Blackbird

by A. J. Gentile

  Alex's eyes started watering.

  "Alex, this is not a good case. Perhaps if you find a more experienced attorney, they can try to negotiate a better deal for you. Maybe if you agree to plea, wrote a letter of remorse to the family and community, the DA would knock it down to fifteen to life. You'd be out before you turn forty."

  "I'm very sorry for how all of this went down. I wished we had more time to discuss your options before the cops picked you up."

  "They moved so fast," Alex said, "how could they move so fast?"

  "I'm not sure if you've heard, but Cahill's murder is all over the news. She was very popular. The police haven't officially released your name yet . . . but brace yourself for when they do."

  Alex started sobbing. “My life is over. My parents will be ruined. My sisters probably will never talk to me again. I’ll never find work as a convicted murderer, and I’ll probably have to commit more crimes in jail just to survive.”

  "When I get back to my office I will collect the names of a few experienced criminal lawyers. I'll explain to them your situation. I can get in contact with your parents and let them know, too."

  "Yeah, whatever. I understand. Thanks for your help, Zeke."

  Zeke felt like he was being punched in the gut. He stood up and knocked on the door. As the guard opened the door, Zeke turned around and said, "Good luck, Alex. It was nice working with you."

  "Sure, thanks," Alex said.

  Zeke was guided down the hallway. As he left the lobby, he saw the newly married bride weeping alone in the corner of the waiting room.

  February 8th, 9:15pm

  Zeke checked his phone as he walked back to his car. He had several missed messages from his girlfriend.

  "Zeke . . ." Molly's message read, "I've decided that I can't do this anymore. You've been distant ever since you started studying for the bar exam. I thought things would get better once it was over, and they didn't. Then I figured things would get better once you got the results. They didn't. You go days without calling me or responding to my texts. We've been dating for almost three years and you've met my parents once. My aunt calls you 'the ghost boyfriend.' Frankly, I think you want things to work out less than I do."

  Zeke was hurt, but not altogether surprised. Things had been difficult between them. Zeke had put everything into law school applications, reading and outlining for lectures, and studying for the bar exam. When he and Molly had met at a bar close to campus his 2L year, he wasn't even sure he had time for a relationship.

  "I know its shitty to do things over text like this," her messaged continued, "but I think it's better if we just rip the Band-aid off and move on. We can still be friends, though. I'll see you around."

  And that was it. Dumped like yesterday's bread, Zeke thought. I should be offended, he thought to himself, who breaks up with somebody over in a text?

  He wasn't, though, and he knew it. Things were easier this way. He was uncomfortable with confrontation, and one-on-one interactions in general. It was one of the reasons he preferred to work contract issues. Less messy, he thought.

  As Zeke got into his car, he called Matty, "Where are you?" Zeke said.

  "At the bar. I'm working tonight, shift starts in a few minutes," Matty said.

  "Ok, I'm coming by for drinks in a bit. We need to talk about the case."

  "Fine. Lexi is here, by the way." Zeke and Lexi were classmates from law school. They had suffered through the first year of law school together as section mates. Zeke, Matty, and Lexi had been frequenting Downtown L.A. bars ever since she and Zeke had finished the bar exam several months ago. She had secured an associate position with a large, corporate law firm after graduation, just a few blocks away from where Zeke set up his office. Zeke was supremely jealous of her law firm gig but had also crushed on her since they first met.

  "Great," Zeke said, "I'll be there soon."

  Fifteen minutes later Zeke parked the Volvo off the corner of 6th and Los Angeles. Matty bar-backed at Cole's French Dip, a purveyor of cocktails and beef sandwiches. Cole's claimed to have invented the french dip sandwich—a beef sandwich dipped in beef drippings—in 1908, although at least one other downtown-area restaurant did too. Zeke and Matty didn't care either way, but Cole's had better drinks.

  It was Wednesday evening and most of Downtown L.A.'s young professionals were in the throes of drinking away the work week at their local watering hole. Since Matty had started working at Cole's, he and Zeke had gotten into a rhythm of grabbing drinks a few nights a week. Cole's outdoor seating was a few steps below the sidewalk, putting patrons at eye level with pedestrians' sneakers. It was perfect for people-watching.

