But until they change their story, or a piece of evidence comes along that proves them liars, I’ll take them at their word. I have Dr. Grade’s report with me, I open it and follow it side-by-side as they recite their recollection of the events of the last few days, looking for discrepancies.
They’d been in town, they’d picked up some low-rent girl in a bar (willingly, they make sure I know that and believe it), okay so she was drunk but there was absolutely no coercion, there’s a couple hundred witnesses out there to that (Dutchboy luckily kept a book of matches from the bar, it’ll be the first thing I check out), they rode around a couple hours …
“Did you have intercourse with her?” I interrupt them.
“No, man, we sat around the campfire and read Rod McKuen. What do you think we are, faggots? ’Course we fucked her,” Lone Wolf tells me, almost with contempt. “If we don’t fuck ’em they ain’t worth fucking.”
“All of you?”
He looks around. “Anybody fake his orgasm?” They guffaw, a good belly laugh. “Yeh, man. We all fucked her.”
“Some better’n others,” Roach kicks in.
“You’re on my list,” Lone Wolf tells him, pointing a finger. I admire their composure; I don’t think I could be telling jokes with a murder charge hanging over me, even if I absolutely didn’t do it.
“You raped her.”
This is taking a wrong turn; this girl, whoever she is, definitely won’t be a witness for the defense. If I’m lucky she’ll never turn up.
“No rape,” Lone Wolf says emphatically. “She was hot to trot. Any of y’all hear any complaints?” he asks the others.
They all shake their heads.
“Hot for all of you? You’re positive? Because if she was madly in love with three of you but didn’t want the fourth,” I continue, “that is rape. Uncontestable.”
“She was more than willing,” Lone Wolf insists. “She never once asked us to stop.” He knows the jargon; he should, he’s been hearing it most of his life.
I ruminate on it. It’s a fine line; if an average citizen was on trial for that, he’d probably walk. There isn’t a jury in this country that wouldn’t convict these four.
We press on. They took the girl back to some motel in the low-rent section where she was staying (not far, I realize with chagrin, from where Patricia and Claudia live), then rode south to Albuquerque on New Mexico 14, the picturesque back road that goes through Madrid, an abandoned railroad and mining town that’s now a hippie-artist tourist attraction. They’d stopped on the way for gasoline, got to Madrid around seven in the morning. I quiz them on this; how sure are they about the time? They’re sure; they’d had to wait until seven-thirty to get breakfast, the only restaurant in town didn’t open until then. The waitress, who was also the cook, would remember them; she was a real character, she hadn’t been intimidated in the least, they’d traded insults all during the meal. They have a credit card receipt for the gasoline. Thank God for plastic, I think, pocketing the receipt: even society’s outcasts use it.
They tell me about their sojourn in Albuquerque. I get them to pass over it quickly: the details are boring, repetitive, childish, they remind me of bad fraternity weekends with a lot of blood and guts thrown in. But the good thing about the yarn they’re telling me, underneath all the junk, is that they were demonstrably with several hundred people, enough of whom can be compelled to testify on their behalf. In fact, virtually every minute of their time since they arrived in Santa Fe until their arrest down south is accounted for, and of greater importance, witnessed. The murder took time; the coroner’s report is explicit about that. If what they’re telling me is true, they were never alone long enough to have done it.
“They gonna set bail tomorrow morning?” Lone Wolf asks.
“And how much?” The fourth man, Goose, speaks for the first time. He’s older than the others, probably past forty, his beard and pony-tailed hair more salt than pepper, a squat barrel who looks like a character in Disney’s Snow White. “We ain’t millionaires, you know.”
“But we can cover the costs,” Lone Wolf says quickly. He doesn’t want me getting cold feet.
“You’re going to have to cool your heels in here a few days,” I inform them. “The prosecutor can hold you without a formal charge until he can get a judge to hear this on Monday, and after that he’s going to press for confinement until he goes to the grand jury. So you won’t skip.”
“We didn’t skip before,” Roach reminds me.
“You weren’t under suspicion of murder before,” I inform him. “It won’t be long,” I say, trying to put the best face on it I can, “only a couple of days more than you were going to be in town anyway. You’ll save money on room and meals.”
They don’t protest, they’ve been through this, they can do a week in hell if they have to.
“That should do it for now,” I tell them, packing up. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”
I start to call the guard to let me out. Lone Wolf stops me.
“If worse comes to worse … if somehow we gotta go all the way to trial … how much freight do we have to pay?”
I was waiting for that. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come up tonight.
“A murder case like this is normally going to cost fifty to seventy-five grand,” I tell him. This isn’t the time to pull punches. “Depending on what flows to the surface.”
They blink, swallow hard. All except Lone Wolf, who doesn’t flinch a muscle.
“Apiece,” I add.
Now they react, even Lone Wolf. He tries to mask it.
“We can cover it,” he doggedly assures me.
“Half up front.”
“I said we can cover it.” He only has one gear: forward, full-speed. The others eye us nervously, spectators in a high-stakes game.
Goose clears his throat.
“We got to talk about this,” he declares.
