Criminal Justice

by Parker, Barbara

  The waitress brought two beers.

  Rick put on his glasses to read the menu. “You been okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I should have called, you know, kept in touch. The business has been nuts. I turn around, it’s next month.” Rick took a swallow of beer. “You’re doing okay, though.”

  “No problems.” Dan lifted his mug. “What about you? I noticed a new BMW in Sandy’s spot in the parking lot.”

  “Oh, jeez. If I’ve got it, she spends it. Women are that way. Don’t tell her I told you, but she also got her boobs lifted.”

  “Really?”

  “I told her she didn’t need to. She’s forty-two, you believe that? Six years older than me, still hot.”

  Dan drank some beer. “My birthday’s coming up. The big three-five. I’m halfway there, Rick.”

  Rick looked over the top of his menu. “Halfway to what? Croaking?”

  “It has to make you think. You ask, what have I accomplished that’s worth a damn? You wonder if you should run wild or get serious, or if it makes a difference either way. You didn’t think about that?”

  “No, I was busy that week.” Rick turned a page. “They do a good blackened tuna.”

  “I don’t like tuna. What I thought of is, I’d take Josh fishing in the Bahamas. Cat Cay, Eleuthera. Sleep on the boat, swim naked, walk on the beach. We’d do the father-son thing. I’d get back in touch with what’s important, you know? I’m not sure Lisa’s going to go for it, though.”

  “Sounds great. That’s what I need, a vacation. You want a deck hand, call me.”

  Dan turned around to see the list of specials on a chalkboard. “They’ve got mangrove snapper, ten-ninety-five.”

  “Try it. Get whatever you want, it’s on me.” Rick gave the menus to the waitress, told her what they wanted, and put his glasses back into his breast pocket. “You know, Dan, I think she’s still got feelings for you. Seriously.”

  “Who?”

  “My sister, who do you think?”

  “What does that mean, she wants me back?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Rick said. “But since you ask, yeah, I think she’d take you back, if you play it right.”

  “Jesus. A year ago you paid for her divorce lawyer. I was lucky to come out with my balls intact.”

  “I was upset with the situation at the time. You didn’t make it easy.”

  Dan turned his beer mug in the wet ring on the paper place mat—a map of the Caribbean. “Has Lisa said anything to you?”

  “Not directly, but they don’t always say what they mean.”

  “I wouldn’t go back,” Dan said. “Too much has changed.”

  Rick said, “Hey. Learn from the past, right? Look at Sandy and me. We fight. We yell. We’re still together. And you can’t get along with Lisa, a genuinely classy woman, a great mother to Josh? What are you doing, hanging out with Kelly Dorff? She’s a cute chick, but come on.”

  “You didn’t bring me here to talk about that, did you?”

  “No. I’m sorry what happened, that’s all I’m saying.”

  The waitress came with a basket of hush puppies and two salads. Rick’s cellular phone rang. He turned it off.

  Dan said, “Tell me about Martha Cruz. If she was arrested three weeks ago, she’s got a court date coming up soon. She hasn’t talked to a lawyer?”

  “I said I’d find her one. Okay, I dicked around, I was busy. Then I thought of you over the weekend.”

  “Thanks a bunch. What if I say no?”

  “Don’t do that, man.”

  “Battery on a police officer. Tell her to plead no contest. They’ll give her probation.”

  “What if they don’t? I can’t screw around with this.”

  “It’s no big deal, believe me. It’s one of those petty cases filed to show who’s in charge. Tell her to kiss the cop’s butt, she’ll be fine.”

  “No. No, listen. I promised Martha’s boyfriend I’d find her a good lawyer. I called him yesterday, said let me get Dan Galindo, my brother-in-law. Formerly a federal prosecutor, very tough, very smart, now a top criminal defense attorney in Miami—”

  Dan laughed.

  “Okay, I might have exaggerated somewhat, but do I need to hire Roy Black for this? As if I could afford him.”

  “Martha’s boyfriend,” Dan repeated. He recalled what Kelly Dorff had told him this morning. “Miguel something. He’s bankrolling the band.”

