Criminal Justice

by Parker, Barbara

  Lisa held up her hand. “Excuse me? I’m Josh’s mother. I have a say in this.”

  Salazar looked at her, surprised. “And what do you say, Lisa?”

  “Yes, fishing’s loads of fun, but Dan wants to take Josh spear fishing.”

  “And you’re opposed.” Salazar took her empty glass from her and went back to the bar and uncorked the sherry for a refill. “Why?”

  She glanced at Dan, who made a slight shrug. He wanted to see where this was going.

  Lips compressed, Lisa widened her eyes at him—traitor—then said to Salazar, “Joshua is only seven years old. A rod and reel is one thing; a speargun is entirely different. The blood attracts sharks. It’s very dangerous.”

  “But, Lisa—” Salazar poured sherry into her glass. “We have to teach our boys to become men. When my son was eight years old, we went hunting in Costa Rica, each of us carrying a rifle. We saw a wild pig, and I let my son have the first shot. He hit the leg, so I had to finish it. I showed him how to hang an animal from a tree and cut its throat to drain the blood. We built a fire and ate until we couldn’t hold any more, and we slept in the forest that night.” He held out the glass to Lisa; she was staring up at him. “You don’t like the sherry?”

  “What? Oh.” Lisa took it. “Thank you. Yes, it’s very good.”

  Miguel Salazar looked over at Dan and took a puff on his Cuban cigar. “So. Tell me what you plan for Martha’s defense. This case could be very bad publicity. Rick said he explained that to you.”

  Martha unfolded her legs and stood up. “We’re going to go outside and talk, Mr. Galindo and I.”

  Salazar frowned. “You can talk here.”

  “No, the lawyer has to speak to the client alone. That’s how it’s done.” She went over to the bar and grabbed the papers. “Tell Lisa all about me, why don’t you?”

  Martha walked out onto the terrace. Dan said to Salazar, “Excuse us.” He looked at Lisa, whose expression clearly said she wanted to get the hell out of there. “We won’t be long.”

  The moon shone brightly, nearly full. A hundred yards or so south, long mounds of white indicated where a dragline had been digging another lake, throwing the rock into piles. The behemoth machine sat idle now. Apparently this part of the Isles of Lakewood was still under development. The lot next door was vacant, and beyond that lay barren ground.

  They walked past the pool. Palm trees marked the perimeter of the terrace. At the far end Martha Cruz threw herself into a chair.

  “Sorry he’s such a jerk,” she said, putting one booted foot up on the railing.

  “Don’t apologize,” Dan said. “Lisa will think spearfishing is sissy compared to eating a wild pig. Did he cook it first?”

  Martha smiled, then held out the papers. “This is a police report and a notice that I’m supposed to show up next week for a pretrial conference, whatever that is.”

  “That’s part of the routine.” Tilting the report toward the house lights, he could make it out. There was nothing he hadn’t expected. Subject verbally threatened officer and attacked him with her fists—“Were you intoxicated? On any drugs?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “It’s B.S. The cop was trying to arrest somebody for drinking a beer, and I told him to stop. He shoved me and said to shut up, bitch, and I hit him. I’d do it again.” She got up and leaned on the railing, facing the lake. “No, maybe not. I don’t need this.”

  Dan glanced at the paper again, looking for her birthday. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  He folded the report to fit into his jacket. “I might work out a deal, get you probation. There shouldn’t be a problem. Then in a few months, you keep yourself out of trouble, we’ll move to seal the file and have your arrest record expunged.”

  “And that’s it?” She turned around and stared at him.

  “Well, if the officer has it in for you, he could cause us some grief, but I can’t see the judge giving you any jail time.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment. “Good. What I’d really like is to get out of this jail.”

  “This house, you mean?”

  “The house, the neighborhood. Lakewood Village. Miguel tells me how lucky I am to live here. I hate it. People are zombies out here, and they don’t even know it. They hire guards to protect them. From what?”

  “Why don’t you leave?”

  “Well, I don’t pay rent. I’ve got my own rehearsal room and recording equipment.” The moonlight turned her skin silvery, and the earrings shone against her long neck. “You used to live here, didn’t you?”

