The Letter Of The Law

by Tim Green

  With Casey cowering in the bow of the boat, Lipton turned his attention to the motor. Two more pulls and the outboard clamored to life in a cloud of blue smoke. Lipton unhooked the mooring line from a cleat at the edge of the slip and eased the craft out of the boathouse. Once he was clear of the structure, he opened the throttle and the boat took off like a spurred stallion, raising its front end spiritedly above the waves.

  But twelve feet was as far as they went before something heaved the small skiff wildly sideways. Lipton was nearly thrown from the boat. Casey gasped, certain they would capsize. Lipton let up on the throttle at once, and Casey peered up over the seat to see what had happened.

  Behind them in the water, thrashing and roiling the water like a harpooned shark, was Sales. As the boat chugged past him, he had come up bleeding from the bottom and gotten hold of the line trailing from its stern. It was the same line that had been used to secure the boat to the side of the slip. In his haste, Lipton had simply tossed it into the water.

  When the professor realized what had happened, he reached into the bottom of the boat and stood, ready to empty the rest of the magazine into Sales at nearly point-blank range. From his spot in the water, Sales saw what was coming. Gagging already, his lungs half filled with a mixture of blood and water, he made a fruitless attempt to suck in a huge breath so that he might submerge himself beneath the reservoir's protective surface. But Lipton had him this time, and there was no boathouse foundation to absorb most of the gunfire. Sales knew in that split second that he was going to die.

  At the same time, Casey sprang from her spot in the bow of the boat. She shoved Lipton squarely in the back, knocking him headfirst into the dark water. Sales was on him like a snake, and together the two men went down. Casey looked over the edge of the boat at the place where the two of them had gone under. She yanked an oar from the bottom of the boat and stood poised to smash Lipton's skull if he should surface within striking distance.

  Bloody bubbles burst through the surface, and then there was a series of bright flashes and small explosions that lit the murky depths like a handful of underwater cherry bombs. After a moment of eerie silence, the surface of the water exploded as both men broke into the air for a desperate breath, each with his hands locked on to the other's neck. Then they went down again, and it was quiet except for the hiss of broken bubbles.

  Every muscle in Casey's body went tight. Noiselessly, she urged Sales on in his pitch-black battle. Suddenly, he burst through the surface, alone. The desperate sound of his lungs sucking in oxygen rang out across the water. Casey held her oar out to him and he grabbed it, allowing her to pull him to the boat and help him up over the gunwale, dripping blood and water into the skiff until her feet were sloshing in the crimson brew. Casey sat on the bow seat and allowed herself to shake uncontrollably. Sales lay sprawled in the mess, his chest heaving like a dying fish, one leg dangling over the side of the boat.

  The unexpected horrible gasping wail from the stern of the boat made them both jump. Sales spun around crablike, still lying in the skiff's bottom but with his head propped up against Casey's leg. From behind the boat's motor, Lipton's haggard face appeared. His hair was plastered to his head, and blood rushed from his mouth and nose. His mangled hands, with three fingers shooting off at odd angles, were clamped tightly to the gunwale. After two more pitiful gasps for air, he directed his attention toward the two of them, his nemesis and his lawyer.

  In the fading light, Casey could hear the shouts of the police as they came down through the trees. Lipton's damaged face twisted itself into a devilish smirk, and he began to giggle maniacally. He tilted his head back now and laughed even harder. He was laughing at them. Sales knew it. Casey knew it.

  "Donald," she shouted suddenly, "no!"

  Sales's pant leg was rolled up to his knee. From beneath it he had removed the little snub-nose.38 and was now pointing it at Lipton's head.

  "Lipton," Sales hissed venomously.

  Lipton heard his call in the midst of his amusement and his face suddenly went blank, then froze in an instant of terror.

