Although the man’s face was completely obscured, Cynthia instantly recognized her husband. She could no longer control herself. Bolting into the room, she pushed the surprised Brigitte out of the way, raised her right leg high in the air, swung it forward and kicked Sal right in the ass.
“Oooh!” Sal moaned. This infuriated Cynthia even more. She reared back and kicked him again.
“Oh my God!” Sal screamed in ecstasy. “Do it again, Brigitte.”
Cynthia stood there for a moment looking at him with disgust. Then she turned to Brigitte, who was cowering in a corner of the room.
“He’s all yours,” Cynthia said and headed for the door.
Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, beyond the booze and the dope, Sal heard his wife’s voice and-even though his mind fought against the reality of the circumstances-realized his predicament. But he didn’t move. He simply peered through his legs at Brigitte and noticed that his dick had gone limp.
When he returned home the next day with a story about how some client had slipped a tab of acid into his coffee, his wife and two kids were already gone. A few weeks later, Cynthia’s lawyer filed an emergency motion with the court, and Sal was tossed out of his two-story home. He still got to pay the mortgage, however, which meant that he could only afford to rent a cheap one-bedroom flat in a high-rise not far from the office. Part of Sal’s dream had slipped away forever.
Luckily for Sal and his clients, he was a somewhat better lawyer than he was a husband. He did mostly small-time stuff, but over the course of fifteen years he had handled several murder cases, all of them court-appointed except for the Russell O’Reilly case, the one that had finally brought him some notoriety. Russell O’Reilly was accused of the heinous murder of a blind girl. The case and Russell’s lawyer, Sal Paglia, were in the news every day for six months. In the end, Russell was exonerated because the DNA of the skin found under the blind girl’s nails-skin which came from her scratching her assailant-did not belong to Russell O’Reilly.
The O’Reilly case had brought Sal a steady stream of clients, but it was now three years old and had lost its legs. Sal was starting to have problems meeting his monthly obligations at the office. He had also taken up two new hobbies to fill the void caused by the absence of his wife and children-drinking and gambling-and he was doing a poor job controlling either of them. He was in to Beano Moffit, the local loan shark, for thirty thousand dollars when fortune seemed to smile on him once again.
A short, stocky Latin man with muscular forearms and calloused hands walked into his office early on a Wednesday morning.
“I’d like to see Mr. Paglia,” he told Sal’s secretary, Hazel.
“Do you have an appointment?” Hazel asked without looking away from the game of solitaire she was playing on her computer.
“No, I don’t,” the man replied. “I live a couple of blocks away. I thought I’d just stop in.”
“Sorry,” Hazel told him, her eyes still glued to the computer. “Mr. Paglia is a busy man. He can’t see you without an appointment.”
The man didn’t go quietly as most of them did. He stood his ground. “I’ve got cash,” he said, “and I’m willing to pay today. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Those words meant nothing to Hazel, who was unaware of the dismal financial status of her boss. But to Sal-who was sitting in his office with the door slightly ajar throwing paper airplanes at the trash can and wondering how he was going to pay the rent, make payroll, and keep his legs from getting broken-they sounded like sweet music.
“Send him in, Hazel,” Sal shouted.
“But he doesn’t have an appointment,” Hazel protested.
“Send him in,” Sal shouted back.
Hazel gave the man a dirty look but ushered him in to Sal’s office before returning to her game.
Sal came rushing from behind his desk, his right hand extended and a huge smile on his face. “Sal Paglia. Nice to meet you.”
The man shook his hand. “Luis Melendez,” he replied. “Nice to meet you too.” He did not smile.
Sal motioned Luis to one of his upholstered high-back chairs, the same one where, not many moons ago, his wife had caught him in a very awkward position. Luis sat down. His eyes roamed the room as Sal went back behind his desk.
Sal knew that his building was not much to look at from the outside and the neighborhood was, to put it kindly, a little seedy-a good place to find criminal clients but with few other redeeming values. His inner sanctum, however-the place where he coaxed the money from the clients, among other things-was top-shelf: plush maroon carpeting, rich mahogany paneling, a massive desk so large that Sal looked a little puny sitting behind it in his equally large and impressive burgundy leather lawyer chair.
“So what can I do for you?” Sal asked, changing his expression to one of pleasant, professional concern.
“My son is in jail and he’s been charged with murder.”
Dollar signs flashed in Sal’s eyes but he maintained his composure. “How long has he been there?”
“Not too long-a couple of months,” Luis replied. “He’s had several minor hearings about one thing or another. The public defender is representing him.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Benny Avrile.”
Sal noted that father and son did not have the same last name, but there was something else. He’d heard that name before, although he couldn’t remember where. Then it came to him. The case had been on the front page of all the papers and was still getting coverage months later. The trial for sure would be big news, maybe even international. Sal started to salivate.
