Cheater's Game

by Paul Levine

  The jury’s attention picked up when Judge Speidel read his instructions in a perfect judicial monotone. “For you to find the defendant guilty, the government must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant devised a scheme to defraud or obtain money or property by means of false or fraudulent pretenses, and . . .”

  I didn’t need to listen to the rest. Thankfully, the caissons rolling through my skull seemed to have come to a halt, the soldiers setting up camp for the night. When the judge was finished, he released the jurors for the evening with instructions to return at 9 a.m. sharp to begin deliberations. As the courtroom emptied, Judge Speidel bellowed, “Lead counsel, in my chambers, now! No one else.”

  Already? I wondered if the judge’s law clerks had polished the blade of the guillotine.

  I gave Kip keys to the Eldo and told him to drive home if I didn’t reappear in fifteen minutes. Also, to check with the federal marshal’s office to see where I was being held.

  Bolden was already there when I walked into chambers shooting glances left and right to see if I was going to be mugged, or at least handcuffed. Judge Speidel had removed his robes and settled into his high-backed chair, his hands resting on his massive belly, fingers twined.

  “Well, well, Mr. Lassiter,” he drawled. “Are you still packing?”

  I opened my suit coat and drew out the toothbrush by its Mickey Mouse head. “I never leave home without it.”

  The judge barked a laugh. “Well, put it back. You won’t need it. By Jove, I have to thank both of you!”

  By Jove?

  “For what?” I exhaled a long breath, and the tension drained from my shoulders.

  “Tell him, Margie.”

  “Judge Speidel always thanks the lawyers if he’s enjoyed the trial.”

  “This was a spellbinder,” the judge said. “My last two cases were a social security disability appeal and a maritime dispute over a shipload of spoiled mangoes. Thank you both for providing first-rate lawyering and entertainment.”

  I nodded, which was the least I could do after the kindly king called off my beheading.

  “Oh, you two!” the judge enthused. “What a spirited battle. But always respectful of each other. Mr. Lassiter, I misjudged you.”

  “Oh. Well. Thanks. I thought you hated me.”

  “No! Never! I like to baptize newbies with a little fire and brimstone to see if they can take it. And even though you’ve got the gray hair, as you told the jury, you’re a newborn babe in my courtroom. But damn, you can take it and dish it right back! Right to the edge of the precipice, didn’t he, Margie?”

  “He’s a fighter,” she agreed.

  “Now these young lawyers,” the judge said, “be they prosecutors or public defenders, well, they’re too . . . Margie, what’s the word?”

  “Sensitive,” she ventured.

  “Exactly. They have . . .”

  “Tender sensibilities,” I said.

  “Right you are.” He stared off into space a moment, then said, “Say, Margie, what was your favorite moment of the trial?

  She gave a wry smile and replied, “It would have to be Jake’s closing when he talked about, what was it, the reality bullshit field?”

  “Hah!” The judge laughed so hard his massive belly shook, not like a bowlful of jelly, but maybe a fifty-five-gallon drum of marmalade. “Star Trek! Oh, Jesus. That was rich!”

  The whole experience was becoming surreal, but the Lion King was in such a jolly mood, it was hard not to smile.

  “For me,” the judge continued, “it was that wealthy jerk from Star Island who went after Lassiter. ‘Brain-dead shyster!’ Hah!”

  “Harman Fisher,” she said, with an unhappy sigh.

  “How the hell did you let him off the reservation, Margie?”

  Bolden shook her head. “I prepped him, Your Honor, but something about Jake got under his skin.”

  “I have that effect on people,” I said.

  “And you, Lassiter? Any favorite moments?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet, Your Honor.”

  They both understood but kept quiet. Neither one thought the jury would bring me that moment.

  “Say, Lassiter, I’m taking some time off next week,” the judge said. “How would you like to spend a day showing me around the state justice building?”

  “Down by the river?”

  “Unless it’s moved.”

