by J. J. Murray
Mrs. James squinted. “Okay.”
Matthew rose and went to the counter. “What do you think? I know you were listening.”
“You’re the lawyer, not me,” Angela said.
“I know that, but you know them,” Matthew said. “I just want some family background.”
“They’re good people,” Angela said. “I know Xavier, too. Not a bad rapper either. He calls himself a street poet. He can really flow.”
“Good kid?”
“He never gave me any trouble,” Angela said. “I let him sweep up one summer when he was maybe ten. He was saving up for a turntable.”
Matthew turned toward Mrs. James. “Mrs. James, did Xavier graduate high school?”
“A semester late, but he did it,” Mrs. James said. “But what you talking to Angela for? You’re the lawyer, right?”
Matthew returned to the booth. “I needed Angela to vouch for your son. He worked here once, didn’t he?”
Mrs. James nodded.
“We may need Angela as a character witness,” Matthew said. “Is Xavier gainfully employed now?”
“He was,” Mrs. James said. “As soon as he was arrested, Metropolitan Rec Center let him go. He was a lifeguard.”
Her son has never been in trouble, didn’t drop out, and has a job. Eighteen months is no deal at all. “Where are they holding him?”
“The jail over on Union,” Mrs. James said.
The Ninetieth Precinct, the precinct that rarely answers the phone. That brings back bad memories from Brooklyn Legal. He gulped the rest of his coffee and inhaled another strip of bacon. “I need to go meet my client.”
“Now?” Mrs. James said. “It’s Saturday.”
“They won’t keep a lawyer from his client, Mrs. James,” Matthew said.
“But you aren’t his lawyer yet,” Mrs. James said.
“I will be.” He carried his plate to the counter. “I can finish this later, can’t I?”
“I’ll put it in the fridge,” Angela said. “Where are you going?”
“To meet Xavier,” he said with a wink. He returned to the booth. “Ready?”
“I can’t,” Mrs. James said, “um . . . afford . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Matthew said. “I think Xavier can work it off here, maybe even tonight.” I’d really like to hear him spit some rhymes at . . . Angela’s Arts Adventures. That has a nice ring to it.
Angela looked up, shaking her head. “You’re just trying to get out of cleaning up tonight. A bet’s a bet, man.”
“I am an opportunist.” He smiled at Mrs. James. “Mrs. James, let’s go get your son.”
Mrs. James struggled out of the booth. “You really think you can get him out today?”
“Yes.” I don’t know exactly how yet, but it will come to me.
Matthew held the door for Mrs. James, who stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped, pointing at an old Buick LeSabre.
“Is that your car?” she asked.
“We’re going to walk,” Matthew said. “It’s a nice day.”
“It’s over a mile to the police station,” Mrs. James said. “Where is your car?”
“I don’t have one,” Matthew said.
Mrs. James blinked. “You don’t . . .” She sighed. “What kind of a lawyer are you?”
“One with very low overhead,” Matthew said.
Matthew and Mrs. James made relatively good time in getting to 211 Union and the 90th Precinct, arguably the grayest building ever built. Once inside, Matthew recognized the desk sergeant, a tiny black woman with a huge voice. Babs is still here. Some things never change.
“Barbara, right?” he asked.
Barbara, all 4-11 and ninety pounds of her, leaned back in her chair, her uniform still too big for her. “Well, if it isn’t old three-M.”
“I don’t use that nickname anymore, Babs,” Matthew said.
“You know I hate to be called that,” Barbara scowled. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to meet with a client,” Matthew said. “Xavier James.”
Barbara narrowed her eyes. “You back at Brooklyn Legal?”
I almost wish I was. “Don’t you read the online version of the Daily Eagle? I’m on my own now.”
“Thank God,” Barbara said. She nodded at Mrs. James. “He used to wear me out with his whining. I put up with him for three long years.”
Matthew smiled. “This is Mrs. James, Xavier’s mother.”
“I figured it wasn’t your mama, McConnell,” Barbara said. She clicked some keys on a keyboard. “This says Xavier already has counsel, and it isn’t you.”