  “Not in this section,” he said. “Heron Hills.”

  “Why are you with Lisa? Aren’t you divorced?”

  “Yes, but we were at our son’s soccer game at the same time, and Miguel invited us over. We get along all right, Lisa and I. Most of the time.”

  “I met her at Anita’s party. She was jonesing on this house. ‘Oh, Miguel, what a lovely home!’ ‘Wow, I just love the kitchen.’”

  “Don’t make fun of her. Lisa is truly a good person.”

  Martha sighed. “Yeah, whatever. My mother was like that. A saint. Nothing you do is enough. I wrote a song. It goes, Purely, goodness. Give me mercy. Kill me, darkness, let me go. I’m here dyin’, on the altar—” Her quiet voice, husky and melodic, suddenly stopped. “Oh, well. Whatever.” She pointed at him. “Hey. You really liked Miguel’s boat, didn’t you? You’re a fisherman. I can tell. You have those little squint lines around your eyes. I hope you get to go. Miguel can be unpredictable. He brought you here to check you out, you know. He isn’t sure he wants you for my lawyer.”

  “I’m not representing Miguel,” Dan said, “and he’s not paying my fees. It’s up to you.”

  “Up to me, huh?”

  “We were going to meet at Rick’s office. Why don’t you come to mine?” He took a business card out of his wallet. Martha read it, then slid it into a pocket of her sweater.

  Dan asked, “What’s with you and Miguel?”

  “Why?”

  “I like to know my clients.”

  Martha stretched her arms out on the railing, a boot propped behind her. “I’m his hobby. He wants to see me on TV.”

  Dan let it go at that. He asked, “Are you going to get there?”

  “It’s the only thing in this world I am sure of.” Her generous lips parted in a smile, revealing perfect teeth. “I liked that, what you said to him. You caught a fifty-eight-pound fish with a speargun.”

  “I did.”

  “I believed you.”

  Hands in his pockets, Dan shrugged. “It was pretty silly. My fish is bigger than your fish.”

  She swung her upraised knee side to side. “You haven’t come to any of our rehearsals. Why not?”

  “You don’t mind? Kelly told me the band doesn’t like strangers at the studio.”

  “Oh, that’s dumb. We have visitors. You should come listen to us. I hereby invite you.”

  “All right. Maybe I will, then.”

  Martha Cruz walked farther along the railing. Dan followed. She asked, “Are you a good lawyer?”

  He took awhile to answer. “I get the job done when I have to. Is that what you mean?”

  “Kelly told me you used to be a U.S. attorney.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why aren’t you anymore?”

  “The office and I had a philosophical difference.”

  “What does that mean, they fired you?”

  “I resigned.”

  “Why?”

  Dan said, “You’re pretty direct, aren’t you?”

  “I like to get answers.”

  “The answer is, it’s personal.”

  “If you resigned—whatever—is the judge in my case going to listen to you?”

  Dan realized that she honestly didn’t know. Like many people, this girl had no idea how the system worked. He said, “I’ll be defending you in state court, Martha. I used to be a prosecutor in the fe
deral courts. It’s a different ball game.”

  “If I hire you,” she said. “You said it was up to me.”

  “Well? Do I pass?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him sideways. “You’d be my attorney. Not Miguel’s. Not Rick’s. Mine.”

  “Correct.”

  “So … if I told you something, it would be confidential. You couldn’t tell anyone. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Like a priest.”

  A smile played across her lips. “Whatever.”

  “Is there something about this case I should know?”

  “Does it have to be about this case?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Martha searched his face. “Kelly says you’re not like a lawyer. Not like most of them, I mean.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “From her it is.”

  “Well, then. Am I hired?”

  “Sure.” Martha Cruz held out her hand, and they shook on it. She laughed suddenly, an unexpected burst of gaiety. “My lawyer. This is too cool.”

  “You want to tell me what’s on your mind?” Dan asked. “The ‘whatever’ that doesn’t necessarily relate to the case you hired me for?”

