Last Lawyer Standing
Page 1
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For Maya
Welcome to the world, baby
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Iulai (July)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
‘Aukake (August)
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Kepakemapa (September)
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
‘Okakopa (October)
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Nowemapa (November)
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Also by Douglas Corleone
About the Author
Copyright
Chase after the truth like all hell and you’ll free yourself, even though you never touch its coattails.
—Clarence Darrow
IULAI
(JULY)
CHAPTER 1
My shadow stretched diagonally across the federal courthouse steps on Ala Moana Boulevard in downtown Honolulu, just an ordinary man in an ordinary suit with a Panama Jack resting on his head. Just another lawyer on his way to court for just another criminal case. Only that’s not how it felt. Something palpable lingered in the ether, something akin to the tension I experienced sitting next to a client surrounded by off-white cinder blocks in a cramped, stifling interrogation room in the bowels of a police department’s headquarters. I checked my watch to make certain I wasn’t due for another few Percocet to relieve the pain in my abdomen where I’d been stabbed with a stiletto not six months ago. But, no, not yet; it wasn’t time. The day itself, an ugly young Monday, shrieked in my ear, cautioned me to blow off SoSo’s sentencing, to turn around and head the hell home, to turn off the phones, and pretend this morning never existed.
I didn’t listen.
Instead I bounded up the steps, briefcase in hand, passed through the glass doors, through the metal detector after dumping my keys and a few coins into a small gray bucket, and checked my cell phone with a bored court officer, who warned me twice to make sure the ringer was turned off.
“I don’t wanna listen to that goddamn thing playing ‘Funky Cold Medina’ for the next three hours, Counselor. Got it?”
“Got it.” I took the ticket he offered as a receipt then made for the elevator bank at the end of the hall.
When I stepped through the ten-foot-tall, mahogany double doors into Justice Harlan Platz’s empty courtroom, my partner, Jake Harper, already seated at the defense table, turned in his chair and greeted me with a slow nod.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked him, tossing my briefcase onto the table, slightly shuddering at the exaggerated echo of the thud.
“Wouldn’t miss SoSo’s sentencing for anything, son.”
“It’s routine. Both sides are resting on the papers. Platz is going to give him twenty years and we’re done.”
“I’ve yet to see a routine appearance in front of Harlan Platz,” Jake said. “Never mind a routine anything involving SoSo.”
Forty-five minutes later, four priggish US Marshals led our client Solosolo Sinaloa through a side door into the courtroom. SoSo, shackled at the wrists and ankles, towered over each of them, his muscular bulk preventing any of the four from accompanying him side-by-side up the aisle. The single-piece, orange jumpsuit befit the Samoan so well, I couldn’t imagine he ever wore anything else. Then again, I’d never seen him wear anything else. And unless in twenty years SoSo returned to Honolulu to shake my hand or slice my throat, chances were I never would.
“Howya doin’,” SoSo greeted me, as two of the Marshals stepped away from the table. The other two took positions behind the prisoner.
“Comme ci, comme ça,” I said, but SoSo was apparently in no mood for levity. On the upside, my French earned a light chuckle from Jake.
Jake and I represented SoSo pursuant to the Criminal Justice Act, which was to say that the federal government rewarded our firm a paltry seventy-five bucks per hour to play advocate to the most menacing, callous monsters federal law enforcement could capture and charge. Although I’d adamantly opposed joining the CJA panel, Jake insisted on it. With a mere two dozen murders on the island each year, it’s rare to hit on a state case with any teeth. But the feds never fail to scrounge up a few supervillains per annum, providing the dose of excitement Jake seems to need to thrive.
Of course, I lacked standing to argue. I’m the one who got the old man addicted in the first place.
Or was it the other way around?
Another twenty minutes passed before the Honorable Harlan Platz rose to the bench. Platz looked as though he chose his skin off a rack this morning, then dotted it with liver spots before stepping into the long, flowing black robe that made him look like Death itself. Approximately sixteen white hairs loitered on a scalp that would’ve made Mikhail Gorbachev cringe with disgust. When the founding fathers drafted Article Three of the US Constitution, providing that federal judges serve for life, they couldn’t possibly have foreseen the likes of Harlan Platz. Then again, maybe Platz knew one of the founding fathers personally.
“I have reviewed the Government’s sentencing memorandum,” Platz rasped from his perch, “as well as the Defendant’s. I must say, Mr. Corvelli, you receive an A for creativity. I had to reread the Federal Sentencing Guidelines twice because I did not quite believe some of the provisions you cited even existed. Yet, there they were in black and white. Although, I think you will concede, Counselor, that it is somewhat of a stretch to contend that Mr. Sinaloa accepted responsibility for his crime by nodding his head after the jury foreman read off the verdict of guilty.”