  The surreal had become utterly bizarre. “You and me? Hanging out.”

  “Hell, yes. You’ll give me a tour. We’ll wander from courtroom to courtroom. Find some cases we don’t get over here. Homicides. Armed robberies. DUI hit-and-runs. Is there any place to have lunch over there?”

  “You like Cuban?”

  “Jesus, look at me. I like everything!”

  I was still stunned. But spending a day with Judge Speidel was surely preferable to thirty days behind bars. “Okay, sure. We’ll catch a couple trials. Have lunch.”

  “Say, Lassiter, one more thing, and I hate to ask it.” He looked at me gravely.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you really dying?”

  “Aren’t we all?” I answered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  We, the Jury

  An empty, darkened courtroom is a forlorn place. A circus tent without the ringmaster, the animals, and the children with painted faces. Not even a lone pigeon fluttering high among the quarter poles. The lights were dimmed and the courtroom empty when I entered at 8:50 a.m. the next day.

  Our ringmaster, Judge Speidel, sat in chambers with his clerks, reviewing motions and memoranda of law in other cases. Margaret Bolden was in the U.S. Attorney’s office. One of her lower ranking soldiers would remain at the prosecution table during deliberations. A courtroom deputy—we used to say “bailiff”—would guard the door to the jury room. I would stay at the defense table because I always do.

  Judge Speidel wanted lawyers within shouting distance if the jury came back with a question . . . or a verdict. Melissa was taking the afternoon off from work and would bring Kip along later to keep me company. I was at peace in my solitude. Thinking back, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I fought as hard as I could without breaking any furniture.

  I still believed what I told Melissa early in the trial. If I could walk Kip out of the courthouse a free man, I was optimistic about his future. He seemed changed, which is to say, back to his old self, the kid I had raised. It almost felt as if he had caught a virus from Typhoid Max, something that had poisoned his character. Now, thankfully, he seemed to be cured.

  If only we can win . . .

  Court assistants and deputy clerks and random journalists occasionally opened the courtroom door, poked their heads inside, then left. Nothing to see here.

  Melissa and Kip arrived just before noon, and just as they sat down, I heard a knock-knock from inside the jury room. It had to be a question, or a plea to turn down the frigid air-conditioning, or a request for lunch. It could not be a verdict. The courtroom deputy, the centurion at the gate, had been dozing in the jury box. He leapt to his feet, opened the door and went inside the jury room. A moment later, he scurried out, heading for the judge’s chambers.

  “Arturo!” I yelled at him. “What’s up?”

  He waved me off and disappeared out the back door of the courtroom.

  Ten minutes later, Margaret Bolden and her band of federales hurried into the courtroom. Five minutes after that, Judge Speidel, robed and flush of face, took the bench and nodded to Arturo, who opened the jury room door.

  They filed into the box, these dozen citizens, good and true. None looked me in the eye, usually a bad sign, but then they didn’t look at Bolden, either. I was getting no reading. Juror number five, Manuel Castillo, the South Beach chef, held the verdict form, meaning he was the foreperson. That was fine with me, not that I had a choice.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  Castillo stood and said, “We have, Your Honor.”

&n
bsp; Castillo handed the verdict form to the deputy clerk, who handed it up to Judge Speidel, who read it silently. His mouth twitched slightly, jiggling a chubby cheek. Was that a smile, or just some nerve endings firing? He handed the form back to the clerk and told her to “publish the verdict.”

  This would take a while. There were thirty-seven counts. But I would know with the first mail fraud count if we had won or lost. It was an all-or-nothing game. Either Kip was guilty of every count or none of them.

  We stood side by side, my big paw wrapped around his elbow to keep him from toppling over if the news was lousy. Melissa sat just behind us in the row of chairs that back up to the railing separating the well of the courtroom from the gallery.

