by Paul Coggins
“On what? Whether we take Fine’s case or whether I get out alive?”
“Both.”
Step two, check.
Now for the dicey move. Blindside Eva with the news. Send her reeling away from the firm and Cash’s circle of hell.
He started the day the same way he planned to end it. As a certified grade A asshole. On the way to work, he picked up a latte for him, none for Eva. He blew past her at the reception desk without a word.
“Hey,” she said, “where’s mine?”
He stopped and stared at her. “In case you’ve forgotten the roles here, I’m the boss, and you’re what we refer to in Texas as an employee at will. That means it’s your job to fetch coffee for me, not the other way around.”
“Yes sir.” She snapped off a salute.
“The next time you’re in my office, take a close look at the diplomas on the wall, especially the one that reads Juris Doctor. The J.D. behind my name stands for Just Desserts. I busted my ass in law school, so that now I get to savor the good things in life.” He sipped the latte and smacked his lips.
“And here I thought the J.D. stood for Justa Dipshit.” She smiled.
He didn’t.
“Besides,” she went on, “before you rewrite the history of your law school days, remember that your classmates voted you the student most likely not only to be a top criminal defense lawyer but also the one most likely to need a top criminal defense lawyer. Bullseye on both counts.”
“Allow me to remind you, Miss G.E.D., that you never set foot in a college, much less a law school.” Hitting her where it hurt.
“Prick,” she said under her breath.
“I heard that.”
“I made sure you did.”
He entered his office and slammed the door behind him. Sat behind the desk to calm down.
The latte tasted bitter, reminding him how much he hated frou-frou coffees. In his book, a latte was a good brew spoiled.
***
Bunkered behind his boomerang-shaped desk, Goldberg shuffled papers. Cash could always tell when the old man was trying to look too busy to bog down in one of Cash’s crackpot conspiracies.
“Have you told Eva?” Goldy spoke without looking up.
Seated across the desk, Cash deleted messages on his iPhone. Two could play the too-busy-to-be-bothered game. “I thought we’d break the news to her together.”
“Should’ve known you’d put me in the line of fire.” Goldy stopped shuffling and looked up. “You going to tell her about the late-night visit from the sicario?”
Cash shook his head.
“Then what reason will you give for changing your mind about taking Fine’s case?”
“We will keep it short and simple. The firm takes cases for three reasons: money, publicity, and principle.”
Goldy snorted in disgust. “You kissed the money goodbye.”
“Right, but the case is high profile, and as you pointed out yesterday, there’s a First Amendment issue at play. In the immortal words of Meat Loaf, ‘Two out of three ain’t bad.’”
“Hellfire,” Goldy said, “I was bullshitting about the principle to get my hands on the dough. Fine’s nothing but a high-tech pimp.”
“Then we’d better wring a ton of publicity out of this sucker, cause that’s all we’ve got left.”
***
Cash waited until five o’clock to summon Eva into Goldy’s office. On the way in, she fired the first shot. “Want me to fetch you a latte, Mister McCahill?”
“Make it a scotch and soda instead,” Cash said.
She flashed a “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding” look before detouring to the bar.
“The good stuff’s on the bottom shelf,” he said, “hidden behind the cheap brands.”
She muttered while mixing the drink and walking to Cash. Plopped the glass on the desk, hard enough to slosh some over the side.
“Better fix yourself a stiff one too,” Goldy said to Eva.
“I’ll take the bad news straight,” she said.
Cash stared into his drink. “How do you know that it’s bad news?”
“Two sure signs: First, you stalled until quitting time to lay it on me. Second, neither of you has the balls to do this alone.”
Excellent points. “Some would consider landing a new client good news.” Cash’s voice trailed off.
“Spit it out,” she said.
So much for blindsiding Eva. The bruja could smell a storm a mile away and Cash’s B.S. from two miles.
“We’re taking Fine’s case,” Cash said.
