Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

What makes it all perversely effective is that Moseby knows and cultivates it. He’s reveled in being the lone redneck homeboy among a covey of slick modern lawyers for so long it’s second nature now.

  His presence here means two things: he’s being assigned to this case, and Robertson’s taking it seriously.

  “My compliments to your tailor,” I tell him.

  He flips me the bird. If there’s one thing about Frank I do like, it’s that you know exactly where you stand with him.

  “When are my clients going to be charged?” I ask Robertson, getting to the point of my visit. He’s sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair like a slim blond Buddha, staring up at me through narrow-lidded eyes.

  “When I’ve got something to charge them with,” he answers calmly.

  “And when will that be, pray tell?” I ask, wishing he wasn’t being so cute. Bail can’t be set until they’re charged, and he can request denial of bail; with the new criminal justice code it’s easier to do, especially in a capital case with defendants who have records and bad reputations: defendants like mine.

  “Well,” he says, leaning forward, “the statute says it has to be pretty soon. Unless I can talk the judge into extending,” he adds.

  Which means if he doesn’t have enough hard evidence to take to the grand jury by then that’s exactly what he’s going to try to do.

  “You’re not playing by the rules, John,” I say.

  “Whose rules?” he asks.

  “How about the state of New Mexico’s?”

  “Little early in the game to tell me I’m doing something wrong, isn’t it, Will?”

  “I just want to see how the land lies.” I glance over at Moseby. He’s still wearing his smirk, flashes it at me.

  “Like this,” Robertson answers. “I think these parasites are guilty, Will.” He stands up, facing me. “I feel it in my gut, real strong. And I am going to do everything I can to find evidence that’ll prove me right.”

  “My gut tells me the exact opposite,” I say. Right now my gut is churning to beat the band.

  “Fine. But let me warn you: I’m going to throw everything I can at this case. Frank here’ll do his usual first-rate job, and I will personally be in that courtroom, especially when the time comes for summation. Goddam it, Will,” he tells me with honest conviction, “they did it. And I know it. And nothing will turn me around until you prove to me they didn’t.”

  “You mean they’re guilty until proven innocent.”

  “They’ll get a fair trial.”

  “And then you’ll hang them.”

  “I hope so.”

  First Andy, now him. It’s been a wonderful morning.

  “And don’t forget, Will,” Robertson reminds me, “bail can be denied on a capital case. Usually is.”

  The bastard’s reading my mind.

  “Good luck,” he throws in. “You’ll need it … all the way through.”

  “And may the best man win,” Moseby throws in.

  What a schmuck. I can’t help it; I break into a grin.

  “In that case,” I tell him, “it’s a lay-down.”

  Frank Moseby is sitting in the bar of the Freeway Ramada Inn with Luis Sanchez and Jesse Gomez. Sanchez and Gomez are senior deputies with the county sheriff’s office. They’ve been assigned to this case: Moseby asked for them specifically. They’ve both been cops for over twenty years, they hold no illusions about the nobility of the criminal justice system, in fact it’s the opposite: laws are a nuisance to them, to be obeyed when it’s convenient, skirted when it’s necessary. This doesn’t mean they’re crooks; it means they understand the job.

  They’re off-duty, so they’re drinking draft Michelobs and scarfing bar nuts. Moseby’s beverage of choice is Diet Pepsi; his church forbids consumption of alcohol. Gomez chain-smokes Salems, a habit he picked up in the army. His eye is on the waitress, a full-figured woman he guesses is in her early forties. He likes them stacked, he likes the way she looks good in the uniform of the day: high heels, old-fashioned seamed black mesh stockings, miniskirt, low-cut peasant blouse. In a little while he’ll make an excuse that he’s got to go to the john so he can find out what time she gets off. From where he’s sitting she isn’t wearing any rings.

  “So you hooked a big one, eh?” Sanchez is saying. “A regular barracuda.”

  “A whole school of sharks,” Moseby says.

  “Now you gotta reel them in.” Gomez brings his attention back to business.