  "This is for my little girl," Sales said, spitting his words and then pulling the trigger. A small orange flame lit the gloom, illuminating for a brief second the dime-size hole the slug punched into Lipton's forehead before expanding around its hollow point and blasting through the back of his skull in a spray of brains and blood.

  "Freeze!"

  It was Bolinger and James Unger. They had rounded the corner of the boathouse, and they stood there on the edge of the dock with their guns pointed in the direction of the boat. Sales held up his hands and dropped the gun.

  "Where's the professor?" Bolinger shouted. The tempest was rising now, and only a stout call could be heard above the sound of the wind as it washed through the trees.

  "Where is he?" Unger demanded loudly, his voice breaking with hysteria.

  "He's dead," Casey heard herself say tiredly.

  "Dead? Come in here," Bolinger instructed. "Can you row in?"

  Sales lay gasping for air in the bottom of the boat. Casey climbed over him and fitted her oar back into its oarlock. With a dozen hard strokes they were bumping back up against the dock.

  "What happened?" Bolinger demanded of Casey. "I heard the shot. What happened?"

  Casey looked up at him and then at Sales, whose pale, wet face plastered with long strands of his black hair showed no emotion whatsoever.

  "I can't talk to you about it, Detective," she said reflexively, then added, "and neither can he."

  "What? Why the hell not?" Unger snapped, stepping forward, his body posture brazenly challenging her.

  "Because," she said, looking from the two irritated police to Sales, "this man is invoking his Fifth Amendment rights and I can't say anything to you at this time… I'm his lawyer."

  EPILOGUE

  Casey stood before the jury with the power and majesty of a Celtic princess, her deep red hair twisted high up on her head like a crown, her eyes afire with conviction. Her forest green closely tailored suit showed off the strength of her body as well. For the final time, she had presented her argument and it was a good one. Now, all she needed was to close the deal, lock them in.

  "To convict my client of murder, I want you to remember this: The law requires that such a crime be an intentional act, proved by the prosecution beyond a reasonable doubt. Furthermore, and just as important, is the fact that any of us has the right, the right, to use deadly force if we feel our own lives are in jeopardy…"

  Casey let her gaze pass over them all, individually, so they could each get the full sense of her conviction.

  "A long time ago," she said quietly, "when I was being introduced to the law and its intricacies, I, like many of us, felt the need to punish someone, anyone, for a criminal act. It's an innate reaction. We see someone hurt, we want someone to be punished. But I was told back then to think about this, and these words changed my life: What if it were you…

  "What if it were you, or you, or you, or me?" she said, letting her open hand pass over them all before coming to rest on her own breast. "What if it were you, and what if it were true?

  "Think about that, ladies and gentlemen," she said, raising her voice gradually as she spoke. "Think about what I've told you here over these past few days. Think about what my client, a fellow human being, has been through. Now, imagine it was you, you were in that very same situation… and imagine everything I've told you was true…

  "My client is not guilty," Casey said, quietly again, "not of a crime. My client is innocent… Please, I ask you, let justice be served."

  Casey looked at them long and hard, reading their faces. Inwardly she smiled. She had them. They belonged to her the way a great stage actor could own an audience on the Friday night opening of a celebrated play. She stayed there, letting the energy flow between them until she felt it begin to ebb. At that perfect moment, she turned and sat down. Only then was there a whisper, only then did anyone in the entire courtroom
dare to move.

  Tony leaned her way and whispered, "Should I have someone get us some sandwiches while we wait?"

  "No," she told him, smiling gently. "I've got plans for lunch already. Besides, there won't be time for sandwiches."

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "This won't take more than twenty minutes."

  Casey was wrong.

  It took twenty-four. The jury foreman stood and handed the verdict to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge. She read it, handed it back, and told the foreman to please read the verdict.

  The foreman, a lineman for the telephone company, was nervous and unused to speaking in public. Forgetting most of the formalities, he simply blurted out, "We're the jury and we find the defendant not guilty."