No hair-trigger explosion from her. Instead, a slow burn built into a seethe. “I’ll have that drink now.” She poured herself a vodka, killed the shot, and turned to Cash. “No, we’re not. We voted two-to-one—”
Cash cut her off. “I changed my vote.”
“You want to explain why?” It sounded more like a command than a question.
Goldy went back to shuffling papers, eyes glued to the desk. Cash offered the best bad excuse he had. “We need the publicity.”
She pointed to Cash. “You’re lying.” Then turned on Goldy. “And by letting him spout this bullshit, you’re just as bad. Something has changed since we voted against taking the case. What happened?”
“We came to our senses,” Cash said in his most patronizing tone, “and realized there are only two votes here, not three. From now on, the office runs on a simple rule: one lawyer, one vote.”
“You’ve been acting like a dick all day.” The angrier she grew, the stronger her accent. “What gives?”
“This is not up for debate,” Cash said. “Take it or leave it. That’s how the new world order works.”
“When you two gentlemen decide to give women the vote, call me and I’ll come back.” She slammed the office door on her way out.
The next explosion was the slamming of the door to the outside world.
Goldberg turned ashen. “What the hell are you doing? I agreed to try the case with you, but not at the cost of losing Eva. Run after her and apologize.”
“She owes me an apology.” Said without an ounce of conviction.
Goldberg snorted. “She’s as stubborn as you are. That’s not going to happen.”
“Then we soldier on without her.”
The color flooded back into Goldy’s face, now red and ruddy. “We can’t make it without her.”
“No one is indispensable, old man, not even you. Fall in line or follow her out the door.”
“But’s it my goddam firm!” Goldy shouted.
Cash poured himself another shot. Straight scotch this time. “Before you go there, better consider who brings in all the work these days.” His voice remained steadier than the hand that held the drink.
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” Goldy stood and walked stiffly from the office. No goodbye. No slamming of the door.
No turning back now.
Cash raised the shot glass and toasted himself on a job well done. The drink tasted bitter. Bitter as a latte.
Steps three and four of Operation Adios, double check.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
While waiting for a table, Cash leaned in for a kiss. Maggie stiff-armed him, as her eyes swept across the packed restaurant. “Not here.” Her outfit shouted hands off. Baggy jeans and a loose-fitting shirt buttoned to the chin.
Rise catered to a quiche-and-quinoa crowd that skewed female, white, well-off, and welded to their seats for hours. Today proved no exception.
Definitely not Cash’s pick for a place to chow down. Nor had it ever before been Maggie’s first choice, or even her hundredth.
Cash couldn’t shake a sense of bad news brewing. Maggie, a lover of the big three “T”s in Texas (Tequila, Tex-Mex, and Tortillas), had steered him to a French bistro.
At Maggie’s request, they scored the most secluded table in the back. Her tradeoff became clear. She was willing to sacrifice salsa for the certainty of not seeing a colleague. They were officiall
y on the down low.
Cash mustered the courage to ask, “Are you breaking up with me?”
“Are you representing Toby Fine?”
“That’s what I call a T-I-T,” he said. “Typical investigator trick. Answering a question with a question.”
“Whereas what you just did is a T-A-T. A typical attorney trick. Refusing to give a straight, yes-or-no answer.”
“So I guess that it’s tit for tat. Or in this case, tat for tit.” He smiled.
She didn’t. “Are you Fine’s new lawyer?” More fire in her voice the second time.
“Guilty as charged,” he said.
“I hope that will be your client’s plea at his re-arraignment.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Disappointment clouded her eyes, or perhaps it was pain. “You know damn well that I’m the case agent on Fine.”
“So?”
“You have to choose: Fine or me?”
The waitress returned, giving Cash a reprieve while she took their orders. His, eggs benedict, turkey bacon, and wheat toast with orange marmalade. Hers, a small Caesar salad and a crab soufflé. Iced tea for both.
The orders in, he turned back to Maggie. “I don’t have a choice. You know the deal I cut to get out of Mexico alive. La Tigra called in the chit. I have to represent Fine and get him off.”