Benny Avrile had killed some rich guy. What the hell was his name? Ah, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that little Benny’s father was sitting in front of him, offering the case up to him on a silver platter. The publicity alone would guarantee him another three years in the black, win or lose. He could pay off Beano, who was starting to pressure him a bit. Sal wanted to kiss Luis Melendez on the spot, but he had to play it close to the vest. After all, there was money to be had right now.
“Why are you coming to me?” Sal asked, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could catch them.
“I don’t want the public defender representing my son. He’s already had three different lawyers in two months. I’m afraid he’ll get assigned to somebody new on the day of trial who won’t know anything about his case. I remember you got a guy off a few years back-the one who was accused of killing the blind girl. Some people in the neighborhood say you’re pretty good, too.”
Sal wondered who had recommended him. Sometimes he paid people in the neighborhood to talk him up in criminal circles-maybe it was one of those guys. He’d find out soon enough. Somebody would be sniffing around, looking for a bonus.
But now it was time to talk about the money. “You know, my services don’t come cheap. It’s expensive to try a murder case. Very expensive.”
“I’ve got five thousand dollars in cash,” Luis said without hesitating.
“That’s not even a third of what I would require up front.”
“It’s all I got.”
Sal had heard that line a million times. If this guy had five grand in cash, he could come up with fifteen, no problem. It was just a case of helping him find it. It didn’t matter, though. Sal was taking the case regardless. He just needed to squeeze Luis for as much as he could.
“Do you own a home?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any equity in it?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”
“How long have you owned your home?”
“Seven years.”
“Do you have a mortgage?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you had that?”
“Since I bought the place.”
Those answers told Sal all he needed to know. Luis was not a sophisticated businessman. He didn’t know that he had equity in his home and tha
t he could refinance and pull cash out to pay for the legal services of Sal Paglia.
“Luis, I’ve got great news for you. I’m going to take your son’s case, and I’m going to take it for the initial five thousand. And I’m also going to help you with the paperwork to refinance your house so you can get the additional twenty thousand dollars you’re going to need to pay me through the trial.”
Sal said the words in such a way that Luis felt like thanking him for being so helpful and kind. He promptly took five thousand dollars out of the front right-hand pocket of his pants and handed it to Sal, who stashed it in a desk drawer.
“I’ll file a notice of appearance first thing in the morning,” Sal told him, handing him a receipt for the cash. Luis thanked him several times before heading for the door, but stopped just as he reached it.
“One other thing,” Luis said before Sal ushered him out.
“What’s that?” Sal asked.
“Don’t tell Benny you got the money from me. He must never know I’m involved.”
That was okay with Sal. He could put ethical considerations aside for the greater good-at least, for his greater good. It wasn’t going to fly with the court, however. Benny was the client. He needed to approve of the arrangement. Technically, Benny could agree that he didn’t want to know who was paying, but Sal didn’t want to go down that road unless he had to.
“Sit,” Sal said, steering Luis back to the infamous chair again. “Tell me why you don’t want your own son to know that you’re paying for his lawyer.”
Luis sat down again. He took out a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
Sal was a smoker himself. He took his own pack out of his pocket. “I’ll join you,” he said, handing Luis an ashtray.
“He doesn’t know me. I never married his mother.” Luis took a long drag on his Marlboro. “We lived together for about two years after Benny was born. We were both on drugs. She left. I didn’t see her after that. Years later, when I got clean, I couldn’t find them. That’s it. That’s the story.”
“So you assume he doesn’t want to hear from you?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“How do you know that this Benny Avrile is your kid?”
“The name, the age, and the picture in the paper. He’s a dead ringer for me. Benny’s my kid, all right.”
“And you want to do this because you feel you owe it to him?”
“Yeah. It’s a little bit more complicated than that, but that’s essentially what it’s about.”
Sal thought about his own kids for a minute. He hadn’t seen them since his wife left. Maybe, he said to himself, shrugging his shoulders.
“Here’s the deal, Luis. You need to talk to Benny about this. It’s a legal requirement and I can’t have it blow up in my face. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” Those who really knew Sal would have gagged at that last remark.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Luis replied. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him. It just might be better coming from somebody else.”
There was no way Sal was giving the five thousand back. “Well, it’s going to be either you or me, Luis. I assure you, if Benny’s reluctant after talking to you and finding out the money’s from you, I will eventually convince him that it is in his best interests to have me represent him. But I think you should talk to him first.”
“All right, I’ll give it a shot,” Luis said reluctantly.
Benny was lying on his cot in his cell feeling downright miserable. He’d been in jail before, but the charges had never stuck and he was always out in a day or so. This time it was different. He’d been here for two months already, and the prospects didn’t look good. Hell, they weren’t even trying to reduce his bail. His stomach was in a perpetual state of violent upheaval from the swill that masqueraded as food, not to mention the ever-present smell of ammonia, which they used to mop the floors. After the first few days he’d refused to eat, but then he got so dehydrated and hungry he had to-his body demanded it. When he did, the churning in his stomach started all over again.