  Moseby nods. He chugs the last of his Pepsi, swirls an ice cube in his mouth, crunching it loudly. Spittle forms around the corners of his lips. He holds his empty glass high in the air. What a pig, Gomez thinks. The guy has absolutely no class at all. And some poor bitch has to lay this dork. He wonders idly what Moseby’s wife must look like. Not like this waitress, that’s for sure.

  “Another round?” She’s standing over them. He looks up at her. She’s practically falling out of her blouse, goddam what a set. She’s smiling, she likes him, he can tell. A lot of them like him, he’s famous in the department.

  “What do you think I’ve got my hand up for, to air out my armpit?” Moseby says. He’s a solitary laugher at his own bad taste. She blinks; Gomez winces. He catches her eye, winks conspiratorially: you and I know he’s an asshole. She smiles back. He drops his arm nonchalantly off the top of the booth so it accidentally brushes the side of her calf. She doesn’t back off. His fingers trail the seam of her stocking. She bites her lip.

  “I’ll be right back with those drinks.” She sashays away.

  Moseby cracks the ice cube with his teeth. “That’s your job,” he says. “You two. I figure if anybody can find something we can pin on these lowlifes you can.”

  “You figured right,” Sanchez says with ease. “If there’s anything out there we’ll find it.”

  Gomez lights a Salem, floats a smoke ring, which drifts up towards the fake wood-beamed ceiling. “What do you figure is out there?” he asks. “Why are you holding them?”

  “Because Robertson wants to,” Moseby answers honestly. “Because a truly awful crime was committed and they were in town.”

  Somebody’s punched up “Third-rate Romance” on the jukebox.

  “So it’s political,” Gomez rejoins sourly. He doesn’t like that; it means the heat’ll be turned up to find something on these bikers and fast, even if the evidence out there isn’t choice. If in fact there is any evidence out there.

  “Partly,” Moseby admits. “Because there’s nothing concrete that ties the victim and these bikers together so far. But the profile points to them, and the profile is usually pretty much on the money.”

  “The profile’s a computer,” Sanchez scoffs. “The profile ain’t human.”

  “It helps,” Moseby retorts. “But you’re right, it’s only a real smart machine. All it can do is point the way. Human beings have got to do the work. I’ve got faith in you two. If there’s anything out there, you’ll find it.”

  The waitress is at the table, setting down their glasses. Gomez lets his fingers walk her leg again out of view, just firm enough so she can feel it. She spills a little beer on the napkin as she puts his glass in front of him.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” she tells the table, looking at him. She drifts back to the bar, glancing back. He returns her look long enough to let her know he’s interested, then turns back to the table. Sanchez gives him the eye: he blows on his fingertips. Moseby’s unconscious.

  “You’re right,” Sanchez tells Moseby. “If there’s anything out there to be found, we’ll find it.”

  Moseby swallows half his Pepsi in one gulp. “Make sure you do,” he says. “And make sure ifs sooner than later.”

  MONDAY NIGHT, so I do what comes naturally: I go out drinking. The Dew Drop Inn, the bar the bikers sent me to, is the prototypical low-rent place the Chamber of Commerce keeps out of its brochures. You come here for two good reasons: to drink and to find somebody to take home for the night.
Or if you’re with a date or your old lady, you come here to drink and show off. Occasionally you come to fight; that works, too.

  Normally I’d have a PI doing this work, but Al Collins, the firm’s regular investigator, is on vacation, and anyway I can’t afford him, not cutting my fee like I’ve done. It’s like I’m starting all over again; not an entirely comforting thought.

  I’ve always felt at home in joints like this. They’re second nature to me, cousins to the bars I used to hang out in when I was a kid back in Kentucky. People who drink in places like this make their living mostly with their hands. They drink whiskey, out here a lot of it tequila, and beer. These days some of the women drink white wine, that’s okay. And everyone smokes, if anyone’s heard of the Surgeon General it’s that he’s the guy who’s pushing rubbers.