  She faced the lake again and grabbed the terrace railing. She leaned back, arms extended, and her black braid swung. “Not now. Maybe when I see you next week.” The sweater fell open. Under the jersey dress her breasts moved as if unconfined, and her slender waist was supple and firm.

  Dan took a step toward the open French doors. “We should go back inside.”

  Martha Cruz exhaled and turned around. Her dark eyes swept over the high stucco walls, the red-tile roof, and the glittering windows. If her gaze had been napalm, the house would have gone up in one immense fireball.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was close to ten o’clock when Dan arrived at his apartment in a small building a few blocks from the bay. Turning into the parking lot, he saw Kelly Dorff’s old green Thunderbird under a tree along the street.

  Coming up the walkway to his front entrance, he could hear music rattling the glass louvers in the windows. He unlocked the front door and came inside. Kelly’s purse and denim jacket were tossed on the kitchen counter. He went to the bookcase and turned off the stereo. Beside it was a metal stand with a salt water aquarium. Someone had left a cigarette burning in a saucer on top of the tank. He crushed it out.

  “There you are.” Kelly stood in the open archway to the kitchen, putting a square of cheese on a cracker. “I was getting worried.” She was barefoot, wearing only underwear and a T-shirt.

  “I went to my son’s soccer game.” Dan held up the cigarette butt. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the apartment. I don’t like it.”

  “Okay, sorry. Why are you being such a grouch?” She popped the cracker into her mouth and came to kiss him.

  Dan walked past her into the kitchen and put the saucer in the sink and the cigarette butt in the trash. He turned around and said quietly, “Kelly, do you recall my telling you that if you wanted to come over, to ask me first?”

  “I called! Check your answering machine if you don’t believe me. I got out of rehearsal and I called, but you weren’t here. So I decided to surprise you, okay? I brought some wine and a movie.” She came over and put her arms around his waist. “I thought we could stay home instead of going out. We could act like we have a relationship.”

  As it sometimes did—and he usually managed to ignore it—her voice achieved a balance of accusation and self-pity. “It’s late.” Dan unzipped his jacket and headed for his bedroom. On his double bed one pillow was bunched up, and her shoes and jeans were on the floor. He hung up his jacket in the closet.

  Kelly came in and leaned against the door frame. Dan glanced at her without speaking and put his car keys and wallet in a tray on his dresser.

  “Aren’t you glad to see me? At all?”

  He hesitated. “Kelly … let’s go sit down in the living room for a minute.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to talk.”

  “What do you want to tell me? I should leave? God forbid I drop by like a normal girlfriend. You never come to my place. What am I supposed to do, wait till you call me?”

  He stood by the door and held out his hand. “Kelly, come on.”

  She sat on the edge of his bed and pushed her hair back. “I got here and it was dark, and I brought this bottle of wine, and I thought you’d be here any minute—”

  “Kelly—”

  “A fucking twenty-five-dollar bottle of wine! What did I do wrong? You don’t give me a clue, then you say we need to talk. Like I don’t know what that means.”

  He sat down and put his arm around her. “Listen. I admire you very much. You’re very talented. Very pretty. But we’re going in different directions. Neither of us expected anything long-term.”

  She put her head on his chest. He could see the part in her blond hair, wandering unevenly through the tangles. “If people want something bad enough, it has to work out. I mean, we have fun together, don’t we?”

  “Sure, but there has to be more than that. You and I just aren’t suited for each other.”

  “We are! I thought you cared about me.”

  “I do. I care a lot about you.”

  She started to cry. “That’s a horrible thing to say! What’s next? Let’s be friends? Please, Dan.” She held his face. “You’re so sweet. The nicest man to me. Everybody I’ve ever known has been such a loser. Please don’t be like them. Just tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. Let’s go to bed, okay?”

  He stood up. “I’m sorry. Look, I have to be up early—”

  She flinched as if he had struck her. “Thanks for the good time, there’s the door?”

  He picked up her jeans. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow or later in the week.”

  “Why? Like maybe when you get all horned out?” She laughed. “You’re not that great a lover, believe me. I’ve had better.” She grabbed her jeans and put them on.