“It will be,” Matthew said. “You have Farty Marty Kowalski’s home number handy? Please say you do.”
Barbara sighed. “You’re wise to convince Xavier to change counsel, Mrs. James.” She clicked some more keys and recited the number.
Matthew dialed Marty. “Marty? Matthew McConnell.”
“You’re still alive?” Marty asked.
You still have gas problems? “Yes, Marty, and I’d like to make your life easier. I’d like to represent Xavier James.”
“Why?” Marty asked.
“I’m a friend of the family.” He smiled at Mrs. James, who winced more than smiled back. We’ll take a cab back to Angela’s, I promise. “I’m at the Ninetieth now. May I confer with your client until we can get the Consent to Change an Attorney form signed?”
“You can have the kid, McConnell,” Marty said. “Anything to lighten my load. Just fax it to my office once you get Xavier’s signature.”
“Sure, Marty,” Matthew said. “Who’s lead prosecutor?”
“O’Day.”
My luck is holding out. Patrick “Paddy” O’Day and I go way back. “Is he still the PO’ed one?”
“Yep,” Marty said. “He makes a beet look pink.”
Paddy is still a heart attack waiting to happen. Everything about Paddy’s face is red except his lips, which are unusually gray. “You have his cell phone number handy?”
“It’s on this phone,” Marty said.
“Could you text it to me, Marty?” Matthew asked.
“Um, sure,” Marty said.
“Thanks. I’ll have that fax to your office within the hour. Thanks for everything, Marty.” He closed his phone. “Barbara, would you happen to have a consent form handy?”
Barbara groaned. “Ain’t a damn thing changed, McConnell.” She smiled. “I figured you wouldn’t have anything handy, so I already printed one out.” She slid off her chair and went to a copier, returning with the form. “You need a pen, too?” She handed the form to Matthew.
Matthew patted his empty hoody pocket. “Well, what do you know? I am in need of a pen.”
Mrs. James groaned. “He was using an order pad to take notes earlier at Smith’s Sweet Treats.”
Barbara flipped Matthew a pen. “Don’t let his clueless act get to you, Mrs. James. Though he acts stupid, this man is really very sharp.” She looked him up and down. “Sweatpants and Chucks? Seriously?” She picked up a phone. “I’ll let them know you two are coming.”
“I’d like to use an interview room, Barbara,” Matthew said. His phone buzzed. O’Day’s cell phone number has arrived. My ducks are lining up.
“Why you got to be so pushy, McConnell?” Barbara asked. “You haven’t changed a bit. I’ll see if an interrogation room is available, okay?”
“Come on, Barbara,” Matthew said. “At least get us a room with chairs from this century. Comfortable chairs. A room with some windows would be nice, too.”
“Regulations, McConnell,” Barbara said.
“Thank you for trying so hard, Barbara,” Matthew said.
“Whatever,” Barbara scowled.
Matthew turned to Mrs. James. “Ready to see your son?”
“I can’t go back there,” she whispered.
“It’ll be okay, Mrs. James,” Matthew said. “I have a good feeling about this. I’m sure your son will be glad to see you.”
<
br /> “No, I really can’t go back there,” she whispered. “The judge said I couldn’t visit Xavier because of a little possession charge three years ago. One measly ounce of weed.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind waiting,” she said, taking a seat.
While he waited for a guard to take him see to Xavier, he stared at Barbara.
“What?” she asked.
“Have you gotten taller?” he asked.
“Shut the hell up,” Barbara said.
“The place seems spiffier than the last time I was here,” Matthew said. “Smells lemony fresh.”
“You know we keep this place clean,” Barbara said.
“You just don’t answer your phones,” Matthew said.
“I do,” Barbara said. “Just not all the time.”
A guard appeared, and Matthew followed him. Going “behind the lines” for the first time since my work at Brooklyn Legal. It’s still a scary maze. Buzz this, click that, lock this down. I’m glad I’m only visiting.
The officer opened an antiseptic, windowless, gray interrogation room that contained only a single long gray table and two gray metal folding chairs. How cheerfully gray and dark.