  "Hey! There he is," Matty said as Zeke walked down the stairs.

  "Hey," Zeke replied, "how's it going, Lexi?"

  "Great, Zeke. It's good to see you," she replied.

  "How are things at Smith & Sitka?"

  "Same. I'm working on a products liability case at the moment. Defending a company whose coffee makers will spontaneous combust during brewing. It's real uplifting stuff."

  "Wow, sounds . . . interesting," Zeke said.

  "Yeah, not so much. I'm assigned to double- and triple-checking complaints that our client has received from plaintiffs across the country. I have to go back tonight to write up a summary on the batch that I've been reviewing this week."

  "It's almost seven o'clock?" Matty said.

  "That's why they pay us the big bucks," Lexi said. "My boss is a nightmare, though. I could barely sneak out of the office to come here for a few drinks. My billables at the end of last year were a bit low, compared to others in my associate class. I don't want them thinking I'm shirking work. But they just haven't given me anything very meaty as of yet."

  "Seems like you and Zeke have a lot to talk about, then, "Matty said, "Zeke's got so much business, he's turning down cases."

  "Wow, Zeke, is that true?" Lexi asked.

  "Hardly," Zeke replied, "I was working on something the past two days, but I'm going to refer it out to someone else."

  "Care to elaborate?"

  "Have you heard about the Cahill murder?"

  "Ugh, yeah, it’s been on the news 24/7 in our office lobby—"

  A group of raucous college students walked by. "Hey ladies!" Matty said.

  "Ha. Ew, no," one of them said as the group walked up the street.

  "Don't worry, Matty," Lexi said, "I'm sure there is a girl out there that likes long-haired men that wear suspenders. Definitely one, single, solitary girl." Matty took a long swig drink of beer. "Wait, so, how are you involved with the Cahill case?" Lexi asked.

  "I'm not . . . anymore. Yesterday morning, the guy LAPD suspects is the murderer called me looking for an attorney. I've talked with the assistant DA and Matty and I put in some leg work on the case. It's a dead end, frankly. And I’d prefer to not be doing be doing criminal stuff."

  "So, how did you end it?" Matty asked.

  "I was just at Twin Towers Jail. I relayed the DA's plea offer, but he refuses to admit guilt. Says he didn't do it. I told him that I would send him the names of a few attorneys."

  "You've got ice in your veins, Zeke," Matty quipped.

  "So . . . do you believe him?" Alexis asked.

  "The evidence is not in his favor. But there is nothing about him that says 'murderer.'"

  "Have any other leads?"

  "We've got one," Matty said, "but Zeke is too chicken to pursue it."

  "I'm not afraid, Matty," Zeke replied, "I'm just not sure these are the type of clients that I want to represent."

  "Don't attorneys have a Hippocratic oath or something?" Matty asked.

  "That's doctors. And no, not really."

  "Didn't you work at a public defender's office during law school? And what about the innocence clinic you worked at?" Lexi asked.

  "Don't get me wrong, I enjoy criminal defense. It's challenging. There's a big need for it. Someone has to make sure that the DA proves their case. But the fact patterns are
. . . intense. Jails are depressing, and prisons are even worse. You have to associate with . . . a certain type of person. It's not as crunchy granola as some people make it out to be."

  "A certain type of person?" Lexi asked.

  "Yeah. For example, one of my coworkers at the public defender's office got robbed by her client. You're just . . . more exposed to that kind of thing."

  "Sure, that's awful, and it probably happens every once in a while. But my guess is that most people have just made a mistake, and need someone to shepherd them through the process," Lexi replied.

  "Yeah," Zeke said. He knew she was right, but he didn't care to admit it. Zeke liked Lexi because she was smart, independent, and called people on their bullshit. Just like she was doing now.

  "Anyways," she said, "I've gotta get back to work. If I don't finish today's work, my boss will throw a tantrum tomorrow morning."

  "It was great seeing you again. Text me if you want to hang out later this week," Zeke said. Lexi paused, not sure if Zeke was asking her out on a date. They usually only hung out when Matty was around.

  "Are you sure Molly would be ok with that?" she asked.