  A deputy clerk, a petite woman in her forties, stood and read aloud from the verdict form: “United States of America vs. Chester Lassiter aka Kip Lassiter. As to count one of the indictment, we, the jury, find the defendant . . .”

  By the time she finished that sentence, tears streamed down my cheeks. Then, inexplicably, I laughed and cried at the same time, as if the sun were shining through the rain. I realized my knees had gone weak, and Kip was holding me up, not the other way around. The skinny kid couldn’t manage it. Melissa leapt from her seat and steadied me from the other side. Damned embarrassing!

  The clerk kept reading. I didn’t need to listen. I knew. But I listened anyway. Were any words in our language so sweet?

  “As to count five of the indictment, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty. As to count six of the indictment, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty. As to count seven . . .”

  You were smiling, Judge! I misjudged you, too. Yeah. This is it. My favorite moment of the trial!

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  We Are Family

  In our coral rock house on Kumquat Avenue that evening, there were hugs and there were kisses. There was music and there was dancing. There were stone crabs with mustard sauce and champagne with caviar. There was laughter mixed with tears.

  Melissa was making a vegetarian risotto for Kip, but he was eyeing the stack of stone crabs, shells expertly cracked.

  “I don’t want broccoli cheddar risotto,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked, surprised.

  “I want what you two are having, Uncle Jake.”

  “You sure?”

  “And tomorrow, let’s go to Dairy Queen and get a couple Blizzards.”

  I whooped and hollered, “Welcome home, Kip!”

  The three of us danced to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family.” Melissa, in a blue and gold halter-top sleeveless sun dress, was the most graceful, her hips keeping perfect time with the beat. Kip was the most energetic, a frenzied dance solo. And I was, well . . . I was the aging guy with bad knees who danced as if my feet were stuck in wet cement.

  “We are fa-mi-ly . . .”

  My lack of rhythm and grace didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Kip was free, and the three of us were together.

  “We’re giving love in a family dose . . .”

  When exhaustion caught up with us, we sank into chairs, breathing heavily. We finished the champagne and I found another bottle in the refrigerator. Then, Melissa brought me up to date. “Some news from N.I.H. today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No celebrating yet, but I’ve been named interim executive director of the C.T.E. program.”

  “Interim? Is that like being a little bit pregnant?”

  “That’s the rub. The appropriations have been held up till the next fiscal year.”

  “Ah, jeez.”

  “But it’s going to happen. And they’re giving us a partial grant for more research and clinical trials here. You’re ‘Subject One’ when we start with the new protein antibody. And I want you in hospital for four weeks of round-the-clock testing and observation.”

  “Sure. Always a pleasure being your guinea pig.”

  “Really? I expected some resistance.”

  “That’s the old me. Now, I go along. I get along. Life is short, but oh so sweet.”

  She hugged me and said, “I love the old you and the new you.”

  Hanging out on the perimeter of the kitchen, Kip blurted out, “I have news, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going back to college. Penn State.”

  “You mean Penn,” I said.

  He laughed. “Bad memories. Not Penn. Penn State. Your alma mater.”

  “This isn’t a joke? A twist on those T-shirts I made?”

  “Nope. Penn State has an excellent IST program.”

  “Sounds like a subway line.”

  “Information Science and Technology. Joint major in data science and entrepreneurship and innovation. Plus, they’ve recruited me for their eSports team.”

  “What the hell is an eSports team?”

  Melissa broke in. “I’ve read about it. There are college and professional leagues, and they’re even building arenas for spectators.”

  “People pay to watch other people play computer games?” I asked.

  “As they do football,” Melissa informed me.

  “More people saw the last League of Legends championships than the NBA Finals,” Kip said. “Anyway, Penn State is giving me a full scholie.”

  “EGames? Again?” I was dumbfounded by deja-friggin’-vu.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Jake. Playing a team sport with coaches and other students is different than being holed up in my room. Besides, my focus won’t be on the games. I’m channeling my energy into coding and game creation.”

