“Let’s go back over a few things,” Blake said when Rafael was finished. “Did you hear the gunshots?”
Rafael nodded. “I wasn’t sure it was somebody shooting, but I thought it was.”
“Where were you when you heard the shots?”
“I was walking on Avenue D. I thought maybe it was just a car, but I couldn’t really tell where it was coming from, thought it was from behind me.”
“You didn’t see anything? Didn’t see Fowler or the shooter?”
“Like I said, I wasn’t even sure it was a gun. And not like I’m going to go check it out. I got enough sense to just keep moving.”
“What did you tell the police that night?” Blake asked.
“Just that I didn’t do nothing.”
“Did you tell them you knew Fowler?”
“They already knew about how we were getting thrown out ’cause of him.”
Duncan wondered how the police had put that together so quickly. It was a straightforward motive, though he certainly didn’t think that Rafael would believe that shooting Fowler would make the eviction case go away. But revenge had its appeal, and he’d certainly heard his client call Fowler all sorts of names.
“Did the police ask you about the eviction?” Blake asked.
“Just to say that was why I’d capped Fowler.”
“Did they tell you about the gunshot residue?”
“They come out with that right before I say I wasn’t gonna talk to them no more. I thought they were just playing with me, didn’t take it for real until Mr. R tells me they’re really saying that.”
“Did you touch a gun at any point that night?”
“I work in a kitchen,” Rafael said. “If I was going to take somebody out, I’d get a butcher knife.”
Duncan laughed at this; Blake did not. “Mr. Nazario,” Blake said, “I assure you the question of whether you handled a gun that night is no joke.”
“Course I didn’t,” Rafael said angrily. “I’ve never shot a gun, don’t have nothing to do with guns.”
“The security guard who’s the eyewitness against you,” Blake said after a moment. “You ever seen him before that night?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I noticed anyway.”
“Any idea how or why he ID’d you as the shooter?”
“Either he’s wrong or he’s lying. All them security dudes are straight-up motherfuckers.”
“What’s the problem?”
Rafael’s lip curled. “They treat us like a bunch of dogs. Course, people are nice to dogs, so maybe like we were rats.”
“So other people in the project had problems with them?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“You know of anything with Fowler specifically? Anybody else who might have had a motive for shooting him?”
Rafael shrugged. “I don’t know nothing like that. But I got an easy time believing somebody else wanted that asshole dead.”
THEY SPENT a couple of hours with Rafael, going back over his initial encounter with Fowler as well as the night of the murder. Blake asked virtually all of the questions, methodically covering the bases in a way Duncan had seen him do dozens of times before in different circumstances, though Duncan still felt confounded at the sight of his boss in a Rikers interview room.
“So what did you think?” Duncan asked, once the interview was over and they were out in the prison parking lot making their way to Blake’s car. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d felt inside the jail until he was back out under the sky.
“He’s got a motive and nothing much in the way of an alibi. The eyewitness and gunshot evidence are strong, and even in his version he was walking right by the shooting when it happened.”
“That bad?” Duncan said, looking over at his boss as he opened the car door.
“You see a defense here? I’m not saying he did it, but if not, he must’ve stepped in the world’s unluckiest dog shit on his way home that night.”
“But he doesn’t have a motive, really. Killing the guy isn’t going to make the eviction go away. And he had confidence that I was going to win that case. Too much confidence, if anything. He was pissed at Fowler, obviously, but I don’t see how he was pissed enough to shoot the guy.”
Blake shrugged. “Rule of thumb, criminals don’t have an especially good reason to do what they did. That’s why we call it crime.”
“Sure,” Duncan said. “But what I’m saying is, I don’t actually think Rafael is a criminal.”
“This isn’t one to try to make your bones on,” Blake said dismissively. “You’re not doing your client any favors riding in on a white horse here. Part of winning is defining a realistic goal. Getting him a plea that doesn’t mean jail for the rest of his life—that’s what a win looks like here.”
“The first-degree murder charge seems pretty weak,” Duncan said. Generally in New York, first-degree murder was reserved for special cases, like the killing of police officers, but it also applied when the victim was killed in retaliation for giving testimony in a previous criminal case. If Rafael was convicted on first-degree murder, he would face life in prison without the possibility of parole. Duncan wasn’t convinced that the DA could make it stick here; he suspected they’d only filed it because Fowler was an ex-cop.
“So then the goal is to get him a decent deal on murder two,” Blake replied.
Duncan understood that Blake was giving instructions, not asking for debate. He was surprised at himself for feeling disappointed—he didn’t want to write the case off as a loser quite so quickly. “It’s a little soon to go looking for a deal, isn’t it?” he said. “I mean, they haven’t really nailed him yet.”
Blake looked over at Duncan, then shrugged. “From where I’m sitting, he looks to be hanging on the cross,” he said.