  “More or less. His money, my brains.” Leaning on one forearm, Rick dug into his salad. “Miguel Salazar. Miguel wants Martha to go places, but what he has in mind for her is crossover pop, like Gloria Estefan. That’s so far off. Right now, though, I’ve got to keep Miguel happy, so help me out, will you?”

  “Rick, what’s going on? Are you in trouble with the IRS again?”

  “What are you asking me that for?”

  “Sandy talked to me.”

  “Oh, Jesus. That chick is so paranoid. No, I am not in trouble with the IRS. I’m a little late, but when I get a few items squared away, we’ll be in good shape.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “You brought it up,” Rick said.

  Dan asked, “Who exactly is Miguel Salazar—in addition to being Martha Cruz’s sugar daddy?”

  Rick speared a cucumber slice. “Who is he? You mean, like, what does he do? He’s from Ecuador. He runs an import-export business in Miami, mainly exporting CD’s and videos to South America, importing clothing, flowers, coffee. It’s very diversified.”

  Dan looked steadily across the table until Rick glanced up at him. “Is Miguel Salazar into importing anything else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play stupid, Rick.”

  “No. Jesus, would I get involved with a trafficker?” He glanced around as if someone might have heard him, then said, “Miguel’s a successful businessman, that’s all. Lisa’s met him. He lives in Lakewood Village. His kid or something plays on Josh’s soccer team, in fact. If you’d stayed, you’d be neighbors, practically. Miguel’s into music because he likes the life—hanging out with the artists, being able to say, yeah, I know Madonna, I know Willy Chirino, I met Trent Reznor. He thinks he’s a producer, but he has no ear and no sense of the market.”

  “How’d you get to know him?”

  “Through Martha. She joined Kelly’s band about a year ago, and Salazar knows the drummer. I think Miguel and Martha met that way and sort of fell in with each other. Then Martha told me that Miguel wanted to help out, and I said okay—a very stupid move. Then one thing and another, blah, blah, he lent me some money for the office. Maybe—if you are feeling generous with your time—you could assist me in getting Miguel off my back, when I find the money to do it.”

  “Does Sandy know about this?”

  “God, no, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t enlighten her. Soon as I get the band signed, I can pay Miguel.”

  “Signed? Just like that?” Dan laughed a little, stopping when Rick looked at him darkly.

  Signing a deal with a major record company was so rare as to be statistically impossible. Rick had never even come close. He had signed a couple of bands to local labels. He had put money into one that showed promise, but as soon as they got a whiff of success, they blew him off and hired a manager from L.A.—and then fell apart before Rick could get a lawsuit going. He was known in the entertainment industry in South Florida, but that didn’t mean jack to New York, Nashville, or Los Angeles. Except for Latin music, Miami didn’t exist.

  “Let me ask—not that I want to pursue this—how much did Salazar lend you?”

  For a while Rick considered the question. He sucked a tooth and stared vacantly across the restaurant. “About a hundred grand.” When Dan let out a breath of astonishment, Rick said, “If we get the deal—if this works out—they could be big, Dan. Very big. Music video. Feature stories in Billboard and Rolling Stone. An opening slot for the next Stone Temple Pilots tour, if STP is still
around next year. Or think of this—opening for U2. It could happen.”

  Dan stared across the table. As a manager, Rick made fifteen to twenty percent of everything his artists earned. If a band took off, broke the charts, went platinum, and generally survived past the usual life expectancy for new bands, a year or so—Rick could make millions. But that never happened. More likely, if Rick got them a deal at all, it would be for a $25,000 advance. The recording budget might be $125,000, but the label would take it off the top before the band saw a nickel. Their one and only CD would eventually wind up in the cut-out bins at Wal-Mart.

  “Jesus, Rick. What are you doing?”

