Lassiter

by Paul Levine

  “They pulled a .38 slug out of Perlow,” Castiel continued. “If it matches the bullets she fired into your tires …”

  “Wait a second. How’d you get those?”

  “You forgetting I sent a county truck to tow your pimpmobile?”

  “You had the slugs pulled from my tires?”

  “I planned to prosecute your client for firearms violations. Who knew?”

  “Someone stole Amy’s gun two days ago.”

  If it’s possible to hear a man shaking his head, I heard Castiel’s spinning. “You make this shit up as you go along, Jake?”

  “Amy told me. Someone ransacked her motel room and stole the gun. She was all freaked out about it.” Even as I said it, I hated the story. How damn convenient.

  “Just tell her to turn herself in, Jake. I don’t want anything messy.”

  I told him I would if I could find her. It’s one of the ethical rules I happen to believe in. You don’t tell a client to run away. You bring her in to face the music and do your best to keep it from being a funeral march.

  “I loved Max like my own father,” Castiel said, somberly. “This is personal, Jake.”

  “Don’t handle the case yourself, Alex.”

  “You’re the one who better get out. I don’t give a shit about collateral damage.”

  “I don’t abandon clients, you know that.”

  “Up to you. But from here on out, our friendship is meaningless, Jake. I’m taking her down, and I don’t give a shit if I take you down with her.”

  46 Innocence Is Irrelevant

  The next morning, I was having my healthy breakfast of sugary Cuban coffee and guava flan at Versailles in Little Havana when Amy called.

  From the jail.

  She said she’d seen the story of the shooting on television in a restaurant bar. She’d been shocked—yes, shocked—to see her driver’s license photo on the screen. She called the police and turned herself in.

  “I didn’t do it, Jake,” she said.

  “Not another word on the phone,” I ordered. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I knew what was coming. An indictment for First Degree Murder. Meaning the state had evidence of premeditation. Boy, did they. Surveillance and stalking. Threats. Target practice. And shooting the wrong guy is no defense.

  I carried my coffee to the car and headed east on Calle Ocho, passing Woodlawn Park Cemetery. It’s filled with statues of angels, elaborate crypts, and mausoleums. Woodlawn is where Latin-American rulers go to their eternal rest in marble mausoleums and, this being Miami, it’s a hot tourist attraction.

  When I got to the Women’s Annex, I presented my Bar card at the security window and sat in the visitors’ room on a metal bench that seemed specially designed to put me into traction. I stood and studied the frescoes, which adorned the plaster walls. Mothers and children in splashy Caribbean colors. Shining suns and towering palms. Painted by the inmates, the frescoes seemed to reflect the repressed desires and unobtainable goals of these sorrowful, maladjusted women.

  In a few minutes, a female guard brought Amy into a lawyer’s room with a large glass window, a table, and two chairs. My first question to a jailed client is never “Did you do it?” It’s always “How much money do you have?”

  Amy gave me a number, a few thousand dollars in a savings account. I would run through that for expenses and expert witnesses, so she retained me for her usual fee. Zero.

  “I didn’t kill him, Jake,” Amy blurted out. “Honest, I didn’t.”

  I still hadn’t asked.

  “Hold that thought,” I said.

  “Why would I shoot that old man?”

  “Castiel says you were trying to kill Ziegler and missed. Either way, it’s First Degree Murder.” I recited the murder statute from memory. “That’s the ‘unlawful killing of a human being perpetrated from a premeditated design to effect the death of the person killed or any human being.’ It’s the ‘any human being’ part that does you in.”

  “But I didn’t shoot anyone!”

  “Just speaking hypothetically. If you aim at Peter and hit Paul, it’s what the law calls ‘transferred intent.’ ”

  As they say, a good lawyer knows the law. But as they also say, a great lawyer knows the judge.

  “You believe me, don’t you, Jake?”

  “When you lie in wait to kill someone, that’s the premeditated part of the crime.” I wasn’t done with my Crim Law 101 lecture. “Your hatred of Charlie Ziegler for your sister’s disappearance is the motive.”