  “Right.” Dan opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. “You’ve got some things here you’ll probably want to take with you.”

  “Well, keep the box of condoms for the next idiot.” She stepped into her shoes.

  He tossed her T-shirts and underwear on the bed. “Kel, please. You know it’s for the best.”

  She rushed across the room, shoving him so hard he fell. Dan held up his hands. She screamed at him. “Fuck you! User! You suck! You made me think you actually gave a shit!” She kicked his nightstand into the wall. “I hate you! Son of a bitch user!” The lamp went over.

  “Kelly, stop it!”

  She ran out of the bedroom. Dan scrambled to his feet and went after her. His dive gear was stacked in the hall. She pushed over an air tank, which rolled into his spearguns. He leaped over them as they clattered into his path.

  She shoved his aquarium as she went by. It rocked on its metal stand, water sloshing. In the kitchen Kelly flung open the refrigerator and grabbed a heavy green bottle—the wine she’d brought—and threw it at Dan. The bottle smashed against the wall.

  Grabbing her jacket and car keys, Kelly ran out the front door. He heard the screech of her tires and saw her taillights disappearing down the street.

  CHAPTER 8

  Just outside the rehearsal room, Vincent Hooper looked down the corridor with its stained brown carpet and the walls plastered with rock posters. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Where the hell was Rick Robbins?

  The band had arrived already. They were outside with a six-pack.

  Vincent lit a cigarette.

  Music was coming from behind other doors, a chaos of styles and rhythms. DEA was using Manatee Studios because the owner had been caught dealing up in Fort Lauderdale. In exchange for staying out of jail, he agreed to keep his mouth shut about who was renting the studio. The building itself was in North Miami, one of a row of warehouses containing, among other marginal businesses, a builder of cheap
kitchen cabinets and an auto repair that the DEA, in nosing around, had discovered to be a chop shop. As soon as this operation was over, they would pass that information on to the local police.

  As Vince smoked, he could hear the crash of drums and cymbals behind him—Arlo Pate filling in for the sound check. Bam, bam, ching, ka-bam, a beat like a piledriver. Pate lived over Salazar’s garage, keeping the grass mowed and the dogs fed. First time he’d spotted Vince, Pate had filled the hall with his shoulders, a low-watt intelligence flickering in those sun-faded eyes. Vince had smiled genially. I’m waiting for Mr. Robbins. My name is Victor Ramirez. My company is recording the demo tape for Mayhem. Pate had stared at him, then moved aside. Yeah. Okay.

  Vince dropped his cigarette butt into an empty soda can in the trash and went the back way into a dimly lit control room. The ceiling and walls were covered in gray foam soundproofing, cables and wires—the recording engineer called them snakes—ran in all directions. A big Mackie console took up half the room. A reel-to-reel, ADAT, and CD backup were within easy reach. The engineer’s hands were moving over dials, buttons, and switches. Vincent had insisted on hiring Willy Silva, a top-flight man out of New York. He wasn’t DEA, but they could trust him.

  Willy flipped the talk-back button. “Arlo, that’s fine. Stay where you are. Looks like the bassist isn’t here yet. Scott, can you give us a sound check on ‘Rainbow Baby’?”

  Scott Irwin, the undercover agent at Coral Rock, was plugging in an amp. “Sure, hang on a second.” He picked up a bass guitar from a stand, put the strap over his shoulder, and turned a knob. Arlo Pate clicked the sticks together to set the tempo, then Scott came in as the sticks crashed down on the drums. Bass notes thudded like a huge heart.

  Scott had gone more radical with his hair. Shaved it up the sides, dyed the rest of it blue, and combed it over to one side. He wore jeans with a rip in the seat and a ragged T-shirt from DisneyWorld. The guitar hung low, resting on his thigh. Scott moved to the beat, facing the drummer. He and Arlo Pate were jamming.

  Willy saw Vincent standing beside him and spoke loud enough to be heard above the studio monitors. “Hey, Scott’s pretty good. If he wants another line of work, I could line him up some gigs.”