“Let me say something first,” I interject quickly.
They turn to me.
“I won’t be charging my normal fee,” I tell them. “I’ll be giving you a special rate.”
Lone Wolf stares at me.
“Why?”
“Because I believe in this case,” I tell them. “Because you need me—you need the best.”
Because I need you, is closer to the truth. I’m out of work, I can’t afford to let this one slip away. Not only for the money, but for the notoriety, the publicity, as well. Not many cases this inflammatory come down the pike; I need the visibility as well as the hard cash.
“So how much?” Lone Wolf asks.
“I’m going to try to do the whole thing for a hundred-fifty grand,” I say. “One-seventy-five tops. Anything less won’t give you the defense you’re going to need, if anyone tells you less they’re lying.”
Lone Wolf stares at me.
“We can cover that,” he says. “If it won’t go higher.”
“We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t,” I tell them.
They smile.
“We want the best,” Goose says. “And that’s you, man. And you’ll have your money—that’s a promise.”
I’m sure I will. I don’t want to know where it comes from, though. Manuel Noriega’s lawyers don’t want to know where their client’s money comes from, and neither do I.
“Let’s hope you don’t have to spend much of it,” I say. “Personally I think it’s a long shot this gets past the grand jury.”
“How long?”
I pick a figure out of the air. “Twenty to one.”
That cheers them up.
“As long as you’re our lawyer all the way,” Lone Wolf says. “I’ve got a good feeling about you, man.”
The other shoe drops. I know their records; they’d been bad boys and paid the price for it, but none of them have ever faced a murder charge.
“If they press charges,” I tell them, “and if they can convince the grand jury to buy them, so you actually have to stand trial: I’m one of your lawye
rs. Or rather,” I cover myself quickly before they can say anything, “I’m the lawyer for one of you.”
“What do you mean? What the fuck do you mean?” Lone Wolf is standing, hovering over me.
“Sit down,” I order. “Now, goddam it!”
He shoots me the evil look, but he sits. They’re all confused, disturbed.
“Here’s the drill,” I explain. “I can’t defend more than one of you on a murder charge. It’s against the bar’s code of ethics, for a good reason. It’s conflict-of-interest.”
“Fuck conflict-of-interest. You’re the man around here. You’re who we want. All of us.”
I shake my head. “There’re plenty of good criminal lawyers in this state,” I tell them. “The public defender’s office has a great criminal defense team. If it was me,” I say, “that’s who I’d call.”
“We’re not you,” Lone Wolf says flatly.
“Anyway that’s how it works,” I tell them with finality. “Here or anywhere. And it’s not like we’re four ships passing in the night,” I continue, “we’re all in it together, we pool our strategies, our efforts. It’s like having four lawyers for the price of …”
“Four.” Lone Wolf finishes for me. He looks at the others, establishing primacy, then back to me. “If that’s the way it goes that’s the way it goes.” He stares hard at me. “When do they get to meet the other three geniuses?”
I’m now officially his lawyer. I didn’t figure it would go any other way. None of the others mouth a protest.
“Hopefully never,” I say. “The grand jury can’t return an indictment based on what you’ve told me.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Fine. So no other representation will be necessary.” I start to go, then casually turn back as if just struck by an idea.
“Just for the hell of it,” I tell them, “I’ll check around. Make sure the best people are available.”
They’re not Einsteins, but they catch the subterfuge.
“You just said we wouldn’t need them.”
“I know,” I admit. “But I’m a lawyer; I’m trained to cover every possible contingency; it’s Pavlovian, I can’t help it.” Are they buying it? I hope, looking at them. I don’t think so.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” The jailer swings the door open. As I’m leaving Lone Wolf cracks a wiseguy grin.
“Not if we see you first.”
The door bangs shut. We’re joined at the hip now.
There’s one bright spot in this: won’t Fred and Andy be thrilled to see me bright and early tomorrow morning, I think gleefully as I walk across the quad in the dry evening heat.
I’VE BEEN BEHIND closed doors for two hours already, since seven. I called Susan last night, filled her in, told her to be early and to keep her mouth shut. She was nervous, but happy and combative. It’s nice to know there are some things in life that aren’t for sale.
They come in together, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Fred was here first, Susan kept me informed over the intercom, but he waited for Andy. Andy and I may patch this up someday, but Fred’s already a memory.
“Cleaning up some last minute business?” Fred asks benignly. They’re at my desk, hovering like a Jewish mother with a bowl of nice hot chicken soup. Actually, Andy’s the mother; Fred’s the wart-faced spinster aunt.
I keep them waiting, the old head-in-the-paperwork shtick. Finally I look up with a distracted smile.
“New business,” I say. “Don’t worry,” I quickly reassure them, “the world need not know I’m on the premises.”
“It won’t wash, Will,” Andy says. He’s pissed, trying to hold it in. “We talked this all out. Don’t force us into doing something you’ll regret.”
“Like what?” I stand. I’m in the power spot, in my office behind my desk. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Jesus, Will,” Fred whines, “do you have to be such a jerk?”