  “It wasn’t me! Jake, are you listening?”

  “The penalty is life without parole.”

  I let that sink in a moment.

  Life. Without. Parole.

  It’s forever and ever and ever, and the thought of it is nearly incomprehensible. Day after day of endless sameness. The same starchy, tasteless food. The thin, lumpy mattresses. Incompetent medical care. Lethal cellmates and pissed-off guards. The smells of sweat and disinfectant and the numbing noise, the clanging of steel doors, desperate voices echoing off concrete floors.

  Amy’s face had lost its color.

  I wondered if I’d forgotten anything. Oh, yeah. “There’ll be no bail pending trial, so try to get used to your surroundings. Don’t make friends with any of the other inmates. By that, I mean don’t talk to them about your case. If you do, you’ll have someone claim you made a jailhouse confession.”

  I had one more item to bring up before talking about the evidence. “I need to ask you about that night when I called Castiel to ask him to dredge the canal.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You got mad at me and left.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Question is, did you come back later? Like in the middle of the night.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Okay, yes. I was going to apologize to you for the way I’d acted. Blaming you because Castiel was being a jerk.”

  “So you pushed the front door open?” She’d seen me whack it with my shoulder and I recalled telling her that it was never locked.

  “I’d had a couple drinks, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. But then your dog started barking. I panicked and left.”

  I wasn’t sure about her story. Had she really been there to apologize? It was just as likely that she’d wanted to berate me some more. Or possibly even shoot me. With Amy, every turn in the road seemed to lead deeper into a maze.

  “Two days ago, you told me someone broke into your motel room and stole your gun.”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you file a police report?”

  “No. Why?”

  “C’mon, Amy. You’re smarter than that.”

  “Someone took the gun.”

  “If the ballistics tie your Sig Sauer to the shooting, Castiel will send in a marching band and break out the champagne.”

  “If my gun was used, someone else fired it.”

  “Where were you last night?” I fired the question quickly, wanting to see if she blinked, reddened, or turned away.

  “Nowhere near Ziegler’s,” she fired right back. A touch of anger, which was okay. “I was with a man.”

  That surprised me. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “If he testified, his life would be in danger.”

  “What about your life?”

  She fingered the opening of her flimsy orange smock. “He wants to help, but I won’t let him.”

  “That’s my decision, not yours. Give me his name.”

  “I can’t.”

  My lower back was throbbing again. “I’m thinking your alibi is bullshit.”

  “You just have to trust me, Jake.”

  “The hell I do. Lie to your priest or to your lover. But if you lie to me, I can’t help you.”r />
  “I’m not! I wasn’t at Ziegler’s. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

  I studied her, looking for the averted gaze, the tightened lips, the nervous twitch. Nothing.

  “I’m innocent, Jake. Dammit, isn’t that enough?”

  “Innocence is irrelevant! All that matters is evidence. So give me your alibi, or the jury will give you life.”

  She took a moment to think it over before saying, “I’m sorry, Jake. You’ll have to win without an alibi.”

  I pushed my chair away from the table and got to my feet. “Enjoy your stay, Amy. It’s gonna be a long one.”

  47 So You Wanna Be a Gangbanger

  The man was simply too large for the chair, Ziegler thought.

  Nestor Tejada’s rhino shoulders spilled over the backrest. He propped his feet on the asymmetrical glass table, playing the big macher. Just like his late and unlamented boss.

  Tejada had barged into the Reelz TV headquarters without an appointment, and Ziegler didn’t know what he wanted.

  “So your bottom line is looking up,” Tejada said.

  “Meaning what?” Ziegler didn’t like the way it was starting.

  “You don’t have to pay Mr. P that fifteen percent anymore.”

  Jesus. Perlow afraid of what I’d tell Melody and he’s shooting his mouth off to this frigging gangbanger.

  “So you’ve got extra capital to put into the business,” Tejada continued. “Or extra cash to pull out, depending whether you’re thinking short term or long.”