“XS will be here in a minute or so,” the officer said.
“He already has a following?” Matthew asked.
“He’s really good,” the officer said, closing the door behind him.
A moment later, another officer brought Xavier James inside and undid his handcuffs. “No trouble now, XS. I’ll be right outside.” He nodded at Matthew. “How long will you need?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe more,” Matthew said.
The guard left, shutting the door behind him.
“Please have a seat, Xavier, or should I call you XS?”
Xavier, who may have weighed one hundred and thirty pounds and looked swallowed up by his hunter green prison uniform, didn’t look like a rapper. XS has no tattoos. How can he be a rapper in today’s music world without tattoos?
Xavier sat, resting his elbows on his knees. “Who are you?”
Matthew slid the consent form across the table and set the pen on top of it. “If you sign this, I will be your lawyer.”
Xavier scanned the sheet. “You don’t look like one.”
“I’m hearing that a lot lately,” Matthew said. “Your mother wants me to represent you instead of Farty Marty Kowalski. She’s waiting out front.”
Xavier looked up. “She’s here?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a real lawyer,” Xavier said.
“Don’t let my appearance fool you, Xavier,” Matthew said. “It’s Saturday, and this is what I wear on Saturdays. Sign the form, and we can talk.”
Xavier picked up the pen. “But neither me nor my mama has any money to pay you.”
“You’ll be working it off at Angela’s, I mean, Smith’s Sweet Treats,” Matthew said.
Xavier sat back. “Sweeping?”
“Performing,” Matthew said. “Hopefully tonight.”
Xavier rolled the pen in his hand. “Tonight? Did my mama tell you what they say I did?”
“Yep,” Matthew said. “They have your DNA and two witnesses, yada yada yada.”
Xavier shook his head. “I’m cooked, man.”
“Xavier, I have a good feeling you’ll be out of here in time for your first set.” Sign the form, please.
“Miss Angela’s putting on shows now?” Xavier asked.
I like how he respects Angela. “You’ll be her first headliner.” He nodded at the form. “Sign it, please.”
Xavier shrugged. “All right.” He signed the form and handed back the paper and pen.
“Now we can talk.” Matthew stood and sat on the edge of the table. “I need to know precisely what were you rapping when the alleged spitting incident took place.”
“It was a rhyme I made up on the spot,” Xavier said.
Shoot. “So it’s not written down?”
“No. It’s in my head.” Xavier tapped his temple. “Most of my stuff’s in my head.”
Hmm. “Did you dis the police in your rap?”
Xavier smiled. “No, I didn’t dis the police, not when they’re a few feet from me. I ain’t crazy.”
“So there wasn’t anything inflammatory, content-wise, in your freestyle that might have set these officers off,” Matthew said.
“No.”
“Well, let me hear it,” Matthew said.
Xavier squinted. “You want me to perform it right now?”
“Yes.”
“You sure you’re a lawyer, man?” Xavier asked.
“What? I can’t like rap?” I need to school XS on what I know about the early days. “I listened to Camp Lo, O. C., Twista, and Company Flow when I was your age.”
Xavier laughed. “Damn.”
“Do I pass inspection?” Matthew asked.
“All right,” Xavier said with a smile. “I’ll flow for you. I think I can remember most of it . . .
Peter Piper pepper poke,
Billyburg be goin’ broke,
Peter Piper pepper pop,
they buildin’ condos, make ’em stop . . .”
Xavier continued for several minutes skewering Williamsburg hipster culture, landlords who raise already ridiculous rents, and Hasidic merchants exhorting customers to wear sleeves, spittle flying with every B- and P-word.
If I wore glasses, Matthew thought, I’d need windshield wipers.
“How was that?” Xavier asked.
“Perfect,” Matthew said. It wasn’t spit. It was spittle. “I’m going to try to get Paddy O’Day, the man who’s prosecuting your case, down here to listen to you.”
“Today?” Xavier said.
Matthew nodded.
“You know it’s Saturday, right?” Xavier asked.