  Emotion washed through the courtroom like the crest of a flood. While Tony patted her on the back, Catalina Enos buried her head in Casey's chest, sobbing hysterically and begging her in broken English to accept her heartfelt thanks. The husband's family burst out into angry shouts and had to be forcibly removed from the courtroom.

  After accepting the district attorney's perfunctory congratulations, Casey put her arm around the young girl and ushered her out of the courtroom and down the steps without bothering to stop for the shrieking mob of reporters hungry for sound bites. She'd let Tony handle that part of it. It wouldn't do her any good anyway.

  When she'd finally fought their way through, Casey tucked the still sobbing girl into the front seat of her Mercedes and got in beside her. They'd optimistically gone over their plan during the past several weeks. Casey had located a halfway house for women in the Houston area that had agreed to take Catalina and help her through a job-training program until she became self-sufficient. The home provided counseling for women who lived in fear like Catalina, and Casey assured her that she would be quite safe from her husband's family since no one but she and a trusted friend would know where she was.

  Casey drove through the downtown area to an IHOP resting in the shadow of the highway overhead. Donald Sales sat in a vinyl booth by the window drinking coffee and reading the paper. He looked up in surprise when they walked in.

  "I thought I'd be here all day," he said.

  "You know I work fast," Casey said with a smile.

  "This is true," he replied, signaling for them to sit down.

  "Sit and eat, Catalina," Casey told the girl. "You've got a long drive. This is the friend I told you about. I trust him with my life, Catalina, and so can you."

  The girl smiled bashfully at Sales and scooted into the booth. Casey slipped Sales an envelope.

  "What's this?" he asked, his eyes sharpening.

  "For expenses," she told him.

  Sales snorted and handed it back. She took it, knowing better than to argue.

  "Sit down," he told her.

  "I'd love to, but I can't," she said. "I've got a meeting."

  Casey held out her hand. Sales took it and she bent over and kissed him on the cheek.

  "Thank you, Donald," she said.

  "What for?" he said brusquely. "Kidnapping you, or being a stellar client?"

  It had taken several weeks for the media storm surrounding Lipton's death to subside. But during that time many months ago, Casey had worked assiduously to convince the district attorney that he would be best served by dropping any and all charges against Donald Sales. Bob Bolinger had been instrumental in her efforts. And although it was certainly unorthodox for a cop to help prove someone innocent, Bolinger privately told his friends that it was no more unorthodox than letting James Unger take all the credit for bringing down Lipton.

  After she'd secured Sales's freedom, Casey had turned all her energies toward getting a mistrial declared for Catalina. Using every contact she'd ever made, she accelerated the appeal, got the new trial, and even succeeded in sullying Van Rawlins's reputation by having him removed from the case.

  "Both," Casey replied now, backing away. "You changed my life."

  "For the better?"

  "I think so," she told him. "I don't know… I hope so"

  ***

  Casey got back into her car and went to the better side of town. A valet parked her car for her, and she walked in through the etched glass doors, searching for the best table in the house. He would be waiting for her there. She saw his familiar smile and waved cheerily herself as she glided through the busy place, drawing the attention of every man who was unaccompanied by a woman and even some who were. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a friend at the bar to whom she gave a discreet little nod.

  Sitting gracefully, she met Taylor's smile by flashing her own perfect teeth. He rose from the table, took her hand, and kissed it gently.

  "You look radiant," he told her. "You look absolutely stunning."

  "I feel good," she told him, sitting down across from him and picking up the wine list. Taylor, dressed to perfection himself in a navy blue windowpane suit, gazed appreciatively at her while she perused the selection. A tall, trim waiter appeared in a bone jacket and black bow tie.

  "A bottle of the Iron Horse brut," she told him.

  "Very good," he said, taking the list with a questioning look at Taylor.

  "How about some Dom?" her husband suggested.

  "No," she said with a close-lipped smile. "Iron Horse is every bit as good, just a little less expensive."

