Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “Lots of books.” I tried to think back. Seemed like a century ago, though it was closer to a quarter of that. “Catcher in the Rye. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”

  “I think we s’posed to read that Catcher book in high school. Don’t know the other one.”

  “They may not teach it. I guess I liked it because I’m from Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, yeah? I got a uncle live in Brooklyn. In Bed-Stuy.”

  “That’s where I’m from.”

  Her eyes narrowed into a quizzical squint. “But ain’t that mostly black?”

  “Yes, it is. And it was when I was there, too.” That was in the 1970s, not the best of times for Bedford-Stuyvesant, once known as the biggest ghetto in the U.S. Not the best place for a pale-skinned white girl like me to be living, either.

  Her expression was appraising now, as if trying to gauge exactly who I was in light of this new information. I must have passed some test, because her expression softened and she smiled.

  I gave Tina my card which she stuck in her book.

  “Call me anytime, if you have questions. Or want to talk about books.”

  “Okay, Ms. McRae.”

  “Call me Sam.”

  Three raps on the door and Shanae poked her head in. I checked my watch. She’d been away an hour, to the minute.

  “You done, right?” she said. “I need to talk to you.” To Tina, she said, “Go downstairs and wait,” dismissing her with a wave of her hand.

  The animation drained from Tina’s expression as she rose. Glaring at her mother, she slunk out and closed the door.

  Shanae shook her head. “That girl trouble. She need to clean up her act, you see what I’m sayin’?”

  “She’s at that age, I guess.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t know how much longer she gonna live, if she keep up her bullshit.”

  “Well, this is her first offense, so to speak. It should go pretty smoothly. It may take a month or two before we get a hearing before a master. A master is like a junior judge—”

  Shanae dipped her chin, in a brief nod. “Fine,” she said. “You jus’ let me know when her court date is. I gots another problem to talk to you about.”

  I was surprised she didn’t have more questions about Tina’s situation, since she’d been so adamant about staying for the interview. “What is it?”

  “You do child support cases?” she asked, taking the seat she’d vacated an hour before.

  “Yes.”

  “I need a lawyer,” she said. “My girl’s father owe me child support. I wanna do sumpin’ ’bout it.”

  “I’d be happy to help you,” I said, doubting my own words. There was no conflict of interest that I could see. And I could always use the work. “I would have to charge my regular fee, though.”

  I thought that might end the discussion. “I can work that out,” she said. “My brother’ll lend me the money.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wondered if she’d discussed it with her brother and why she hadn’t asked him for help when she failed to qualify for public defender services. I decided to get some case particulars, since I always give an initial free consult.

  According to Shanae, Rodney Fisher had acknowledged paternity of Tina a few years after she was born, though he and Shanae had never married. He’d paid child support, not always regularly, since then. Shanae said he was making more money now and she wanted to sue for past-due support and seek an increase in his monthly obligation.

  “Rodney making way more money than he say he does.” A worldly-wise smirk creased her face. “Under-the-table money, you see what I’m sayin’?”

  “I get your drift. How do you know this? Off-the-books earnings can be difficult, if not impossible, to prove.”

  “I got a friend been looking into this. He can tell you. See, Rodney own a pawn shop. I think a lot of money coming in that ain’t making it onto the books. Unnerstan?”

  “I’d like to talk to your friend,” I said. “And see any documentation you have on his income, along with a copy of the child support order.”

  “Oh, I can get that for you. Make me sick. I had to take another job, since Giant cut back my hours. Sons of bitches. And that worthless niggah think he can screw me outta my child support. Well, we’ll just see ’bout that.”

  “As we discussed, it’ll be three hundred dollars to handle your daughter’s case. For your case, I’ll have to ask for a two thousand dollar retainer up front,” I said. “If the retainer’s used up, I’ll bill you monthly. I need payment by cashier’s check or money order.”

  Without batting an eye, she said, “Okay.” I gritted my teeth thinking about this woman’s temerity to go poor-mouthing for a referral from the public defender’s office. Should have asked for four grand on the child support case.

  I pulled up the retainer agreement for Tina’s case and a release form to get access to her school information. I also opened a standard form for Shanae’s case, and typed in the retainer amount before printing the papers.

  I told her to read them over and invited her to ask questions. She read and signed them without comment. Just to be sure, I reviewed the main terms with her. Shanae handed me a $300 money order for Tina’s case. Seeing that she had come with payment in hand made me feel better.

  “I’ll start work on your child support case after I get the two thousand dollars,” I reminded Shanae. I made copies of the retainer agreement for her and her brother and handed her another business card.

  “All right. Thank you, Ms. McRae.”

  Her sudden politeness was a welcome change. “Call me Sam,” I said. “See you later.”

  Shanae strode out. It was the last time I saw her alive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Assistant State’s Attorney Ellen Martinez was nothing, if not completely organized. When I stopped by her office to talk about Tina Jackson, she retrieved the girl’s file in an instant—a quick walk to a file cabinet and a glance in one drawer. She wore a white suit. I searched for a spot or stray hair and came up empty. People that neat and organized should be shot.

