Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

  I fire up the Weber’s, wait until the coals are white, carefully lay the inch-thick salmon steaks cross-grain on the grill. As I was unwrapping them on the kitchen counter I realized with no small touch of irony they must’ve been flown in from the Pacific Northwest. Claudia’s watching TV, an old Marlin Perkins rerun about jackals and buzzards, something vaguely educational; Patricia and I have a pact about not letting her watch ordinary commercial television. One of our few remaining areas of agreement.

  The phone rings.

  “Don’t answer it,” Claudia calls from the other room. When the phone rings on a weekend it’s either her mother or a client; in either case it’s a call we don’t need.

  It keeps ringing; it’s going to wait me out. I reluctantly pick it up on the sixth ring.

  “I’m not home,” I tell it with as much annoyance as I can muster.

  “I already know that, Will,” John Robertson laughs, easily. I should’ve resisted the phone; talking to anyone who reminds me of Patricia, even if it is a semi-friend. (That in itself is weird, a D.A. and a defense lawyer getting along; he’s never lied to me and he’s never tried to railroad anyone; years ago I made the conscious decision to shelve my justifiable paranoia about prosecutors in his case, and made him the exception to the rule.)

  John is the up-and-comer in the state, everyone’s fair-haired boy, in spite of being one of those too-perfect people: All-WAC football player, a wife who looks like a Vogue model, kids with straight teeth. Sometime in the not-very-distant future he’s going to run for governor or senator and it’ll be a lay-down.

  “I’m cooking dinner,” I tell him. “For myself and my daughter. It’s our weekend together. We value this quality time and prefer that it not be disturbed. My normal office hours are Monday through Friday, nine to six. Thank you. This is a recording.”

  I hang up. Naturally he calls me back immediately.

  “I’m serious, John,” I tell him with honest irritation. “I don’t want to be bothered. What is it that it can’t wait until Monday?”

  “You’re on a leave of absence,” he informs me, as if I need being reminded. “You won’t be in on Monday.”

  “How did you know?” Damn, word travels fast in this town.

  “Fred told me yesterday.”

  “Where’d you see him?” I ask idly.

  “He called me. Said Jane was taking your caseload. Wanted me to know personally.”

  That fuck.

  “You okay?” he asks. He’s trying to make conversation, but I can hear the concern over the phone.

  I tighten up. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I always thought of you as a workaholic.”

  “I am,” I say. “That’s why I’m doing it. I’ve got to force myself to stop and smell the roses.”

  “Good man,” he says. “That takes a lot of guts.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t all that tough.” I’m lying through my teeth. I’d better watch it; it’s becoming second nature.

  “How’d Andy and Fred take it? Must’ve shocked the shit out of them.”

  “Pretty good, all things considered. They’ll survive.”

  “Let’s hope not too well,” John says. “Don’t want ’em to think they can get along without you permanently. ’Cause they can’t,” he adds. “Without you they’re just another gray-flannel firm.”

  “This is true.” I’m glad he called after all. “So what’s the deal? I really do have dinner cooking.” Something clicks. “You’re not downtown are you?”

  “Regretfully so,” he says.

  “What’s the emergency?”

  “You’ve got some clients,” he tells me. He doesn’t sound like he’s in the best of spirits.

  “I’m on a leave of absence, remember? I just started twenty-four hours ago. They’re not any of my regulars, are they?”

  “Not exactly.” I can feel the pause on the other end of the line.

  “What does that mean? Exactly, if it’s possible.”

  “Look, just come on down here, will you? It won’t take all that long.”

  “I can’t. I really am cooking dinner for Claudia.”

  “Bring her with you. I’ve got a new stack of comics.”

  “Dinner’ll go bad. I’m cooking salmon steaks. From Seattle,” I add masochistically.

  He picks up on the joke, ass-backwards as it is. “I’m not happy about Patricia leaving if it’s any consolation.”

  “It’s not but thanks anyway.”

  “Take your time,” he tells me. “Finish your dinner, have an extra cup of coffee, then come down here. It won’t take long … but you’re the man. You’ll see why.”