  Rick reached across the table to grab Dan’s arm. “I flew to New York last month and talked to a guy at Capitol Records, Joel Friedman. He does A-and-R. That’s artists-and-repertoire to you. A talent scout, okay? As a breed, they are the most cynical, bitter, and manipulative SOBs you’ll ever meet. But Friedman owes me a favor. He was here a few months ago, he likes to bet sports, so I set him up with the right people, and he lucked out. He’s grateful. So I go to New York. I play him a tape of the band—a live performance, mind you, not even studio quality. I watch his hands. You can always tell. The way he’s tapping the rhythm on the chair, I knew I had him. But Friedman is a very cool guy. He says he’s coming down on vacation, and he’ll try to catch the concert if he likes the demo tape. The band is playing at the Abyss. Not as the headliner—that’s Bone Dog—but Mayhem will be opening. They’re going to make it.” Rick closed his eyes and dropped his forehead on his hand. “Please, Jesus, just let them make it.” He moved back, blinking, when the waitress put their dinners on the table.

  Dan said, “Kelly played a Mayhem tape for me. Rick, I don’t want to pop your bubble, but are you sure they have the talent for this?”

  “Listen to me, you know so much.” Rick pointed his fork at him. “Where is it written that success has anything to do with talent? When Smashing Pumpkins found their bass player, she was still taking bass lessons, okay? All the talent in the world won’t get you there if the timing’s wrong, or if the record company doesn’t click with what you’re doing. That’s my job. Selling the band to a company who will turn around and market the band to the public. Success is whether anybody buys your stuff. Period. And it’s tough. There’s a gazillion singers and musicians, all wanting to be stars and make the money, and most of them have talent. Can I guarantee that Mayhem is going to make it? Of course not. But I have an ear. I can tell when something is possible or not. I listen to Mayhem and they shimmer, like pure gold.”

  As he spoke, Rick’s voice grew raspy. “All my life, fifteen years in this business, I’ve never been this close. I might never be again. I’ve got to get Martha’s case taken care of, and I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit about oh, isn’t this just so petty, battery on a police officer. You’re coming up on thirty-five, and you’re cryin’. Well, excuse me for not sharing your pain. You skated through college and law school. You had a beautiful wife and kid and a home. Then you fucked up at the U.S. attorney’s office—not because you weren’t good enough, but because you thought you were too good for what was required to get along. You want to help me with this, fine. If not, screw you.”

  Dan felt a wave of heat flooding through his body. He wanted to walk out of there. He wanted to punch Rick in the mouth. Or come back with a remark to shut him up. But there wasn’t one. There was too much truth in what he’d said.

  Taking a couple of slow breaths, Dan stared at the tropical fish weaving in and out among the plastic sea grass. “I didn’t say the case was petty.”

  “You implied.”

  “You know what?” Dan looked straight at Rick. “It is petty. It’s stupid. Tangling with a cop—a Miami Beach cop, no less. She’s lucky he didn’t break her arms.”

  “How much do you want for this?”

  “Who’s paying? Her rich boyfriend?”

  “No. I told Miguel I’d take care of it. Call it good P.R.”

  “For you?” Dan looked at Rick. “A thousand for a plea, five if it goes to trial.”

  “What the hell? You said it was no big deal.”

  “It is after I had to pay twenty grand to a divorce lawyer.”

  Rick glowered into his beer mug. “All right. I told her already you’d do it.”

  “Then do this for me. I’m going to talk to Lisa about taking Josh fishing. If she says no, I’ll call you. You have more influence with her than I do.”

  Spreading his palms, Rick shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rick waved the waitress over. “You have key lime pie tonight? Good. We’ll each have a slice after dinner. And give the check to my friend here, I don’t have my wallet with me.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Josh had a soccer game the next night at the field behind the elementary school. Dan called Lisa to say he would come by to pick up Josh and take him to the game.

  The curving, landscaped road through Lakewood Village led past four or five other gated residential areas before Heron Hills. There were no hills, only long green mounds of earth planted with shade trees and serving as barriers between traffic and houses. All this had been wetlands ten years ago, with nothing on it but sawgrass and alligators.

  At the gate Dan automatically showed his driver’s license to the security guard, who glanced at it, then ran his finger down a list of names on a clipboard. “Galindo … Galindo. Here it is. Six-thirty.” He checked his watch. “It’s six-oh-five.”

  “And?”

  “We’re not supposed to admit you till within fifteen minutes of the time stated.”