I had little to work with. We were appointed SoSo’s counsel only after trial, for the sole purpose of preparing a sentencing memorandum on his behalf. About a year ago, SoSo beat a man to death ou
tside a strip club in Honolulu’s red-light district, following a “Miller Lite: Tastes Great/Less Filling” debate. Or something like that. The victim, Marc Dalton, was a US immigration officer, which landed the case in federal court. At a postverdict visit at the Federal Detention Center, SoSo handed a sample of what he’d given Dalton to his trial attorney, Clyde Harris. Harris begged off the case and the CJA panel appointed yours truly.
“Mr. Boyd,” Platz said to the assistant US attorney, “do you have anything you wish to add to the Government’s sentencing memorandum?”
AUSA William F. Boyd was a typical government lawyer, complete with the personality of a houseplant and all the style of a toaster.
“I have nothing further, Your Honor,” Boyd said in a mechanical voice. “The Government’s memorandum speaks for itself.”
“Mr. Corvelli,” Platz said, “have you anything else to say?”
“No, Your Honor,” I replied.
Then Justice Platz began hacking, a hideous, loose cough that echoed through the gallery like a ricocheting bullet from a .44. Platz’s sagging facial skin flapped violently, his liver spots dancing in unison.
Platz’s clerk, a round kid just out of law school, came to the judge’s rescue with a clean hanky and a gentle, oddly affectionate pat on the back.
“I am sorry,” Platz said once he regained his composure. “Let us move on. Mr. Sinaloa, have you anything to say before I sentence you?”
The correct answer, of course, was No. Or at most, No, Judge, maybe No, Your Honor. I’d gone over the straightforward federal sentencing procedure with SoSo at least a half dozen times. Since it was no longer mandatory for judges to strictly follow the rigid provisions of the Federal Sentencing Guidelines, and since Harlan Platz was known to be a fairly liberal judge, both sides anticipated a prison term of twenty years in a maximum-security facility. Not bad for killing a federal agent with your bare hands outside a strip club at four in the morning. Especially considering SoSo was only twenty-six years old.
This hearing was a mere formality. Justice Platz had already read our memorandum; nothing added today could aid us in any imaginable way. Anything said could only do us harm, could only lengthen SoSo’s prison sentence. Thus, I had instructed SoSo—had done everything but hold a gun to his head—to simply reply in the negative when asked whether he had anything to say. “No,” I had told him. “Just say no. No. No. No. No. No.”
“Yes,” SoSo said to Justice Platz.
Shit.
“Your Honor,” I interrupted, “SoSo—I mean, Mr. Sinaloa—has nothing further to add at this time.”
Platz coughed into the elbow of his robe and looked at my client for the first time. “Is that right, Mr. Sinaloa? Or do you have something you would care to say to this Court before I sentence you?”
“Yes,” SoSo said again.
“See, Mr. Corvelli?” Platz said with what might have passed for a smile in a casket. “Another county heard from.”
“Your Honor—,” I tried again.
“Proceed, Mr. Sinaloa. It is your right. What say you?”
SoSo’s face remained perfectly stoic as he addressed Justice Platz. “I say you the oldest, ugliest motherfucker I ever seen in my life.”
A nauseating silence hung over the courtroom like tear gas. The houseplant standing at the Government table glanced over at me, the slightest attempt at a smirk playing on his lips. But quiet the courtroom remained for at least the next three minutes. Then the Honorable Harlan Platz slapped his gavel with all the savagery a two-hundred-year-old man could muster. If looks could kill, the Marshals would’ve been wheeling SoSo out of the courtroom on a stretcher, a white sheet draped over his face.
“Very well,” Platz finally said with a calmness that betrayed his face. “Mr. Sinaloa, the Court hereby sentences you to imprisonment at a federal penitentiary of maximum security for a period of thirty-five years.”
All four Marshals instantly convened behind my client to recuff him and take him away.
“But, Judge!” SoSo pleaded, the stoicism suddenly melting from his body like crushed ice on hot sand. “Judge, I can’t do that much time.”
Platz waved a skeletal hand in the air, and the Marshals immediately halted their movements.
“Oh, I see,” Platz said. “You cannot do that much time; is that so, Mr. Sinaloa?”
“No, sir, Judge,” SoSo replied, relief already washing over his mammoth frame. “I can’t do no thirty-five years. I can’t do that much time.”
“Very well, then, Mr. Sinaloa.” The corners of Platz’s mouth turned up as though on strings as he glared at my client and stated flatly, “In that case, do as much as you can.”
CHAPTER 2
“That was some statement your client made, Corvelli,” Boyd called out as Jake and I plodded toward the towering double doors. “You prep Sinaloa yourself?”