  "Ugh, yeah, probably. It's not a big deal, just beers," Zeke replied.

  "Oh . . . ok. Yeah, sure, I'll let you know." Lexi grabbed her purse and walked out of the bar.

  "You're a smooth operator, Zeke," Matty said.

  "Zip it, Matty. But you're right, that was a bit of a train wreck."

  "She knows you've had a crush on her all this time, Zeke. I'm sure Molly wouldn't appreciate—"

  "Molly ended things today. She dumped me by text while I was in Twin Towers talking to Alex," Zeke said.

  "Shit, dude, that's brutal. I'm sorry."

  "Thanks. Things had been off for a while, though. I think both of us were looking for a way out. She just moved first, I guess."

  "So, you finally worked up the courage to ask out Lexi, and you choked," Matty said.

  "It wasn't my finest moment, Matty, but I've been single for all of two hours. Give me a little time," Zeke replied.

  "Dumped and with no clients to speak of. This isn't your week, is it?"

  "I'm . . . reconsidering Alex's case."

  "Oh. So when a girl tells you to take the case, you'll do it. But when your trusted associate says it, you're not interested."

  "It's not that," Zeke said, half lying, "I think I can do some good on this one. The assistant DA clearly wrote off the lead about Eddie Martinez. We're the only ones willing to act on information that could get Alex out of jail. You haven't seen him, Matty. He's not going to make it in there."

  "Yeah, I believe you. At eighteen years young, who would? Okay, so you're a bigshot lawyer working at Blackbird and Associates working on a murder case. What's your next move?"

  "I'll get ahold of Alex's parents tomorrow and let them know I'm taking the case. Then we find Eddie Martinez."

  Chapter 4

  February 9th, 9:30am

  "Don't worry, Mom, I'll be fine. Everything is gonna be fine," Alex said as his Mom sobbed on the other end of the phone. "I'll talk to you again after the weekend. Bye."

  Alex had called his parents on one of the prison payphones. He thought hearing their voices would make him feel better. It didn't. His parents were in worse shape than he thought. No matter how his case shook out, this had already taken an emotional toll on his family. On the upside, though, Alex's mother had said Zeke called. He was taking the case. And on a flat fee, at that. It was a good chunk of money, but between Alex's savings and his parent’s income, they would be okay.

  Zeke changed his mind, Alex thought to himself, I wonder why? It probably helped that Alex's face had looked like a tenderized beefsteak. But that reminded Alex of his other problem, Jimmer. He knew it was only a matter of time until Jimmer came back looking for an answer.

  "Good news," Zeke said as he walked back into his cell, "I've got a lawyer."

  "Yeah? Public defender?" Alonzo asked.

  "Nah. Private guy. It's the attorney that I thought was dumping the case."

  "Ah, shit. Sounds kind of unreliable. What's his name?"

  "Blackbird. Ezekiel Blackbird."

  "Never heard of him. And I've been around the system awhile."

  "Well . . . he's new."

  "Oh boy. Sure you wanna be this guy's guinea pig?"

  "What choice do I have? I can't exactly be setting up attorney consults from my iPhone, can I?"

  "Fair point. But you're going down for murder, Alex. That's some serious time you're looking at."

  "I don't know any other lawyers. He came out to the crime scene at two o'clock in the morning to advise me. He's a go-getter. I think it'll be fine."

  "Whatever, kid, it’s your life on the line. What are you gonna do about Jimmer?"

  "Not sure yet. I'm just hoping if I ignore him long enough, he'll leave me alone."

  "Yeah, that's not gonna happen," Alonzo said, "everyone in this unit is on Jimmer's dime one way or another. If you were a bigger guy, I'd tell you to take your chances at beating the shit out of him. Maybe scare him enough into thinking you're not worth the trouble. But you're about as threatening as a puppy dog."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "Just calling it like I see it," Alonzo said, "it'd be suicide if you tried to brawl with Jimmer—"

  There was a knock on their open cell door. "Alejandro Garcia?" A guard stood at the opening of their cell with a mop and bucket."

  "Alex. Yeah, that's me. What's up?" he asked.

  "Your intake form said you were interested in the jail's trustee program. Is that right?"