  “Are you serious? Come on, you know me.”

  The level brim of the guard’s Boy Scout leader hat shaded his face from the setting sun. “We’ve been told to tighten up on procedures, sir.”

  “What am I going to do, run to your boss?” A horn tooted. Dan glanced in the rearview mirror. There were two cars behind him.

  The security guard’s mouth tightened. He turned to his computer, which was bolted to a rolling cart. An extension cord ran through the door. He tapped the keyboard and a piece of tractor-feed paper rolled out of the printer.

  “Now what?”

  The guard handed it through the window. “This is your entrance pass. Please stay on the main road. Your exit code appears in the lower corner. Punch it in when you leave to raise the exit gate. Enjoy your visit.”

  The house Dan used to live in was a warm beige color, like the others on the street. A short concrete walkway, bordered with pink and red flowers, led to a white door flanked by a glass panel through which he could see an artificial topiary tree and the fringe on a Persian rug. The dog that Lisa had bought after Dan moved out, a cocker spaniel, watched him through the glass. Dan rang the bell, then stood with his hands in his pockets. Ex-husband waiting on the porch.

  The door opened. Lisa put a hand on her hip. “What a surprise.”

  “I said I’d be here.”

  “You say a lot of things.” The cool gaze lasted a second or two, then Lisa sighed and stepped back into the foyer. “Come on in, Dan. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Thanks. Where’s Josh?”

  “Putting on his uniform. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  She strode through the living room, then around the corner to the kitchen, the dog right behind her, its nails clicking on the tiled floor, tags jingling. Dan had forgotten its name. He thought it was a male. The pooch had set her back $500.

  Lisa had the confident walk of a woman who took care of herself—tanned from tennis, slim from lunches of salad and mineral water with her friends at the real estate office where she had her license. She was pretty at thirty-two—more than pretty, even in jeans and a Lakewood Tornadoes team sweatshirt. Her pale blond hair, trimmed precisely at shoulder level, glimmered when she moved. Dan had stared at her the night Rick introduced his sister at a rock concert, this blue-eyed college girl from Florida State. This
is Lisa. Did I tell you she was gorgeous, or what? Lisa, this is Dan. He just got his acceptance to law school.

  Lisa opened the refrigerator. “I have iced tea, soda … wine?”

  “Iced tea, thanks.”

  She fixed him a glass and set it on the counter, then pivoted toward the dishwasher, her hair swinging. Rinsing plates and pots from dinner, she told him about the neighbors across the street. They were moving back to Ohio. Bob got a promotion. Meredith was just sick about it, because they hadn’t been getting along, the counselor wasn’t helping a bit, and the kids had so many friends in Lakewood.

  Dan felt awkward sitting in this kitchen, watching Lisa tidy up, listening to stories about people he never saw anymore. Their old life hung like wisps of cobweb in the high ceilings, visible but out of reach.

  “Lisa?” When she looked around, he said, “I came a little early because I wanted to talk to you about taking Josh fishing in the Bahamas with me for a week. This would be a real adventure for him. For both of us. Cat Cay is a paradise for divers.”

  She had a handful of silverware. “You want to take him diving? Joshua doesn’t dive. He’s only seven years old.”

  “Sure, he’s small for scuba tanks, but he could handle a snorkel. The reef fish are so pretty over there. I’d get him a small speargun and we could hunt hogfish. They beg to be speared. Good eating too. I know a lagoon, not deep, that would be perfect for Josh. We’d go over on a boat and live right there at the marina, or moor wherever we wanted.”

  “What boat? Not your Mako.”

  “No, I’d borrow something with a cabin. Or rent one. I don’t know yet.”

  She aimed the silverware into the dishwasher basket. “What about school?”

  “He’s in first grade, how important is it?”

  “Dan!”

  “Okay, we could go during spring break.” Dan suddenly laughed. “The craziest thing happened yesterday. I was free-diving off Triumph Reef, sixty feet down, trying to do a minute and a half like I used to. Lisa, I nearly didn’t make it back up. It was scary as hell, coming that close. A lot went through my mind. I thought about Josh.”