The Attorney

by Steve Martini

  “Over there.” He points. “Guy looks like an escapee from Father Damien’s leper farm. I’m afraid to look under the rags. His nose might fall off. I had him put in the back of Jackson’s cruiser, cuz he ain’t gettin’ in mine.”

  “Rank’s gotta have some kinda privilege,” says Brower.

  “Damn right.”

  Jenson and Brower continue kibitzing as I study the figure in the back of the patrol car. The shadows are deep, and all I can see is a silhouette. But if there was any doubt, it is resolved by the shopping cart parked near the rear fender of the patrol vehicle. There can’t be two with the same arrangement of plastic bags and wobbly third wheel not quite reaching the ground, the bundled treasures I’d seen scattered all over the sidewalk that morning.

  “Did he see anything?” asks Brower.

  Jenson gives him a shrug of the shoulders. “Let me put it this way. If I was the fuckin’ shooter, I’d want him as the witness,” says Jenson.

  “Any chance he coulda done it?” I ask.

  “Only if somebody showed him where to find the trigger and kept the muzzle out of his mouth cuz it looked like the business end of a bottle. I don’t think he’s high on our list. Two of the guys had to carry him to the car. Walking him was taking too long.”

  “No other witnesses?” says Brower.

  Jenson shakes his head. “Not that we found so far, though the evening is young.”

  While we are talking, another man, in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, the knot partway down his chest, approaches the yellow tape. He’s wearing white surgical gloves, and Jenson lifts the tape so the guy can slip underneath without bending too low. He’s holding two small paper bags in one hand, and a plastic evidence bag in the other.

  “Whatcha got there, Vic?” Jenson’s all eyes.

  “A spent one.” Vic, the tech, holds up the Baggie. There is a small bullet cartridge inside, tiny, almost invisible at this distance.

  “Three-eighty,” he says. “Enough to do the job. Close range. Found it right by the body. We think it got caught up in her clothing. When he dumped her, it fell out on the pavement.”

  “What do you mean, ‘dumped’?” says Brower.

  “We think she was in a car, parked there facing the alley with whoever killed her. Whoever did her, shot her inside the vehicle, dumped the body, and drove off. Down the alley.” He points back in the general direction with the hand holding the paper bags.

  “How did you come to that?” says Jenson.

  “Cuz we found what appears to be stuff from the ashtray of the car, dumped on top of the body.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Vic opens the paper bag, gingerly puts his gloved hand inside, and carefully removes two cigarette butts.

  “Got a little lipstick on ’em,” says the tech. “You can see it right there. Looks like it matches the color of the gloss in the victim’s purse. Also her brand of cigarettes.”

  “Her purse was there?”

  “And her wallet with almost two hundred dollars in cash, and her keys, and enough credit cards to give the average junkie one hell of a shopping holiday.”

  “There goes the robbery theory,” says Jenson.

  “I’d say so. But he also left something else,” says the tech. He drops the cigarettes back into the bag, looks inside the other, and reaches in. This time he comes up with something larger, brown and cylindrical—the stubbed-out remains of a good-sized cigar.

  “Maybe they’ll find some chompers on it,” he says. He’s talking about tooth impressions that a forensic tech might be able to cast to match the cigar with its owner.

  I suspect that the crime lab will be working overtime on this. I can tell that this thought is also running through Brower’s mind.

  For the moment he is simply staring at me, a portrait of angst. He is feeling around, inside his coat to the breast pocket of his polo shirt, where he finds what he is searching for: the cigar given to him earlier in the day by Jonah, at the meeting in my office.

  NINE

  * * *

  The county is a patchwork quilt of law enforcement. The larger cities within it have their own police departments. Imperial Beach is not one of these. It contracts with the county sheriff for most aspects of high-end enforcement and investigation, including homicide.

  At three in the morning, I am wiping sleep from my eyes as I steer Lena into one of the parking spaces marked VISITOR outside the sheriff’s Imperial Beach station.

  In law school I savored the notion that only emergency room physicians kept hours like this, an illusion that twenty years of criminal law practice has crushed.

  According to Jonah, he has not been arrested, only detained. Still, they allowed him to make one phone call, and he placed it to my pager. In turn, I called Mary and told her I would try to bring him home. She is worried sick. I then called Harry. I decided not to wake Susan. Fortunately, she has taken Sarah for the night.

  From my conversation with Jonah, he required two things: legal advice and clothes. I asked him about the second, and he told me he would explain when I got here.

  For a Saturday morning the place is quiet, a drunk being hauled out of the back of a squad car for his turn on the intoxalizer. I grab the shopping bag on the front seat next to me and move quickly through the parking lot to the entry and under the bright fluorescent lights of the lobby. Here the walls are an antiseptic shade of white, functional linoleum tiles on the floor, and bulletproof glass. The cops are on the other side.