  “Who are you, Warren Buffet?”

  “I studied Business Organization.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “At Okeechobee Correctional. But I learned more from Mr. P than any course.”

  Sure you did. Perlow had a PhD in extortion.

  Ziegler telling himself to be careful. He’d learned a long time ago not to judge a person’s intelligence based on appearances or upbringing. He’d known a couple of scary-smart porn stars in his time.

  “I’m just wondering how you’re planning to use that extra dough,” Tejada said.

  “Are you shaking me down?”

  “I’m here to help you.”

  “Screw that. You’re running a protection racket. Jesus, I thought you were out of the Latin Kings.”

  “Ain’t like the Rotary Club, Ziegler. It’s blood in, blood out. You cut a throat to get in the door, and you don’t leave till you’re six feet under.”

  “Lovely. Just lovely.”

  “But I don’t need your money. Mr. P gave me a piece of his gaming business.”

  “A piece?”

  “My guys service the slots in Indian casinos. I got the company in Mr. P’s will.”

  Un-fucking-believable. Max Perlow feeling all fatherly to Alex Castiel was one thing, but adopting this jailbird?

  “Now, you wanna hear my idea for a new show?” Tejada said.

  Ziegler immediately felt better. He leaned back and exhaled. The guy wanted to pitch him, not strong-arm him.

  “Ideas, my friend, are the trash of the business,” he said. “Everyone has an idea for a show. The question is, who can take the little feathery notions that make up an idea and spin them into gold?” Repeating what he’d heard some legitimate producer say at a seminar. Stephen J. Cannell. Or Dick Wolf. Or Stephen Bochco. One of the big-timers.

  “It’s called, ‘So You Wanna Be a Gangbanger,’ ” Tejada said, unperturbed.

  He took a few minutes describing the show. Start with a dozen ghetto teens. They spray graffiti on expressway overpasses, then move on to shoplifting, purse snatching, car theft, maybe dealing some crank on street corners. Drive-by shootings with paintball guns, extra credit if you nail a cop. Real gang members decide who goes to the next level. In the season finale, there’d be an initiation ceremony, laced with sex and violence.

  “Not a bad idea,” Ziegler said, when the spiel was over.

  Thinking, great fucking idea. The next generation of reality shows. Edgy, urban, street-wise, it punched all the buttons. Ziegler imagined a franchise of inner-city spinoffs, starting with Carjack! which would reward the guy who stole the hottest wheels.

  “Not bad?” Tejada said. “That’s it?”

  Ziegler felt in command. He loved being pitched because it gave him a chance to bust men’s balls and break women’s hearts. “It’s okay. Like it, don’t love it. Either way, it’s really generic, not specific at all.”

  “You shitting me, cabron?” Tejada said.

  “Problem is, I don’t see where you fit in.”

  “I’d be the whadayacallit, the executive producer,” Tejada said.

  Ziegler wondered if the bastard read Variety at Okeechobee Correctional. “You gotta be kidding. You want to be the showrunner?”

  “The top dude, yeah.”

  “You need experience. Credits in the biz.”

  “I got credits on the street.”

  “Thing is, I could hire any ex-con as a consultant for five hundred bucks a week and all the Colt 45 he can drink.”

  Tejada straightened in his chair, deltoids flexing. “You’re a bigger asshole than Mr. P thought.”

  Ziegler placed his thumb on a red button below his desk. “I got a guy in the next office named Ray Decker. He’s an ex-cop and he’s licensed to carry a concealed firearm. If you try any shit, he’ll come in here and put a bullet in your thick fucking skull.”

  Feeling unbeatable.

  “Mr. P taught me that violence is only a last resort,” Tejada said, placidly. “Instead of hitting a man, just find his weakest spot and press gently. If he doesn’t respond, press a little harder.”

  Ziegler knew he was leaping at the bait, but he didn’t care. Perlow was dead and he was in charge. “So, Nestor, what’s my weakest spot?”

  “I saw you kill Mr. P.”

  The words spoken softly, almost apologetically.