  “For your classes?”

  “And a career. I’m going to create a start-up to develop and market eGames. By playing on the team, I’ll be hanging out with other techies and sampling different games. It’ll help the development process.”

  “This is a lot to digest.” I let out a long breath. “What happened to your idea about helping underprivileged kids with the SAT and ACT?”

  “I’m getting to that. Remember the Road Fury game?”

  “Sure. You flashed back to it when you were being chased through the Everglades.”

  “My first eGame will be Road Test, an exam prep course, but really fun. The kids compete against the median test score of successful applicants at the college of their choice. They start on Founding Fathers Parkway, the history course, then drive through Trigonometry Falls . . .”

  “Math,” I groaned, “my Achilles heel.”

  “Then through the Valley of Irony, which is the pathway into the English section, ending at the Science Suburbs. They’ll see if their score will get them in, and if not, where they would be admitted. They can race countless times on different courses to improve their skills, competing against new applicants, including their friends, or kids from China, if they choose that option.”

  “I love it,” I said.

  “And it’s all free. Totally pro bono.”

  “This is wonderful,” Melissa cried. “You have a direction and a worthy goal.”

  I felt a soothing sense of peace, and it wasn’t from the champagne. I felt optimistic about Kip, about Melissa and me, and about the future. In short, I felt blessed.

  “Kippers, when do you go to Happy Valley?” I asked.

  “Summer session. Mid-June.”

  I turned to Melissa. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “For what?”

  “Wedding plans. How does the first week of June sound?”

  She threw her arms around me, and we kissed long and slow, sweet and deep. I didn’t think anything could disrupt the mood, the warm flood of emotions like an incoming tide on a Caribbean island. Then, just before 10 p.m., there was a knock at the front door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Friendship Like a Bamboo Bridge

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded, blocking the doorway.

  “I wanted to congratulate you.” Ray Pincher stood on the front step, a bashful grin on his face.

  “Get off my property, or I will th
row you from here to Dixie Highway.”

  Pincher raised both hands as if surrendering and said, “Open my briefcase.”

  I looked down, saw his soft leather case on the ground and did nothing. “I don’t feel like playing games.”

  “C’mon, Jake. Just look. Then I’ll leave.”

  “What the hell.” I stepped outside into the muggy night air. I grabbed the briefcase and pulled out a thin manila folder. Inside was a State Attorney’s office investigative report with Gilberto Foyo’s name on the cover. “Yeah, so what?”

  “Jeez, just open it.”

  I opened the folder. Three typewritten pages with a photo of two men standing on a seawall, a giant, gleaming white boat behind them. “What is this?”

  “Either of those two guys look familiar?”

  “No. Should they? Wait a second. Is that Harman Fisher? Rich jerkoff from Star Island.”

  “And his 125-motor yacht. The other guy is a Miami Beach zoning inspector.”

  “So, what?”

  “Fisher tried to bribe the zoning inspector to approve dock space for his 125-foot yacht when he was limited to 100 feet. We’ve got video and audio of the hand-to-hand transaction, fifty grand in cash.”

  I shrugged. “Other than being a prick on the witness stand, the guy means nothing to me.”

  Pincher reached into his pocket, withdrew a cigarette lighter, clicked the wheel, and in seconds, the report and photo were black ash, which he dropped into my planter of equally moribund Impatiens.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “C’mon, Jake. Think about me as the link between you and Fisher.”

  It took another moment. Then it all came at once. Gilberto Foyo wasn’t sitting in the gallery every day to bail me out of jail. He was seeing how I was doing. Checking if I needed help, which I did. So, Ray Pincher gave it to me.

  “You sleazy son of a bitch!” I yelled.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘thank you.’”

  “You extorted Fisher. You forced him to be the biggest asshole in the history of government witnesses, and that’s a rectum the size of the Lincoln Tunnel. You told him you’d shitcan the bribery charge if he torpedoed the government’s case.”