11
DUNCAN WAS eating the best soup he’d ever had, a rich and meaty crab bisque spiced with a mild curry. Marco Mucci, the soup’s creator, was seated across from him. Mucci, a few years older than Duncan, was fast becoming one of the most acclaimed chefs in the city. The Times had given Alchemy three stars last year—previously unheard-of for a restaurant on Avenue B.
Alchemy was open only for dinner, so the dining room was empty except for a hostess who was handling the phone. The kitchen seemed active; Duncan could hear music blasting and the occasional raised voice. The hostess had let Duncan in, seated him at a table in the middle of the restaurant, and then gone in the back to get Mucci.
The first thing Marco’d asked was whether Duncan had eaten lunch. Duncan, who generally missed lunch at least once a week, and other times didn’t get to it until late afternoon, admitted that he hadn’t, and Marco had immediately retreated back to the kitchen, returning a minute later with two bowls of soup expertly cradled in his arm.
It’d been Blake’s idea for Duncan to reach out to the restaurant where Rafael worked, see if he could get a character witness. Duncan wasn’t happy about it: to him it smacked of giving up. But Blake had instructed him to concentrate on positioning Rafael for a decent plea. While Duncan wasn’t comfortable with Blake’s focus on making a quick deal, at the same time he prided himself on being nobody’s fool. Rafael’s story about the security guard planting the weed had never really added up. Rafael had no explanation for how he’d come to be accused of drug possession and now murder. Duncan wasn’t sure anyone was actually that unlucky.
“Thanks for taking the time,” Duncan said. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”
Marco waved his hand dismissively. “I’m just glad that Rafa’s got a good lawyer on this,” he said. “We were talking about taking up a collection here, but I doubt that would’ve been realistic. We’re trying to set something up to make sure people get out to visit him. Are you doing this as a volunteer?”
“Essentially, yeah. That’s great that people are supporting him.”
“Rafa’s been here for over a year. We’re going to have his back as much as we can.”
Duncan was surpri
sed at this, considering what Rafael was accused of. “Are you always this supportive of your dishwashers?”
Marco frowned at the question, despite Duncan’s attempt to ask it lightly. “Rafael wasn’t just a dishwasher here anymore. He was doing dinner prep work on a regular basis. I don’t define the people in my kitchen by how much training they have or where they apprenticed. At the end of the day, a restaurant’s an art form—it’s a piece of theater, what we do every night. I look for energy, creativity, enthusiasm—and Rafa had all those things in spades. He actually liked coming to work, you know? I think he enjoyed hanging in the restaurant, being part of something.”
“He never had any problems here with anyone?”
“Not at all,” Marco said. “He found a home here, I think. A kitchen can be that for people. And it wasn’t just enthusiasm either—he’s a good cook. That’s why I got him into classes at the CIA.”
“The CIA?”
Marco smiled. “Sorry—kitchen shorthand. The Culinary Institute.”
“Other than that he’s a great employee,” Duncan asked, “what’s your sense of him as a person?”
Marco seemed surprised by the question. “Are you asking me if I think Rafa could kill somebody?”
Duncan shrugged. “Now that you mention it…”
“I know where Rafa comes from,” Marco said. “I grew up on Fourteenth Street. This is my neighborhood. Rafa’s not the first person from the Avenue D projects I’ve hired. A few have worked out; a few couldn’t hack basic responsibility. He’s one of the good ones. Whatever is going on with that shooting, I’m sure that Rafa didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You’re convinced he’s innocent?”
“Of course,” Marco said, looking at Duncan curiously. “Aren’t you?”
THE QUESTION lingered as Duncan headed back to his office. Although he didn’t have the first idea how to explain away the evidence, he also didn’t see his client as a killer. Duncan just wasn’t ready to stop trying to prove Rafael’s innocence. He could imagine how disappointed Rafael himself would be if he knew that his lawyers were already focused on a plea. It seemed like a betrayal to give up so quickly on the idea of winning his freedom.
He’d have to go back to Blake, try to convince him that they needed to take a closer look at the DA’s case. Blake would listen to him, especially if he had a solid plan of attack.
Back at his office, Duncan took off his jacket and loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his starched blue shirt. He’d put on a suit that morning only because he wanted to look like a lawyer when he went to talk to Mucci. Nonlawyers were always surprised to learn that Duncan only rarely wore a suit and tie; something about a casually dressed lawyer seemed to disappoint them.
The rest of his day was to be taken up with preparing to defend Preston Thomas’s deposition. Thomas, the CFO of Roth Properties, had drawn the short stick and was to be the first defense witness deposed in the wrongful-death lawsuit. Coming up right after Preston was Tommy Nelson, the general contractor’s site supervisor at the Aurora, and a key witness in the case. Omni had its own lawyers who’d be defending Nelson’s depo, although Lily was going to attend.
Duncan was culling out what he considered to be the most significant documents and indexing them into a three-inch binder. Thomas, whose deposition was next week, was scheduled to come in tomorrow for a prep session. Duncan’s plan for the rest of the day was to make an outline that would serve as his guide to take Thomas through the documents.
