“It sounds almost too good to be true.”
“I’m not promising anything other than to represent you zealously and that I believe this is your best chance.”
“What about a plea deal? My attorney’s been jabberin’ with the prosecutor about maybe getting a plea deal where I would plea to a misdemeanor charge for selling Class D contraband, and my sentence would be time served.”
“Well, how does that seem to be going? You’ve been in here over a month already, and this would still result in you having a criminal record. Do you really want to go down without a fight?”
“What if I wait and see if the plea deal is on the table before deciding if I want to fight. I just want to get the hell out of here. I don’t want to face forty years in this dump!”
Megders knew he was at an ethical crossroads here. Of course, he should tell this guy to go ahead and wait and see if a plea deal for a misdemeanor with time served was on the table. Or to at least tell him to inform his attorney that he would wait one more week to see if the prosecutor would agree to such a deal.
But Megders didn’t want this opportunity to slip out of his hands like a prize fish into the depths of the sea. He didn’t exactly fancy pulling the “I’m here to see my client” trick again anytime soon. Or ever again for that matter. And thus, although he knew there were a couple more hapless individuals in the same boat as Mr. Stephenson, he knew this was it. This was his one chance to be the guy to stick it to that pompous prick Senator Hutherton and smirk at him after his pet law was deemed unconstitutional. Sure, this wasn’t the last chance in the Republic of Selegania for such a thing to happen to SISA. But it was the last chance for him to be the one to do it. Plus, as an added bonus, he really did feel the law was one of the most egregiously hypocritical and unconstitutional pieces of filth to be passed in the Seleganian Senate.
Thus, what harm could a little lying do?
“Mr. Stephenson, listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you. There isn’t a chance in hell that plea agreement’s going to come through. I’ve been doing a little snooping around. I know you’re represented by Frank Sonnenville, who’s a damn good attorney, but I also happen to know that Deputy Prosecutor Andrew Meier—who’s prosecuting this case—has his hands tied to a dagger with explicit instructions to ram it into your heart. You see, that’s because District Attorney Ralph Hannensehn happens to be a good friend of Senator Hutherton. And Senator Hutherton happens to be the person who wrote this law and worked feverishly to get it passed.
“And I have it on good authority that Senator Hutherton is none too pleased that people have been using Smokeless Green with impunity. It’s a slap in the face to his bill. Sure, maybe down the road he’ll let prosecutorial discretion run its natural course, but as for right now he’s looking for someone to make an example of. Your name, sadly, happened to be mentioned in the papers more than those of the other two shop owners arrested for the same offense—maybe due to the amount you were caught with or maybe due to the fact you were busted by the chief of police himself, but regardless, you’re the big story.
“I overheard Senator Hutherton and D.A. Hannensehn talking last night at the Gentlemen of Selegania Club about your case, which is why I’m visiting you and not the other two defendants. The conversation went something like this:
‘Senator, are you sure we should offer no plea deal? I mean, it is Mr. Stephenson’s first arrest ever!’
‘Counselor, we have got to set an example.’ We’ve already discussed why Stephenson is the best one to be made an example out of. You can show your mercy by offering a plea deal to the other two.’”
In spite of the dim light, Megders was pretty sure he could see beads of sweat not merely forming on Stephenson’s forehead, or even inching their way down cautiously, but streaming down like small rivers. Thus, he knew he had said just about enough.
“I suppose you’re wondering what they’re waiting on then. After all, if they’re gonna stick it to you, why not just do it? Am I right?”
Stephenson’s head nodded slightly and a weak croak came out of his throat that sounded like the far-away shriek of an injured bat but that was probably an attempt at “Yeah.”
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Stephenson. There’ll be a ‘plea deal’ in a manner of speaking. Just not what you or I or any other fair-minded person would call a plea deal. It’ll go something like this:
Mr. Stephenson?
Yes, Mr. Sonnenville?
I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?
The bad news of course.
They’ve decided against the misdemeanor contraband deal. They’re going for the Class B felony SISA charge.
What? And the good news?!!!
I’ve spoken to Deputy Prosecutor Meier, and he assures me that if you plead guilty to the Class B felony SISA charge, he’ll passionately recommend that you be given the minimum sentence with a chance at early parole. Frankly, Mr. Stephenson, I’d take it. Otherwise, you’re looking at forty years with no chance of parole, which means even with good behavior you’d be facing twenty hard years. Take it, please. For your family.
Okay, Mr. Sonnenville, if that’s what you recommend.
“And the tears will be streaming down your face in court while your wife and kids watch you get whisked off to jail as though you were an arsonist, robber, or rapist. Trust me—I know what it’s like to see a sentencing hearing when a family man goes to prison, and it’s not pretty. It could just about tear your heart right out of your chest.
“So, you’re probably thinking, You still haven’t said what the waiting is for. Well, two things. One, by making you wait, by the time they offer you that deal, you’re going to be so broken down physically and mentally that you’ll think anything’s a bargain. Secondly, I don’t think Counselor Sonnenville’s exactly looking forward to telling you the negotiation has gone from ‘misdemeanor with time served’ to ‘the prosecutor promises he’ll try to talk the judge down to twenty years.’