  One of the guards at intake had told Alex that being a trustee meant you could have some time taken off your sentence. In exchange, trustees performed chores around the jail, like preparing meals and cleaning cells and common areas. She said that Alex shouldn't bother, though, because murder suspects were never allowed to be trustees. The jail couldn't trust them with knives or other metal objects, the thinking went. So Alex had left the box blank.

  "I was told that I wasn't eligible," Alex said to the guard, "that people accused of . . . what I'm accused of . . . aren't eligible for the trustee program."

  "It’s your lucky day then," the guard replied, "we just had a position come open. You start today."

  "I don't understand," Zeke said, "I thought you didn't take guys like me."

  "You're not hearing me, Garcia. You've been picked to be a trustee. Grab the fuckin' mop and get work. You can start inside of the pod. Once you’re done—and it should take a while—let me know and you can start on the hallway outside."

  Zeke shot a glance at Alonzo. "What the hell is this about?" Zeke asked.

  "Not sure," Alonzo replied, "but if you don't do what they say, they'll make sure you get time added to your sentence."

  Alex shrugged, grabbed the mop, and walked out into the pod's common area. There were several tables of guys playing board games, cards, and drawing art. One inmate was using a table as his office, as others lined up to talk to the jailhouse lawyer about their case. Alex filled his mop bucket up with water from a bathroom tap and poured in some bleach the guards gave him. He started in a far corner of the pod, slowly mopping back and forth.

  "Glad to see you've accepted my offer," an unmistakable voice piped up behind him. Alex turned around and saw Jimmer grinning from ear to ear. "The mop job is critical the whole operation I'm running here."

  Alex winced. "I haven't agreed to anything," he said, his facial bruise still pulsating, "the guards told me I had to do it."

  "And who do you think told the guards? They have as much to gain from the contraband ring as I do. The name of the game is plausible deniability. Along as they can claim they had no idea what I've been doing, they're happy to take a cut of the profits and turn a blind eye."

  "Jimmer, I don't want any part of this. Just leave me alone!" Alex said.

  Jimmer took a step forward and wrestled the mop out of Alex's hand. He grabbed it like a bat
, his hands down near the neck of the handle. Alex stepped back but was too late. Jimmer took a homerun-worthy swing directly at Alex's head. The mop handle made a hollow sound against his skull, and as his head kicked back and hit the floor, a crack echoed throughout the pod.

  The inmates sitting in the common area stood up and took in the scene. Alex was on the ground, conscious but delirious. "Now listen here, boy," Jimmer said, "I've about had enough of your complaining. It's about time you learned the pecking order around here. Guys like me, built like an ox, we're at the top of the food chain. Boys like you, limper than a cold dick in winter, are at the bottom. You lost your right to refuse the day you walked in here. Now pick up the goddamn mop and follow me."

  Alex sat up. His hair was wet with warm blood. It felt as if his head had split wide open. He crawled towards the mop bucket, picked up the mop, and used it to help himself stand up. The inmates continued to watch.

  "Don't worry about them," Jimmer pointed to the rest of the inmates, "they were all like you too, at first. I taught them all the same lesson. And now you're learning it too."

  Alex dragged himself along as Jimmer walked into his own cell. "I'm sure your ears are ringing, so listen the fuck up," Jimmer said, "This here is how things are going to work. This place is a goddamn pig sty. Everyday you're gonna have mop duty. And everyday you're gonna have to do your deliveries. You're always gonna start and end in here. There's a gallon ziplock bag of contraband—drugs, cell phones, pruno, and whatever else guys are paying me to smuggle in—stuffed into the toilet hole here in my cell."

  Alex stood in the cell's doorway, wiping blood off his brow.

  "Come in here, take out the bag and open it. Inside will be the contraband and a list detailing what's inside and who you're delivering it to. Close the bag up—really fucking tight—and drop it in your mop bucket. Everyday you're gonna mop this entire floor. Even the other pods. Guards will open whatever doors you need opened. When you get to the drop-off point—whoever's cell I've listed on the paper—take the bag out and switch it with their payment bag in the toilet. Drop that in your mop bucket and come back here at the end of the day. Zip the bags tight, I don't want anything getting soaked. Understood?"