“Even if it tanks my career?”
“This is La Tigra we’re talking about.” His voice rose several decibels before he caught himself. “I so much as balk at her command, and she kills me and everyone I care about. That includes Eva, Goldy, and lord knows who else. Everybody but you.”
“How can you be sure I’m off limits?” she said.
“Two words: Kiki Camarena. The cartels learned a hard lesson after Quintero’s thugs tortured and killed Kiki. They could murder with impunity Mexican police, prosecutors, judges, priests, and reporters. From time to time, they could even get away with snuffing a U.S. citizen or two. But kill one DEA agent….”
He stopped cold, haunted by photos that had crossed his desk during his stint as a federal prosecutor. Graphic shots of Kiki’s charred and mutilated corpse. Cash hadn’t known the deceased but had worked with DEA agents who did. Those agents spent the better part of their careers and spilled buckets of blood to bring the killers to justice.
Or what passed for it in this world.
Sixteen years after surrendering his DOJ credentials, Cash still couldn’t flush the images from his memory. He went on. “Kill one agent, and the feds will rain down on the cartels their full fire and fury for decades. That’s too much heat, even for Satan.”
Maggie probed her salad with a fork. “You know how this will look to my bosses.”
“I get that the brass don’t trust me,” Cash said, “but they should have a little faith in you. You’ve never crossed the line with me and never would.”
“None of that matters. The appearance of impropriety does. It will look like I’m in bed with you because…well, because I am in bed with you. And God forbid we lose this one.” She shuddered. “I’ll be the scapegoat, with the scarlet letter stamped on my forehead. The dreaded ‘A’ for acquittal.”
He needed something stronger than iced tea. “What is it you want me to do?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Nothing. Do absolutely nothing but what you always do. Defend the indefensible. If the choice boils down to career suicide for me or certain death for you, it’s a no-brainer. Come Monday, I’ll tell Bill Graves to take me off the case.”
“Probably just as well, since I have to win this one.”
“Win? No, you don’t get off the hook that easy.” Maggie reached into her purse and pulled out a photo. Placed it on the table between them. “You may score a not guilty verdict for the scumbag, but it won’t be a victory. At least you won’t feel like celebrating.”
Cash stared at the shot of a dark-haired, brown-skinned girl tied spread-eagle to a bed. Wearing nothing but a blindfold, a ball gag, and a leather collar around her neck. Burn marks dotted her small breasts.
She was very thin. Very young. And very dead.
“Helen—that was her American name—was smuggled to Dallas from Cambodia, via Mexico.” Maggie sounded hoarse. “Her dirt-poor family paid the equivalent of seventy-five dollars to a trafficker, who promised that their little girl would become a nurse over here. Work as a maid for a rich family by day. Attend nursing school at night. In no time, she’d be sending money back home. That was the sales pitch anyway.”
She paused to compose herself. “Instead, the people you’re working for brought her to Dallas and placed a fetish ad in the Backdoor, alerting the pervs that there was a new girl in town. A virgin up for anything, from mild to wild.”
Another pause before she went on. “No telling how much she made for La Tigra and Fine during her ten months in hell.”
“How old was she?” Cash immediately regretted asking. What the hell did it matter whether she was sixteen, thirty-six, or sixty-six? No one deserved to die like that.
Check that. Cash could think of one person who deserved it.
“Fifteen,” she said. “But small as she was, she passed for younger. Made her that much more valuable to your client.”
By the time the entrees arrived, Cash had lost his appetite for anything but a stiff drink. Doubted that one would do the trick.
Maggie had brought the picture to try to dissuade him from representing Fine. She ended up using it to make him feel like shit for doing so.
For Maggie, backup mission accomplished.
For Cash, another unshakeable image on the endless loop inside his head.
Helen, meet Kiki.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I see the circus is back in town.” Bailiff Carlos Mendoza recycled the line whenever Cash dared enter Judge Ferguson’s courtroom—a.k.a., “Fergatory.”
