’s Ponzi scheme and my laundered money. What would we do when she wanted more money? Or what would keep her from taking our money and still going to the FBI and S.E.C. for whistle blower rewards, maybe get herself into Witness Protection? The dangers were far too great.”
“So you knew Novak was going to kill her, you bastard?”
Castillo’s eyes turned as hard and cold as a glacier. “Tell him, Samchick. Tell this clever lawyer what he wants, la verdad.”
Samchick shook his head.
“Tell him!”
“Eddie Novak didn’t kill Pam.”
“What!” I said.
“Eddie Novak a killer?” Castillo laughed at the notion. “With his bare hands and a belt? It’s ridiculous.”
“He’s strong enough,” I said.
“The man has gym muscles, not street muscles. He’s not a bone breaker, he does Pilates! He juggles numbers for a living.”
“On the stand today, Barry, who were you protecting?” Thinking immediately it was a stupid question, that the answer was right there in front of me.
Novak wasn’t a Natural Born Killer. But Castillo…
“I was already in the suite when Novak came in,” Castillo said. “He watched while I picked up your belt, and when I grabbed Pam by the hair, Novak turned and ran for the elevators like a little girl. He never even heard her scream.”
“You bastard!” The anger smoldered inside of me.
“Do you know I fucked her the day before you took her to the hotel? How’s that make you feel, idiota?”
“Like you’re a scumbag.” The anger had turned to fury, and it dug into my skull like a drill bit.
“You know what Pamela’s last words were? ‘Jake! Help me, Jake!’”
That was it. I lunged for him, just as he knew I would. From nowhere, he produced a blade and swiped at my mid-section, grazing me but barely drawing blood. His two thugs approached but Castillo waved them off with the knife. He came at me again with a thrust. I caught his right wrist with my left hand, swung my right hand to his elbow and yanked his arm down hard while I came up with a knee. His right forearm snapped across my knee and he yelled something unintelligible as the knife dropped to the ground.
I got off two punches, a short right upper-cut flush to his jaw, then a downward strike to the back of his head with both my hands locked. He dropped straight as a stone to the ground.
It took about one more second for the two thugs to grab me and begin pummeling my face with a flurry of fists. Two seconds later, a gunshot stopped everyone.
I had dropped to a knee and looked up to see Detective George Barrios with a nine millimeter handgun pointed at the thugs.
“Either of you two move, you’re dead. Jake, we got everything on tape. Samchick’s wired. The bushes are wired. If it had been up to me, your ankle bracelet would have been wired.”
Barrios turned to Castillo, who was moaning, cradling his broken right arm in his left, and looking stunned. “Carlos Castillo, you’re under arrest for the murder of Pamela Baylins. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Barrios looked toward me. “Ain’t that right, Jake?”
Epilogue
Barefoot and wearing an orange jumpsuit with “City of Miami Beach” lettered across the back, I was wielding a heavy metal rake. I had a four-day growth of stubble and smelled of salt and sweat. My face was still bruised from the mini-beating. My amiable caveman look.
It was just after sunrise and Miami Beach was already steamy along the shoreline at Tenth Street.
My high-priced lawyer, the classy Ms. Marsh, had a difficult time getting the murder charges dismissed, if you can believe that. Emilia Vazquez played hard ass, even though she had a taped confession from Carlos Castillo. Here’s a statistic to chew on. About 25 percent of death row inmates who are later exonerated have confessed to the crime they did not commit. That’s usually a statistic bandied about by defense lawyers. But in this case, that’s what the prosecutor told the judge about Castillo’s statement. Emilia demanded I plead guilty to something in exchange for the deal. The real reason was so that the state didn’t look so damn stupid.
I copped a plea to camping overnight on the beach, a municipal offense that didn’t even rise to the level of a misdemeanor. My sentence was 30 hours raking seaweed, dead birds, and used condoms into piles where half-tracks could pick up the detritus and haul it away.