  That’s the one thing everybody knows; AIDS awareness is universal, it’s permeated everywhere. Men and women still go home with each other, but they talk some first, at least the women make sure the guys aren’t gay, the guys ask about who the women have been sleeping with, meaning if you’re a fag-hag thanks but no thanks.

  Rita wasn’t cautious. Several of the regulars vividly remember her going off with the bikers. I’ve been here an hour by now, nursing my beers slowly because I’m on duty, long enough to have struck up some easy conversations.

  “She was drunker’n hell, ol’ Rita.” I’ve become friends with a bottle-blonde who looks like a semifinalist in a Dolly Parton look-alike contest. She’s got a steady but it’s my good fortune (or dumb luck) that he’s pulling nights this month. My kind of woman at times such as these: a cheap date (house white wine) with a motor-mouth.

  “’Course being drunk’s one of the few things Rita excels at,” she adds cattily. “I don’t know what it is she’s trying to forget but she sure works hard at it.”

  “How much time had she spent with them before they all took off together?” I ask. I want to try to put this rape situation to rest.

  “About ten seconds. She’s not exactly known to be discriminating.”

  Well, shit I reckon. A girl who has a reputation as a loose drunk and goes off with four strangers whose intentions are obviously not pure is bad news; first because of what she represents to the straight community, and second because she was visibly impaired, a couple hundred people saw it, she was incapable of making an informed decision. I make a note to quiz my clients more forcefully about her condition at the moment of truth; I also have to hope I find someone who saw her sober near the time it all happened.

  “Wasn’t the first time, either,” Dolly prattles on. “Or the second. Kind of trash that woman is makes us all look cheap,” she says. “I mean it’s okay to find an attraction with some decent guy,” she continues, her Calvin Klein label is rubbing up against my 501 patch, it’s getting crowded in here now but not that crowded that I’m about to give her the benefit of the doubt, “we’re all only human, right? A friendly neighborhood place like this is just as legitimate as a church basement, right … ?”

  “Right,” I answer. How right you don’t know, I think, remembering. I met Patricia in a bar much like this one; I was by myself and I turned and saw this stunner standing next to me and her beer glass was empty so I poured half of mine into hers and …

  “… after you get to know each other and find you share common interests,” she finishes her thought.

  She’s read a book. I wonder what the title is. Men or Women Who Love or Hate Somebody or Something.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by the law,” she confides in me.

  “Is that so?”

  “Definitely. Ever since I was a kid and watched Perry Mason. I love ‘L.A. Law,’ that’s the one night you won’t catch me out. I read in People that more lawyers watch it than any other show. Did you read that?”

  “I must’ve missed it.” I’m on a seesaw, I was down and now I’m coming back up, lovely Rita went off with anyone who asked. And more than likely did what they asked, and willingly. Not a swinging strike; at best a loud foul.

  “What time was that again?” I ask.

  “What time was what?”

  “When she and the motorcyclists went off.” Come on, lady, don’t go airhead on me. Not yet anyway.

  “Are we still talking about that?” She tries on what means to be a pout.

  I swallow the bottom of my glass in lieu of an answer. The bartender materializes out of nowhere. I nod; what the hell. She slides hers over automatically.

  “Closing time,” she says. “Two. Way past my bedtime,” she adds. “Normally.”

  “Yeh, mine too,” I say. That was the wrong thing to say, I know it as soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth.

  She slips her hand in my arm. As far as she’s concerned it’s official. I’m a good-enough-looking guy, but I’m not going to flatter myself, it’s the occupation lawyer she wants to go home with.

  “I didn’t bring my car,” she tells me, nailing it down. “I came with a girl-friend.”

  “Aren’t you afraid she’ll tell your steady?” I’ve always had this inability to just say no, I don’t know if it’s fear of being thought unmanly or not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings. I catch myself: that’s bullshit, if she was a pig I could and would say no. She’s a good-looking woman with a certain obviousness and a very large chest. I’m turned on by women like her; it’s my working-class upbringing.