  Taylor chuckled at the thought and asked, "Why the champagne?"

  "Oh, two things," she said perkily. "First, I won a huge case…"

  "Excellent!" he said enthusiastically.

  The waiter arrived with the wine and opened the bottle, which she told him to simply pour.

  "Second," she said, raising her glass, "because today is a new beginning."

  They touched glasses softly, and each of them sipped their wine delicately.

  "It is good," he said. "And I'm glad you feel like today is a new beginning. I think that's what it should be. I think that's how we should approach things, Casey. We need to forget the past and move forward like we were meeting almost for the first time."

  "Like strangers?" she asked inquisitively.

  He gave her a strange look and said uncertainly, "I guess that's right."

  "Well, you're right about forgetting the past. And I'd like to make it a clean break, through and through. That way we can both begin again."

  Casey removed a document from her purse and unfolded it. She handed it across the table to him along with a gold pen.

  "What?" he said.

  "It's our divorce," she told him pleasantly. "That way we can really start over."

  "You mean get divorced and get remarried?" he said with a confused grimace.

  "No," she said. "I mean get divorced and start over, like strangers."

  "You want me to court you?" he said, annoyed.

  "No," she told him with a straight face. "I don't want you to court me. I don't want anything from you. This document gives you everything but my personal bank account and my car. I don't want anything from you, Taylor…"

  "I'm not signing any goddamned divorce!" he said, raising his voice and drawing stares from the surrounding tables. "It's not going to be that easy for you, little miss lawyer. You don't just lead me on and-"

  "I never led you on," she said forcefully.

  "You asked me here!" he shouted. "You said you had a proposal to make!"

  "Of course I did," she said, seething. "And I do. This is my proposal. You sign this paper here and now or I'll dig in and fight you for every penny, every piece of art, and every stick of furniture I ever laid my eyes on. My deal is a clean break and you keep your money and everything else. All I want is my life. I want my life to start over… This is your last chance at a deal like this, and you know me well enough to know that I'm not bluffing."

  Taylor 's face twisted with rage. He snatched the document and looked it over before violently scratching his name on it and throwing it down on the table in front of him. He stood then and grabbed his glass of champagne, r
aising it to douse her.

  "You see that man at the bar?" Casey said firmly before he could do it. "He's a police detective, and if you so much as spill a drop of that wine on me, he'll throw you down on the floor, handcuff you, and drag you out of here like the punk you are…

  "So go ahead, Taylor Jordan," she said defiantly. "Make a move…"

  Bolinger saw his cue and stood, pulling back his coat to reveal his badge, his gun, and a gleaming set of handcuffs.

  Taylor fought for composure, and actually managed to drink the wine with trembling lips before setting it down and striding indignantly out of the restaurant without another word.

  "Would you please ask that gentleman at the bar with the gun and the badge if he'd like to join me for some champagne?" Casey said to the gaping waiter.

  Bolinger sat down and everyone else returned to their lunches.

  "Classic," he said to her, holding up a freshly filled glass. "I wish you were on the right side of the law."

  "Meaning?" she said archly.

  "Meaning I wish you were helping put people away rather than keeping them out," he told her gruffly.

  "What about people like Donald Sales?" she said, adding, "and Catalina Enos?"

  "No, I know about them," he said, "I'm not talking about them. They were innocent. I'm talking about the bad guys."

  Casey laughed at him, her mirth filling the space between them like a brilliant bouquet.

  "So what next?" he asked.

  "I'm off to Dallas," she said. "Everything's packed and on its way. Patti is already there."

  "How is Patti?" he asked. He knew that after Lipton's attack she'd only been in the hospital for a short while, but it had always seemed strange to him that after what he saw there were no complications.

  "She's fine," Casey said. "There never was any critical damage to her internal organs. She's got an ugly scar, but the doctor's told her that was all."

  "So she's in Dallas?" Bolinger repeated.