“It speaks,” I said to Jake as I turned to face the houseplant.
Boyd was dressed as always in an uninspired navy suit that hung scrupulously on his perfectly average frame, a crisp white oxford and muted red tie peeking out over two ever-closed, vertical brass buttons.
“Ah, more botanical humor,” it said, marching toward us. “Played really well before Justice Ingraham last week.”
I was fast running out of patience. “Did you initiate this conversation for a reason or are you simply working on your social skills, Boyd? Because my partner and I both have appointments this morning.”
As I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, Boyd said, “Just wanted to know if we can expect you here at the courthouse tomorrow morning.”
“Not likely,” I muttered, ushering Jake into the lavish hall. In state courts, law is practiced on small, weathered Little League fields; federal courthouses, on the other hand, are Major League ballparks all the way.
Boyd caught the door before it closed. “You’re not joining us for the arraignments tomorrow?”
Jake sprang to life. “What arraignments?” Jake would fancy nothing more than another nickel-and-dime CJA appointment.
“You haven’t heard?” Boyd said. “There was a DEA raid on a meth superlab up North Shore this morning. I’m sure you’ll see it on the news tonight at whatever dive bar you’re frequenting these days.”
I snatched Jake’s elbow and led him toward the marble staircase so that we wouldn’t get caught in an elevator with Boyd.
“You hear about this?” Jake said, breathing heavily as we hustled down the stairs.
“You all right?” I asked as we hit the second landing.
“Fine,” he said, though he paused for a breath. “So how about it, son? You hear anything about this raid?”
I shook my head. “No surprise. It’s an election year. Someone wants to look tough in the so-called war on drugs.”
When we reached the first-floor lobby, I handed the same bored court officer my ticket, and he took his time retrieving my phone. As he slapped it on the table between us, he asked if I was fucking deaf.
I told him I wasn’t.
“Well, then, Counselor, you’d better clean the shit out of your ears, because I told you twice to make sure the fucking thing was turned off, and evidently you didn’t hear.”
I stared at the cell, which alluded to eight missed calls, eight voice messages, at least one of them marked urgent.
Before I could respond to the federal court’s answer to the coat-check girl at Club Tsunami, my cell phone started going off again. A simple ring; no “Funky Cold Medina.”
I opened the phone and put it to my ear. “Speak.”
“Take it outside, Counselor,” the court officer warned.
Jake and I started walking toward the exit as a frightened voice spoke in my ear.
“T’ank God you finally answered, Mistah C.”
“Turi,” I said. Turi Ahina was a lawyer’s best friend: a career criminal. A hell of a nice guy who always carried a gun, and who had once used that gun to save my life. “What’s the trouble?”
“That’s no trouble,” I told him as Jake and I stepped outside. I placed my Panama Jack back atop my head to shield my eyes from the midday Hawaiian sun. “I’ll come straight over to County and arrange bail.”
“I ain’t at County, Mistah C,” Turi said glumly.
“Then where the hell are you?”
“I’m at the Federal Detention Center. Wasn’t the HPD that arrested me this time.”
I stopped cold on the cement steps, in the same spot I stood this morning, though this time my shadow simply surrounded me like a pool of blood.
“Who was it?” I asked Turi, though I was pretty sure I already knew.
Turi confirmed my suspicions by uttering the three ugliest letters in the English alphabet, bar none: “DEA.”
CHAPTER 3
After stopping at the Federal Detention Center to meet with Turi Ahina that evening, I headed home to my villa in Ko Olina on the leeward side of the island. Boxes littered the hardwood floors, the walls were stripped bare, and most of my furniture had already been donated to Goodwill. I set a plate of yellowfin tuna on the kitchen floor for Grey Skies, then nuked a leftover slice of pizza from Boston’s North End for myself. I ate quickly from a paper plate over the counter, washed it down with a cold bottle of Kona Longboard, then turned out the lights.
I wanted to move. Even though Erin Simms had never once set foot in my villa, she’d opened her veins in a lagoon just a short walk from my door. I could no longer frequent my favorite bars or restaurants in the resort community because they each boasted views of that azure lagoon. Erin’s blood no longer diluted the salt water, of course; her naked body no longer floated along the surface. But for me, it seemed, she would always be there.
And I wanted to be somewhere else.
The problem was I didn’t know where. Three years ago I’d fled New York following the death of Brandon Glenn, an innocent client who had been raped and murdered at Rikers Island after I blew his defense. Here I was in a tropical paradise and—albeit for entirely different reasons—ready to flee again.
I had disappointed my New York mentor, Milt Cashman, and now I was about to let down my Honolulu law partner, Jake Harper. But just as it was three years ago, it felt as though I didn’t have a choice.