  Ziegler tried not to blink, failed. Felt something thud inside his skull, hoped he wasn’t having a stroke. “The fuck you talking about?”

  “I was sitting in Mr. P’s Bentley, windows down, when I heard the gunshot. I ran around the back of the house and saw you through the glass stomping on the old man’s chest.”

  Ziegler remembered the moment, the blood pumping, Max wheezing. Now he felt as if his own aorta might burst. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “I thought about it. Almost did it. That old Jew was good to me.”

  “Screw that! You wanted the slots business! You wanted him to die!”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I’m not the one who killed him. You are.”

  Ziegler swallowed hard. “About the show …”

  “Yeah?”

  “A man of your experience, I could see as co–exec producer. It’s one notch from the top. Let someone else do the heavy lifting.”

  Tejada nodded. “As long as it pays, I don’t give a shit about the title.”

  “Smart,” Ziegler agreed.

  “How does fifty grand an episode sound?”

  Like highway robbery, Ziegler thought.

  “Like a good deal, all around,” he said.

  48 The Maniacal Obsession

  “My name is Jake Lassiter. Before we go on the record in State v. Larkin, let me say that if I ever catch you within a hundred yards of my nephew, I’ll kick the living piss out of you.”

  Nestor Tejada kept his cool and turned to Castiel. “Can he talk that way to me?”

  “Technically, no. But you’ll get used to it.”

  “Do you want me to take this down?” the court stenographer asked, fingers curled over her keyboard.

  “Not yet,” I told her.

  We were in a Justice Building conference room, and I was supposed to be taking Tejada’s pre-trial deposition, not threatening him.

  “Wasn’t my idea, Lassiter,” Tejada said. “Mr. P wanted me to scare the kid to get at you.”

  “Why don’t you try to scare me, tough guy?”

  “Jake, you made your point,” Castiel said.


  “It’s okay,” Tejada said. “I apologize to the man. We shouldn’t mess with family.” He turned to me. “We cool?”

  “We’re cool, dickwad. Now state your name for the record.”

  His testimony was less interesting than the preliminaries. He’d been sitting in front of Ziegler’s house in Perlow’s car. Heard a gunshot, ran to the back of the house, didn’t see the shooter.

  Discovery was moving along smoothly. I had waived preliminary hearing and accepted the state’s discovery without whining about documents being withheld. I made no combative motions and quickly prepared for trial.

  Most defense lawyers love delay. With enough time, the state’s case can fall apart. Witnesses die or forget or change their minds. Evidence is lost or mishandled. The prosecutor gets a better job and dumps the case onto the desk of some overworked kid.

  I am not like most defense lawyers. I like to move for a speedy trial. My theory is that the state has harder work to do. It must gather evidence, prepare its witnesses, do the lab tests, and prepare a logical case where A leads to B and B leads to C, and “C” stands for “conviction.” The state needs boxes and files and color-coded notebooks. The state has the burden of proof, and I have the burden of staying awake. I can defend a case with a blank yellow pad and my slashing cross-examination.

  In the legal world, the prosecutor is a carpenter, pounding his nails with a steady hand, building a house out of sturdy beams, while the defense lawyer is a vandal with a can of gasoline and a Zippo lighter. Sometimes you don’t even need the pyromania. Just huff and puff and the state’s shaky house will crumble.

  Castiel’s case, however, was built of sturdy stuff, starting with a truckload of physical evidence. Fingerprints on the window, a solid match with Amy. A speck of fabric in the bushes, positive link to Amy’s unitard. We had answers for both pieces of evidence, though extremely risky ones. Amy would have to take the stand and admit she trespassed on Ziegler’s property several days before the shooting. She’d crept up to the solarium window through those thorny bushes, and that’s when the fabric and prints were left behind.

  We’d be conceding that Amy had a maniacal obsession with Ziegler. She blamed him for her sister’s disappearance. She stalked him from next door, sneaked onto his property, and peeped at him through the windows. How much more difficult is it to believe that she came back another time, gun in hand?