  “She hates his guts,” she says. She’s leaving nothing to chance: “It’s way out of her way to take me home.”

  I finish my beer. By coincidence she’s finishing her glass of wine.

  “Can I give you a ride?” I ask.

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  We’re all over each other in the parking lot.

  “I’d rather not here if you don’t mind,” she says when we come up for air, grinding against me.

  “I can wait,” I say, grinding back. “Barely,” I add, wanting to make sure her feelings aren’t hurt. Besides, it’s the truth. Partly.

  “I’m not far,” she reassures me.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Otherwise …” I grab for one of her tits. I’m slightly high, right where it feels good. She twists away, giggling.

  “Come on,” she says. “What is this, a BMW?”

  “Yep.”

  “Very classy.” She’s in the front seat. “Take a left, three blocks, then a right.”

  I pull out. It’s late, there’s almost no traffic. Without warning her head drops below the level of the window.

  “You keep your eyes on the road,” she admonishes. “I’m just going to have an aperitif.”

  Somehow I manage to keep the car on the right side of the double-yellow lines.

  “You’re not going to stay?” Her name, I’ve discovered, is Lori.

  “I’ve got a busy day. If I stayed here all night … besides I’d hate to be here if your steady walked in unexpectedly.”

  She pauses; the idea doesn’t go down too well with her either, since I’ve brought it up. But now I’m here and he isn’t. “You’re sweet,” she tells me. “That was very nice.”

  “Very nice?” My feelings are hurt. “The earth moved for me.”

  “Extremely terrific. How’s that?”

  “Better.”

  She watches me as I dress.

  “I didn’t think I’d pull this off,” she tells me with an honesty that belies her tough veneer. “I thought you were just pumping me back there at the bar.”

  “I was,” I admit. “And I’m flattered you were so persevering.” It’s so easy when you don’t have to lie.

  She’s looking at me in a warm sort of way and I’m looking at her the same way and it hits me. “That steady of yours. We’re not talking in the present tense, are we?”

  “No.” Simple and direct.

  “Then why the subterfuge?”

  “The what?”

  “Why did you tell me there was when there wasn’t?”

  She’s embarrassed, but she
comes clean. “I thought you’d find me more attractive,” she says, “if you thought there was another guy in the picture.”

  I’ve never heard it put that way before, but it does make sense in a lefthanded kind of way.

  “I wouldn’t’ve cared,” I answer honestly.

  “You’re the only one,” she rejoins, unsuccessfully trying to keep the nervousness and bitterness out of her voice. “A woman in this town’s washed up at thirty-five unless she’s got the bucks.”

  An honest-to-God wave of sadness washes over me. For her, yes, and others like her; but more for Patricia: attractive woman, capable lawyer, mother of my child. Thirty-nine and with less then five thousand dollars in her savings account. How can I think about trying to stop her from leaving?

  “Hey,” she says, brightening, “I got a good time out of it. We both did.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Maybe we’ll even see each other again. At least I don’t have AIDS,” she throws in. Is that how people say ‘I Love You’ now?

  “Maybe we will.” No promises, no bullshit.

  She accepts it, taking what she can get for now. “That was a bitch about that kid, wasn’t it,” she says, shifting gears. “The one who was murdered,” she continues. “I mean that is why you were asking about Rita, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I answer, noncommittally.

  “Because she knew him, right?”

  What the fuck?

  “Right,” I say, trying to recover. “Because she knew him.” I hesitate a moment. “How well did she know him?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “I don’t think they were getting it on or anything,” she says. “Not like on a steady diet. But it was pretty common knowledge he was staying at that motel she works at. She brought him around a couple times. I don’t really know his story. He was probably just crashing there for a few days.”

  “GOOD NEWS, GUYS.”

  They sit up. It’s five after seven in the morning, the earliest I could get in to see them.

  “The chick you fucked?”

  “Yeh?” Lone Wolf, as usual, speaks for the group.

  “And the guy that was murdered?”

  “Yeh?”

  “They knew each other, asshole! He was living at that motel where she worked.”