  A big black woman in a halter top and shorts that fit her like a glove is arguing with the booking sergeant at a counter inside. I can see them through the glass. Her voice is muted by the thick wall of acrylic. Still she makes herself heard, insisting she was just looking for a ride when the cops happened on her at the curb. Every other word out of her mouth is “entrapment.” She looks at me through the glass and says it one more time, in my face as if maybe she’s not pronouncing the word right—like “open, sesame.” She says it a couple of more times, and they haul her away, through a door that opens electronically and leads to the bowels of the building and the holding cells.

  The cop gives a quick shove with his feet, and his chair wheels from the booking desk to the public counter where I am standing.

  “What can I do for you?”

  I slip a business card into the sliver of an opening in the stainless-steel frame around the glass. I speak into the small microphone embedded in two inches of bulletproof acrylic.

  “I represent Mr. Jonah Hale. He’s being detained. I’d like to see him.”

  The cop on the other side picks up my business card and looks at it, then at me. “You got a bar card?”

  I fish it out of my wallet and the sergeant takes it, my passport to the nether regions, then writes my name, bar number, and time on the log in front of him.

  “Have a seat,” he tells me.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Hale now.”

  “I’ll convey the message,” he says. “Have a seat.”

  I hit the hard bench across the room, check the time, and start counting floor tiles. It is then that I notice I have slipped my feet into my loafers sans socks; white ankles beneath the cuff of my pants. I cool my heels for several minutes and wonder if I am going to get any sleep this night.

  “Mr. Madriani.”

  When I look up there’s a tall man standing there, suit and tie, close-cropped hair, and slender build. He has a pleasant smile, though his dark face has business written all over it.

  “I’m Lieutenant Avery.” He hands me a business card:

  Floyd Avery,

  Detective Lieutenant

  HOMICIDE/ROBBERY DIVISION

  I take his card and introduce myself.

  “I understand you’re here to collect Mr. Hale. He’s in the back,” he says.

>   “Is he free to go?”

  “I thought we could talk for a minute,” says Avery. Never-never land: not under arrest, but not exactly free either.

  Avery leads the way. By the time his hand hits the knob on the door, the buzzer erupts, triggered by the cop behind the glass, and we are through. He takes me down a short corridor, stops at a door and opens it.

  Inside I can see Jonah sitting at a table. As soon as he sees me, he’s on his feet, a look of relief. He’s dressed in an orange jumpsuit with large black letters stenciled across the front as if he were the property of the county jail.

  As I enter the room, I see another man lurking in the corner, a mirror centered in the far wall, the distinct impression there are other eyes watching us: one-way glass.

  “This is Sergeant Greely,” says Avery. “Bob, this is Attorney Madriani.”

  I nod. We don’t shake hands. It isn’t that cordial.

  “Is my client under arrest?” I ask.

  “No.” There is no hesitation from Avery.

  “May I ask where his clothes are? Why the jail jumper?”

  “We sent them to trace evidence.” Greely is more direct. The aggressive one.

  I give him a questioning look. “I take it you have a search warrant?”

  “We don’t need one to search what he’s wearing,” says Greely.

  “Really? If you’re searching his pockets for weapons, for evidence of contraband, maybe,” I tell him. “But if you’re vacuuming his clothes for trace evidence, hair and fibers, I beg to differ.”

  “Your client volunteered.” Avery rescues his partner.

  Until this moment I hadn’t been paying much attention to Jonah, who is still standing behind the table, two hands planted firmly on the edge.

  “Are you all right?” I ask him.

  “Fine.”

  “Have you taken a statement from him?”

  “Nothing you could call formal,” says Greely.

  “What does that mean?”

  “We haven’t taken any statement,” says Avery.

  “How long have you been here?” I turn back to Jonah.

  He looks to his wrist, then realizes his watch is gone. He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not sure.”

  “Are you analyzing his watch as well?”

  “We’ll give him his valuables when he leaves,” says Greely.

  “You better get ’em ready, because unless he’s under arrest, we’re leaving now.”

  “Why the hurry?” says Greely. “We’re just trying to get some information.”

  “Did you read my client his rights?”

  “We didn’t think it was necessary,” says Avery. “We haven’t asked him any questions.”

  “And you’re going to tell me next that he doesn’t fall within your scope of suspicion?”

  Avery makes a face as if he might argue the point.

  Jonah actually smiles. “I let them take my clothes. They said it might help to clear me. I didn’t think there was anything wrong.”

  “Clear him of what?” I turn this on Avery. I hand Jonah the brown paper shopping bag. Inside is a gray cotton sweatsuit, large, one size fits all, something I grabbed from the back of my closet.

  “We’re investigating the death of Zolanda Suade. You’re not going to tell me you haven’t heard?”

  I shake my head, as if this doesn’t compute, the best I can do under the circumstances. “If you have evidence against my client, maybe you can enlighten me.”

  “We might be able to clear your client and move on,” says Avery. “That is, if he’s willing to cooperate.”

  “Sounds like he already has.”

  “We’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “I’ll bet you would. It’s not going to happen tonight.” I have no idea what Jonah would say, or where he’s been.

  “We picked your client up out on the Strand,” says Avery. “Sitting on the beach, looking at the water.”