  He hangs up before I can rebut him.

  “Who was that?” Claudia calls.

  “Your good friend and mine John Robertson.”

  “Are we going down to the jail?” she asks brightly. She loves going down there; they all fuss over her like she’s the Queen Mother.

  “Maybe after dinner. I’ll see.”

  “I hope they’ve got some new comic books,” she says. “I’ve read all the old ones a thousand times.”

  I go out on the patio. The sunset reminds me of a passage in The Odyssey. The salmon’s beautiful, pink and moist, ready for turning. The day before yesterday it was swimming with all its heart up one of the raging rivers of the Northwest (fish don’t have brains, they have to have heart), fighting for its life through explosively-roiling white-water rapids which the hairiest hot-dog rafter would chicken out from, just so it could spawn. Now it’s sizzling on my barbecue. I hoist my beer, toast its hopeless, valiant effort. At least it died trying.

  The bikers cruise leisurely, in ragged formation, Lone Wolf always at the point. Wherever they go they’ve given a wide berth, especially by other motorcycle riders who come blasting along on their high-tech high-performance state-of-the-art Japanese bikes, the ones you see ripping up the road at 110 miles an hour today and in the wrecking yard tomorrow. Fuck rice burners, fuck all foreign bikes: a real biker, and most definitely any outlaw biker, whatever colors he wears, rides a Harley. It’s part of the unwritten law; you buy American and you ride American. No draft-dodging pussies here, either. Except for those who were turned down because of their criminal records, they were all in the service, Vietnam and other like shitholes, and you never heard of one of them turning tail.

  They ride awhile, a couple hours, take a break. You know how you talk about a woman, Lone Wolf says, she’s built for comfort, not speed? Well this ol’ gal (meaning his bike, a custom ’66 knucklehead) sure ain’t built for speed … and she ain’t too damn comfortable either. Laughter, patting of gas tanks, six hand-rubbed coats of lacquer, like you pat your old dog. Except for your colors, meaning the vest you wear with the insignia on it, and except for the other men who wear that same vest, the most important thing in your life is your bike; more important than your old lady, your kids, anything: it defines you, it and your colors are who you are. And who you are is a very scary motherfucker who inspires fear and envy in every man, woman, and child who lays eyes on you. You are a one-percenter, one of the chosen.

  They stop for gas, then breakfast, reaching Albuquerque in the early afternoon. It’s oppressively hot now, a dry wind that sucks the breath right out of you. They make their way to the Albuquerque chapter’s large, heavily-guarded clubhouse. It’s relaxing hanging out, swapping war stories and bullshitting with the local members, old, old buddies and comrades-in-arms. And of course there’s a nice selection of women, a couple of them real beauties, all eager to party with the visitors.

  The party goes nonstop for forty-eight hours. Everything is brought in: cocaine, amphetamines, grass, Mexican heroin, Chinese and Mexican food, ribs, chicken, beer, tequila, wine coolers for the women. People all over the place, coming in and out every hour of the day and night (club members and guests only, the security outside is ratcheted-up supertight, reinforced with Uzis from the club’s arsenal), drinking, doing dope, fucking, sucking. They are into serious p
artying, one of the things they do best.

  After about two days that gets old so they say their fond farewells and move on, heading south. They aren’t hiding from anybody, they leave a trail a Cub Scout can follow. And they’re clean; when they’re on the road they’re always clean because they’re always getting hassled, it’s one of every American cop’s favorite pastimes, busting outlaw bikers; experience has taught them never leave anything to chance, nothing that will allow a local pig to make a name for himself.

  So when the state Smokey stops them a half-hour short of the Texas line there’s no cause for concern, except the basic one of who they are, and they can’t do anything about that, not that they want to. One of them says something about the chick they’d reamed, maybe she’d talked, but Lone Wolf says no, she was a righteous bitch, besides she knew she was dead meat if she did. They aren’t concerned about the cop, they’re doing a law-abiding fifty-five, they pull over promptly, cut their engines, lower the kick-stands, take out their ID’s in such a way that the cop has no problem seeing they aren’t pulling iron on him. He approaches them warily nonetheless, his hand resting on the butt of his .44, the holster unsnapped: he’s not going to wind up a statistic.