Thomas had been the developer’s main negotiator in working out the various contracts for the Aurora Tower, both on the investment end and on the construction end. In order to prepare Thomas for the deposition, Duncan was going through the paper trail from the various negotiations, all the e-mails and letters and drafts of contracts through which the assorted deals had been worked out.
Which amounted to a hell of a lot of paper. A hedge fund had been the biggest lender; there were also several investment banks involved in the financing, each of which drove its own separate bargain. Duncan was only skimming the financing documents; his focus was on the negotiations with the site’s general contractor, Omni Construction. If the plaintiffs were going to somehow make Roth liable for the accident, they’d presumably have to do so by showing how the developer had exerted pressure on Omni to cut corners.
As he quickly paged through the assorted financing material, Duncan noticed that at least a couple hundred million in construction loans was soon coming due. He knew that the banks were tightening up on big commercial loans, and given that high-end real estate’s luster had dimmed quite a bit recently, he suspected the lenders might be looking to take advantage of a moment when they could pull out. Duncan wondered idly if Roth Properties had all that money on hand if the loans didn’t get extended.
He was still a little disappointed that their client had to submit to discovery: Duncan had thought they’d had a good shot on their motion to dismiss. He’d drafted the motion, and had in the process thoroughly convinced himself of its merits. But judges generally didn’t grant motions to dismiss; it was very hard to get out of a civil lawsuit prior to submitting to discovery. What this meant as a practical matter was that even utterly meritless cases would often drag on for years, costing the defendants millions in legal bills. It also meant that the bulk of Duncan’s time, like that of every other big-firm litigator, was spent trudging through discovery, spanning everything from reviewing documents to conducting depositions. Discovery was the lifeblood of large litigation departments, its massive—and massively tedious—document churn the source of millions of dollars’ worth of billable hours each year.
Duncan spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening writing the depo outline. He took a dinner break, realizing as he did so that he was only about two-thirds of the way through.
He was eating sashimi while reading Above the Law on his computer when Lily appeared in his doorway. They hadn’t talked since their fight at the Rainbow Room, but Duncan was fine pretending it had never happened. “Hey,” he said. “You want something to eat? I ordered two appetizers, an entrée, and a dessert. And the fish isn’t cooked,” he couldn’t resist adding.
“Trying to change weight classes?” Lily asked, ignoring Duncan’s dig while taking a stack of papers off one of his chairs and sitting down.
“I keep in fighting trim. I just eat half of everything, save the rest for tomorrow’s lunch. I mean, it’s not like I’m paying for it.”
“Fight the power,” Lily said. “Anyway, I’m eating at home, or at least I’m hoping I am.”
“Depending on what?”
“You,” Lily said. “The Blake asked me to make sure you didn’t need help on the Thomas depo. He said you’ve been a little tied up with your murder thing.”
Duncan tried to camouflage his reaction. This was not something Blake generally did. Blake assumed his associates were getting their work done without his checking in. “The Blake sent you to check up on me?”
“That’s certainly one way to look at it,” Lily said.
“If I needed your help I would’ve asked for it.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“True. So what are the odds I’d do so when you come asking?”
“Pretty much zero. Like I said, I’m hoping to go home.”
“Go already,” Duncan said.
Lily stayed put, looking at Duncan, who deliberately looked over at his food. “You’re really doing a murder case?”
“Rafael was an existing client. Leaving him in the lurch might not have looked great. We have to worry about PR.”
Lily was obviously not buying it. “We’re defending a murderer as PR? That explains a lot about this firm’s reputation.”
“PR’s the only reason we’re doing pro bono generally. The partners got tired of hearing about Karen Cleary’s lawsuit.”
“And they think throwing in a little pro bono is going to make us girls forget about our oppression?�
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“You didn’t even like Karen Cleary,” Duncan said. “You didn’t have any sympathy for her when she didn’t make partner.”
“I didn’t think she deserved to make partner, but the fact I didn’t like her had nothing to do with that. And I have to be concerned with her lawsuit, because like it or not it affects my career. On the one hand it helps me, because now all the partners are paranoid about pissing off the women; on the other it hurts me, because now all the partners resent that they’ve got to worry about pissing off the women.”
“What would you expect?” Duncan asked.
“Right. It’s not like I expect to be judged by my own merits or anything.”
“We don’t make the rules.”
“And sometimes we don’t even play by them,” Lily replied. After a moment she stood and pushed his office door closed, Duncan tensing up as she did so. “So, listen, Dunk, about the other night.”
“Don’t call me Dunk.”
“I know I flew off the handle at you a little, and I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Duncan said neutrally, skittish about getting into this.
“It wasn’t you I was mad at. And I’m in no position to judge you for how you deal with who you are, especially in the workplace. Especially in this workplace.”
Duncan smiled. “You’ve judged me for that as long as I’ve known you.”
“It was different when we were together. Then it was at least sort of my business. If I looked like you do in terms of passing, if I didn’t have to deal with the bullshit, why would I? It’s not fair for me to expect you to make your life more difficult than it needs to be.”
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