Mendoza had a stooped posture and long arms that almost literally made him a knuckle-dragger. The sloping forehead pegged him as the prime candidate for the missing link.
Cash resorted to his standard comeback. “Said the clown to the magician.”
“If you’re a magician,” Mendoza said, “do me a favor and make yourself disappear.”
Paula Marshall led a small army into the courtroom, interrupting the banter between the bailiff and Cash. The presence of a deal lawyer like Paula in court could mean only one thing. A deep pocket client of Powell, Ingram & Gardner had money on the line.
A shit ton of it.
Eva brought up the rear. Though she and Cash had parted ways only two weeks ago, she seemed different. More polished. Goth phase gone.
A tight bun tamed her wild hair, and her wardrobe had undergone a serious upgrade. She and Paula must be shopping at the same place. Both wore tailored St. John suits.
He waved to Eva, who didn’t wave back. No doubt still pissed about the breakup of the firm. Someday she’d thank him for that.
Or so he assured himself.
Lawyers and litigants packed the wooden benches. Ah, the beauty of docket day. The great leveler of the bar. The first Monday of the month at 9:00 a.m. sharp brought together all the parties on Ferguson’s dance card for the next four weeks.
Clients and counsel decked out in everything from Goodwill to Gucci. Solo shysters rubbed shoulders with big firm Brahmin. Drug mules breathed the same stale air as Fortune 500 titans. Con men cooled their heels alongside CEOs.
As if there was a difference.
With seating space scarce, Cash led Toby Fine to the defense table, a bold move designed to prompt the court to call his matter first.
FUFO. First up, first out.
Puffy and pale in the best of times, Fine turned bulky and bluish in the worst. Like now. He had a pained look.
The bailiff banged the gavel and announced the arrival of the judge. In lumbered the Honorable Samuel Clemens Ferguson III. Called Fergy behind his back.
With his square jaw and barrel chest, Fergy would have been an imposing figure in th
e flesh. The black robe exaggerated the effect of an almighty being, before whom mere mortals quaked.
Everyone stood. Cash was the last up and first down.
Fergy cleared his throat. “Mister McCahill, it has been a good while since you last graced my courtroom. I see you managed to regain your license in time to appear as Mister Fine’s new counsel of record.” His tone dripped with equal parts condescension and contempt.
Cash stood. “I trust that Your Honor is as excited to have me back, as I am to be here.”
The judge’s frown said otherwise. “While you’re in my courtroom, I strongly suggest that you avoid your trademark theatrics and focus on retaining that precious license.”
“I accept the challenge, Your Honor.” Cash added a bounce to his voice. “But I always thought of it as our courtroom.”
The judge harrumphed. “Therein lies the crux of your problem. That and your brash assumption I would call your case first this morning.”
Fine quaked. Cash didn’t.
“Yes,” Cash said. “I assume you’ll want to have us on our way sooner, rather than later.”
“’Tis a pity for both of us that you’re dead last on today’s docket. Vacate the defense table, before I have my bailiff remove you.”
Mendoza rose from his chair and took a step toward Cash. The move would’ve been more intimidating if the Neanderthal hadn’t knocked over his coffee cup while rising. He sopped up the spill with the docket sheet.
The judge glared at the bailiff, then at Cash. “Find a place on the bench, Mister McCahill, and wait your turn. It will likely be late afternoon before I deal with your matter.”
To smiles and titters from the crowd, Cash and his client packed up and schlepped toward the back. As Cash passed Paula on the front row, she slipped him a note:
CAN WE TALK AT THE BREAK?
He nodded and kept walking. Good. He had a bone to pick with her. Eager to find out why she and Stewart Powell had foisted Rhoden on Marty Biddle. Why would anyone recommend that dirtbag to anybody for anything?
Fine found a landing place on the left. Cash broke right and squeezed between Eva and a baby faced associate on Team Powell. Eva’s eyes remained riveted on the judge.