  He asks them if they were in Santa Fe the other night. Lone Wolf answers that yes, they were. He then asks if they stayed at the Pink Flamingo Motel. Lone Wolf answers they hadn’t, they’d camped out the one full night they were there, they’d left the following night. He even has a receipt for the campground, which he takes out of his wallet, unfolds, and courteously hands to the officer. The cop glances at it by rote; then he informs them, in cop-talk, that they are under arrest for suspicion of armed robbery of the Pink Flamingo Motel, that the owner had stated he was robbed at gunpoint by some men on motorcycles, that they fit the description.

  It’s bullshit. Lone Wolf states it as much; courteously, of course. The cop answers he doesn’t know, he’s just following instructions. They dutifully follow him to the highway patrol station back in Hobbs, where he reads them their Miranda rights, formally arrests them, and puts them in the van back to Santa Fe. As a consideration they’re allowed to secure their motorcycles in the police garage.

  CLAUDIA AND I meet Robertson in his office in the complex, across the street from the county jail. It’s a nice place for a public official, built in the old adobe style. That’s one thing I give Santa Fe credit for, they maintain the architectural integrity of the town. The new places aren’t built the same way, of course—the days of making the bricks by hand on the site are long gone—but they look good, they fit in like a worn boot, you wouldn’t know at a casual glance that they’re not artifacts like the rest of the center of town. Of course, the old-timers grouse like hell about all the new building going on. They think time stopped around 1936. In some ways it’s too bad it didn’t.

  “Where’s the fire?” I ask, as Claudia and I walk in. She barges right over to his bookcase, where he keeps the comic books. She flips through a couple stacks, turns to him in annoyance.

  “There’s nothing new here,” she says accusingly. She’s going to make a great lawyer, she’s hell on wheels on cross.

  “Look in the top drawer of the breakfront,” he tells her, pointing behind his desk. As she pulls open the drawer he turns to me. “Across the street.”

  She finds the books. “These are good,” she says. “Where’d you get ’em? Some of them are really ancient.”

  “Glad you approve,” he smiles as she digs in. “I bought a collection,” he tells us. He collects old comic books, going back to after World War II. “I found some old guy up in Chama who’s been saving them for when his kid comes home. His kid’s fifty-six. I persuaded him the kid wouldn’t miss them.”

  “So what’s the deal?” I ask. I’m impatient; I value my time with Claudia, and the weight of Patricia’s announcement is suddenly heavy on my feelings. I want to hoard every minute I can with her. “Which one of my clients fucked up this time?” I hate clients who screw up on weekends, why can’t they fuck up during working hours like everyone else?

  “Like I said on the phone—these aren’t any of the old standbys,” John informs me. “Brand-new, still in the wrapper.”

  “These? How many are there?”

  “Four.”

  “How come … ?”

  “They asked for you.”

  This isn’t unusual. People get in trouble, they check around, find out who the main players are.

  “One of them had your card,” John adds. “You defended some of their colleagues last year,” he finishes, seemingly reluctantly.

  “Oh yeh? Who? I must’ve done okay by them.”

  “Yep,” he says, turning stone-cold serious. “You walked them on a million-dollar dope charge.”

  “The Fresno Hell’s Angels.”

  He nods, visibly turning up-tight; he hates being reminded of that case. I don’t try to suppress my grin. The state had them dead to rights and I got them off scot-free. It served John right; I’d talked them into a plea-bargain and John had turned it down. It was one of his few bad defeats. Didn’t affect our friendship, but a couple of those could derail his trip to the governor’s chair a few blocks up the street.

  “More Hell’s Angels?” I ask.

  “Worse.”

  “What could be worse … from your perspective?”

  “You’ll see. Let’s walk across the street.”

  I look over at Claudia. She’s hunkered down with the comics, she’s fine for an hour.

  “What’d they do?” I ask.

  “Probably nothing,” he replies sourly.

  “Then how come you’re down here your own self on a Saturday afternoon?” I twit him.