  This is a stone’s throw from the scene of the crime. Avery lets this information settle on me for effect, measuring how I react. I don’t.

  “It was a nice night,” I tell him. “Maybe he wanted to look at the stars.”

  “His car was parked illegally,” says Greely. “Partway on the road. He’s lucky it didn’t get nailed. Traffic out there moves at a clip,” he says.

  “I’m sure my client appreciates your help. Where is his car?”

  “Sheriff’s impound. Maybe you’d like to talk to your client alone for a moment,” says Avery. “Perhaps he would like to make a statement.”

  “If I talk to my client, it won’t be here.” I look at the one-way glass and wonder if there’s a lip-reader on the other side.

  “Sounds like your client has something to hide, Counselor.” Greely would like to get into it with me.

  “Bob.” Avery stops him.

  “Well, he shouldn’t object to a gunshot residue test.” Greely debates this with Avery as if it were a question between the two of them.

  “You’re not conducting any tests unless you have a search warrant, or you want to arrest my client.” They don’t have enough evidence for an arrest, that much is clear. If they did, Jonah would be in a cell.

  “Take about two minutes,” says Greely. “A few squares of cotton wipes on his hands. No pain. If he’s got nothing to hide, he can’t object to that.”

  Jonah offers an expression as if it might be okay with him.

  “He can, and he does,” I tell Greely.

  I glance at Jonah’s hands. They appear soiled. I don’t know what’s on them any more than Greely does. But consenting to anything the cops want in a case like this is against a lawyer’s religion. The fact is that at this moment I’m working from the same assumption as Avery and Greely. Jonah may have done it.

  There’s a tap on the door. Avery gets it. He opens it just a crack. Whoever is on the other side passes him a slip of paper. Quickly he reads the note, then folds it in a neat little square and puts it in his pocket.

  “Is there a place where my client can change?”

  “Sure,” says Avery. He opens the door wide this time. “Bathroom’s right down the hall. You can leave the jumpsuit on the hook behind the door.”

  Jonah heads down the hall to change.

  “I’d like his valuables, perhaps his shoes?”

  “Valuables you can have. His shoes already went to trace evidence,” says Avery.

  “At three in the morning?”

  “We’re a full-service agency,” he says.

  “Right. And I assume you wouldn’t have tried to take residue off his watch?”

  The look on Greely’s face tells me he has not thought of this. I can sense the gears turning. Before Avery can stop him, Greely is whispering in his ear, wondering, I am sure, if the consent they extracted from Jonah would cover the watch. Avery’s shaking his head, coming down on the side of caution. When the lawyer is in place, you don’t play games. It’s a good way to draw a motion to suppress, which I’ll no doubt file in any event. But games with the watch at this late a stage would add fuel to the fire. Avery calls the desk sergeant and a couple of minutes later just as Jonah returns with the empty paper bag, in bare feet, a uniformed cop delivers a good-sized manila envelope. Avery takes it and hands it to me.

  I open it on the desk and Jonah does inventory, taking out his watch and ring. He puts them on.

  “Where are the keys to my car?”

  “Those we will keep,” says Avery. “Until we’re finished with the vehicle.”

  “What do you mean, ‘finished’?” I ask.

  “We have a search warrant for the car. We just obtained it. As we were standing here talking,” he tells me. He has this in his hand, brought to him by the desk serge
ant when he delivered the envelope. He shows it to me.

  “Based on what?”

  “Where’re my cigars?” says Jonah.

  Before Avery can respond, I have my answer.

  “The cigars in question appear to match one we found at the scene,” says Avery. “That, coupled with your client’s name all over some press releases at the victim’s office, was enough for the judge to allow us to look in his car.”

  “I’ll give you a lift home,” I tell Jonah.

  “I understand you were at the scene tonight.” Avery’s talking to me. He says this as we are heading to the door. “With John Brower. Nice of him to show you around.”

  I don’t respond.

  “What exactly is your connection?”

  “Just an acquaintance,” I tell him.

  “And I suppose he knew you were representing Mr. Hale at the time?”

  “I don’t know if he did or not.” I’m trying to keep Brower out of trouble.

  “He also gave us a cigar,” says Avery. “Says your client gave it to him. And some information about threats Mr. Hale made against the victim, at a meeting in your office.”

  This is not looking good. Jonah and I are moving swiftly now down the short corridor, his naked feet padding along on the hard linoleum behind me.

  As my hand reaches for the knob on the door leading into the lobby, Avery issues his last shot. “I wouldn’t want Mr. Hale to be taking any long trips for a while.”

  “We’ll keep it in mind.”

  TEN

  * * *

  This morning I don’t get into the office until ten. I called Susan from the house before I left, filled her in, what little I knew, and told her to stay away from Brower until we could talk. The last thing I need is Susan browbeating one of her investigators for assisting the cops. It’s a short walk to tampering with a witness, and I’m trying to keep Susan out of it. We had to cut it short as she had to get the kids to soccer practice, Sarah included.