“Do I have to be such a jerk?” I turn my gaze to the ceiling. There’s a waterspot from last year when the toilets backed up; got to get it fixed. “That’s a very interesting question, Fred. Verrry interesting. Are we talking from the legal or philosophical viewpoint?”
“Will …” Andy’s growling. I’ve known them forever, I know every button to push.
Now I turn and look at them, leaning forward on my antique piñon desk for emphasis. It’s a couple hundred years old, belonged to one of the land-grant governors. I’ve turned down $12,500 for it.
“Let me explain the facts of life as I see them,” I say. “You want me out of here. Fine. At this point I want me out of here. I’m sick and tired of your holier-than-thouness and your utter lack of compassion and continuity.”
“Will …” Andy tries to stop me. I shake my head; I’m unstoppable this morning.
“Hear me out. Please.” Damn, I think, savoring the thought, I’m a good arguer. No wonder I’m such a bitch in the courtroom.
“I am not a saint,” I continue. “I am not even a wonderful person. But I am a man who has always; and I don’t use that word lightly; has always backed his buddies. Like the time, Fred,” I remind him, “when the Ethics Committee was up your shirt about the Indian Trust Fund.”
“That was crap,” Fred says hotly.
“Yeh, it was,” I answer. “But you were sweating it. And who presented your case and made them look like jerks?”
“It wasn’t the same situation, Will,” Andy says. “Don’t milk it.”
“Fine,” I answer. “Then I’ll put it to you as dead-center as I can. I got a case over the weekend …”
“We know,” he says. “Robertson told us.”
“Then you know these people need the best criminal defense lawyer in the state who is me and that is who they are going to get! You don’t want me associated with the firm, fine. Take my name off the door, I’ll use the side entrance. I won’t bother anyone in the office, I won’t even talk to anyone except Susan, because she’s mine, and by the way you’ll have her letter of resignation on your desks by lunch.”
I pause, an old summation trick; I’ve been going at breakneck speed, you have to let them get a breath and catch up.
“I am taking this case for as long as it goes,” I continue on. “Hopefully a week, but if it drags on until Armageddon I will be on it, and I will be operating out of my office. And if that doesn’t suit you then file papers for dissolution of the partnership and we’ll blow the whole fucking thing sky high!”
They’re teetering. I’m watching it with glee. One strong breath and they’ll topple over.
“My advice,” I go on, “is to just let it slide. Let’s not rock the boat okay? You want the world to think I’m still on my leave? Great. I’m only here because of the potential gravity of this case. When it’s over I’ll go back to my fishing.”
They look at me. They’re in a no-win situation: they give a shit, and I don’t. And they know it.
“I think that’s a good scenario,” Andy says after a moment. “That’s how this firm works. We don’t abandon clients just because we have a problem.”
“I agree,” Fred chirps. “The firm has an obligation.”
“Good.” I smile at them in turn. “That’s the party line. But between us and God the firm doesn’t have jackshit to do with this. It’s my case, I’ll take the fees, and the glory if there is any. You can bask in my sun,” I add. I’m gloating; I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.
“Fine,” Fred answers, tight-lipped. “I hope you make a lot of money off this one, Will. You might have to live off it a long time.”
He turns and walks out. Andy and I are left.
“Too bad it couldn’t’ve been him with the elbow problem,” I offer.
He shrugs. “Too bad? Who’s to say? But it’s your problem, and from the looks of things I don’t see you solving it.” He pauses. “Quite the contrary.”
“Maybe I will.” And maybe I won’t.
He looks at me. He doesn’t have to say anything more
. I’ve lost him; rather, we’ve lost each other. He leaves me alone. I don’t want to be here right now. I tell Susan I’m leaving, and exit through the side door. Nobody sees me.
ROBERTSON UNCHARACTERISTICALLY KEEPS me waiting half an hour. When I finally get in to see him he isn’t alone; Frank Moseby’s with him at the opposite side of the room, leaning against the credenza. He smirks at me.
Frank Moseby is an asshole who wears a face. He’s tall, stoop-shouldered, overweight, doughy, with chronic B.O. His shirts always tell you what he ate for lunch, and to top it off he’s a racist. Most New Mexicans are fiercely proud of their Spanish cultural heritage, but down south, where Moseby comes from, it’s still strictly redneck; land-grant families that’ve been important in the state for hundreds of years are cholos.
Despite what for most people would be lethal drawbacks, Frank’s become the top gun in the prosecution division. Sure, it’s partly attrition; most good criminal lawyers his age have moved into private practice, but he likes the action he gets in his job; and his personality would kill him in the real world. But there’s more to it than that. He’s a hard-shell Christian who believes with all his heart that most people are scumbags and criminals, and that it’s his job, his duty, his holy obligation to put as many of them away as possible. He’s a lay preacher in one of the local conservative churches, and he brings the fervor of the preacher into the courtroom. It’s corny sometimes, it probably wouldn’t play in New York or Los Angeles, but out here it’s effective as hell, even in a supposedly sophisticated oasis like Santa Fe.
Against the Wind Page 6