On this day, with the sun sizzling just above the horizon, only a few joggers splashed along the shorebreak. Your usual collection of leggy SoBe models in bikinis, some male bodybuilders, and a few oldsters with skin baked the color of cordovan loafers. On the beach, two male retirees swept at the sand with metal detectors, looking for lost Rolexes, but uncovering mostly bird shit.
Coming toward me was a tattooed muscular young man in red Speedos. When he got closer, I recognized Mitch Crowder. He slowed, kept jogging in place, and said, “At last, Lassiter, you’ve found your calling.”
“How you doing, pal?”
“Great. I put in a claim as a whistle blower on Novak Global.”
“You?”
“I’m the guy who got the real documents and uncovered the fraud, remember?”
“By illegal hacking.”
“Government doesn’t care once I turned over everything I had. Reward’s gonna be maybe 5 mil.”
With that, he resumed jogging, kicking up sand. My financial circumstances were different. With the fortune Willow charged me and no new cases from the day I was charged with murder, I’d have to rebuild my practice from square one.
I’d gotten the bad news about my finances from Barry Samchick. Yeah, I still retained him as my accountant. He found a guy to buy my dumb-ass Bentley and his Lamborghini in one transaction. We both lost money, but what was new about that? Without charging him a fee, I worked out a deal for Samchick to get immunity to testify against Novak in the Ponzi scheme case.
Novak had been arrested at Tamiami Airport, trying to board his private jet for Buenos Aries. He was facing 50 years for his scam.
Castillo was being held without bail for the first degree murder of Pamela plus about 300 counts of money laundering. That son-of-a-bitch would never see a sunrise again.
I kept raking until the heat and humidity got to me. Against regulations, I stripped off my jumpsuit. I wore a pair of old green University of Miami swim trunks underneath. Near 11th Street, I nearly stumbled across a woman lying in the sand. She wore yellow bikini bottoms and a man’s long sleeve white shirt. Mid-thirties, tanned, dark hair, and long, strong runner’s legs.
Sleeping.
Whether she
had spent the night in violation of the City Code or had come to the beach early, I couldn’t tell.
“Excuse me,” I said. “You gotta get up.”
She opened bleary eyes, covered her face with a hand and stared up at me. It was not the look Brad Pitt would have gotten had he awakened her.
“You can’t sleep here,” I said. “A half-track is coming by to pick up the seaweed crap.”
“Buzz off.”
“Really. It’s dangerous. And if you were here all night, that’s a municipal offense.”
She propped herself up on an elbow and studied me. “What kind of jerkoff are you?”
“The usual kind.”
“No, really. You don’t push a rake for a living, do you?”
“How would you know?”
She let me have a sleepy little smile. “Because you have a sixty-dollar haircut and you don’t have calluses on your hands. But your nose was broken once.”
“Twice.”
“Rough around the edges, but all in all, an interesting look.”
“And you are…?”
“Holly Knight. Like Holy Night, but with an extra ‘l.’”
“You pay attention to details, don’t you Holly with an extra l?”
“I have to. I’m a private investigator. And you?”
“Jake Lassiter. Parolee.”
“Oh, Lassiter. The guy who didn’t kill his girlfriend.”
“Not yet.”
“You want to go for a swim, Jake?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll race you to Fifth Street and back. Loser buys breakfast.”
“Deal.”
She stripped out of the white shirt. No bikini top. Just a fine pair of small, round breasts not quite as tanned as the rest of her. I wasn’t sure, but I figured she might be violating another Miami Beach ordinance.
We jogged into the churning surf, diving into the shorebreak. She swam with long strokes and a strong kick. I would be buying breakfast.
I squinted as I swam, the sun glinting off the turquoise water. With each moment, the sun rose higher over the Atlantic. I lifted my head and saw that Holly had slowed down to let me pull alongside. She flipped over and did long, languorous backstrokes, her body sleek and glowing in the morning light.