“I saw Counselor Sonnenville just yesterday in fact doing a court filing, and he looked whiter than a ghost that’s been playing in the snow. I know the look of a man that’s carrying a burden inside, and he fit the bill.
“Now, I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr. Stephenson. I do want to take your case. I wouldn’t be here showing up at the jail claiming I was your attorney just to have the privilege of offering pro bono services. However, this is a one-time, take-it-or-leave-it offer. And that’s no salesman talk. I’ve brought the necessary forms right here. All I’ll need are a few signatures, and then you can sit back in that cell knowing you just replaced your Poodle of an attorney with a fight-to-the-death Rottweiler.
“What do you say?”
“I thought Mr. Sonnenville had seemed not quite right lately. Like he was having trouble looking me in the eye. No-good, dirty, rotten coward. He—”
“Now, hold on a moment. Counselor Sonnenville’s no coward. I’ve seen him mount many a good defense in the courtroom before. But the thing you’ve got to understand is the evidence against you is ironclad, and dirty politics have taken any kind of meaningful plea bargain off the table. I’ve always been drawn towards fights others shy away from, but I can’t fault Counselor Sonnenville for being scared of this fight.”
“Well, I guess you’d know more about it than I would . . . but he should have at least told me, instead of leading me on the way he has.”
Silence.
“All right. All right, you’ve got yourself a client.”
“Excellent!” Megders exclaimed heartily, but letting only a fragment of the overwhelming jubilation inside his soul come out, lest he stand up and begin dancing, leaping, and hollering at the top of his lungs.
Megders had multiple filings he had to make in district court that day. A notice of substitution of appearance, a petition for a writ of habeas corpus, a motion for a bail hearing, and a motion to dismiss the SISA charge based upon a facial and as-applied violation
of Article 8 of the Constitution of Selegania. He had these filings ready like arrows in a quiver before he even showed up at the jail today, and with the requisite signatures from his new client, he was now ready to fit them into his legal bow and shoot them right into Senator Hutherton’s rotten little heart.
Chapter 6
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
A door opened. “Yes, sir?”
“Senator Hutherton seeking Mr. Randalls.”
“Oh! A senator!” the polite-looking young lady said with unhidden surprise. “You’re in luck. He just got back this morning after a couple weeks out. Shall I tell him you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am. I will be humbly asking for a few moments of his time but can schedule an appointment if that pleases him.”
“Stacy—who’s there?” a voice called out.
“Just a moment, Senator Hutherton,” Stacy said with a smile on her face, and she scurried off enthusiastically.
Moments later, an unshaven, unkempt face was looking at Senator Hutherton from the doorway.
“Senator, please forgive my barbaric appearance. I’ve been rather preoccupied as of late. Please do come in.”
As Senator Hutherton followed Mr. Randalls into the small waiting room and towards the journalist’s office he carefully surveyed parts of the office as though he were a real estate agent making an evaluation for a potential buyer.
“Do please sit down, senator,” Mr. Randalls invited, shutting the door behind him, to the immense disappointment of Stacy, who now strained her ear for tidbits of the conversation.
“To what do I owe the honor of such an unexpected guest, and one of such high merit, no less?”
“I can assure you the honor is all mine,” Senator Hutherton began, with an endearing tone few, if any, of his senatorial colleagues—and far fewer of his hapless servants—had ever heard. “For I am in the presence of an astounding journalist, a profession which requires far more than intelligence, far more than thorough education. It also requires that rarest of traits oft-praised by the ancient poets: courage.”
Mr. Randalls couldn’t hide the blush that attacked his face like warm water.
“Your article today—in a word, sir—left me stunned. I felt most foolish after reading it, but, as the philosopher Therintopeles stated, ‘Better to realize your own foolishness in the process of enlightenment than for your enemies to realize it and bring about your destruction.’
“I must admit that before reading your article today I was under the terribly naïve impression that the failure of SISA had been limited to its inability to curb consumption of this vile substance known as Smokeless Green. And even there I saw a modest success, as the working class has at least been forced by economic pressures to use a heavily diluted form of this poison.
“But after reading your article today, I realized a new scourge has afflicted our republic. I have come to you today that I might be further educated on this matter. Please understand that anything you wish to tell me in confidence I will strictly treat as such. This is a matter most dear to my heart. For as you probably know, it was I who pushed for this legislation. It may be that further legislation will be necessary in order for our republic to prevail. Please, sir, tell me all you know about this developing underworld.”
“Senator, before I indulge you—which I most certainly will—may I ask a rather bold question?”
“Under these circumstances, sir, I believe no question could be too bold, as it is I who has come to you.”