  “Tina Jackson. Let’s see.” Martinez rocked in her high-backed chair, flipping through the file. She stopped, her eyebrow arched. “First offense. They might have let her slide at intake, if she hadn’t broken that poor woman’s arm.”

  “That was an accident,” I said. “She never meant to hurt her.”

  “Little Tina has a mouth on her, too, says here.”

  “I think her talk is bigger than her walk.”

  Martinez fixed me with a knowing look. “Really? Well, she’s no stranger to the system.”

  “I thought you said this was her first offense.”

  “It is. I’m talking about social services.” She flipped to another page, placed the file on the desk and tapped a pale pink fingernail on a copy of a court order. “Tina’s mother, Shanae Jackson, was ordered into rehab five years ago. She was a crack addict, selling for extra money. None of this might have come out if it hadn’t been for the abuse.”

  “Abuse?”

  “A doctor noticed Tina’s bruises. It took some doing, but he squeezed the story out of her. Shanae had mood swings. A tendency to fly into rages. One word could set her off. Used to take it out on Tina with an extension cord. One time, she threatened Tina with her own softball bat.” Martinez spoke matter-of-factly, like this was the kind of story she’d told many times before. “Clearly, Ms. Jackson had anger management problems, probably aggravated by the crack.”

  I nodded. Obviously, there was more than the usual mother-daughter friction between Shanae and Tina. “So Tina would have been about eight at the time. Where did social services place her?”

  “With the dad, Rodney Fisher. Shanae’s brother came down from New York to contest it, but his concerns were dismissed as personal animosity.”

  “How long did Tina live with Fisher?”

  “Close to three years. Shanae was in rehab maybe a year of that time. She filed a petition to regain custody after that. It drag
ged out, but her brother kept paying the legal bills so . . . .” Martinez’s mouth twisted into a look of wry distaste. “The case kept going until Shanae got what she wanted.”

  I nodded and jotted this information on my notepad. It could be important, not only for Tina’s case, but Shanae’s request for child support. I wondered if I should feel embarrassed that I hadn’t thought to question my own clients on these matters.

  Martinez must have read my mind. “I only know this because I’ve had the file long enough to make some inquiries.” She paused and sat up straighter. “And I’ve been handling juvenile cases long enough to know what inquiries to make.”

  And you obviously haven’t, I mentally finished her statement. “Well, thank you for letting me know,” I said, trying to maintain a semblance of poise. “Could I get a copy of your paperwork for my file?”

  “Certainly. Happy to help in any way I can.”

  I reached for the file. “May I take a look?”

  She placed it in my hands. “Knock yourself out.”

  I went through the documentation. Along with what Shanae had given me, I found court filings, DSS forms, and other paperwork related to her rehab, Tina’s temporary placement with her father, and the subsequent custody proceeding. I indicated what I wanted copied, and Martinez stepped out with the file a moment to find a secretary to handle it.

  “Thanks,” I said, upon her return. “So what was your point in bringing all this up?”

  “Tina’s had it rough. A mostly absent father. A mother with problems of her own.” Martinez rounded her desk and sat. “She’s reached an age where she’s starting to act out. What she does now could mean the difference between staying straight and going off the rails. This first offense could be a warning.”

  “So what’s the bottom line?”

  “This is her first offense.” Martinez toyed with the bent corner of another file, smoothing it with her thumb. “But given the violent nature of the crime and her personal history, I don’t want her to get off with a mere slap on the wrist. I’m asking for six months detention, counseling, and restitution for the victim’s medical bills.”

  I stared at her. “Detention? You’re kidding, right?”

  Martinez shook her head. “I think Tina needs some time in a structured environment. If she’s good, they’ll probably allow weekend visits with mom.”

  “Look, I know I haven’t handled a lot of juvenile cases, but I’ve done criminal work. I can think of adults with priors who’ve pled for better deals than this. What about community service?”

  Martinez tucked a stray wisp of dark hair behind her ear and leaned forward. “Juvenile crime is a growing problem in this county,” she droned, as if narrating a documentary. “Especially among girls. And this wasn’t a minor crime. An elderly woman was hurt. Tina and others like her need to understand there are serious consequences for that.” She settled back in her chair and resumed rocking. That simple action irritated me. “Besides,” she said. “I think this incident is more than a fluke. I think it’s a cry for help.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But to lock her up? The punishment seems out of proportion to the crime. Would you settle for fifty hours of community service and court-ordered counseling?”

  Martinez crossed her legs, giving me that look of smug assuredness that came from knowing the juvenile master would take her word as gospel and I was just another defense attorney. Scum.

  “This isn’t negotiable,” she said. “If you don’t like it, you can always make your pitch to Master Cain.”

  “You can bet on it,” I said. “I trust Cain isn’t going to add to the overcrowding at detention centers by locking up a kid on a first offense, just because she’s suffered a few hard knocks. Or comes from the wrong neighborhood.”

  It was Martinez’s turn to frown. “This has nothing to do with Tina’s neighborhood.”

  “No, of course not. Or her race either, I’m sure.” I leaned forward and Martinez stopped rocking. A minor victory. “Just tell me, when was the last time you sent a white, middle-class kid off to juvie jail for a purse-snatching and a first offense at that? Has it ever happened?”