  “When it’s shitbags like these I have to show the colors,” he answers. “Because if I’m not here that’ll be the time one of the local TV hotshots will.”

  “The trials and tribulations of the career politician,” I intone.

  “They don’t even need you and your ridiculous prices, they could cool their heels three or four days and walk it, but they want what passes for first-class representation in this state,” he adds, throwing me a verbal elbow for personalizing the Hell’s Angels defeat, “they want to post immediate bail.”

  “Everyone is entitled to an attorney,” I state solemnly. I look at Claudia again. “Let’s get it over with. I’ll be back in a little while, honey. You okay here?”

  She’s engrossed in her comic, nods that it’s fine. We walk across the street to the jail.

  I’M LOOKING AT FOUR of the scariest guys I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ve defended other outlaw bikers, murderers, rapists, Colombian drug traffickers, mean, bad bastards of every size and description: few have chilled me as much on first meeting them as do these four now in front of me.

  They’re wearing faded denim jail jumpsuits, are cuffed. I’d been waiting about five minutes until they were brought down, enough time to skim their folders: the four of them cumulatively have pulled a life of hard time.

  They sit on the opposite side of the table from me, four abreast, the same way they must line up when they’re riding their motorcycles. I know who the leader is before any of them opens a mouth: it radiates from him. I address all of them; they’re all my clients if I take them, and I will; but I talk to him.

  “Before we get started formally,” I tell them, “my fee is two hundred an hour, plus any personal expenses, plus outside expenses like investigators, plus whatever other expenses come up. No out-of-state checks.”

  The leader nods ever so slightly—he’s been to this dance before.

  “I’ll want a thousand up front. If I don’t use it all, I’ll refund the difference.”

  Again, the slight nod. There’s the faintest of smiles on one corner of his mouth, obviously his main expression. It expresses confidence, superiority, contempt, anger, all in one compact look.

  “Payable now.”

  “Whatever you say. Just get us out … now.” His voice is soft, almost breat
hy. Kind of like Marlon Brando’s.

  I slide a consent-to-pay form across the table. It authorizes the sheriff to give me their money, in a specified amount. He glances at it, scrawls his signature, slides it back. I tuck it in my shirt pocket. Now we get down to business.

  “I read the complaint,” I say, looking straight at them. “Did you do it? I’ll defend you either way, but I’m kind of curious, know what I mean?”

  He reads between the lines; he can lie if he has to—I’ll still defend them. He doesn’t have to lie. “No way.” He says it with disgust; it’s beneath them. “We’ve never been to this place, never saw it.”

  I glance at the charges, refreshing myself. “Such and such a date and time, etc. etc., okay, ‘did enter said premises and take two hundred and fifty dollars at gunpoint from Mr. Said Mugamb, the owner and proprietor of said establishment,’ etc. etc.” I close the folder. “You didn’t lay a gun upside this man’s tonsils and take his money?”

  “Fuck no. That ain’t our style.”

  “The gun or the money?”

  “Both. Particularly the chump change.”

  He’s telling the truth. The last thing these guys want or need is exposure. And if they’re going to pull something, it’ll be for a lot more than two-fifty.

  “For what it’s worth, I believe you,” I tell them. “And between us I think the law does too.” Robertson and I had discussed it on our walk across the quad; he has no love for these guys, he’d be thrilled to find something that would let him prosecute. It would get four undesirables off the street, and be a publicity boon to him in the bargain. But he knows the outlaw biker style too, and the evidence is flimsy. Just the assailed party, who’d picked them out of a thrown-together lineup, before Robertson was able to get me on the phone. I could bitch about a technical violation but there was no point; they’d agreed to it and anyway it wouldn’t hold up in court, not without anything to back it up. Robertson’s a prosecutor, he’s always been on that side of the aisle, from his first job smack out of law school, he’s thoroughly indoctrinated with the police mentality; but he’s too principled a man to railroad anyone, not even scum like these. He’ll let them cool their heels a few days, but unless he gets something corroborating—which we both know won’t happen—he’ll shine it on.