“Why did you allow the exemption for gentlemen? There are some of us in this fight who believe it . . . pardon my boldness . . . sent the wrong message. Some have even called it h—”
“Hypocritical. And you know what, they’re right. But just as you are about to indulge me with some confidential information, I shall do the same for you and will ask you treat it sensitively. If I attempted to describe to you the snake pit I step into each and every day I walk into that senate, you would perhaps believe me to be exaggerating, but I would rather be understating the matter. When our forefathers fought back the barbarian hordes that nearly subjugated our entire people centuries ago, it was not in one giant, sweeping victory. Like the tree felled with many blows, we pushed them back one small victory at a time until they lay vanquished.
“I even had a version of the bill originally drafted with no exemptions. You see, this is a matter that strikes close to my heart. A servant of mine that I esteemed very highly died from this poison. She left behind a son and a daughter. I helped them obtain adequate employment, despite their lack of any experience, but they will never again see their mother. It was after this unspeakable tragedy that I realized it is the weak and the defenseless I must first seek to protect.
“Most of the senate uses this powder on a regular basis, despite its horrific dangers. They would have never passed the bill I originally drafted. Thus, I decided that rather than sponsoring a bill doomed to fail I would seek the promulgation of a bill with a chance of success and that provided protection to those who most need it—the poor.”
While Mr. Randalls might not have been completely convinced on a rational level by what he had just heard, this struggling freelance journalist was nearly mesmerized by the arrival of such an important visitor, and this more than sufficed to fill whatever gaps may have existed in Senator Hutherton’s powers of verbal persuasion. One thing Mr. Randalls was absolutely sure of was that he did not want this to be the last visit from the senator. The prospect of the invaluable information that could flow from this source and—with the esteemed senator’s permission, of course—be inserted into his articles could put him far ahead of the many other freelance journalists vying for a top story. Who knows—maybe he would even one day sit comfortably atop his own powerful news organization looking down from a high office window while a throng of employees bustling about like bees in a hive strove to impress The Boss.
“Thank you for that explanation, senator. It was more than adequate, and I hope I did not overstep the bounds of propriety by asking it.”
“Not in the slightest,” Senator Hutherton said mercifully.
Mr. Randalls knew it was time to show the senator he hadn’t made a mistake by coming here.
“Here’s what I know, senator. And please hold this in the strictest confidence. I dare not publish any of this information in the press just yet. The underworld is currently in an extremely volatile state, but there are some big names beginning to emerge.”
“Do go on,” Senator Hutherton said authoritatively.
Chapter 7
“Whaddya mean he cut his damn head off?!!” Heavy Sam barked at the quivering young thug in front of him. As if to drive the point home that he was unhappy, or simply due to his irascible nature, Heavy Sam sent a chunky fist slamming into the wall, punching a hole big enough for a small portrait and sending a cloud of plaster gliding across the room.
“Scorpion was my guy, ya hear—MY guy!!!” Heavy Sam barked out. “Scram, ladies. Party’s ovuh!” They didn’t have to be told twice and in fact had been eyeing the opportunity to escape. Being around Heavy Sam when he got angry—which was at least half a dozen times a day—was about as much fun as standing in the middle of a mud puddle in your best suit while it poured down rain. But when Heavy Sam got furious—which was at least twice a day—it was about as much fun as standing in front of a category five hurricane.
They went scurrying out of the room quicker than mice pursued by a zealous cat and didn’t bother asking for payment for today’s services. That would have to wait for clearer weather.
Sam was five feet eight inches tall and almost as wide. His boulder-sized head disappeared into massive shoulder muscles, leaving only the slightest remnant of a neck. Back muscles jutted out like bat wings, though their grotesque profile was mostly hidden underneath his enormous shirt.
Enjoying his company was Stitches, who had earned his name as the result of a beating so severe in his early teens that—according to the stor
y—the doctor ran out of stitches while sewing him up and had to finish the job the next day after supplies came in. He still had numerous visible scars decorating his face. But unlike the scars of an old army veteran attesting to a plethora of engagements, his had been accumulated in a single incident, when he made the fateful mistake of asking a local crime boss’s girlfriend out on a date. He had been known as quite the local charmer before that, but after that day his face served as a walking billboard warning against forgetting your place.
“Run it by me again, Stitches. I want every last detail. Everything. You’re my eyes and ears in that lousy junkyard, and if you wanna piece of the action once I take over that dump, instead of what’s comin’ to the rest of those gentlemen, then you betta convince me that you’s shootin’ straight with me.”
“Okay, like I said, boss, Scorpion was trying to do just as you said. Tryin’ to slow things down, scaring any newcomers off who came to do business there. Doing it real slow-like so the gang wouldn’t notice he was workin’ for someone else. Well, in comes this guy I never even seen before, lookin’ like he’s dressed to go work at the bank or somethin’ and starts offering to sell us twenty pounds of Smokeless Green. The guy had some guts; that’s for sure. Oh yeah, I forgot the first time I told you, but Tats and Spider knows him, and apparently he trusts them, especially Tats—somethin’ about a fight they was in together.
The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four Page 41