Why do guys say they want to come back here after they get out? he asked himself on one of the many days he had absolutely nothing to do. Man, I was homeless and I lived a lot better than this.
While Benny was contemplating death as a pleasant alternative to his present condition, two guards approached his cell.
“You’ve got a visitor,” one of them shouted at Benny.
“Who?” Benny asked.
“How the hell should I know?” the guard responded. “What am I, your press secretary or something? I want you to stand up and turn around and face the wall. Now.”
Benny immediately did as instructed. There was no percentage in playing games with these guys.
“Now I want you to kneel down and put your hands behind your back.” Benny again did as instructed. He’d never had to follow this procedure before when the public defender visited. This must be special treatment reserved for murderers who have visitors, he concluded.
“Now we’re going to open this cell door and handcuff you, but I don’t want you to move until I tell you to. Do you understand?” Benny just nodded. “I need a verbal response,” the guard told him.
“Yes, sir,” Benny replied.
“That’s better.”
As they led him handcuffed out of the cell and down a long corridor, Benny wondered who the hell it was that was coming to visit him. He knew it wasn’t his public defender. They only showed up a few minutes before a scheduled hearing, and he had no hearings coming up. There was nobody else. Maybe it’s Tillie, he thought. Maybe he misses me.
27
The Navajos had won the Greater Metropolitan League Championship four years in a row, and they appeared to be on their way to another one. They were undefeated, and their average margin of victory was twenty-one points. They didn’t like to merely defeat their opponents-they liked to crush them. They wore the Green Bay Packers colors-not just shirts like the Lexingtons, but everything: shirts, pants, socks, helmets. Hell, they even had their own cheerleaders. To top matters off, the Mount Vernon field was their home field. The deck was certainly stacked in their favor.
Frankie O’Connor huddled the team up before the opening kickoff.
“All right, guys, this is what all the sweat all year was about. Let’s show these blowhards how to play football.”
The Navajos took the opening kickoff and marched down the field for a touchdown. Their kicker made the routine extra point, and on the ensuing change of possession, they forced the Lexingtons to punt. A twenty-yard punt return gave them excellent field position, and they scored again. After the second extra point was made, the score stood at fourteen to nothing and the game was only five minutes old. The defense stiffened up after that. Still, at halftime, with the score fourteen to nothing, the Lexingtons looked like a defeated team.
Frankie O’Connor gave an impassioned speech in the locker room at halftime.
“Those guys are a bunch of prima donnas!” he told them. “Yet they’re playing like a team. We fought hard to get to this game. We’ve had each other’s backs the entire season. Now let’s go out there and show it!”
It was a short speech, but it had the desired effect. Everybody ran out of the locker room with fire in his eyes.
They fought back in the second half, and with three minutes left in the game the score was fourteen to twelve. Even with their new kicking team, the Lexingtons had missed both extra points. Jimmy Walsh was kicking well and they had their timing down, but Rico was too small to play center and the middle linebacker was blowing by him every time and blocking the kicks.
It didn’t look like the team would have another opportunity either. The Navajos had the ball, and they weren’t about to give it up. It was third down and four yards to go. A first down would seal the victory.
The next play was like slow motion for Johnny. He watched the qua
rterback take the ball from the center and set up for the pass. The wide receiver came off the line and ran five yards downfield, then gave his first fake and planted his opposite foot. Johnny reacted instinctively, moving toward the area where he expected the ball to be thrown. He cut right in front of the receiver and caught the ball in full stride. There were two linemen to avoid, and then it was off to the races. He got past the first one, but the second one caught him by the ankles, slowing him down just enough to allow the quarterback to make a game-saving tackle on the twenty-yard line.
All the Lexingtons went crazy when Johnny intercepted, and they were still going crazy when he ran to the sideline after the play was over. Rico slapped him on the helmet. “Way to protect that turf, Mayor.” Johnny laughed and slapped his hand.
The ball was now on the Navajos’ twenty-yard line: there was less than two minutes left, and they were down by two. However, they only gained three yards on the next three plays. With ten seconds left, there was only time for one more play. The euphoria of minutes ago had vanished. The Lexingtons’ sideline was hushed. Joe Sheffield called a time-out and summoned the entire offensive team over to the sideline.
“What do you suggest?” he asked Bobby Schmidt, his quarterback. They both knew there was only one call-a long pass into the end zone. Standing behind the coach, Johnny looked over at Rico, who was about ten feet away. Rico didn’t say a word. He knew exactly what Johnny was thinking. Before the quarterback could respond, Johnny broke in. He hadn’t said ten words to Joe Sheffield all year, but now, at the most important moment of the most important game of the season, he was interrupting the coach and his quarterback.
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