  Martinez said nothing. Her assistant came in and handed Martinez the file and the copies. Martinez gave the copies to me.

  “I guess that about wraps it up,” she said.

  She gave me a prim nod and we both rose and shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  Yeah, right, I thought. I felt blindsided by what Martinez had told me, but it was the kind of thing that would have come out sooner or later. Better to learn it now than the hard way later.

  What I didn’t realize was how many more surprises Tina’s case had in store for me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I spent a leisurely hour or so in court, watching skittish defendants run through countless guilty plea litanies. Waiting for my client’s case to be called gave him plenty of time to learn his lines. He pled to reckless endangerment after being charged with assault. He had drug-related priors too. The assistant state’s attorney must have felt generous when we worked out the deal, because he sought only probation before judgment and community service. When did prosecutors start being so nice?

  Faint anxiety distracted me. I wondered if my erstwhile affair with one of the State’s Attorney’s most senior prosecutors had leaked out. Could it be that other ASAs were treating me with kid gloves because of that? Didn’t seem likely.

  My decision to break off the affair with the very-married Ray Mardovich hadn’t been easy. And I felt wary whenever I went to court. I’d catch myself looking for Ray and hoping I wouldn’t see him (while part of me still hoped I would).

  My client went through the guilty plea motions with admirable poise. As I gathered my things and turned to leave, I thought I saw the ASA wink at me as the bailiff called the next case. Could have been my imagination or something in his eye. Paranoid thoughts of my relationship with Ray leaking out plagued me again. If there had been a leak, I hoped the prosecutor wasn’t hoping for an encore. Good plea bargains in exchange for good head? What a comforting thought.

  If this prosecutor was seeking anything more than professional courtesy, he was wasting his time. My episode with Ray had taught me not to shit where you eat.

  As I weaved my way through the courthouse crowd—the usual downtrodden lot in shiny, off-the-rack suits reserved for weddings and funerals—I saw ASA Kaitlyn Farrell approaching, balancing a stack of files. Kait’s one of the good ones—always deals fair and square—and a great source of inside information. I flagged her down and drew her aside for some quick face time.

  “Sam!” she said. “You’re not here to see me, are you?”

  “Naw. Nothing in your league. A juvenile matter and an assault.” Kait’s forte was major weapons charges. In Prince George’s County, enough gun and drug cases rolled through the system to support a whole unit. “But I’m heading out to meet Walt Shapiro on an interesting case.”

  Her eyes widened behind the black rectangular frames that complemented her dark brown hair. “Do tell. What kind of case are you handling with the Grand Master of PG County criminal lawyers? Anything where I might be on the other side?”

  “Doubtful. It’s an embezzlement case.”

  “White collar crime? My, my—we’re moving up in the world, aren’t we?” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Even Walt doesn’t do a whole lot of those.”

  “Consider the market. Most of the criminal work around here is in drugs and violent crime.” PG County had a drug trafficking and murder rate to rival its neighbor, Washington, DC. “I think Walt stumbled onto this one because it involves his nephew, Bradley Higgins.”

  “Really? What’s he like?”

  “All right, I guess. One of these young guys who’s into computer games, so he works for a computer gaming company. He works in accounting, has big ideas about going into business for himself someday. He’s okay, if you go for boyish blonds with too much family money and too litt
le sense.”

  Kait laughed, then looked thoughtful. “Embezzlement . . . not my bailiwick. But don’t kid yourself. Our Economic Crimes Unit has plenty of cases. Mortgage fraud is rampant in this county. I’m not sure which of their attorneys would handle embezzlement, though.”

  “Hold your horses. The company hasn’t even pressed charges yet. All they have on him is a phony vendor account they claim he created in order to steal from the company. Since he’s the only one authorized to create these accounts, naturally, he came under suspicion first.”

  “Sounds logical.”

  “Yes, but . . . ” I held up a finger for emphasis, “he was the one who reported the irregularity that led to the investigation of the account.”

  “So why would they suspect him?”

  “He reported it to his former supervisor but never put anything in writing. He thinks the supervisor took credit for finding the problem, since it was his job to spot these things. Anyway, the supervisor quit or was fired—it’s not clear which—and no one knows where he’s gone. Or at least no one’s telling.”

  “So all you have is his word about reporting the problem. And he could be lying to the company and you.”

  “Anything’s possible,” I said. “But I believe him. Besides, if the case against him is so clear cut, why didn’t they fire him instead of putting him on administrative leave pending an audit? Obviously, they need more evidence before they can take legal action.”

  I’d left out a few details. Sure, Brad’s old supervisor, a fellow named Darrell Cooper, could have taken credit for finding the phony account. Cooper, perhaps too conveniently, wasn’t around to confirm or deny it. The corporate headquarters had quickly sent a woman named Sondra Jones to take Cooper’s place. And what about the $5,000 they found hidden in Brad’s file cabinet? Not a smart place to hide stolen money, but who said criminals were always smart?

  Kait shifted the files to her other arm. “Sounds like a live one. But wait’ll you hear this!” She leaned in with a conspiratorial air. “Mardovich and his wife have split.”