“All day, as a matter of fact,” Matthew said. “Saturday has a habit of lasting all day.”
“You’re strange, man,” Xavier said. “Why would he come visit me on a Saturday?”
“So he can hear you reenact the alleged crime,” Matthew said. “I’ll get you some water. We wouldn’t want your mouth to get dry.”
Matthew called O’Day, the fierce and freckled one. I’ll bet his red hair is silver by now. He was pushing three hundred pounds the last time I saw him. I used to find and harass him at Reben’s Luncheonette on Saturdays. I’ll bet that’s where he is right now.
“Who is this?” Paddy asked.
“Hey, Paddy. It’s Matthew McConnell.”
Paddy cursed. “McConnell, you have no manners.”
“Hope I didn’t catch you eating at Reben’s.”
Paddy cursed again. “You did. This had better be good. What do you want?”
Paddy might be pushing three-fifty by now. “Could you come over to the Ninetieth? I need us to sit down with my client, Xavier James.”
“He’s Kowalski’s client,” O’Day said.
“Not anymore,” Matthew said. I just haven’t sent the fax yet.
“Come on, McConnell,” Paddy snarled. “It’s Saturday.”
“I know. But it’s a slow news day. Channel Eleven and I go way back. They love breaking stories on slow news days.” Lure the big fish in. Dangle the bait.
“What breaking story?” Paddy asked.
“About how New York’s finest is committing a crime by wrongfully arresting an aspiring word artist,” Matthew said.
Xavier smiled and nodded.
“Xavier James is no word artist,” Paddy said. “He’s a spitter. That kid is no saint.”
“He doesn’t have a record, Paddy,” Matthew said.
Xavier shook his head.
“Which only means we haven’t caught him breaking the law until now,” Paddy said. “Is he ready to take the deal I gave him?”
Matthew covered the phone. “Did anyone make you a deal?”
Xavier shook his head. “All I heard was eighteen months.”
“Same here.” Matthew uncovered the phone. “What deal? Marty didn’t
tell me there was a deal.”
“He pleads to menacing a police officer, six months,” O’Day said.
Is he serious? He can’t be serious. Six months in prison because Xavier enunciated his P’s and B’s? “No deal.”
“He spit on a cop, McConnell,” Paddy said. “He could get three and a half to fifteen years. You know that. I’m cutting him a huge break.”
“Xavier was performing,” Matthew said. “He was rapping. He enunciates. It’s the way he flows. You want to hear him?”
“Now?” O’Day said.
“Well,” Matthew said, “as soon as you can get here. We can wait. We have nowhere else to be. You have to hear him in person, Paddy. It won’t have the same effect if he performs into the phone, which he will do for Channel Eleven if you don’t come over right away.”
“You want me to leave my brunch and listen to a kid rap?” Paddy scowled. “On my day off?”
“Yes,” Matthew said. “And I have Channel Eleven on standby.”
“Yeah?” Xavier whispered.
Matthew shook his head. “I’m bluffing,” he mouthed.
Xavier rolled his eyes.
Matthew knew it was a safe bluff. Channel 11 always seemed to have trucks crisscrossing Williamsburg and trolling for the odd gunshot and machete victim.
“I’ll be there in . . . twenty minutes,” Paddy said.
Matthew closed his phone. “He’s on his way.” He knocked on the door, and the guard opened it. “Could we get XS some water, please? And make sure ADA O’Day gets to us as soon as he gets here in about twenty minutes.”
The guard didn’t comment, closing the door.
“You bluffed his ass,” Xavier said.
“Paddy doesn’t look good on TV,” Matthew said. “They never light him right or something. Plus, you’d need a wide-screen TV to see all of him. Make sure you scoot your chair closer to him when he gets here.”
Half an hour later, Paddy O’Day, sweating and wearing an old white New York Jets jersey, the green numbers straining to flake off, stepped sideways into the interrogation room. “This had better be good, McConnell.” He eased up onto the table, and the table complained.
“Go ahead, Xavier,” Matthew said.
“All right,” Xavier said. “Peter Piper pepper poke . . .”
